Chapter III: First Journey in Europe (4)

I like Mirbel excessively. Considering I was a perfect stranger, of whom he knew nothing, I think he took great pains to show me what I wanted to see. Sullivant’s microscope will be of the same kind as his, only better, so that he will have the means of being a second Mirbel. Examined his microscope, which is a good one, but I think not equal to the best English; got some good hints, etc.; am to call again. He is very communicative, and you missed much in not seeing so extraordinary a man. He showed me a series of drawings and engravings on which he has been long engaged, for a mémoire on the structure of roots,--splendid drawings; and he explained to me what I before could not form a clear idea about, how the curious emboîtement or thickening of the walls of cells takes place by the development of new cells within the old. He showed me what I at once recognized as the so-called gridiron-tissue which I had seen in England, and I noticed that he explained it in the same way as Brown. He promised me copies for self and friends of the late paper of his on Embryologia in the “Comptes Rendus,” just now read before the Institute (which will also be published with a part of the plates in the “Annales des Sciences Naturelles” and finally completely in “Archives du Muséum “), in which he says he has completely upset the new-fangled notions of Schleiden, Unger, etc. (adopted by Endlicher); and, what is remarkable, his investigations on the subject were made before he knew of their views, and the publication is only a little hastened on account of theirs. This evening I have been with Webb, looking up Desfontaines and Poiret plants, also some of Spach. Did I tell you I have seen a good deal of Spach of late? He does not agree well with the other botanists of the Garden; but there are some good points about him, and he is mending every day. I pushed him rather hard upon some of his bad ways, particularly that of his changing specific names, which he bore very well. Webb says he is now falling into an opposite extreme as to species, and will hardly admit anything to be distinct; but Webb himself rather inclines to multiply species, I believe. I am to meet Spach at his place in the Garden to-morrow morning. He is married, lately, to Miss Legendre, a relative of Mirbel’s, who made his drawings in Marchantia, etc.,--indeed the best botanical artiste in Paris. What a fine library Jussieu has! And what a capital advantage it is to have a great botanist for one’s father! I particularly envy Jussieu his collection of botanical pamphlets, which fill a large cabinet, all arranged in families, etc., the largest collection of the kind in the world, Jussieu thinks. He gave me to-day a little print of his father taken in the year his “Genera Plantarum” was published. He told me, what I did not know before, that Bernard de Jussieu superintended the publication of Aublet’s “Plantes de la Guiane.” I could buy that work rather cheap, but think I must refrain. I bought to-day Schreber’s edition of the “Genera Plantarum,” two francs, two vols. in one, bound, for myself (you have it, I believe), and a second copy of “Linnæi Species Plantarum,” ed. 3 (which is the 2d Holm., as you know, reprinted paginatim at Vienna). I gave five francs, and shall put it down for Sullivant, who should have it, unless indeed you desire to keep it yourself. I have bought (ten francs) the first four vols. of “Mémoires de l’Institut,” 4to, bound, for library of Michigan. Ventenat’s mémoire of Tilia is contained in one, also other botanical papers, and some good old chemical ones, etc. Webb is to put up for me a small parcel of Labilliardière’s New Holland plants.

I have bought L’Héritier’s “Cornus,” so now I have the whole complete, and must get it all bound.

P. S.--I have just discovered that the copy of L’Héritier’s is imperfect. I feel confident that Webb knows it not, and I of course cannot tell him. I shall have all bound up in one thick volume.

Monday evening, April 8.--I finished early this morning, at Richard’s, the examination of those species upon which Michaux’s herbarium is not satisfactory. Richard boasts of his set as the authentic one (which is true), but it is not as complete nor as good as the other, which is partly owing to Richard having divided with Kunth when he could. Michaux must have made a capital collection, since it has moreover supplied the general herbarium with a pretty extensive set, and Desfontaines and Jussieu with many; others I meet in the Ventenat herbarium (Delessert). They say De Candolle has some of Michaux’s plants, and who besides I know not....

But I have something better than all this to tell you. I have discovered a new genus in Michaux’s herbarium--at the end, among plantæ ignotæ. It is from that great unknown region, the high mountains of North Carolina. We have the fruit, with the persistent calyx and style, but no flowers, and a guess that I made about its affinities has been amply borne out on examination by Decaisne and myself. It is allied to Galax, but “un très-distinct genus,” having axillary one-flowered scapes (the flower large) and a style like that of a Pyrola, long and declined. Indeed I hope it will settle the riddle about the family of Galax, and prove Richard to be right when he says Ordo Ericarcum. I claim the right of a discoverer to affix the name. So I say, as this is a good North American genus and comes from near Kentucky, it shall be christened Shortia, to which we will stand as godfathers. So Shortia galacifolia, Torr. and Gr., it shall be. I beg you to inform Dr. Short, and to say that we will lay upon him no greater penalty than this necessary thing,--that he make a pilgrimage to the mountains of Carolina this coming summer and procure the flowers. Please lay an injunction upon Nuttall, that he publish no other Shortia, and I will do the same to Hooker in a letter that I am now writing. Indeed I think I will tell him some of its chief peculiarities, and then give him leave to publish the extract in the “Annals of Natural History” if he thinks it worth while.[88]

I attended a meeting of the Institute this afternoon. An election of a correspondent took place, which ran very close between Charles Buonaparte and Agassiz, but the latter carried it!

I must not forget to tell you about the Loganiaceous plant from Florida, for so Decaisne, to whom I gave leave to sacrifice a flower for drawing, has determined it to be; so Brown’s hint is confirmed. There is something rather queer about the style, which, as Brown’s “Prodromus” is not before me, I cannot say is also the case in any of the subgenera or genera he has indicated.

Euploca, Decaisne says, is certainly apocyneous. Nuttall, I believe, places it in Boragineæ.

April 9.--I heard Mirbel lecture to-day, commencing his course at the Sorbonne. He is a very good and clear lecturer, of the colloquial sort, and illustrates very well by rapid sketches on the blackboard. I believe you did not see him. In the contour of his features and in expression he is a good deal like Dr. Peters, except that his countenance is more attenuated, his features small and very little prominent, and his complexion light. At the Ecole de Médecine I was not fortunate enough to hit the chemical professor. I heard a portion of a lecture in the anatomical theatre, but soon came away.

I have had another fine lesson from Mirbel. He showed me all the drawings of the paper, of which I send three copies. I quit to-day.

LYONS, Wednesday evening, April 17, 1839.

At six o’clock precisely the malle-postes for every part of France began to leave, one after the other: that for Lyons came up; our baggage all in, our seats selected and arranged for us, in ten seconds we were in our places, and before the word adieu was fairly beyond my lips we were off at full speed. We took the route by Burgundy, passed Sens in the night, breakfasted at six next morning at Auxerre, and during the day should have passed through Autun, but I believe we did not; passed Châlons-sur-Saône at dusk, and arrived at Lyons at six precisely the next morning,--a rather fatiguing ride, but I saved much time over the diligence, which would have been even more fatiguing. The mail-coach takes four passengers only, three inside and one with the conducteur; it is drawn by seven horses guided by a postillion, in boots almost as high as himself, and the horses are changed every five miles or thereabouts. The time it took to change the horses I believe never exceeded a minute. I timed them once or twice by the watch, and we were moving again before the expiration of the minute. The country through which we passed was more fertile and in better cultivation than what I saw of Normandy; it was beautiful but monotonous, except the latter part, which grew quite picturesque as we approached the Rhone and the rivers that fall into it....

Lyons is finely situated just above the confluence of the Saône and the Rhone, occupying the space between the two rivers and also the other bank of the former. It has two beautiful and very steep hills, between which the Saône winds, which add much to its appearance....

April 25.--I broke off here some time ago, and left a space which I intended to fill up the first spare moment, by telling you what I saw at Lyons; what kind of a town it is; how I might possibly have seen Mont Blanc from it had it not been a rainy day; how I called on Seringe,[89] saw the little botanical garden, took notice of many little contrivances, particularly the way he keeps the aquatic plants wet; how he went with me to the Académie of Lyons, the branch of the University of Paris.... I could also describe the manufacture of velvet, which I also saw, but for all these things time does not permit; a good opportunity of sending to New York occurring to-morrow morning. So I must leave the hiatus....

I was called this morning at a quarter before four; went down to the steamboat, which was to start promptly at five, but which did not until half an hour later,--a narrow comfortless vessel, with no awning or protection for the decks, in which point, and in the lack of all comfortable arrangements, it is just like every other steamboat I have seen since I left New York, those between Liverpool and Glasgow alone excepted. The Rhone, even at Lyons and far below, merits pretty well the epithets applied to it, where it “leaves the bosom of its nursing lake,”--“the blue rushing of the arrowy Rhone,” for it is rapid the whole course. At Lyons it has a blue tint like that of the ocean, though not so deep. Well, we were off at length, and aided by the current we made very satisfactory progress. The distance by post between Lyons and Avignon is one hundred and sixty-seven miles, but including all the turnings of the river it must be much more; however, at six o’clock and a quarter the spires and battlements of Avignon, lighted by the setting sun, were in sight, and a beautiful sight they were as we drew near. The wall of the city, built by Pope Innocent VI. in the twelfth century, is still perfect, and very pretty, the architecture being what I should have thought. Moorish (judging from pictures merely); the numerous spires of this very ecclesiastical town rising above it; the huge rocky elevation next the river,--the site of the ancient fortress, and of old temples, churches, etc.,--and not least the ruined bridge of very ancient date, that still throws its beautiful arches half across the river, the lovely Italian landscape around, so fresh and green, the distant mountains encircling the whole, made it altogether as delightful a scene as one could wish to behold. But you must know that I am now in the region of the olive and myrtle, and have in the short space of three days concentrated, as it were, the pleasure we experience in watching the gradual approach of summer. The season is said to be later than usual at Paris; it is like April in New York,--a few warm days, but the evenings all chilly and most of the days raw and unpleasant, The horse-chestnut trees of the Tuileries were just bursting their buds; but every hour since, and particularly to-day, I have noticed little by little the advance. Here nearly all the trees have assumed their foliage,--that pure and delicate vernal foliage which we always so much admire, but which you enjoy very much to come upon in the way I have done, instead of waiting week after week, with every now and then a snowstorm, just to keep winter in remembrance. But I must not forget that I have seen snow also to-day. The summit of Mont Ventoux, which we have had in full sight since twelve o’clock, is covered with snow, its brilliant whiteness contrasting finely with the craggy brown mountains of lesser elevation, as with the green fields and tender foliage of the valleys. There is nothing very grand in the scenery of the Rhone from Lyons to this place. The upper portion is very much like the Hudson between New York and the Highlands, but I think scarcely as fine, if you make due allowance for the effect of the old villages, etc. (not half so comfortable as ours surely, but much better adapted to improve the beauty of the landscape), with now and then a gray ruin, which is a vast improvement. But from Tournon quite to Avignon, the scenery quite surpasses the Hudson, and exhibits such variety, moreover, that you are charmed continually: now bold and magnificent even; again, picturesque, particularly where the basaltic rocks, for it is wholly a volcanic country, form parapets like the Palisades, but much more curious and diversified, the more friable material being worn away in places, leaving columns and salient portions in all fantastic shapes. And again, especially in the lower portion, we see the hills widely separated, leaving most beautiful broad valleys between, with high mountains for a distant background. At St. Esprit we passed under the curious old bridge built in the eleventh century, which is still in as perfect a state apparently as if finished but yesterday. It is three thousand feet long, and is said to be the longest bridge in Europe; it consists of twenty-six arches, and each abutment has also a little arch above it. We passed other very pretty or striking views of which I should like vastly to have good prints, but I do not know whether any person has of late been illustrating the Rhone. But I must come to a close, not to fatigue you longer. I arrived at the most excellent Hôtel du Palais Royal (recommended by Bentham) just in time for the table d’hôte at seven o’clock, and after dinner sallied out, with a guide to conduct me to see Requien,[90] to whom Bentham had given me a letter. I found him a prompt man, and in almost ten words we settled my plan for to-morrow, which is to start in a cabriolet for Vaucluse at five o’clock in the morning, arrive at eight, spend two hours, breakfast, and return here by one o’clock; spend the afternoon and evening in seeing the most interesting objects in town, looking at his collections, his pictures, etc., etc. What would you give to see Vaucluse? I have many doubts whether it will equal my expectations, which are raised by the description; according to the account it must be very curious and strange, apart from the associations of the place, which here pass for little with me, as I feel no interest at all in Petrarch or Laura, whoever she may have been.

AVIGNON, Friday evening, April 19, half past eight o’clock.

I think you will scarcely call me an idle lad. It was about midnight when I went to bed last night; I was called this morning at half past four; a few minutes past five I was on my way in a cabriolet for Vaucluse, with a very lazy horse, so that it was nine o’clock when I arrived. I visited the famous fountain, admired the rocks, etc.; collected a few plants as a souvenir; took my breakfast, a very substantial one, consisting in part of delicate trout from the stream which issues from the fountain; left at eleven, arrived at Avignon again at half past two; saw the Requien museum of antiquities, which is rich, the paintings, the little botanic garden; saw also Requien’s library and collection of plants, etc; made arrangements for correspondence; climbed the rocky hill which overlooks the town and river; enjoyed the view; visited the cathedral (a small affair) which stands upon it; saw the old papal palace, now converted into a prison; returned to the Hôtel Palais Royal, and a most excellent hotel it is, which I hope you will patronize the first time you come to Avignon; dined at seven, having first secured a place in the diligence for Nîmes at ten o’clock this evening, where I hope to arrive by daylight and be ready to go on the same day to Montpellier, where I prefer to pass the Sabbath. Now I think this is doing pretty well....

MONTPELLIER, Saturday evening, April 20, 1839.

At twelve o’clock I left Nîmes; rode through a highly fertile and level country, mostly occupied with vineyards, getting now and then a distant view of the mountains of Cevennes on the right, and soon of the Pic San Loup, by which I knew we were not very far from Montpellier. At this last place we arrived at five o’clock precisely, and here I am quartered at the most comfortable hotel imaginable, the Hôtel du Midi. All my stopping-places being indicated to me by Bentham, I have no difficulty in choosing where to stop. Here you are not put into a little seven by nine chamber up five pairs of stairs, as is the inevitable lot of a single man traveling in the United States, but I have a room like a large parlor, airy, the two windows looking into a pretty shady garden, a sofa, cushioned chairs, and every convenience you can think of. The town itself has nothing pleasant except its situation, but there are in it two delightful spots, which I sought at once, after having taken my dinner,--the Esplanade, very near me, an elevated plateau planted with trees, from which you have an extensive view of the country around. From this I had my first view of the Mediterranean, distant, I suppose, about eight miles! At the opposite side of the town is the Place du Peyrou, one of the finest squares in the world, on a fine elevation, descending by bold terraces into the country around, the green fields coming up on one side close to the parapet. The view is beautiful and very extensive, the Mediterranean on one side, the Pic San Loup and the mountains of Cevennes on the other, while toward the south, it is said, the Pyrenees may be seen in very clear weather. From this point I discovered the Botanic Garden, the oldest in Europe and in many respects still the finest. So I descended, sought out Delile the director, who it seems expected me, and expressed his delight in a most exaggerated and truly French manner. I stayed with him until nine o’clock; returned here, commenced this, but being fatigued soon gave it up and went to bed.

Monday morning, April 22.--Nearly all of the foregoing has been written this morning; but I cannot stay longer, as I should be stirring. There are many Protestants in Montpellier, it is said, but I fancy that they are chiefly not very pious, and as I should not understand the language well enough to be benefited, I thought it better to spend the Sabbath by myself. This was my first Sabbath on land in which I have not attended divine worship conducted in the English language.

Tuesday morning, April 23.--As early as possible in the morning yesterday I called on Lady Bentham, the mother of my good friend who has taken so much pains to aid me and her daughter, Madame Duchesnil; they live quite retired, and are occupied in directing the education of the son of Madame Duchesnil, a fine lad of about thirteen.... The ladies received me with great cordiality. I prolonged my call to an hour, and accepted an invitation to take tea with them this evening.... I went to the Garden, called upon M. Dunal,[91] the best botanist here, who, having lived single to the age of I should say fifty years, has found out that it is not good to be alone, and has just taken a wife. I did not stay very long, as I found when I called that he was not in his study, but I suppose in his drawing-room, and I could not be so cruel as to keep him from the company of his beloved.

I called next upon Delile,[92] but as he was not in, I spent a long time in looking over the Garden, noticing all the little details and arrangements that it would be useful for me to know. On his return we spent the remainder of the afternoon in looking over his plants collected in America. I dined with him at six o’clock, and spent nearly all the evening.... They have not water enough, however, to supply the Botanic Garden sufficiently, which has a very barren soil, and in this dry climate, where it seldom rains from this time till October, it suffers greatly. The first view of this garden is very striking, but upon a more careful observation I see less to admire. Still I learn some thing from every garden I visit.

Previously to calling on Lady Bentham I had accepted an invitation to dine this evening with Captain Gordon, a retired officer of the British army residing here, a friend of the Bentham family, who, hearing from Lady Bentham and Delile that I was soon expected here, called par hasard at the Hôtel du Midi, to request that they would send him word when I arrived. On finding me he insisted on my dining with him this evening. I have this moment, while I was writing, received a note from Lady Bentham, asking me to call on her this morning, saying she has a collection of plants made by herself for her son George at some interesting locality among the mountains, a set of which she is to have ready for me, knowing, as she says, that George would surely offer them to me. Although I had arranged my time a little differently, of course I shall call immediately after breakfast. Lady B., who is now very aged, is evidently a very superior woman; she is a very good botanist also, therefore, as I do not know the plants of the south of Europe very well, I am a little afraid of her.

Marseilles, April 25, Thursday evening.--I broke off my narrative on Tuesday morning, two days ago. I must continue my brief account, and then close my letters to send from this port. After breakfast, Captain Gordon called on me, and we went together to Lady Bentham. We found his dinner hour so late that we were obliged to give up the expectation of returning to take tea with the ladies here. Delile joined us, and soon after I went with him to see the museum of painting and sculpture, which, by a curious circumstance, is the richest in France, except that of Paris. There are not a few of originals of great masters; two or three Raphaels; as many of Salvator Rosa, Rubens, Poussin, Carlo Dolci, etc., many of which I know from engravings. We went next to the Medical School, which occupies the former palace of the archbishop, who was ousted at the time of the revolution. This is one of the oldest medical schools, and for a long time very celebrated. It is declining now; they have no professor of very great talent at present, except Lallemand. I was shown the gallery of portraits of the professors from the commencement almost, a prodigious number, and some of the old fellows very queer to look at. I saw also the library, the collection of manuscripts, classical, theological, a few Persian, Arabic, etc., which fell into their hands some years ago.

Thence we went to the Garden, looked at plants, but did not get on very much, Delile being fonder of telling long stories, complaining all the while how much he is pressed by his avocations, than of working hard. I then arranged my baggage, took a place in the diligence for Marseilles, called again on Lady Bentham, to take leave; dined with Captain Gordon, returned, and went to bed.

Rose on Wednesday (yesterday) morning at half past four; took diligence at five, arrived at Nîmes at half past ten; had time to take another survey of the Amphitheatre, the Maison Carrée, and so forth; took breakfast at half past eleven; off again at twelve, passed in sight of Beaucaire and Tarascon; crossed the Rhone, here a large river, near its mouth at Arles, a curious old town which has nothing modern about it, and thus was again in Provence. The court of Constantine the Great was for several years at Arles, which was celebrated for its refinement, and the women and children are said to be still handsome and graceful. Certainly nearly all I saw, young or old, were comely, and many handsome. They are all brunettes, and not a little sunburnt; but their black hair, large dark eyes, and long eyelashes appear to advantage. We were soon on the road again, traveled over an immense plain, bordered on the north by a long ridge of mountains, composed of naked jagged rocks,--a picturesque range, in fine contrast to the fertile plain from which it abruptly rises. They are, I believe, the mountains of the Durance. At length the plain became as barren as the mountains; night came on, and rather late in the evening we reached Aix, took our supper.... I slept pretty well, and when I awoke we were in sight of the town and bay of Marseilles, the latter superb as seen from the elevated place of our view; but the town did not present such an imposing view as I had been taught to expect....

Genoa, April 27, 1839. Saturday evening.--I have just finished my afternoon and evening stroll through this, to me, the first Italian city: the birthplace of Columbus, the city of the Dorias, the rival and even the conqueror of that other proud republic of the Middle Ages, Venice, in remembrance of which, huge pieces of the chains which were employed to bar the harbors of the latter city are suspended from the gates of Genoa. We arrived in the bay before twelve o’clock to-day, and during our gradual approach to the town enjoyed the view to the full; both the distant view and the near are very fine,--equal, I may say, to what I expected, which is saying a great deal. As seen from the bay it certainly deserves the name its citizens long ago gave it,--Genoa the Superb. You have the whole completely before you in one view, the buildings rising one behind the other, the fortifications that overtop the whole, with the vast mountain amphitheatre for a background.... You are not much disturbed with the rattling of carriage wheels here. With the exception of one street, and this a new one (Strada Nuova) at least as to its present dimensions, they are barely wide enough for a wheelbarrow, and mostly too steep for a carriage, even if they were wider. The houses are very high; six, seven, or eight stories being very common, indeed usual, so that the streets are mere chinks or crevices. I found the same advantage from this in Avignon and the other towns of the south of France, that is, the perfect protection afforded these warm days from the heat of the sun. You are sure of shade; and the air is so dry that none of the inconvenience and unhealthiness results which would surely be the case in other countries. I am at the Hôtel des Etrangers, not far from the quay, and my room, five or six stories high, looks down upon the harbor and bay. It is nine o’clock in the evening. The light is burning quietly in the light-house, a tall and very slender column at the entrance of the harbor, forming a beacon which is visible far and wide. I don’t know as I may say that

“The scene is more beautiful far to my eye
Than if day in her pride had arrayed it;”

but it is much softer. The evening gun has just been fired off from one of the batteries next the sea, the signal, I suppose, for closing the harbor, and the echo sent back by the hills on either side was prolonged and repeated fainter and fainter for nearly a minute....

The coast at Marseilles and that I saw yesterday may be described in a few words: bare, jagged, sterile, rocky mountains; scarcely high enough to be picturesque, perfectly destitute of verdure, barely supporting here and there a few stunted olive-trees. We passed Toulon and had a distant view. We sailed between the mainland and the islands of Hyères, so remarkable for their fine climate and healthfulness, but they did not look very inviting to me.

When I rose this morning the scenery had become bolder and more interesting. We were where the Alps first come down to the sea, and we have since sailed along a coast so closely skirted by the Maritime Alps, the chain which passing into Italy forms the Apeninnes, that there is scarcely room to construct a road between. The loftier peaks, the whole day, were covered with snow, in fine contrast with the gray and sterile cliffs below and the dark blue sea which seems to lave their base, for the Mediterranean has the deep azure tint of mid-ocean quite up to the shore. There are many pretty villages also, which either seem hung on the mountain’s side or to rise out of the water. In one place I counted twelve in a single view, by no means a wide one. We passed Savona, the town where the pope lived while Napoleon was master of Italy. Here the hills are more fertile, and vines, olives, and oranges are cultivated wherever room or soil enough to plant them can be found....

IN THE HARBOR OF LEGHORN, Monday evening, five o’clock.

I must tell you of the pretty view I had Saturday night. My room, I think I mentioned, looked directly into the bay, and also gave me a fine view of the western part of the town, the mountains of that side of the bay, and peeping over them, the sharp crests of the Maritime Alps, still white with snow, and looking rather like bright clouds than a portion of terra firma.

While I was sleeping soundly, about two o’clock in the morning the moon shone into the window directly into my face, and thinking it a pity I should lose so fine a sight, she awoke me. She was near her full; she hung in the middle of the bay at just the proper angle that the flood of golden light she was pouring upon the tranquil sea was reflected directly to my eyes. The city, too, looked beautiful indeed, and the mountains, and even the Alps, were all visible. I enjoyed it for a long time, and went to bed again regretting that I had no one to share the scene with me.[93]

There is or was a British chapel here, belonging to the British embassy, but I could find nothing of it, and so spent the Sabbath by myself, which was as well perhaps. At seven in the evening our boat left, and I was obliged to continue my voyage. I wrapped myself in my cloak and slept soundly and quietly, and when we reached the harbor of Leghorn at five o’clock awoke refreshed, vigorous, and in the finest spirits. I obtained a light breakfast on board; at seven o’clock was ashore; in five minutes more was in a cabriolet and on the road to Pisa, distant from here fourteen Tuscan miles, which make, I should judge, about ten English ones. My bargain was that I should be driven to Pisa in two hours at farthest, have two hours and a half there, and be returned again safe and sound before two o’clock. This was easily accomplished; the journey being made in less than two hours, I had the more time there, quite as much, indeed, as I wished. It is a great comfort to be able to leave a place the moment you have done with it, and so avoid being sated with it. I had a letter and a little parcel from Mirbel to deliver to old Savi,[94] the professor of botany in the university; so I was dropped at the door of the university, once so famous, but now far from formidable. I found Savi, gave my letter, was introduced to his two sons, the one professor of natural history, the other assistant professor of botany, who showed me through the museum, which was interesting, the botanic garden, which was not much; I then set out to see the four chief lions, the Duomo or cathedral, the Baptistery, the Campanile or famous leaning tower, and the Campo Santo, which all stand near each other and are soon dispatched. In fact they are the separate parts of a cathedral, the Campanile being, as the name denotes, the bell-tower, and the Campo Santo the burial-place....

The vine in Tuscany is not kept close to the ground as in France, but is trained in arbors and festoons along the borders of wheat-fields, and when their leaves appear must add very much to the beauty of the country. One here could sit under the shade of his vine, which would be out of the question in France. But the boat is leaving the harbor. On the right we can dimly discern the northern extremity of Corsica. Elba we shall pass in the night, and sometime in the course of the morning be landed in Civita Vecchia. I have made the acquaintance of an English clergyman of warm piety, who is in ill health, who has been obliged to reside for several years in Nice in the winter, and at Interlaken in Switzerland in the summer, at both of which places he preaches regularly. He has traveled in Greece, Turkey, and Asia Minor, and passed much time with our missionaries there, of whom he speaks in the warmest terms. His name is Hartley. We shall go on in company to Rome.

ROME, 1st May, 1839, Wednesday evening.

And I am indeed in Rome. This is enough to repay one for long and tedious journeys and even for transient separation from friends, and when I leave this place I feel as though my face was set homeward. I feel it is something to be in Rome....

I distinctly recollect the time when, a very small boy, in the course of a long ride with a relative, the story of Romulus and Remus was first related to me, and how it struck my wondering fancy. And I recollect most perfectly my first lesson in Virgil, and how, commencing with “Arma virumque cano,” I slowly worked my way into the mysteries of Latin prosody and the story of the Æneid. Little did I think in those days that I should ever stand within the “walls of lofty Rome;”

“Should tread the Appian
Or climb the Palatine, and stand within those very walls
Where Virgil read aloud his tale divine.”

My enthusiasm has risen by degrees, for I arrived here this morning, after a delay at that most wretched of all places, Civita Vecchia, where an Austrian soldier, stationed there, told us he was sent as to a kind of earthly purgatory to do penance for his sins; after being subjected to those numberless petty exactions by which the purse of the pope is replenished from the pockets of us poor Protestants, after tedious delays on the road, and a most uncomfortable ride for the whole night, which altogether is enough to put one in a bad humor with everything,--after all this you may be sure I found myself in such a prosaic care-for-nothing mood that it was a long time before I could feel the interest which the Eternal City is calculated to inspire. A fog in the morning prevented us from a good view on our approach; the streets of the modern town through which we passed were mostly devoid of interest, and we saw nothing but the dome of St. Peter’s and the Castle of St. Angelo. However, we got established at the Hôtel d’Allemagne, and took breakfast. Mr. Hartley, being worn out by the journey, took to his room for the day, and I was left to myself. Though perfectly ignorant of localities here, I was determined not to be deprived of the satisfaction of discovering the most interesting places for myself. My guide-book (Madame Starke) describes objects somewhat particularly, but gives no information as to where they are to be found. I hate the chatter of a cicerone, and felt confident that I should stumble upon something worth seeing. So I climbed the hill just before me by a magnificent flight of marble steps, where the Egyptian obelisk stands which the inscription says was found in the Circus of Sallust. I saw an imposing building at the end of a long avenue, on the summit of a rise which I afterwards learned was the Esquiline Hill. On reaching it and examining the interior I found by the guide-book that it was the Basilica of Santa Maria Maggiore. These basilicas, retaining the name of ancient structures, are a larger kind of churches, which were mostly established upon the foundations of ancient temples, or they were these temples themselves turned into churches....

As I emerged from the Coliseum I stood between the Palatine and the Cælian Hills, the Arch of Constantine just before me, the Arch of Titus in view on the right hand, and just beyond the Roman Forum, all crowded with ruins; the very soil is mouldering brickwork and fragments of columns. Here I spent the greater part of the morning, silent and undisturbed, finding out by the description the ruins as they presented themselves....

* * * * *

The journal is so long that most of the Italian, more especially the Roman, journey must be omitted. Dr. Gray, as is shown, was a busy sightseer, enjoying the historical and romantic associations with his natural enthusiasm. Here began his great love of painting, of sculpture, and of architecture; he carried the details of churches and cathedrals in his memory remarkably, recognizing quickly a print or photograph of something he had seen perhaps thirty years before; he had the memory for form which helped him so much in his science. He was a good critic of painting and enjoyed extremely his favorite pictures, liking to wander off alone to enjoy them. Titian on the whole ranked highest in his estimation. He enjoyed much of the old church music, though his preference in music was for simple songs, hymns especially, and the old tunes to which words had long been wedded. There are many quotations from Byron and Rogers in the original journal. For Byron, with his brilliant descriptions and versification, he always kept much feeling; and his great love of natural scenery had full play.

TO MRS. TORREY.

LEGHORN, May 8.

Whenever I have an hour to spare I know of no pleasanter mode of occupying it than by writing to you, for to you my thoughts, whenever they are at rest, spontaneously revert. I have yet an hour before the vetturino starts for Florence, and I may as well commence another sheet, the first of a series which I may be unable to send you for several weeks, as I here leave the Mediterranean, loveliest of seas, and except I find an American ship on the Adriatic, which is not very probable, I must keep them all until I reach Hamburg. I have just closed a formidable packet of journal, to be sent from here in the ship Sarah and Arsilia, which is to sail for New York next week....

I am very well satisfied with my visit to Rome. In the brief space of time I spent there I saw everything I wished except the pope himself, and I believe I had a glimpse of him; one statue of Michael Angelo’s, which I only learned about when it was too late; the Catacombs, where the early Christians used to conceal themselves, which are some miles off; the monument of Cecilia Metella, which is not handsome, but is immortalized by three or four singularly sweet stanzas in “Childe Harold;” and the Basilica of St. Paul, which is some distance out of the city, and was nearly destroyed by fire about ten years ago. This is a very small list compared with what I have seen, so I am quite content. I wish you could see Rome; there is so much that you would enjoy in the highest degree, and it is laying up a fund to be enjoyed afterwards as long as you live.

It is now just sunset, and the air is remarkably balmy,--a mild sea-breeze, just enough to fan you. And let me tell you, however, as to Italian skies and sunsets that they are not a bit superior to our own. You may enjoy from your own parlor windows finer sunsets every clear day in summer than I have yet seen in Italy; though they certainly are very near ours. It is only to those who are accustomed to British clouds and fogs that they are remarkable.

The peripatetic grinders of music upon hand-organs so common in all our towns are usually Italians, and I supposed that street music here was of much the same kind. This is a mistake. I have not seen such a thing in Italy or the south of France. You have universally the harp, commonly two players in concert, and very frequently a violin also for accompaniment, and the music is always creditable. At Avignon, the very land of troubadours, we were serenaded at dinner with a concert of harps, guitars, etc., but when they called for the coppers we found, shame to this degenerate age, that the troubadours were all women, and of the most unromantic appearance possible. The patois of all this part of France and of Piedmont, however, is the same as the language in which the trouvères are written, and one who understands the patois as now spoken can read the former without difficulty.

The Italian language, is very soft and musical, far more pleasant to the ear than the deep nasal tones of the French.

JOURNAL.

FLORENCE, May 9, Thursday evening.

Finding little more that I could do to-day, I then called at the residence of Mr. Sloane, a descendant of Sir Hans Sloane of famous memory, who resides in the Bontrouline palace, and not finding him at home left a note of introduction written by two ladies, Mrs. Boott and Miss Boott, and also a letter intrusted to my care by Mirbel. I called also at the Botanic Garden, but Mr. Targioni-Tozzetti[95] was not at home, and the garden was of no great consequence. While at dinner Mr. Sloane called to welcome me to Florence, and to take me out of the city to the Campagna,--lawns and beautiful pleasure-grounds and groves skirting the Arno for a mile or two, which are thrown open to the public, forming the favorite drive or promenade. Almost the whole city was there, and I never saw a more pleasant place. The roads were thronged with carriages, from the barouche of the grand duke to the peasant’s cart, all on terms of perfect equality. The grand duke passed us twice. He mingles much with the people, is accessible to all, and is greatly beloved. The government, though despotic, is paternal, the people are not burdened with taxes, and are contented and industrious. The difference between Tuscany and the Papal States is manifest enough. But I must hasten with my narrative. Early the next morning, Friday, I called on Mr. Sloane, looked at his garden, where he has many fine things. We then crossed the Arno to the other side of the town, called on Professor Amici,[96] who removed here from Modena a few years since, and has charge of the grand duke’s observatory. He was very obliging, showed me his microscopes, which he thinks unrivaled, but I don’t, and then the observatory, where I saw all the instruments, peeped through his telescope, and from the top of the tower had a most beautiful panoramic view of Florence and the surrounding country. We then passed through the museum of natural history, which is in the same building, and is prettily arranged; saw the famous flowers and fruits done in wax, but not the figures which represent the Plague, which were in the anatomical museum adjoining, and which I did not care to see. In the collection were some recent models made under Amici’s superintendence to illustrate his discoveries, etc. They were wonderfully fine, and would be useful in a class-room. Amici is a good observer with the microscope, but his anatomical or physiological notions are in some cases very wide of the mark, and quite surprised me.

On leaving, Mr. Sloane and myself separated, he going to fulfill some engagement, and I to the Palazzo Pitti, as it is still called from the founder, though it early passed into the hands of the Medici family, who finished it, and now it is the ducal residence. I must tell you, by the way, that I should have seen a remarkable person in Florence, had she not been sick. Sloane is very intimate with her and wished me to see her; she is the ex-queen of Naples, the widow of Murat and the sister of Napoleon....

On returning to the hotel, however, I learned that I could not get a place with the courier next day, that the diligence which left at mid-day did not arrive at Bologna until Sunday afternoon, so I engaged a cabriolet, to start with me after dinner, arranged my affairs, called on Mr. Sloane to bid him an unexpected adieu, dined at the table d’hôte at five, and at dark I was climbing the outskirts of the Apennines.

I would have liked to call upon our sculptor Greenough[97] to see how the statue of Washington is coming on, but had not time.

At sunrise I was on the mountain-summits, among the clouds, which a strong wind for a moment blew aside, and gave me some magnificent views. We journeyed for some hours in this elevated region, but at length crossed the Tuscan frontier and were once more in the country of his Holiness. Just as we commenced our descent, which is very abrupt, a dense fog enveloped us and it began to rain; in consequence of this I lost the view which you often have of the Adriatic and the Mediterranean at the same time, as well as the plains of the Po on the north. This was the first rain I encountered, excepting a few drops at Rome, since I left Lyons; so you may judge of the dryness of the climate in the south of France and Italy. It is very different, however, near the mountains. At length, after a long and rapid descent, we arrived at the foot of the mountain, and stopped at a comfortable inn to take our dinner and breakfast at once, it being about two o’clock. Several carriages were there before us, and just before I left another arrived, bringing with it a most genuine Yankee, who amused me excessively. It seems that he came out in the Great Western, a few weeks ago, had seen what he thought worth seeing in London and Paris, had been even to Naples, and was now on his way from Rome to Switzerland, and expected to reach London to return by steamship in--I forget how many days! But the feat upon which he prided himself above all was that he had ascended Vesuvius and come back again in--I don’t remember precisely how many minutes, but in an inconceivably short space of time, and very much quicker than had ever been done before! to the great wonderment of the guides, as he said, and as I do not doubt. This was his chef d’œuvre, and I assure you he felt quite proud of it. I laughed most heartily at the absurdity of the thing, until I reflected how rapidly I had been doing the sights myself, and felt I might justly come in for a share of the ridicule. In this day’s journey I think I outdid the Yankee, for, arriving at Bologna about five o’clock, I immediately made arrangements for going on to Ferrara the same night, and this accomplished, I had but two or three hours to spend at Bologna, a city famous for its university and its sausages; the former decayed almost to nothing, the latter still in great demand, diffusing their abominable garlic odor from every table. I visited all the large churches, took some coffee, and before nine o’clock was on my way through the vast plain watered by the Po, which, like most large rivers, branches near its mouth into several streams. The lad who drove me did not know the road very well, and lost his way several times, so that instead of arriving before daybreak it was six o’clock in the morning when we entered Ferrara. Indeed he came near losing his horse as well as the road, for while I was sleeping soundly in the carriage I was roused by a prodigious clatter, and jumping out as quick as I could, found that he had driven into a heap of rough stones deposited to mend the road; the horse had slipped and was lying flat upon his back in the bottom of the ditch. With much ado we liberated him from the carriage and lifted him out of the ditch, repaired the injury to the harness as well as we could with bits of rope, and were again on our way. I have wondered since how I could ride thus through the night, with only a boy with me, through a country which some years ago would not have been deemed safe. But I felt not the slightest alarm, and slept as soundly as possible.

Ferrara is famous for possessing the tomb and chair of Ariosto, but except this is as uninteresting as you can imagine. It was Sunday, and I spent the day within doors as well as I could.

By making a very early ride I succeeded in reaching Padua at ten o’clock this morning; visited the university so famed of old, the churches, the splendid Caffè Pedrocchi, the Botanic Garden,--the most ancient in Italy, of which Alpinius, the elder and the younger, and Pontedera were the directors. It is under the care of Visiani,[98] to whom I brought a letter from Bentham, and who politely showed me all I wished to see. The university is a queer old place indeed, and the lecture-rooms the most dark, gloomy, and incommodious places you can conceive; everything is as old as the fifteenth century. I wish I could describe the anatomical theatre, which is the most curious specimen of antiquity I have seen. The Museum of Natural History is so-so. There is still a goodly number of students, but nothing to what there was in the olden time. The Duomo is a small affair, but the church of St. Antonio is like a mosque, the most Saracenic building I ever saw,--with its seven or eight balloon-shaped domes of various sizes, and three or four tall and slender minarets. I am sorry I can’t get a decent print of it. The interior is noble, and very rich in tombs and shrines and sculptures. Here are tombs of many of the old professors. The church of St. Augustine is in the same style, and not much inferior.... There is very much that I wish to write, but I have not the time nor the strength to write longer, and must sleep. To understand the full luxury of a bed you should sleep without one, as I have done very often of late. Good-night.

VENICE, on board steamboat for Triest, lying at anchor, Wednesday evening, May 15, 1839.