Chapter I: Front Matter (1)

BLACKWOOD'S EDINBURGH MAGAZINE

NO. CCCXXXI. MAY, 1843. VOL. LIII.

CONTENTS.

DUMAS IN ITALY
AMMALÁT BEK. A TRUE TALE OF THE CAUCASUS FROM THE
RUSSIAN OF MARLÍNSKI.--CHAPTER VI.
REYNOLD'S DISCOURSES. CONCLUSION
LEAP-YEAR. A TALE
THE BATTLE OF THE BLOCKS. THE PAVING QUESTION
POEMS AND BALLADS OF SCHILLER.--No. VIII.
NATURAL HISTORY OF SALMON AND SEA-TROUT
CALEB STUKELY. PART THE LAST
COMMERCIAL POLICY. SPAIN

DUMAS IN ITALY.

[_Souvenirs de Voyage en Italie, par_ ALEXANDRE DUMAS. 5 vols. duod.]

France has lately sent forth her poets in great force, to travel, and to write travels. Delamartine, Victor Hugo, Alexandre Dumas, and others, have been forth in the high-ways and the high-seas, observing, portraying, poetizing, romancing. The last-mentioned of these, M. Dumas, a dramatist very ingenious in the construction of plots, and one who tells a story admirably, has travelled quite in character. There is a dramatic air thrown over all his proceedings, things happen as pat as if they had been rehearsed, and he blends the novelist and tourist together after a very bold and original fashion. It is a new method of writing travels that he has hit upon, and we recommend it to the notice of our countrymen or countrywomen, who start from home with the fixed idea, happen what may, of inditing a book. He does not depend altogether upon the incidents of the road, or the raptures of sight-seeing, or any odd fantasy that buildings or scenery may be kind enough to suggest: he provides himself with full half of his materials before he starts, in the shape of historical anecdote and romantic story, which he distributes as he goes along. A better plan for an amusing book could not be devised. Your mere tourist, it must be confessed, however frivolous he submits for our entertainment to become, grows heavy on our hands; that rapid and incessant change of scene which is kindly meant to enliven our spirits, becomes itself wearisome, and we long for some resting-place, even though it should be obtained by that most illegitimate method of closing the volume. On the other hand, a teller of tales has always felt the want of some enduring thread--though, as some one says in a like emergency, it be only _packthread_--on which his tales may be strung--something to fill up the pauses, and prevent the utter solution of continuity between tale and tale--something that gives the narrator a reasonable plea for _going on again_, and makes the telling another story an indispensable duty upon his part, and the listening to it a corresponding obligation upon ours; and ever since the time when that young lady of unpronounceable and unrememberable name told the One Thousand and One Tales, telling a fragment every morning to keep her head upon her shoulders, there has been devised many a strange expedient for this purpose. Now, M. Dumas has contrived, by uniting the two characters of tourist and novelist, to make them act as reliefs to each other. Whilst he shares with other travellers the daily adventures of the road--the journey, the sight, and the dinner--he is not compelled to be always moving; he can pause when he pleases, and, like the _fableur_ of olden times, sitting down in the market-place, in the public square, at the corner of some column or statue, he narrates his history or his romance. Then, the story told, up starts the busy and provident tourist; lo! the _voiture_ is waiting for him at the hotel; in he leaps, and we with him, and off we rattle through other scenes, and to other cities. He has a track _in space_ to which he is bound; we recognize the necessity that he should proceed thereon; but he can diverge at pleasure through all _time_, bear us off into what age he pleases, make us utterly oblivious of the present, and lap us in the Elysium of a good story.

With a book written palpably for the sole and most amiable purpose of amusement, and succeeding in this purpose, how should we deal? How but receive it with a passive acquiescence equally amiable, content solely to be amused, and giving all severer criticism--to him who to his other merits may add, if he pleases, that of being the first critic. Most especially let us not be carping and questioning as to the how far, or what precisely, we are to set down for _true_. It is all true--it is all fiction; the artist cannot choose but see things in an artistical form; what ought not to be there drops from his field of vision. We are not poring through a microscope, or through a telescope, to discover new truths; we are looking at the old landscape through coloured glasses, blue, or black, or roseate, as the occasion may require. And here let us note a favourable contrast between our dramatic tourist, bold in conception, free in execution, and those compatriots of our own, authors and authoresses, who write travels merely because they are artists in ink, yet without any adequate notion of the duties and privileges of such an artist.

When a writer has got a name, the first rational use to make of the charming possession is to get astride of it, as a witch upon her broomstick, and whisk and scamper over half the kingdoms of the earth. Talk of bills of exchange!--letters of credit!--we can put our name to a whole book, and it will pass--it _will_ pass. The idea is good--quite worthy of our commercial genius--and to us its origin, we believe, is due; but here, as in so many other cases, the Frenchman has given the idea its full development. Keeping steadily in view the object of his book, which is--first, amusement--secondly, amusement--thirdly, amusement; he adapts his means consistently to his end. Does he want a dialogue?--he writes one: a story?--he invents one: a description?--he takes his hint from nature, and is grateful--the more grateful, because he knows that a hint to the wise is sufficient. It is the description only which the reader will be concerned with; what has he to do with the object? That is the merely traveller's affair. Now, your English tourists have always a residue of scruple about them which balks their genius. Not satisfied with pleasing, they aspire to be believed; are almost angry if their anecdote is not credited; content themselves with adding graces, giving a turn, trimming and decorating--cannot build a structure boldly from the bare earth. This necessity of finding a certain straw for their bricks, which must be picked up by the roadside, not only impedes the work of authorship, but must add greatly to their personal discomfort throughout the whole of their travels. They are in perpetual chase of something for the book. They bag an incident with as much glee as a sportsman his first bird in September. They are out on pleasure, but manifestly they have their task too; it is not quite holiday, only half-holiday with them. The prospect or the picture gives no pleasure till it has suggested the appropriate expression of enthusiasm, which, once safely deposited in the note-book, the enthusiasm itself can be quietly indulged in, or permitted to evaporate. At the dinner-table, even when champagne is circulating, if a jest or a story falls flat, they see with an Aristotelian precision the cause of its failure, and how an additional touch, or a more auspicious moment, would have procured for it a better fate; they stop to pick it up, they clean it, they revolve the chapter and the page to which it shall lend its lustre. Nay, it is noticeable, that without much labour from the polisher, many a dull thing in conversation has made a good thing in print; the conditions of success are so different. Now, from all such toils and perplexities M. Dumas is evidently free; free as the wildest Oxonian who flies abroad in the mere wanton prodigality of spirits and of purse. His book is made, or can be made, when he chooses: fortune favours the bold, and incidents will always dispose themselves dramatically to the dramatist.

Our traveller opens his campaign at Nice. It may be observed that M. Dumas cannot be accused, like the present minister of his country, of any partiality to the English; if the mortifying truth must be told, he has no love of us at all; to which humour, so long as he delivers himself of it with any wit or pleasantry, he is heartily welcome. Our first extract will be thought, perhaps, to taste of this humour; but we quote it for the absurd proof it affords of the manner in which we English have overflooded some portions of the Continent:--

"As to the inhabitants of Nice, every traveller is to them an
Englishman. Every foreigner they see, without distinction of
complexion, hair, beard, dress, age, or sex, has, in their
imagination, arrived from a certain mysterious city lost in the
midst of fogs, where the inhabitants have heard of the sun only
from tradition, where the orange and the pine-apple are unknown
except by name, where there is no ripe fruit but baked apples,
and which is called _London_.

"Whilst I was at the York Hotel, a carriage drawn by post
horses drove up; and, soon after, the master of the hotel
entering into my room, I asked him who were his new arrivals.

"'_Sono certi Inglesi_,' he answered, '_ma non saprei dire se
sono Francesi o Tedeschi_. Some English, but I cannot say
whether French or German.'"--Vol. i. p. 9.

The little town of Monaco is his next resting-place. This town, which is now under the government of the King of Sardinia, was at one time an independent principality; and M. Dumas gives a lively sketch of the vicissitudes which the little state has undergone, mimicking, as it has, the movements of great monarchies, and being capable of boasting even of its revolution and its republic. During the reign of Louis XIV. the territory of Monaco gave the title of prince to a certain Honore III., who was under the protection of the _Grand Monarque_.

"The marriage of this Prince of Monaco," says our annalist,
"was not happy. One fine morning his spouse, who was the same
beautiful and gay Duchess de Valentinois so well known in the
scandalous chronicles of that age, found herself at one step
out of the states of her lord and sovereign. She took refuge at
Paris. Desertion was not all. The prince soon learned that he
was as unfortunate as a husband can be.

"At that epoch, calamities of this description were only
laughed at; but the Prince of Monaco was, as the duchess used
to say, a strange man, and he took offence. He got information
from time to time of the successive gallants whom his wife
thought fit to honour, and he hanged them in effigy, one after
the other, in the front court of his palace. The court was soon
full, and the executions bordered on the high road;
nevertheless, the prince relented not, but continued always to
hang. The report of these executions reached Versailles; Louis
XIV. was, in his turn, displeased, and counselled the prince to
be more lenient in his punishments. He of Monaco answered that,
being a sovereign prince, he had undoubtedly the right of pit
and gallows on his own domain, and that surely he might hang as
many men of straw as he pleased.

"The affair bred so much scandal, that it was thought prudent
to send the duchess back to her husband. He, to make her
punishment the more complete, had resolved that she should, on
her return, pass before this row of executed effigies. But the
dowager Princess of Monaco prevailed upon her son to forego
this ingenious revenge, and a bonfire was made of all the
scarecrows. 'It was,' said Madame de Sevigné, 'the torch of
their second nuptials.' ...

"A successor of this prince, Honore IV., was reigning
tranquilly in his little dominions when the French Revolution
broke out. The Monacites watched its successive phases with a
peculiar attention, and when the republic was finally
proclaimed at Paris, they took advantage of Honore's absence,
who was gone from home, and not known where, armed themselves
with whatever came to hand, marched to the palace, took it by
assault, and commenced plundering the cellars, which might
contain from twelve to fifteen thousand bottles of wine. Two
hours after, the eight thousand subjects of the Prince of
Monaco were drunk.

"Now, at this first trial, they found liberty was an excellent
thing, and they resolved to constitute themselves forthwith
into a republic. But it seemed that Monaco was far too
extensive a territory to proclaim itself, after the example of
France, a republic one and indivisible; so the wise men of the
country, who had already formed themselves into a national
assembly, came to the conclusion that Monaco should rather
follow the example of America, and give birth to a federal
republic. The fundamental laws of the new constitution were
then discussed and determined by Monaco and Mantone, who united
themselves for life and death. There was a third village called
Rocco-Bruno: it was decided that it should belong half to the
one and half to the other. Rocco-Bruno murmured: it had aspired
to independence, and a place in the federation; but Monaco and
Mantone smiled at so arrogant a pretension. Rocco-Bruno was not
the strongest, and was reduced to silence: from that moment,
however, Rocco-Bruno was marked out to the two national
conventions as a focus of sedition. The republic was finally
proclaimed under the title of the Republic of Monaco.

"The Monacites next looked abroad upon the world for allies.
There were two nations, equally enlightened with themselves, to
whom they could extend the hand of fellowship--the American and
the French. Geographical position decided in favour of the
latter. The republic of Monaco sent three deputies to the
National Convention of France to proffer and demand alliance.
The National Convention was in a moment of perfect good-humour:
it received the deputies most politely, and invited them to
call the next morning for the treaty they desired.

"The treaty was prepared that very day. It was not, indeed, a
very lengthy document: it consisted of the two following
articles:--

"'Art. 1. There shall be peace and alliance between the French
Republic and the Republic of Monaco.

"'Art. 2. The French Republic is delighted with having made the
acquaintance of the Republic of Monaco.'

"This treaty was placed next morning in the hands of the
ambassadors, who departed highly gratified. Three months
afterwards the French Republic had thrown its lion's paw on its
dear acquaintance, the Republic of Monaco."--P. 14.

From Monaco our traveller proceeds to Geneva; from Geneva, by water, to Livorno, (_Anglicé_, Leghorn.) Now there is little or nothing to be seen at Livorno. There is, in the place _della Darnesa_, a solitary statue of Ferdinand I., some time cardinal, and afterwards Grand-Duke of Florence. M. Dumas bethinks him to tell us the principal incident in the life of this Ferdinand; but then this again is connected with the history of Bianca Capello, so that he must commence with her adventures. The name of Bianca Capello figures just now on the title-page of one of Messrs Colburn's and Bentley's _last and newest_. Those who have read the novel, and those who, like ourselves, have seen only the title, may be equally willing to hear the story of this high-spirited dame told in the terse, rapid manner--brief, but full of detail--of Dumas. We cannot give the whole of it in the words of M. Dumas; the extract would be too long; we must get over a portion of the ground in the shortest manner possible.

"It was towards the end of the reign of Cosmo the Great, about
the commencement of the year 1563, that a young man named
Pietro Bonaventuri, the issue of a family respectable, though
poor, left Florence to seek his fortune in Venice. An uncle who
bore the same name as himself, and who had lived in the latter
city for twenty years, recommended him to the bank of the
Salviati, of which he himself was one of the managers. The
youth was received in the capacity of clerk.

"Opposite the bank of the Salviati lived a rich Venetian
nobleman, head of the house of the Capelli. He had one son and
one daughter, but not by his wife then living, who, in
consequence, was stepmother to his children. With the son, our
narrative is not concerned; the daughter, Bianca Capello, was a
charming girl of the age of fifteen or sixteen, of a pale
complexion, on which the blood, at every emotion, would appear,
and pass like a roseate cloud; her hair, of that rich flaxen
which Raphael has made so beautiful; her eyes dark and full of
lustre, her figure slight and flexile, but of that flexibility
which denotes no weakness, but force of character; prompt, as
another Juliet, to love, and waiting only till some Romeo
should cross her path, to say, like the maid of Verona--'I will
be to thee or to the tomb!'

"She saw Pietro Bonaventuri: the window of his chamber looked
out upon hers; they exchanged glances, signs, promises of love.
Arrived at this point, the distance from each other was their
sole obstacle: this obstacle Bianca was the first to overcome.

"Each night, when all had retired to rest in the house of the
Salviati, when the nurse who had reared Bianca, had betaken
herself to the next chamber, and the young girl, standing
listening against the partition, had assured herself that this
last Argus was asleep, she threw over her shoulders a dark
cloak to be the less visible in the night, descended on tiptoe,
and light as a shadow, the marble stairs of the paternal
palace, unbarred the gate, and crossed the street. On the
threshold of the opposite door, her lover was standing to
receive her; and the two together, with stifled breath and
silent caresses, ascended the stairs that led to the little
chamber of Pietro. Before the break of day, Bianca retired in
the same manner to her own room, where her nurse found her in
the morning, in a sleep as profound at least as the sleep of
innocence.

"One night whilst our Juliet was with her Romeo, a baker's boy,
who had just been to light his oven in the neighbourhood, saw a
gate half open, and thought he did good service by closing it.
Ten minutes afterwards, Bianca descended, and saw that it was
impossible to re-enter her father's house.

"Bianca was one of those energetic spirits whose resolutions
are taken at once, and for ever. She saw that her whole future
destiny was changed by this one accident, and she accepted
without hesitation the new life which this accident had imposed
on her. She re-ascended to her lover, related what had
happened, demanded of him if he was ready to sacrifice all for
her as she was for him, and proposed to take advantage of the
two hours of the night which still remained to them, to quit
Venice and conceal themselves from the pursuit of her parents.
Pietro was true--he adopted immediately the proposal; they
stepped into a gondola, and fled towards Florence.

"Arrived at Florence, they took refuge with the father of
Pietro--Bonaventuri the elder, who with his wife had a small
lodging in the second floor in the place of St Mark. Strange!
it is with poor parents that the children are so especially
welcome. They received their son and their new daughter with
open arms. Their servant was dismissed, both for economy and
the better preservation of their secret. The good mother
charged herself with the care of the little household. Bianca,
whose white hands had been taught no such useful duties, set
about working the most charming embroidery. The father, who
earned his living as a copyist for public offices, gave out
that he had retained a clerk, and took home a double portion of
papers. All were employed, and the little family contrived to
live.

"Meanwhile, it will be easily imagined how great a commotion
the flight of Bianca occasioned in the palace of the noble
Capello. During the whole of the first day they made no
pursuit, for they still, though with much anxiety, expected her
return. The day passed, however, without any news of the
fugitive; the flight, on the same morning, of Pietro
Bonaventuri was next reported; a thousand little incidents
which attracted no notice at the time were now brought back to
recollection, and the result of the whole was the clear
conviction that they had fled together. The influence of the
Capelli was such that the case was brought immediately before
the Council of Ten; and Pietro Bonaventuri was placed under the
ban of the Republic. The sentence of this tribunal was made
known to the government of Florence; and this government
authorized the Capelli, or the officers of the Venetian
Republic, to make all necessary search, not only in Florence,
but throughout all Tuscany. The search, however was unavailing.
Each one of the parties felt too great an interest in keeping
their secret, and Bianca herself never stirred from the
apartment.

"Three months passed in this melancholy concealment, yet she
who had been habituated from infancy to all the indulgences of
wealth, never once breathed a word of complaint. Her only
recreation was to look down into the street through the sloping
blind. Now, amongst those who frequently passed across the
Place of St Mark was the young grand-duke, who went every other
day to see his father at his castle of Petraja. Francesco was
young, gallant, and handsome; but it was not his youth or
beauty that preoccupied the thoughts of Bianca, it was the idea
that this prince, as powerful as he seemed gracious, might, by
one word, raise the ban from Pietro Bonaventuri, and restore
both him and herself to freedom. It was this idea which kindled
a double lustre in the eyes of the young Venetian, as she
punctually at the hour of his passing, ran to the window, and
sloped the jalousie. One day, the prince happening to look up
as he passed, met the enkindled glance of his fair observer.
Bianca hastily retired."

What immediately follows need not be told at any length. Francesco was enamoured: he obtained an interview. Bianca released and enriched her lover, but became the mistress of the young duke. Pietro was quite content with this arrangement; he had himself given the first example of inconstancy. He entered upon a career of riotous pleasure, which ended in a violent death.

Francesco, in obedience to his father, married a princess of the house of Austria; but Bianca still retained her influence. His wife, who had been much afflicted by this preference of her rival, died, and the repentant widower swore never again to see Bianca. He kept the oath for four months; but she placed herself as if by accident in his path, and all her old power was revived. Francesco, by the death of his father, became the reigning Duke of Tuscany, and Bianca Capello, his wife and duchess. And now we arrive at that part of the story in which Ferdinand, the brother of Francesco, and whose statue at Livorno led to this history, enters on the scene.

"About three years after their nuptials, the young Archduke,
the issue of Francesco's previous marriage, died, leaving the
ducal throne of Tuscany without direct heir; failing which the
Cardinal Ferdinand would become Grand-duke at the death of his
brother. Now Bianca had given to Francesco one son; but,
besides that he was born before their marriage, and therefore
incapable of succeeding, the rumour had been spread that he was
supposititious. The dukedom, therefore, would descend to the
Cardinal if the Grand-duchess should have no other child; and
Francesco himself had begun to despair of this happiness, when
Bianca announced to him a second pregnancy.

"This time the Cardinal resolved to watch himself the
proceedings of his dear sister-in-law, lest he should be the
dupe of some new manoeuvre. He began, therefore, to cultivate
in an especial manner the friendship of his brother, declaring,
that the present condition of the Grand-duchess proved to him
how false had been the rumours spread touching her former
_accouchement_. Francesco, happy to find his brother in this
disposition, returned his advances with the utmost cordiality.
The Cardinal availed himself of this friendly feeling to come
and install himself in the Palace Pitti.

"The arrival of the Cardinal was by no means agreeable to
Bianca, who was not at all deceived as to the true cause of
this fraternal visit. She knew that, in the Cardinal, she had a
spy upon her at every moment. The spy, however, could detect
nothing that savoured of imposture. If her condition was
feigned, the comedy was admirably played. The Cardinal began to
think that his suspicions were unjust. Nevertheless, if there
were craft, the game he determined should be played out with
equal skill upon his side.

"The eventful day arrived. The Cardinal could not remain in the
chamber of Bianca, but he stationed himself in an antechamber,
through which every one who visited her must necessarily pass.
There he began to say his breviary, walking solemnly to and
fro. After praying and promenading thus for about an hour, a
message was brought to him from the invalid, requesting him to
go into another room, as his tread disturbed her. 'Let her
attend to her affairs, and I to mine,' was the only answer he
gave, and the Cardinal recommenced his walk and his prayer.

"Soon after this the confessor of the Grand-duchess entered--a
Capuchin, in a long robe. The Cardinal went up to him, and
embraced him in his arms, recommending his sister most
affectionately to his pious care. While embracing the good
monk, the Cardinal felt, or thought he felt, something strange
in his long sleeve. He groped under the Capuchin's robe, and
drew out--a fine boy.

"'My dear brother,' said the Cardinal, 'I am now more tranquil.
I am sure, at least, that my dear sister-in-law will not die
this time in childbirth.'

"The monk saw that all that remained was to avoid, if possible,
the scandal; and he asked the Cardinal himself what he should
do. The Cardinal told him to enter into the chamber of the
Duchess, whisper to her what had happened, and, as she acted,
so would he act. Silence should purchase silence; clamour,
clamour.

"Bianca saw that she must renounce at present her design to
give a successor to the ducal crown; she submitted to a
miscarriage. The Cardinal, on his side, kept his word, and the
unsuccessful attempt was never betrayed.

"A few months passed on; there was an uninterrupted harmony
between the brothers, and Francesco invited the Cardinal, who
was fond of field-sports, to pass some time with him at a
country palace, famous for its preserves Of game.

"On the very day of his arrival, Bianca, who knew that the
Cardinal was partial to a certain description of tart,
bethought her to prepare one for him herself. This flattering
attention on the part of his sister-in-law was hinted to him by
Francesco, who mentioned it as a new proof of the Duchess's
amiability, but, as he had no great confidence in his
reconciliation with Bianca, it was an intimation which caused
him not a little disquietude. Fortunately, the Cardinal
possessed an opal, given to him by Pope Sixtus V., which had
the property of growing dim the moment it approached any
poisonous substance. He did not fail to make trial of it on the
tart prepared by Bianca. The opal grew dim and tarnished. The
Cardinal said, with an assumed air of carelessness, that, on
consideration, he would not eat to-day of the tart. The Duke
pressed him; but not being able to prevail--'Well,' said he,
'since Ferdinand will not eat of his favourite dish, it shall
not be said that a Grand-duchess had turned confectioner for
nothing--I will eat of it.' And he helped himself to a piece of
the tart.

"Bianca was in the act of bending forward to prevent him--but
suddenly paused. Her position was horrible. She must either
avow her crime, or suffer her husband to poison himself. She
cast a quick retrospective glance along her past life; she saw
that she had exhausted all the pleasures of the world, and
attained to all its glories; her decision was rapid--as rapid
as on that day when she had fled from Venice with Pietro. She
also cut off a piece from the tart, and extending her hand to
her husband, she smiled, and, with her other hand, eat of the
poisoned dish.

"On the morrow, Francesco and Bianca were dead. A physician
opened their bodies by order of Ferdinand, and declared that
they had fallen victims to a malignant fever. Three days after,
the Cardinal threw down his red hat, and ascended the ducal
throne."--P. 63.

But presto! Mr Dumas is traveller as well as annalist He must leave the Middle Ages to themselves; the present moment has its exigences; he must look to himself and his baggage. He had great difficulty in doing this on his landing at the Port of Livorno; and now, on his departure, he is beset with _vetturini_. Let us recur to some of these miseries of travel, which may at least claim a wide sympathy, for most of us are familiar with them. It is not necessary even to leave our own island to find how great an embarrassment too much help may prove, but we certainly have nothing in our own experience quite equal to the lively picture of M. Dumas:--

"I have visited many ports--I have traversed many towns--I have
contended with the porters of Avignon--with the _facchini_ of
Malta, and with the innkeepers of Messina, but I never entered
so villanous a place as Livorno.

"In every other country of the world there is some possibility
of defending your baggage, of bargaining for its transport to
the hotel; and if no treaty can be made, there is at least
liberty given to load your own shoulders with it, and be your
own porter. Nothing of this kind at Livorno. The vessel which
brings you has not yet touched the shore when it is boarded;
_commissionnaires_ absolutely rain upon you, you know not
whence; they spring upon the jetty, throw themselves on the
nearest vessel, and glide down upon you from the rigging.
Seeing that your little craft is in danger of being capsized by
their numbers, you think of self-preservation, and grasping
hold of some green and slimy steps, you cling there, like
Crusoe to his rock; then, after many efforts, having lost your
hat, and scarified your knees, and torn your nails, you at
length stand on the pier. So much for yourself. As to your
baggage, it has been already divided into as many lots as there
are articles; you have a porter for your portmanteau, a porter
for your dressing-case, a porter for your hat-box, a porter for
your umbrella, a porter for your cane. If there are two of you,
that makes ten porters; if three, fifteen; as we were four, we
had twenty. A twenty-first wished to take Milord (the dog,) but
Milord, who permits no liberties, took him by the calf, and we
had to pinch his tail till he consented to unlock his teeth.
The porter followed us, crying that the dog had lamed him, and
that he would compel us to make compensation. The people rose
in tumult; and we arrived at the _Pension Suisse_ with twenty
porters before us, and a rabble of two hundred behind.

"It cost us forty francs for our portmanteaus, umbrellas, and
canes, and ten francs for the bitten leg.[1] In all, fifty
francs for about fifty steps."--P. 59.

[1] This was not the only case of compensation made out against
this travelling companion. "Milord," says our tourist, "in his
quality of bulldog, was so great a destroyer of cats, that we
judged it wise to take some precautions against overcharges in
this particular. Therefore, on our departure from Genoa, in
which town Milord had commenced his practices upon the feline
race of Italy, we enquired the price of a full-grown,
well-conditioned cat, and it was agreed on all hands that a cat
of the ordinary species--grey, white, and tortoiseshell--was
worth two pauls--(learned cats, Angora cats, cats with two
heads or three tails, are not, of course, included in this
tariff.) Paying down this sum for two several Genoese cats
which had been just strangled by our friend, we demanded a
legal receipt, and we added successively other receipts of the
same kind, so that this document became at length an
indisputable authority for the price of cats throughout all
Italy. As often as Milord committed a new assassination, and
the attempt was made to extort from us more than two pauls as
the price of blood, we drew this document from our pocket, and
proved beyond a cavil that two pauls was what we were
accustomed to pay on such occasions, and obstinate indeed must
have been the man or woman who did not yield to such a weight
of precedent."

This was on his landing at Livorno: on his departure he gives us an account, equally graphic, of the _vetturini_:--

"A diligence is a creature that leaves at a fixed hour, and its
passengers run to it; a vetturino leaves at all hours, and runs
after its passengers. Hardly have you set your foot out of the
boat that brings you from the steam-vessel to the shore, than
you are assailed, stifled, dragged, deafened by twenty drivers,
who look on you as their merchandise, and treat you
accordingly, and would end by carrying you off bodily, if they
could agree among them who should have the booty. Families have
been separated at the port of Livorno, to find each other how
they could in the streets of Florence. In vain you jump into a
_fiacre_, they leap up before, above, behind; and at the gate
of the hotel, there you are in the midst of the same group of
villains, who are only the more clamorous for having been kept
waiting. Reduced to extremities, you declare that you have come
to Livorno upon commercial business, and that you intend
staying eight days at least, and you ask of the _garçon_, loud
enough for all to hear, if there is an apartment at liberty for
the next week. At this they will sometimes abandon the prey,
which they reckon upon seizing at some future time; they run
back with all haste to the port to catch some other traveller,
and you are free.

"Nevertheless, if about an hour after this you should wish to
leave the hotel, you will find one or two sentinels at the
gate. These are connected with the hotel, and they have been
forewarned by the _garçon_ that it will not be eight days
before you leave--that, in fact, you will leave to-morrow.
These it is absolutely necessary that you call in, and make
your treaty with. If you should have the imprudence to issue
forth into the street, fifty of the brotherhood will be
attracted by their clamours, and the scene of the port will be
renewed. They will ask ten piastres for a carriage--you will
offer five. They will utter piercing cries of dissent--you will
shut the door upon them. In three minutes one of them will
climb in at the window, and engage with you for the five
piastres.

"This treaty concluded, you are sacred to all the world; in
five minutes the report is spread through all Livorno that you
are _engaged_. You may then go where you please; every one
salutes you, wishes you _bon voyage_; you would think yourself
amongst the most disinterested people in the world."--P. 94.

The only question that remains to be decided is that of the drink-money--the _buona-mano_, as the Italian calls it. This is a matter of grave importance, and should be gravely considered. On this _buona-mano_ depends the rapidity of your journey; for the time may vary at the will of the driver from six to twelve hours. Hereupon M. Dumas tells an amusing story of a Russian prince, which not only proves how efficient a cause this _buona mano_ may be in the accomplishment of the journey, but also illustrates very forcibly a familiar principle of our own jurisprudence, and a point to which the Italian traveller must pay particular attention. We doubt if the necessity of a written agreement, in order to enforce the terms of a contract, was ever made more painfully evident than in the following instance:--

"The Prince C---- had arrived, with his mother and a German
servant, at Livorno. Like every other traveller who arrives at
Livorno, he had sought immediately the most expeditious means
of departure. These, as we have said, present themselves in
sufficient abundance; the only difficulty is, to know how to
use them.

"The vetturini had learnt from the industrious porters that
they had to deal with a prince. Consequently they demanded
twelve piastres instead of ten, and the prince, instead of
offering five, conceded the twelve piastres, but stipulated
that this should include every thing, especially the
_buona-mano_, which the master should settle with the driver.
'Very good,' said the vetturini; the prince paid his twelve
piastres, and the carriage started off, with him and his
baggage, at full gallop. It was nine o'clock in the morning:
according to his calculation, the Prince would be at Florence
about three or four in the afternoon.

"They had advanced about a quarter of a league when the horses
relaxed their speed, and began to walk step by step. As to the
driver, he sang upon his seat, interrupting himself now and
then to gossip with such acquaintances as he met upon the road;
and as it is ill talking and progressing at the same time, he
soon brought himself to a full stop when he had occasion for
conference.

"The prince endured this for some time; at length putting his
head out of the window, he said, in the purest Tuscan,
'_Avanti! avanti! tirate via!_'

"'How much do you give for _buona-mano_?' answered the driver,
turning round upon his box.

"'Why do you speak to me of your _buona-mano_?' said the prince.
'I have given your master twelve piastres, on condition that it
should include every thing.'

"'The _buona-mano_ does not concern the master,' responded the
driver; 'how much do you give?'

"'Not a sou--I have paid.'

"'Then, your excellence, we will continue our walk.'

"'Your master has engaged to take me to Florenco in six hours,'
said the Prince.

"'Where is the paper that says that--the written paper, your
excellence?'

"'Paper! what need of a paper for so simple a matter? I have no
paper.'

"'Then, your excellence, we will continue our walk.'

"'Ah, we will see that!' said the Prince.

"'Yes, we _will_ see that!' said the driver.

"Hereupon the prince spoke to his German servant, Frantz, who
was sitting beside the coachman, and bade him administer due
correction to this refractory fellow.

"Frantz descended from the voiture without uttering a word,
pulled down the driver from his seat, and pummelled him with
true German gravity. Then pointing to the road, helped him on
his box, and reseated himself by his side. The driver
proceeded--a little slower than before. One wearies of all
things in this world, even of beating a coachman. The prince,
reasoning with himself that, fast or slow, he must at length
arrive at his journey's end, counselled the princess his mother
to compose herself to sleep; and, burying himself in one corner
of the carriage, gave her the example.

"The driver occupied six hours in going from Livorno to
Pontedera; just four hours more than was necessary. Arrived at
Pontedera, he invited the Prince to descend, as he was about to
change the carriage.

"'But,' said the Prince, 'I have given twelve piastres to your
master on condition that the carriage should not be changed.'

"'Where is the paper?'

"'Fellow, you know I have none.'

"'In that case, your excellence, we will change the carriage.'

"The prince was half-disposed to break the rascal's bones
himself; but, besides that this would have compromised his
dignity, he saw, from the countenances of those who stood
loitering round the carriage, that it would be a very imprudent
step. He descended; they threw his baggage down upon the
pavement, and after about an hour's delay, brought out a
miserable dislocated carriage and two broken-winded horses.

"Under any other circumstances the Prince would have been
generous--would have been lavish; but he had insisted upon his
right, he was resolved not to be conquered. Into this
ill-conditioned vehicle he therefore doggedly entered, and as
the new driver had been forewarned that there would be no
_buona-mano_, the equipage started amidst the laughter and
jeers of the mob.

"This time the horses were such wretched animals that it would
have been out of conscience to expect anything more than a walk
from them. It took six more hours to go from Pontedera to
Empoli.

"Arrived at Empoli the driver stopped, and presented himself at
the door of the carriage.

"'Your excellence sleeps here,' said he to the prince.

"'How! are we at Florence?'

"'No, your excellence, you are at the charming little town of
Empoli.'

"'I paid twelve piastres to your master to go to Florence, not
to Empoli. I will sleep at Florence.'

"'Where is the paper?'

"'To the devil with your paper!'

"'Your excellence then has no paper?'

"'No.'

"'In that case, your excellence now will sleep at Empoli!'

"In a few minutes afterwards the prince found himself driven
under a kind of archway. It was a coach-house belonging to an
inn. On his expressing surprise at being driven into this sort
of place, and repeating his determination to proceed to
Florence, the coachman said, that, at all events, he must
change his horses; and that this was the most convenient place
for so doing. In fact, he took out his horses, and led them
away.

"After waiting some time for his return, the prince called to
Frantz, and bade him open the door of this coach-house, and
bring somebody.

"Frantz obeyed, but found the door shut--fastened.

"On hearing that they were shut in, the prince started from the
carriage, shook the gates with all his might, called out
lustily, and looked about, but in vain, for some paving stone
with which to batter them open.

"Now the prince was a man of admirable good sense; so, having
satisfied himself that the people in the house either could
not, or would not hear him, he determined to make the best of
his position. Re-entering the carriage, he drew up the glasses,
looked to his pistols, stretched out his legs, and wishing his
mother good night, went off to sleep. Frantz did the same on
his post. The princess was not so fortunate; she was in
perpetual terror of some ambush, and kept her eyes wide open
all the night.

"So the night passed. At seven o'clock in the morning the door
of the coach-house opened, and a driver appeared with a couple
of horses.

"'Are there not some travellers for Florence here?' he asked
with the tone of perfect politeness, and as if he were putting
the most natural question in the world.

"The prince leapt from the carriage with the intention of
strangling the man--but it was another driver!

"'Where is the rascal that brought us here?' he demanded.

"'What, Peppino? Does your excellence mean Peppino?'

"'The driver from Pontedera?'

"'Ah, well, that was Peppino.'

"'Then where is Peppino?'

"'He is on his road home. Yes, your excellence. You see it was
the fête of the Madonna, and we danced and drank together--I
and Peppino--all the night; and this morning about an hour ago
says he to me, 'Gaetano, do you take your horses, and go find
two travellers and a servant who are under a coach-house at the
_Croix d'Or_; all is paid except the _buona-mano_.' And I asked
him, your excellence, how it happened that travellers were
sleeping in a coach-house instead of in a chamber. 'Oh,' said
he, 'they are English--they are afraid of not having clean
sheets, and so they prefer to sleep in their carriage in the
coach-house.' Now as I know the English are a nation of
originals, I supposed it was all right, and so I emptied
another flask, and got my horses, and here I am. If I am too
early I will return, and come by and by.

"'No, no, in the devil's name,' said the prince, 'harness your
beasts, and do not lose a moment. There is a piastre for your
_buona-mano_.'

"They were soon at Florence.

"The first care of the prince, after having breakfasted, for
neither he nor the princess had eaten any thing since they had
left Livorno, was to lay his complaint before a magistrate.

"'Where is the paper?' said the judicial authority.

"'I have none,' said the prince.

"'Then I counsel you,' replied the judge, 'to let the matter
drop. Only the next time give five piastres to the master, and
a piastre and a half to the driver; you will save five piastres
and a half, and arrive eighteen hours sooner.'"--P. 97.

M. Dumas, however, arrives at Florence without any such disagreeable adventure as sleeping in a coach-house. He gives a pleasing description of the Florentine people, amongst whom the spirit of commerce has died away, but left behind a considerable share of the wealth and luxury that sprang from it. There is little spirit of enterprise; no rivalry between a class enriching itself and the class with whom wealth is hereditary; the jewels that were purchased under the reign of the Medici still shine without competitors on the promenade and at the opera. It is a people that has made its fortune, and lives contentedly on its revenues, and on what it gets from the stranger. "The first want of a Florentine," says our author, "is repose; even pleasure is secondary; it costs him some little effort to be amused. Wearied of its frequent political convulsions, the town of the Medici aspires only to that unbroken and enchanted slumber which fell, as the fairy tale informs us, on the beautiful lady in the sleepy wood. No one here seems to labour, except those who are tolling and ringing the church-bells, and they indeed appear to have rest neither day nor night."

There are but three classes visible in Florence. The nobility--the foreigner--and the people. The nobility, a few princely houses excepted, spend but little, the people work but little, and it would be a marvel how these last lived if it were not for the foreigner. Every autumn brings them their harvest in the shape of a swarm of travellers from England, France, or Russia, and, we may now add, America. The winter pays for the long delicious indolence of the summer. Then the populace lounges, with interminable leisure, in their churches, on their promenades, round the doors of coffee-houses that are never closed either day or night; they follow their religious processions; they cluster with an easy good-natured curiosity round every thing that wears the appearance of a fête; taking whatever amusement presents itself, without caring to detain it, and quitting it without the least distrust that some other quite as good will occupy its place. "One evening we were roused," says our traveller, "by a noise in the street: two or three musicians of the opera, on leaving the theatre, had taken a fancy to go home playing a waltz. The scattered population of the streets arranged themselves, and followed waltzing. The men who could find no better partners, waltzed together. Five or six hundred persons were enjoying this impromptu ball, which kept its course from the opera house to the Port del Prato, where the last musician resided. The last musician having entered his house, the waltzers returned arm-in-arm, still humming the air to which they had been dancing."

"It follows," continues M. Dumas, "from this commercial apathy,
that at Florence you must seek after every thing you want. It
never comes of itself--never presents itself before
you;--everything there stays at home--rests in its own place. A
foreigner who should remain only a month in the capital of
Tuscany would carry away a very false idea of it. At first it
seems impossible to procure the things the most indispensable,
or those you do procure are bad; it is only after some time
that you learn, and that not from the inhabitants, but from
other foreigners who have resided there longer than yourself,
where anything is to be got. At the end of six months you are
still making discoveries of this sort; so that people generally
quit Tuscany at the time they have learned to live there. It
results from all this that every time you visit Florence you
like it the better; if you should revisit it three or four
times you would probably end by making of it a second country,
and passing there the remainder of your lives."[2]

[2] It is amusing to contrast the _artistic_ manner in which
our author makes all his statements, with the style of a
guide-book, speaking on the manufactures and industry of
Florence. It is from Richard's _Italy_ we quote. Mark the
exquisite medley of humdrum, matter-of-fact details, jotted
down as if by some unconscious piece of mechanism:--"Florence
_manufactures_ excellent silks, woollen cloths, elegant
carriages, bronze articles, earthenware, straw hats, perfumes,
essences, _and candied fruits_; also, all kinds of turnery and
inlaid work, piano-fortes, philosophical and mathematical
instruments, &c. The dyes used at this city are much admired,
particularly the black, _and its sausages are famous throughout
all Italy_."

Shall we visit the churches of Florence with M. Dumas? No, we are not in the vein. Shall we go with him to the theatres--to the opera--to the Pergola? Yes, but not to discuss the music or the dancing. Every body knows that at the great theatres of Italy the fashionable part of the audience pay very little attention to the music, unless it be a new opera, but make compensation by listening devoutly to the ballet. The Pergola is the great resort of fashion. A box at the Pergola, and a carriage for the banks of the Arno, are the _indispensables_, we are told, at Florence. Who has these, may eat his macaroni where he pleases--may dine for sixpence if he will, or can: it is his own affair, the world is not concerned about it--he is still a gentleman, and ranks with nobles. Who has them not--though he be derived from the loins of emperors, and dine every day off plate of gold, and with a dozen courses--is still nobody. Therefore regulate your expenditure accordingly, all ye who would be somebody. We go with M. Dumas to the opera, not, as we have said, for the music or the dancing, but because, as is the way with dramatic authors, he will there introduce us, for the sake of contrast with an institution very different from that of an operatic company--

"Sometimes in the midst of a cavatina or a _pas-de-deux_, a
bell with a sharp, shrill, excoriating sound, will be heard; it
is the bell _della misericordia_. Listen: if it sound but once,
it is for some ordinary accident; if twice, for one of a
serious nature; if it sounds three times, it is a case of
death. If you look around, you will see a slight stir in some
of the boxes, and it will often happen that the person you have
been speaking to, if a Florentine, will excuse himself for
leaving you, will quietly take his hat and depart. You inquire
what that bell means, and why it produces so strange an effect.
You are told it is the bell _della misericordia_, and that he
with whom you were speaking is a brother of the order.

"This brotherhood of mercy is one of the noblest institutions
in the world. It was founded in 1244, on occasion of the
frequent pestilences which at that period desolated the town,
and it has been perpetuated to the present day, without any
alteration, except in its details--with none in its purely
charitable spirit. It is composed of seventy-two brothers,
called chiefs of the watch, who are each in service four months
in the year. Of these seventy-two brothers, thirty are priests,
fourteen gentlemen, and twenty-eight artists. To these, who
represent the aristocratic classes and the liberal arts, are
added 500 labourers and workmen, who may be said to represent
the people.