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Edinburgh Review vol. 22, January 1814, pp. 376-385.
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It is very refreshing to meet with a work like the one now before us, exhibiting the impressions made by an interesting journey, though over a beaten path, on a mind of no ordinary strength and originality, without the prolixity so fatiguing in most modern writers, and with no appearance whatever of bookmaking. The unfortunate termination of the author's travels in France, where he was detained, and from whence he dates his work in the tenth year of his captivity, adds a claim to the forbearance of critics, more especially in those points where the want of acquaintance with recent productions might otherwise have been noticed. He appears to have been kept in ignorance of the works published in this country during the greater part of his detention.
Mr Forsyth is evidently a man of observation and reflection: He brings to his task, a very respectable knowledge of the subjects which ought to occupy an Italian traveller; and he is for the most part both liberal and original in his remarks. He expresses himself shortly and with force, though he does not always steer clear of affectation, and not unfrequently takes dogmatical and even extravagant views of things. He writes, too, rather for those who have examined the subject, or are engaged in surveying it, than for the uninformed; and this often gives his statements and observations an air of obscurity, which the initiated will be content to take for the sake of their shortness and substantial qualities. His book is, indeed, in all respects a contrast to Mr Eustace's valuable work; for it is full of vigour —always displays an active reasoning mind free from prejudice— more prone at all times to argue than to feel, and occupied with the matter rather than the language—or only careful about the latter, with the view of condensing it, and giving it the vigour of epigram and point. Frequently he is very happy in description.
After the length to which our account of Mr Eustace's book extended, we shall not follow Mr
Forsyth minutely over the same ground, but, regarding this article rather as a supplement to
the former, shall notice generally some of his most remarkable passages. Perhaps the reader
may now take a livelier interest in guides to Italy, than could reasonably be felt on the
former occasion. We then had about as much connexion with that
Mr Forsyth begins his excursion at Nice, about Christmas 1801, where a soft and
balmy air, oranges glowing in every garden, lodgings without a chimney, and beds with
musquito-curtains, presented the first signs of Italy
. His observations here
and at Pisa, are few and meagre; for he had arrived at the latter place before he thought of
committing any notes to paper. We thus early in his book, however, meet with traces of the
vigorous tone which it every where sustains. Speaking of a dead Christ in alto relievo by
Michael Angelo, he says, The life and death which he has thrown into this little
thing, the breathing tenderness of the Virgin, and the heavenly composure of the
corpse, appeared beauties foreign to the tremendous genius of the artist
. And
upon visiting the Hospital of Incurables, where priests and choristers were
chanting between two rows of wretches, whom their pious noise would not suffer to die in
peace
, he adds, that the very name of such hospitals, by forbidding
the patient to hope and the physician to struggle, cuts off, at once, two sources of
recovery.
.
The author's remarks on Tuscany, lead him naturally to speak of the most celebrated
literati who flourished in Italy about the time of his journey. The following sketch of
Fontana, brother of the Abbate, is sufficiently characteristic.
This museum is under
the direction of Felice Fontana, now a Cavaliere, yet more generally known than his
brother by the title of Abbé; merely because he had once worn the clerical habit, from
motives of economy. Fontana seems to preside here in the scientific world; not by superior
knowledge, for his is rather diffuse than deep; by bringing into science the
man-of-the-world faculty, by a well-managed talent of display and evasion, which gains him
credit for double what he knows, by the art of improving the inventions of others, and
passing their joint work under his own name. In his hands every man's ability is
available, and nothing is lost. Fontana is above that consequential reserve which many
affect on subjects where they are known to excel. He readily detailed to me the history of
imitative anatomy, "an art invented by Zumbo, and revived," said Fontana, "by me. I
began with a very young artist, whom I instructed to copy the human eye in wax. This I
showed to Leopold, who, pleased with the attempt, and desirous that his sons should learn
anatomy without attending dissections, ordered me to complete the whole system."
Our author is equally expressive in painting the dead; the following sentence is horribly
picturesque, and is somewhat liable to the objection which it states against the gloomy
modeller. Wax was first used in imitating anatomy by Zumbo, a Sicilian of a
melancholy, mysterious cast, some of whose works are preserved here. Three of these bear
the gloomy character of the artist, who has exhibited the horrible details of the
plague and the charnel-house, including the decomposition of bodies through every stage
of putrefaction—the blackening, the swelling, the bursting of the trunk—the worm, the rat
and the tarantula at work—and the mushroom springing fresh in the midst of
corruption.
p. 38.
The subject of Improvvisatori is well handled; and its due share allotted to the facilities
of the language, and the various tricks of the art, in accounting for the wonders displayed
by its professors. We suspect, however, that much more light would be thrown upon this
matter, by a very simple experiment, than has yet been struck out by those who have treated
of it. We shall first give the account of La Fantastici, and then mention our experiment.
This lady convenes at her house a crowd of admirers, whenever she chooses to be
inspired. The first time 1 attended her accademia, a young lady of the same family and
name as the great Michael Angelo, began the evening by repeating some verses of her own
composition. Presently La Fantastici broke out into song in the words of the motto, and
astonished me by her rapidity and command of numbers, which flowed in praise of the fair
poetess, and brought her poem back to our applause. Her numbers, however, flowed
irregularly, still varying with the fluctuation of sentiment; while her song
Now, we hope it will not be deemed ungallant to this fair performer and her art, if we suggest the propriety of having a short-hand writer stationed in some convenient nook, with the implements of his art; we should thus have the real merits of the verse before our eyes, stript of its various accompaniments; not merely of music, vocal and instrumental, beauty, hospitality, society, voice and gesture, for these are accidental; and an old Tuscan peasant, and a deformed Roman staymaker, have recently been the first improvvisatori of their day;—but we speak of the circumstance always accompanying this feat, and disqualifying the audience from rightly judging,—the suddenness of the exhibition,—the rapidity which hurries us on from verse to verse and thought to thought, without leaving time to weigh the real merits of the composition; so that, after hearing a long declamation, we are left unable to tell whether we admire any thing more than a knack of pouring forth indifferent rhymes without stint. The measure and rhyme, indeed, aid the deception; and its conditions being complied with, we are very apt to forget how many of the requisites of poetry are left unprovided for. The improvvisatore would certainly, if desired to deliver a piece of sensible, elegant and fanciful prose, feel himself much at a loss.
Among other notices of the dramatic writers in Tuscany, we find many remarks on Alfieri,
the praises in which, all candid men will admit to be somewhat exaggerated, and Englishmen
will find it hard to endure. On his conduct, Mr Forsyth isWas it manly
, (says the author) was it humane to call
up the shade of an accomplished Prince, a Prince fully as unfortunate as he was criminal,
on purpose to insult him with a mock dedication
? But the next charge is rather
more singular; for it seems to insinuate that the Jacobites owe to Alfieri their want of a
head; and that our gracious Sovereign holds an undisputed throne by force of the same
deficiencies. Of all Italians
, (says he), this least became Alfieri,
the reputed husband of that very woman whose sterility has extinguished the race of
Charles
. For our parts we profess to feel no regret at the fate of the
individuals, or the extinction of the family. The death of Charles I., and the glorious
struggles that led to it, are among the very foundation stones of English liberty; and if
feelings of regret mix themselves at all with the contemplation of those times, it is, that
the fate of the Royal Martyr did not befal the profligate and perfidious son, rather than
the misguided and unhappy father. An Englishman in these times must have lived abroad, until
he has forgotten the blessings of a limited and constitutional monarchy, before he could
whine in favour of the Stuarts; and we verily believe that a long duration of wicked and
unfortunate policy in their Royal successors, would scarcely revive the interest in their
behalf, which the freedom of a century has now extinguished.
The same interesting picture is given by Mr Forsyth of the superior industry and worth of
the Tuscans, in which all other writers agree. Of their agriculture he mentions a few rather
singular circumstances. No leases are granted; but the farmers cultivate as much in the
security of not being turned out, as they do in this country under similar circumstances.
Many now occupy the same ground that their remote ancestors tilled in the times of the
Florentine republic. An ancient species of contract prevails here, as it once did in other
countries immediately after villenage was abolished,—half the stocking belongs to landlord,
and half to tenant; and this extends down to poultry and pigeons. The plough is conceived
less favourable to productiveness than the spade; and hence the tenant is generally bound to
dig, or lather shovel one-third of his farm with a triangular spade. The corn fields are
intersected with rows of vine and olive trees, so close, that a plough can with difficulty
work between them. One-half of this fine country is mountainous, producing nothing but
timber; one-sixth part consists of hills covered with the oThis number
, says
Mr Forsyth, was greatly increased by Leopold, who, in selling the crown
lands, studiously divided large tracts of rich but neglected soil into a thousand little
properties, and thus made them tenfold more productive. His favourite plan of encouraging
agriculture, consisted not in boards, societies, or premiums, but in giving the labourer a
security and interest in the soil, in multiplying small freeholds, in extending the livelli,
or life-leases, wherever he could, and in maintaining sacredly that equal division of stock
and crop between the landlord and the tenant, which engages both equally in improving the
farm. The younger Pliny, who practised this last plan, sets it in its true light. "Non nummo
sed partibus locem, ac deinde ex meis aliquos operis exactores fructibus ponam. Est alioquin
nullum justius genus reditus quam quod terra, cœlum, annus refert; at hoc magnam fidem; acres
oculos, numerosas manus poscit."
The delightful regions of Camaldoli and Vallombrosa, the very names of which are
pleasurable from their liquid softness, are described with considerable animation; but we
have formerly dwelt on this spot with sufficient minuteness. We shall therefore turn to some
of Mr Forsyth's observations upon Rome, and her prodigies of ancient and modern fame. We
cannot introduce these better than with his just and manly invectives against the Roman
character, poured forth with a praiseworthy contempt of the slavish and fashionable pedantry
which would make us admire such a people for their crimes, because their poets were tuneful,
and their orators consummate masters of the passions. He is speaking of the Colosseum, and
the horrors of which it was formerly the scene.
Every nation has undergone its
revolution of vices; and, as cruelty is not the present vice of ours, we can all humanely
execrate the purpose of amphitheatres, now that they lie in ruins. Moralists may tell us,
that the truly brave are never cruel; but this monument says "No." Here sat the
conquerors of the world, coolly to enjoy the tortures and death of men who had never
offended them. Two aqueducts were scarcely sufficient to wash off the human blood which a
few hours' sport shed in this imperial shambles. Twice in one day came the senators and
matrons of Rome to the butchery: a virgin always gave the signal for slaughter; and when
glutted with bloodshed, those ladies sat down in the wet and steaming arenæ to a
luxurious supper. Such reflections check our regret for its ruin. As it now stands, the
Colosseum is a striking image of Rome itself:—decayed—vacant—serious—yet grand;—half grey
and half green—erect on one side and fallen on the other, with consecrated ground in its
bosom—
This is well thought, and well said. The following passages may show the power with which
this sturdy and original observer expresses himself on the fine arts. Caravaggio
wrought some years exclusively for this palace, where he found an asylum from the gallows,
and painted in a room which was blackened to harmonize with his genius and his heart. The
ruffian loved the scriptures, and rarely excelled out of them. His frugal pencil gives but
few figures, nor much of those few; for his lights fall in red and partial masses,
without any diffusion. Whatever they fall on, indeed, starts into life; but the rest is
lost in abrupt darkness: a transition hardly in nature, or true only in candlelights.—
Here are his Christ awaking the disciples, Thomas touching the wound, a faun squeezing
grapes, and some fine old saints. This gloomy man could paint deep thoughtfulness, strong
passion, intense devotion, or broad laughter; but he had no pencil for smiles, or beauty,
or placid dignity, or love. Here are two figures of St John, writing the Revelation; the
one by Raphael, the other by Domenichino. Raphael places the Evangelist among clouds and
thunders, in the act of obeying the call "Write;" Domenichino sets him on a stone,
turning in ecstasy from his books and angels, round to the Voice which dictates. Both the
figures beam with beauty, and grace, and soul, and inspiration; but their beauty is that
of the young Apollo, and St John at Patmos was nearly a hundred years old. The Massacre
of the Innocents, a subject inexplicably horrible to me, forms here an admirable picture;
where the horror is not, as usual, dissipated in a multitude of details. Like Aristides,
in painting the sack of a town, Poussin gives only one child and one mother, but a mother
whose shrieks frighten away her friends. Expression is just on the extreme. Agony, carried
one point further, would fall into the ludicrous. Guido's Paul and Anthony, is a noble
picture, disgraced by a wretched glory. Glories broke into painting during the Gothic
period of the art, and still prevail over all its philosophy and improvement. Superstition
knew her rigLt as a patroness, and dictated her own absurdities to the masters whom she
paid. Here is Christ before Pilate; the work of the worthy Honthorst. Here, left to
himself, and in himself, the Saviour awakes all those tacred prepossessions, which must be
felt for arraigned and insulated virtue. Here is no dignity of costume, no glory above
him, no
Every now and then there breaks out a little pertness and flippancy. Thus, speaking of some
of Piranesi's restorations, he exclaims, those lying engravers
! Silius
Italicus, whom he spares no opportunity of undervaluing, (as Mr Eustace scarcely gets
through a page without quoting him), is, besides much other vituperation, freely called
the Ape of Virgil
. All modern Latin poets are treated with a contempt
very much exaggerated. Sannazaro and Vida are mere versifiers
, whose
language can be safe only while it imitates, and pleases most when it betrays
imitation
. In other words, their verses are little better than centos of
the ancients; and accordingly, they are brought afterwards clippers
of pure Virgilian
coin. The author now and then makes a word for his own use, as complicate, for complicated;
and, still less fortunately, grandiosity,
Naples, in its interior, has no
parallel on earth. The crowd of London is uniform and intelligible: it is a double line in
quick motion; it is the crowd of business. The crowd of Naples consists in a general tide
rolling up and down, and in the middle of this tide a hundred eddies of men. Here you are
swept on by the current, there you are wheeled round by the vortex. A diversity of trades
dispute with you the streets. You are stopped by a carpenter's bench, you are lost among
shoemakers' stools, you dash among the pots of a maccaroni-stall, and you escape behind a
lazarone's night-basket. In this region of caricature every bargain sounds like a battle:
the popular exhibitions are full of the grotesque; some of their church processions would
frighten a war-horse. The mole seems on holidays an epitome of the town, and exhibits
most of its humours. Here stands a methodistical friar preaching to one row of lazaroni:
there, Punch, the representative of the nation, holds forth to a crowd. Yonder, another
orator recounts the miracles which he has performed with a sacred wax-work on which he
rubs his agnuses and sells them, thus impregnated with grace, for a grano a piece. Beyond
him are quacks in hussar uniform, exalting their drugs and brandishing their sabres, as if
not content with one mode of killing. The next professore is a dog of knowledge, great in
his own little circle of admirers. Opposite to him stand two jocund old men. in the
centres of an oval group, singing alternately
From Naples Mr Forsyth made an excursion to Pæstum; and then returned to Rome, and thence
proceeded to Ancona. He afterwards visited Bologna and Venice, which, as he truly says, may
be easily and completely delineated by books and pictures; whereas all the arts of eloquence
and design in vain attempt to convey an accurate idea of the Neapolitan scenery. We shall
close our extracts with the following reflections, with which all travellers may sympathize.
My stay at Venice was short. We make the tour of Italy, as we make the circuit of
a gallery. We set out determined to let nothing escape us unexamined, and thus we waste
our attention, while it is fresh, on the first objects, which are not generally the best.
On advancing we are dazzled with excellence, and fatigued with admiration. We can take,
however, but a certain dose of this pleasure at a time; and at length, when the eye is
saturated with picture, we begin to long for the conclusion, and we run through the last
rooms with a glance. Such a feeling as this will account for the hurried manner in which I
passed through the few final towns; and this feeling was enforced by the dread of an
impending war, the love of home, and the impatience of my companion. Whoever goes abroad
merely for observation, should avoid his own countrymen. If you travel in a party, your
curiosity must adopt their paces: you must sometimes post through towns which are rich in
art or antiquity, and stop where the only attraction is good cheer. While you linger with
fond delay among the select beauties of a gallery, your friends are advanced into other
rooms, and the keeper complains when you separate: you thus lose the freedom of
inspection, your ears ring with impatience, and often with absurdity. If you travel with
one who is more ignorant of the language than yourself, you must stand interpreter in all
his bickerings with the natives; and a man is usually harsher, when his spleen is to pass
through the mouth of another, than when he speaks for himself.
After leaving Venice, the traveller went up the Brenta to Padua, and then to Vicenza, Verona, Mantua, Milan and Turin, where he arrived in May 1803; and had no sooner finished the delightful tour on which we have been accompanying him, than he was arrested as a British subject, and sent into France; and there he has lingered out the interval in tedious, and, till very lately, almost hopeless captivity. He dates his work from Valenciennes, June 1812.
Notwithstanding this example, we have no doubt that the approaching peace will again let
loose half the upper ranks in our country to gaze in Paris, and ramble over France. How many
are likely to remove with other views of a more permanent kind, is a different and more
interesting question. The temptations of cheap living and a fine climate, with taxes
extremely light in comparison of those entailed upon us by the