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The parting cheers died into silence, the ship began to speed through the spray, the forms of his friends receded and vanished, the roofs and spires of the city lowered and faded, the sun sank in the west, the hills of Neversink subsided below the horizon, and only the gliding vessel and her foamy wake broke the expanse of ocean and sky, when the outward-bound Forrest for the first night sought his berth, relieving the sadness of his farewell to America with thoughts of what awaited him in Europe and Asia.
Life spread before him an alluring prospect, and nothing which he could ask to encourage and stimulate his aspirations seemed to be wanting. When he looked back, he could not fail to be grateful. Beginning the struggle under such depressing circumstances,—poor, friendless, uneducated,—he had won a handsome fortune, a national fame, a host of admiring friends, and no inconsiderable amount of cultivation and miscellaneous knowledge. And now, at twenty-eight, with two long years of freedom from all responsibility and care before him, blessed with superabundant health and strength and hope, he was on his way to the enchanted scenes of the Old World,—the famous cities, battle-fields, monuments, art-galleries, and pleasure-gardens,—of which he had read and dreamed so much. He was going with an earnest purpose to improve himself as well as to enjoy himself. This spirit, with a well-filled purse, and the fluent knowledge of the French language which he had acquired in New Orleans, were important conditions for the realization of his aim. And thus, with alternate recollections of those left behind, observations of the scenery and experiences of marine life, mapping out the series of places he meant to visit, and thinking over what he would do, the days wore by. He spread his cloak sometimes on the deck in the
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 very prow of the vessel, and lying on it upon his back, so that he could see nothing but the sky and clouds, continued there for hours, allowing the scene and the strong sensations it awoke to sink into his soul, feeling himself a little speck floating on a larger speck between two infinities. He said he often, years afterwards, associated the remembrance of this experience with speeches of Lear and Hamlet when representing those characters on the stage.
ÆT 21
A fortnight of monotony and nausea, sprinkled with a few excitements, passed, and the transatlantic shore hove in view, as welcome a vision as his eyes had ever seen. Landing at Havre, he bade adieu to Captain Forbes and the good ship Sully, made his way at once to Paris, and, taking apartments, settled down to that delightful course of mingled recreation and study to which he had long been looking forward.
A voyage across the ocean and a two years' residence in Europe for a young American full of eager curiosity and ambition, cut loose from the routine and precedents of home and friends, cannot but constitute an epoch of extreme importance in his life. This must be true in its effects on the development of his personal character, detaching him and bringing out his manhood; and, if he is the votary of any liberal art, true also in its influence on his professional culture. In 1834 such an enterprise was a greater event than it is now. The number of American travellers in Europe was nothing like what it has grown to be since. Furthermore, the multiplication of books and descriptive letters, giving the most minute and vivid accounts of all that is most interesting in a journey or residence in the different countries then visited by Forrest, has been so great, that any prolonged presentation of his adventures and observations there would now seem so out of date and out of place as to be an impertinence. It will suffice for all the legitimate ends of a biography if a few characteristic specimens of what befell him and what he saw and did are furnished from his letters, his diary, and his subsequent conversation. These will indicate the spirit of the man at that time, and show something of the advantages, personal and professional, which he gained from the social and artistic sources of instruction opened to him while abroad. It will be seen that, however strong the attractions of pleasure were to him, he did
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 not neglect the opportunities for substantial profit, but, keeping his faculties alert to observe new phases of human nature and fresh varieties of social life, he was especially careful to drink in the beauties of natural scenery and to study the expressive possibilities of the human form, as illustrated in the works of the greatest artists of ancient and modern time.
The following letter was written shortly after his arrival in Paris:
"To say that I am pleased with what I have thus far seen of Paris would be a phrase of very inadequate meaning: I am surprised and delighted. I have been to the Louvre, the Tuileries, Place Vendôme, St. Cloud,—here, there, and everywhere,—and I have not yet seen a twentieth part of the objects which claim a stranger's attention. One cannot go into the streets for a moment, indeed, but something new attracts his curiosity; and it seems to me that my senses, which I have heretofore considered adequate to the usual purposes of life, ought now to be enlarged and quickened for the full enjoyment of the objects which surround me. I have, of course, visited some of the theatres, of which there are upwards of twenty now open. A number of the best actors, however, are absent from the city, fulfilling provincial engagements, and may not be expected back for a month or more. I went to the Théâtre Porte St. Martin the other night, to see Mademoiselle Georges, now, on the French stage, the queen of tragedy. I saw her perform the part of Lucrece Borgia, in Victor Hugo's drama of that name. Her personation was truly beautiful,—nay, that is too cold a word; it was grand, and even terrible! Though a woman more than fifty years old, never can I forget the dignity of her manner, the flexible and expressive character of her yet fine face, and the rich, full, stirring, and well-modulated tones of her voice. How different is her and nature's style from the sickly abortions of the present English school of acting, lately introduced upon the American stage!—the snakelike writhing and contortion of body, the rolling and straining of the eyeballs till they squint, the shuffling gait, and the whining monotone,—how different, I say, from all this is the natural and easy style of Mademoiselle Georges! In her you trace no servile imitations of a bad model; but you behold that sort of excellence which makes you forget you are in a theatre,—that
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 perfection of art by which art is wholly concealed,—the lofty and the thrilling, the subdued and the graceful, harmoniously mingling, the spirit being caught from living nature. I had been led to believe that, in France, the highest order of tragic excellence had died with Talma. It is not so. I consider Mademoiselle Georges the very incarnation of the tragic muse.
"The French, it must be allowed, understand and practise the art of living independently. They find you furnished apartments according to your own taste and means—comfortable, handsome, or gorgeous—in any part of the city or its environs. In your rooms you may either breakfast, dine, and sup, or take only your coffee there, and dine at a restaurant. This is to me, a bird of passage, and desirous of taking a bird's-eye view of things, a delightful mode of living. Paris is filled with restaurants and cafés of all sorts and sizes, where you may obtain your 'provant,' as Captain Dalgetty would style it, at what price you please, from the humble sum of a few sous up to the emptying of a well-lined purse. Ladies, gentlemen, and whole families may be seen at these places, enjoying their repast, and the utmost order and decorum prevail. Some of these cafés are magnificently furnished. I breakfasted in one yesterday the furniture and decorations of the salon of which cost eighty thousand francs. Another agreeable thing in Paris is, that you may one moment be in the midst of fashion, pomp, and all the hollowness of the flattering crowd, and the next buried in the sincere quiet of your own chamber, your very existence blotted from the memories of those with whom, the unsophisticated might have imagined, your society was of the utmost consequence. I say this is pleasant when properly understood and appreciated. All that is required of you is the superficial courtesy of life, which costs a well-bred man nothing; and in return you have a well-dissembled friendship, looking like truth, but which they would not have you to cherish as a reality for the world. The sentiments of the heart are quite too dull and too troublesome for their mercurial temperament; and hence you seldom hear of a Frenchman's having a false friend."
The professional bias which so strongly dominated among the associations in the mind of Forrest led him very early after his arrival in the French metropolis, to visit the tomb of Talma.
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 Carrying a fresh laurel crown under his cloak, he sought out the consecrated place among the crowd of undistinguished graves, reverently laid his tribute there, and lingered long in meditation on the career, the genius, the renown of the greatest stage-actor of France, and the lessons to be learned from his life and character by ambitious successors in his art. Thus, like Byron at the grave of Churchill, did the player draw his profitable homily from "the glory," though, unlike the morbid bard, he did not think of "the nothing, of a name."
One incident occurred in the experience of Forrest in Paris which has much significance on several accounts. He had formed a very pleasant acquaintance with the manager of one of the theatres. This manager had a protégé of whose nascent talent as an actor he cherished a high estimate. The youth was to make his début, and the manager asked the American tragedian to attend the performance and give his opinion of the promise it indicated. At the close of the play, asked to state his candid impression without reserve, Forrest said to the manager, "He will never rise beyond a respectable mediocrity. It is a perfectly hopeless case. There are no deeps of latent passion in him, no lava-reservoirs. His sensibility is quick, but all superficial. But that Jewish-looking girl, that little bag of bones with the marble face and flaming eyes,—there is demoniacal power in her. If she lives, and does not burn out too soon, she will become something wonderful." That little bag of bones was the then unknown Rachel!
The next selection presented from his correspondence was written to Leggett several months later, and soon after Jackson's recommendation of reprisals if the American claims on France were not paid:
"You see I still date from the gay metropolis of France. The fascinations of Paris have held me longer than I intended; but I mean to break from them by the first of next month, and cross into Italy. I have read the President's admirable message: it breathes a spirit worthy of himself, worthy of the occasion, worthy of my country. I refer particularly, of course, to his views relative to France. His energetic and manly sentiments have had the effect here of once more Americanizing Americans, and revived within them that love of country which the pageantry
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 and frivolity, the dreamy and debasing luxury of this metropolis serve materially to enervate. The Chamber of Deputies has not yet recovered from the shock occasioned by the unanticipated recommendations of the message. Opinion is divided as to the course which will be pursued; but from all I hear, and all I observe, I am strongly inclined to believe that when they have recovered from their bewilderment they will come to the conclusion that, in this instance at least, honesty is the best policy; and perhaps they may consider also that discretion is the better part of valor.
"By the way, I was presented to Louis Philippe on the third and last evening of the usual presentations. I was accompanied by Mr. ——, of Boston. We crossed over to the palace of the Tuileries (which is nearly opposite to our hotel) about nine o'clock in the evening, passed unquestioned by the numerous guards who throng the avenues of the great court-yard, and entered the vestibule of the palace, filled with an army of servants in rich liveries, standing in form, with all the stiffness of militia officers on drill. We next ascended to an elevated mosaic pavement, where we encountered two secretaries prepared to receive the names of visitors. On entering the palace, we ascended a grand staircase, the stone balustrade of which is beautifully ornamented with lyres and snakes, under suns,—the crests of Colbert and Louis XIV. On the first landing is the Salon of the Hundred Swiss, which has four Ionic columns, and is ornamented with four statues of Silence, two sitting and two erect. We next passed into the state apartments. The first is the Salon of the Marshals, occupying the whole of the centre pavilion, and having a graceful balcony on each side. The walls are hung with portraits of the marshals of France by the most eminent artists, and it also contains busts of several distinguished French generals. In the next room, which is called the Salon of the Nobles, we found a concourse of ladies and gentlemen, comprising the orders of nobility, and all richly and appropriately attired. This apartment is set off with gold, representing battles, marches, triumphs, surrounded with ornaments and allegorical figures. The Salon of Peace, which is the next room, contains also many costly decorations; but I had less opportunity to observe these, as the crowd became each moment denser and denser, and to make our way through it de
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manded all our attention. This human current at last débouched in the Salle du Trône, and, diffusing itself quickly around it, its waves subsided like those of an impetuous torrent when it pauses in the valley and spreads itself out, as if in homage, at the mountain's foot. I need not tell you of the beauty of the throne, the richness of its carved work, the profusion of gold ornaments with which it is sprinkled, the gorgeousness of the crimson canopy which overhangs it, or the pride-kindling trophies which are dispersed in picturesque clusters at its sides. These things, and numerous like accessories, your fancy will present to you with sufficient accuracy.
"The king had not yet entered, but was expected every moment; and the interval afforded me an opportunity of studying the brilliant scene. The effect at first was absolutely dazzling. The plumed and jewelled company constantly moving and intermingling, so that the light played in a thousand trembling and shifting beams, which flashed in arrowy showers not only at every motion, but almost every respiration, of the diamond-covered groups, and these groups multiplied to infinity by the reflections of magnificent mirrors surrounded by chandeliers that diffused excessive lustre through the room, presented a scene to me which, as I eagerly gazed on it, almost pained me with its surpassing splendor.
"In the anxious hush of expectation, the old ladies, as if in melancholy consciousness of the decay of their natural charms, busied themselves in arranging their diamonds to the most dazzling effect of brilliancy, while the young demoiselles threw hurried glances at each other, scrutinizing their relative pretensions in the way of decorations and personal beauty. The varieties of human character found time to display themselves even in the brief and anxious period of suspense while waiting for the entrance of royalty. Pride, envy, jealousy, ambition, coquetry, were all at work. Here an antique and embroidered dandy twisted his long and grizzly mustachios with an air of perfect satisfaction, whilst his bump of self-esteem seemed demanding immediate release from his tightened peruke. There an old Spanish general talked loudly of the wars, and 'fought his battles o'er again.' From a pair of melting eyes a fair one on one hand threw languishing glances on the favored youth at her side, while the ruby
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 lip of another curled with contempt as a lighter figure or a fairer face swept by.
"But a general movement of the crowd soon gave a new direction to my thoughts; and my eyes, from studying the various features of the splendid crowd, were now attracted to those of the king, who had just entered the apartment. For a moment all was bustle. The ladies arranged themselves along the sides of the spacious salon, and Louis Philippe, with his queen, the two princesses, and the two dukes, Orleans and Nemours, together with the officers and dames of honor, passed along the line, politely and familiarly conversing with the ladies. After satisfying our curiosity by gazing on the royal family, and having followed them to the Salon of Peace, we returned again to the Salle du Trône, where we took seats in front of the royal chair. Here I sat meditating on the gaudy and empty show for some time, when an officer suddenly entered and exclaimed, 'Messieurs, la Reine!' and immediately the queen entered. I rose and bowed, which she graciously acknowledged, and passed into the apartment beyond, called the Hall of Council. The king, with the rest of the family, attended by the courtiers, followed the queen. The ladies had now all been presented, and most of them had retired. About a hundred gentlemen were assembled at the door of the Council-chamber, and myself and friend had scarcely joined the group when the doors opened, and one by one those before us passed in. A gentleman usher at the door demanded the names of those who passed, and announced them to the court. After hearing those of sundry marquises, counts, and others announced, it at last came to my turn. My name was audibly repeated, I entered, and made my début before the King of France with not half the trepidation I experienced on presenting myself for the first time before a sovereign in New York—I mean the sovereign people—on an occasion you will recollect. The king addressed a question to me in French, and after exchanging a few sentences I bade him farewell, bowed to the queen and others of the royal family, and withdrew.
"Our plain republicans often laugh at the mimic monarchs of the stage for their want of grace and dignity. A trip to court would satisfy them that real monarchs are not always overstocked with those qualities.
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"I some time ago had the pleasure of an introduction to the celebrated Mademoiselle Mars. She received me very cordially, and through her polite offices the freedom of the Théâtre Français was presented to me. Of all the actresses I have ever seen, M'lle Mars stands first in comedy. In her you perceive the natural ease and grace which should characterize the most finished lady of the drawing-room; and her quiet yet effective style of acting is the most enchanting and delicate triumph of the mimic art. You cannot witness one of her performances without thinking that the genius of comedy belongs exclusively to the French stage. Do not suppose that my opinion is influenced by personal attentions: it was formed before I had had the pleasure of being presented to her. Though possessing a splendid fortune, she still exerts, fortunately for the lovers of the drama, her unrivalled talents in her laborious and difficult profession. She lives in a palace, and even her salle du billard is an apartment which would well serve for a corporation dinner.
"The great and almost the only topic of conversation in all circles just now is the President's message, the recall of the French minister, and the intimation to Mr. Livingston that his passports were at his service. Allow a little time for the effervescence of public feeling to subside, for the excitable temper of this mercurial nation to grow calm, and I think the propriety of paying our claims will be acknowledged.
"While I scribble this desultory letter to you, I am with you in fancy, and almost wish I were so in reality. I am tired of the glare and frivolities of Paris, and long to tread again
'The piled leaves of the West,—
My own green forest land.'
"France is refined and polite; America is solid and sincere. France is the land for pleasure; America the land for happiness. Adieu. I shall go into Italy in a fortnight, from whence I will write you again."
The following letter, addressed to another friend, was written about three weeks after the foregoing one:
"I am about bidding adieu to Paris, having been detained here by its various fascinations much longer than I anticipated. I shall set out on Tuesday next, with three young Americans, to travel
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 by post through Italy, so as to be in Rome before the termination of the Carnival. I can at least claim the merit of not having been idle during my sojourn in Paris, and the time has passed both agreeably and profitably. Though the dulce has been the chief object of my search, the utile has been found with it, and has not been altogether neglected, neither, as a separate aim. New sources of various information have opened themselves to my mind at every turn in this great and gay and ever-changing metropolis; and whether I hereafter resume the buskin, or play a more real part in the drama of life, I think I shall find my gleanings here of service to me. I have mingled with all ranks of people, from the monarch who wears 'the golden round and top of sovereignty,' down to the lowest of his subjects,
'In smoky cribs,
Upon uneasy pallets stretching them.'
"I have visited alike the perfumed chambers of the great and the poor abodes of the lowly, the institutions of science, literature, and the arts, the resorts of fashion, of folly, and of vice, and in all I have found something which not merely served to fill up the passing hour, but that furnished either substantial additions of knowledge or agreeable subjects of future meditation and discourse. Human nature, as modified by the different circumstances of life and fortune, presents an ample and diversified volume to her student in Paris: and in this bustling and glittering panorama, where everything seems most artificial, one who looks beneath the surface may learn much of the secret feelings, motives, passions, and genius of man.
"The President's message still continues to be the theme of much conversation. In the saloons of the theatres, in the cafés and restaurants, and on the public promenades I frequently hear the name of General Jackson uttered by tongues that never before were troubled to syllable it, and which do not pronounce it 'trippingly,' according to Hamlet's advice, but twist it into various grotesque sounds. Passing through Ste. Pélagie the other day (a prison for debtors), I overheard one of the inmates of that abode discussing with great vehemence the question of indemnity. He held a newspaper in his hand, and, as I passed, exclaimed, 'La France ne devrait pas payer les vingt-cinq millions!' A fellow-feeling,
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 thought I, makes us wondrous kind. The anecdote of the porter, the soldier, and the debtor, in the 'Citizen of the World,' occurred to my mind.
"By the way, the prison of Ste. Pélagie is a curious establishment. It derives its name from an actress of the city of Antioch, who became a penitent in the fifth century. No other prison in Paris presents so diversified a picture, such a motley group of inmates, so singular an association of rank, country, profession, and age. Barons, marquises, and princes are among the cooped-up denizens of Ste. Pélagie. An Austrian prince, one of these, is shut up here to answer the claims of creditors to the amount of several millions. A café and restaurant are maintained within the prison; and one entering these, were he not reminded of his whereabouts by the gratings of the windows, might easily imagine himself in the Café des Trois Frères of the Palais Royal.
"I regret that I was not in America to welcome James Sheridan Knowles to our shores. I should have been glad to take the author of 'Virginius' and 'The Hunchback' by the hand,—ay, and by the heart too; for, from all I hear, any man might be proud of his friendship. But New York had this reception in her own hands, and it, no doubt, was such a one as 'gave him wonder great as his content.' I remember, very vividly, what sort of a reception she gave to a youth 'unknown to fame,' in whom you are kind enough to take an interest,—a youth whose highest ambition was only to strut his hour in those parts which the genius of Knowles has created. Can I, then, doubt that to the dramatist himself her greeting was most cordial?
"Adieu! I shall probably meet with Bryant in Rome; and, in conversing with him of past scenes and distant friends, shall almost feel myself, for a time, restored to their society."
The description of the first portion of his tour in Italy, in a long letter to Leggett, also seems worthy of preservation, and will have a various interest for the reader even now:
"I left Paris on the 11th instant on my projected ramble through Italy. It was not without regret that I at last quitted the gay and brilliant metropolis of France, which I had entered a total stranger but a few months before, but in which I had experienced the most grateful courtesies, and formed friendships with persons whose talents and worth have secured them an abiding place in
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 my esteem. As the towers of Notre Dame and the dome of the Pantheon faded from my sight, I sighed an adieu to the past, and turned with somewhat of apathy, if not reluctance, to the future.
"At this season of the year the country of France presents to the American traveller a cheerless appearance. Without forests to variegate the scene with their many-colored garniture, and with rarely even a hedge to define the boundaries of individual property, the country looks somewhat like a wide, uncultivated common or storm-beaten prairie; and in this state of 'naked, unfenced desolation,' even one of those unsightly and zigzag structures which in America mark the limits of contiguous farms would have been an agreeable interruption of the monotony. The neat farm-houses of America, with all their accessories bespeaking prosperity and thrift, are not met with here; but, instead, a bleak, untidy hovel obtrudes itself on your sight, or your eyes, turning from it, rest on a ruined tower or once proud château tumbling into decay.
"I reached Lyons at midnight on the 13th, and spent the following day in visiting the chief objects of interest in the city, among which were the Museum of Antiquities and the Cathedral. My curiosity led me to inspect the silk manufactories of this place; but the pleasure which I should have derived from witnessing the beautiful creations of the loom was wholly counteracted by the squalid and miserable appearance of the poor creatures by whom the glossy fabrics are made,—attenuated, sickly wretches, who waste their being in ineffectual toil, since the scanty pittance which they earn is not enough to sustain life. My thoughts reverted from these oppressed creatures to the slaves of America. The condition of the latter is one of luxury in comparison. Yet they are slaves,—how much is in a name!
"I crossed the Alps by Mont Cenis. The toil of this achievement is a different thing now from what it was in the time of Pompey, who has the honor of being set down as the first that made the passage. From his time till 1811 the journey must have had its difficulties, since it could only be performed on foot, or with a mule or donkey. Napoleon then came upon the scene, and—presto, change—in five months a carriage-road wound by an easy ascent from the base to the cloud-capped summit, and thence down into the sunny lap of Italy. Napoleon! wherever he passed
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 he has left traces of his greatness stamped in indelible characters. A thousand imperishable monuments attest the magnificence of his genius. Here, now, at all seasons, a practicable road traverses Mont Cenis, running six thousand feet above the level of the sea, and uniting the valley of the Arck in Savoy to that of Doria Ripuaria in Piedmont. What a bugbear the passage of the Alps is to the uninitiated! and all travellers seem disposed to encourage the deception. For my own part, the tales I had heard prepared me to anticipate an encounter with all sorts of difficulties, and that I should avoid them only by 'hair-breadth 'scapes.' When I first mentioned my intention of crossing Mont Cenis in the month of February, a laugh of incredulity was the only answer I received from certain 'holiday and silken fools.' And yet, when I came to test the nature of those perils which seemed so formidable viewed from Paris, judge my surprise at finding one of the best roads I was ever wheeled over, stealing up into mid-heaven by such a gentle ascent, that, were not one continually reminded of his whereabout by the roar of foaming waters, as they leap from fragment to fragment of the huge, dissevered rocks, and tumble into 'steep-down gulfs,' he might almost fancy himself gliding smoothly over one of those modern contrivances which have realized, in some measure, the wish of Nat Lee's hero, and 'annihilated time and space.'
"A Kentuckian once riding with me on the Albany and Troy turnpike, after an interval of silence, in which he was probably comparing that smooth road with the rough-hewn ways of his own State, suddenly broke out, 'Well, this road has the leetlest tilt from a level I ever did see!' The odd expression occurred to my mind more than once in crossing the Alps. It may do to talk of the terrors of the Alps to certain lap-nursed Europeans, who have never surmounted any but mole-hill difficulties; but to Americans—or such Americans, at least, as have seen something of their own magnificent country before hastening to examine the miniature features of Europe—the Alps have no terror in their threats. Land-Admiral Reeside or honest Joe Webster of Albany would enjoy a hearty laugh to see for himself what Alpine dangers are, and with one of his fast teams would contract to take you over the mountains in no time at any season of the year.
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"I should possess a graphic pen, indeed, were I able to communicate to you, by the faint coloring of words, anything like an adequate idea of the lofty grandeur of the scene which was spread out beneath me as I paused on the summit of the mountain to cast back one more lingering look on France. The sun was just setting, and the slant rays lighted with dazzling lustre the snowy peaks around me, and bathed in a flood of light like molten gold the crags and flinty projections of the lightning-scathed and time-defying rocks. A dark cloud, like a funeral pall, overhung the valley; the mountain-torrent hoarsely brawled along its devious channel half choked with thick-ribbed ice; and a thousand features of rude magnificence filled me with admiration of the sublimity which marks this home of the tempest and avalanche. At the hotel where I supped, a number of the peasantry were making the most of the Carnival-time with music, masking, and dancing,—and all this above the clouds!
"Day was just breaking when we entered Turin. The hum and stir of busy life were just beginning, and the laborer, called from his pallet to resume his toil, jostled in the street the sons of revelry, returning jaded and worn out from the scenes of merriment. The traveller who would view the Carnival in its most attractive guise should not break in upon it with the pale light of morning, as what I saw on entering Turin fully satisfied me. The lamps were still burning in the streets, and the maskers wearily returning to their several homes. Poor Harlequin, with sprained ankle, limped tediously away. Columbine hung listlessly upon the arm of Pantaloon, whose chalky visage was without a smile, and whose thoughts, if he thought at all, were probably running much upon the same theme as honest Sancho's when he pronounced a blessing on the man who first invented sleep. These exhausted revellers, a weary sentinel here and there half dozing on his post, and a houseless beggar wandering on his unappointed course, were the sights that first drew my attention on entering the gates of Turin.
"The streets of Turin are spacious and clean, and cross each other at right angles. Their regularity and airiness were quite refreshing after being so long confined to the dungeon-like dimensions and gloom of the byways of a French town. But these spacious streets, like those of all other Italian cities, are overrun
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 with mendicants, and I have already had occasion to observe that where palaces most abound so also do beggars. The foundations of the lordly structures of aristocracy everywhere alike are laid on the rights of man, and the cement which holds them together is mixed with the tears of human misery.
"Going to the church of St. Philip this morning, I encountered an old man sitting on the pavement, supplicating for alms in heart-rending tones. He could not have been less than eighty years of age, and his long locks, of silvery whiteness, strayed thinly over his shrivelled neck. His eyes were out,—those pure messengers of thought no longer twinkled in their spheres,—but he still turned the orbless sockets to each passer, imploring charity in the name of Him whose crucified image he grasped in his attenuated fingers. I was touched by the spectacle, and as I approached to drop my dole into his hand, I noticed a brass plate hanging on his threadbare garment, the inscription on which denoted that this mendicant had been regularly examined by the police, and had taken out his license to beg! What a source this from which to derive public revenue! What a commentary on the nature of government in this oppressed country! What a contrast it suggested, in turning my thoughts to my own land, where government is the people's choice, the rulers their servants, and laws nothing more than recorded public opinion!
"On entering the church of St. Philip, I found before an altar blazing with lights and enveloped in clouds of incense a priest performing the impressive service of the Catholic Church. But the thing that struck me was the democratic spirit which seemed to govern the congregation in their public worship. I saw kneeling and mingling in prayer the sumptuously clad and the ragged, the clean and the unclean, the prince and the beggar. On the pavement at a little distance from me lay extended a strapping mendicant, reduced in point of clothing almost to the condition of Lear's 'unaccommodated man,' and groaning out his prayers in tones that sounded more like curses than supplications, while at his side, with graceful mien and placid brow, knelt a Sardinian sylph, looking more like an angel interceding for the prostrate wretch than a being of kindred nature asking mercy for herself.
"The museum of Turin is of great extent, and contains vast
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 apartments devoted to natural history, mineralogy, and other sciences. There are here, besides, some rare specimens of antique Greek and Egyptian sculpture. The finest collection of paintings is in the palace of the duchess, among them pictures by Vandyke, Rubens, Teniers, Murillo, and other 'approved good masters.' I was much struck with a full equestrian portrait of his present majesty Charles Albert, by Horace Vernet. Vernet is one of the very few whose horses live on the canvas. The one to which I now allude is not only exhibited in all his fair proportions, with muscles, thews, and sinews that seem swelling with life, but actual, not counterfeit, spirit shines in the sparkle of his eye and is seen in the breath of his distended nostrils.
"The Grand Opera House of Turin is very spacious, containing six rows of boxes, dimly lighted by a single small chandelier suspended over the centre of the pit. The rest of the lights are reserved for the stage, by which the scenic effects are greatly heightened; but I doubt if what is gained in that respect would reconcile an American audience to sit in a sort of twilight so dim as scarcely to allow one to know the complexion of the person sitting at his side. The performances were very ordinary, and presented nothing worth mentioning or remembering."
He rode into beautiful Genoa over that magnificent Corniche road whose left side is diversified with stretching fields and ............
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