Lilian Whiting

More than five hundred years have passed over the country of Dante since the death of his mortal part—years of glory and of shame, of genius and intolerable mediocrity, of turbulent liberty and mortal servitude; but the name of Dante has remained, and the severe image of the poet still rules the destinies of Italian generations, now an encouragement and now a reproach. The splendor of no other genius has been able to eclipse or dim the grandeur of Dante; never has there been a darkness so profound that it could conceal this star of promise from Italian eyes; neither the profanations of tyrants and Jesuits, nor the violations of foreign invaders, have been able to efface it. “Sanctum PoetÆ nomen quod nunquam barbaries violavit.”

Mazzini.

The true life of Italy is not read in any record of contemporary facts or statistics. Mazzini once said of Dante, in an essay on the immortal poet, that “the life, the true life of Dante does not lie in the series of the material facts of his existence. The life of Dante consists in the sufferings and aspirations of his soul; in its dominant impulses; in the ceaseless development of the idea which was at once his guide, inspiration, and consolation; in his belief as a man and as an Italian.” The real life of Italy is, by analogy, to be read in that atmosphere of aspiration and of noble purpose which characterizes the nation rather than in the material facts of its general progress at the present time. As a country Italy is young. It is still less than forty years since her unity was declared, and to merge the large number of separate States into one harmonious whole is a task requiring the evolutionary progress of time; for a nation, like a university, cannot be a matter of instantaneous creation. It must germinate and grow. The country that, previous to so comparatively a recent date as the year 1870, was, in the phrasing of Prince Metternich, “a geographical expression,” can hardly be judged by present national standards after an existence of only thirty-seven years, although it need be said in no spirit of apology; for Italy is advancing in scientific development, in manufactures, and in the problems involved in civil and hydraulic engineering to a notable degree in the northern part. Milan and Naples are separated by far more than geographical distance. In modern progress Milan is divided by centuries from all Southern Italy.

Between Italy and the United States the entente cordiale is not merely that of diplomatic and ceremonial courtesy, but of an exceptional degree of mutually sympathetic comprehensions. In noble ambitions and lofty purposes Americans and Italians are closely akin. In zeal for contemporary scientific progress, in an intense susceptibility to the glories of art, and in hospitality to all that makes for progress, both nations meet in mutual recognition. Of no people is it more deeply true than of Americans that “each man has two countries: his own and Italy.” The average traveller sees this fair land with a breadth and thoroughness seldom called into requisition elsewhere. In England he is usually content with London, the tour of the cathedral towns and the lake region of the poets. France is summed up to him in Paris and in the chateaux of outlying districts. But Italy beguiles the traveller into every lonely foot-trail in the mountains; to every “piazza grande” of lonely hamlets, isolated on a rocky hillside; to every “fortezza” that crowns a mountain summit. The unexplored byways of Italy are magnetic in their fascination, and one special source of congratulation on the part of those fortunate tourists who travel with their own motor car is that they are thus enabled to penetrate into untrodden byways in Italy in a manner impossible to those who must depend entirely on the regulation railroad service. All lovers of Italy are devoted to these original tours of private exploration. A recent trip to Saracinesco, in the region of Tivoli, was made by Mrs. Stetson (Grace Ellery Channing) with her husband, and in a descriptive record of the little journey into an unfrequented mountain region this paragraph occurs:—

“Roused by ‘an awful rose of dawn’ which turned every solemn slope to strange amber and amethyst, we left that rocky eyrie next day, returning by way of Anticoli—beloved of artists. And if the ascent had qualified us for Alpine climbers, the descent qualified us as members of the Italian cavalry corps. Pictures of officers riding down the face of cliffs will never impress us again; we know now it is the very simplest of ‘stunts.’ Our way down was diversified by the tinkling of thousands of sheep-bells, by the far too close proximity of bulls to Maria’s crimson headdress, which nothing in the world would induce her to remove, and by sundry meetings with relations, long-unseen friends, and strangers, from whom we culled the whole register of deaths, births, marriages, and happenings for a month past. At last, beside a little bridge near the railroad station, Leonardo addressed his ten-thousandth adjuration to Beppino, whose poor little legs trembled under him. It was no longer, ‘Ah, sacred one!—don’t you see Anticoli!’—or ‘the rock,’ or whatever it might be; now he said, ‘Ah, sacred one!—don’t you comprehend?—the Signora descends’—and Beppino looked distinctly pleased.

“Here we demanded the reckoning, skilfully evaded hitherto.

“‘Well—a franc for each beast,—and half a franc for the room,—the rest was nothing—a sciocchezza.’

“A franc apiece!—half a franc!—were we brigands that we should do this thing?”

This typical picture of idyllic days in Italy, enjoyed in the impromptu excursion and trip, reveals the delicacy of feeling and the sunny kindness that characterize the contadini and which imparts to any social contact with them a grace and sweetness peculiar to Italian life. There are parts of Italy where it is still the Middle Ages and no hint of the twentieth century has yet penetrated. The modern spirit has almost taken possession of Rome; it is largely in evidence in Florence and even Venice, and it dominates Milan; but in most of the “hill towns” and in the little hamlets and lonely haunts where a house is perhaps improvised out of the primeval rock, the prevailing life is still mediÆval, and only awakens on festa days into any semblance of activity.

Somewhere, away up in the hills, several miles from Pegli,—on the Mediterranean coast near Genoa,—is one of these sequestered little hill towns called Acqua Sacra. The name is obvious, indeed, for the sound of the “sacred water” fills the air, falling from every hillside and from the fountain of the acqua sacra by the church. Pilgrims come from miles around to drink of these waters. Each house in this remote little hamlet is of solid stone, resembling a fortress on a small scale, and the houses cling to the hillsides like mosses to a rock. Though far up in the mountains, the hills rise around the hamlet like city walls, as if the life of all the world were kept outside. The unforeseen visit to these remote hamlets, suddenly chancing upon some small centre of happy and half-idyllic life, is one of the charms of tourist travel in this land of ineffable loveliness.

The approach to Italy, by whatever direction, by land or by sea, one enters, is one of magical beauty. Whether one enters from the Mediterranean or from the Adriatic, or by means of the Mont Cenis, the Simplon, or the St. Gothard pass, through the sublime mountain wall, each gateway is marvellous in attraction. Approaching from the seas that completely surround Italy except on one side, the almost undreamed-of splendor of Naples, Genoa, and Venice, as seen from off the shore, exceeds all power of painter or poet to reproduce. The precipitous coast of Sicily; the picturesque city of Palermo; the wonderful ruins of the Greek theatre on the heights in Taormina,—all enchant the tourist. To anchor off Naples, in the beautiful bay, serves the purpose of an hotel out at sea. It is like living in Venice—only more so! By the little rowboats one may go, at any moment, to Naples, and it is more delightful than passing the days in the city itself. For at night as one strolls or sits on deck what a picture is before the eye! All Naples, on her semicircular shores, with her terraced heights rising above, defined in a blaze of electric lights! Genoa, la Superba, is still more magnificent when seen from the sea; and Venice, rising dream-enchanted, completes the wonders of the approach by water.

As the new Italy has not yet achieved any homogeneous unity, Naples, Rome, Florence, Venice, and Milan differ in their characteristics to such a degree that no general interpretation of the residents of any one would appropriately describe those of another. Paris and Vienna hardly differ as much as do Milan and Rome; and Venice, Florence, and Rome, each rich in art treasures, have little else in common. Certain characteristics of each of the large cities reveal themselves prominently, even to a superficial observer. Milan, as has been said, is a centre of activity, as Florence is of culture and accomplishments. Florence has the largest and the most choice circulating library in all Italy and one that ranks among the best on the Continent. Her galleries are treasure stores of art, and her social life is unsurpassed—one might almost say unrivalled—in its fine quality. Music, philosophic culture, learning in all lines of research characterize Florentine society. Education has always been regarded in Florence as a matter of prime importance, and when the government grant of funds is insufficient the sum is made up by private contributions, so that the Scuola del Popolo gives free instruction, yearly, to eighteen hundred pupils, in every branch of technical and art education. This fact alone offers its own explanation of that general intelligence of the people which so impresses the visitor in Florence. But this is a municipal rather than national fact. Every special development in any direction in Italy will always be found to be the characteristic of the city or locality, not of the country as a whole; and thus the unity of Italy is still a political expression rather than a political fact. It is a theory which is not yet developed into an experience. Italy is in the making. Practically, she is the youngest of countries, with less than forty years of experimental attempt at national life behind her. Not until 1919 will she have attained the first half century of her united life. Educational facilities, inclusive of schools, libraries, and museums; railroads, telegraph and telephone service, electric lighting and electric trams,—all the ways and means of the modern mechanism of life are, inevitably, in a nebulous state in Italy. The political situation is extremely interesting at the present time. That the “Blacks” and the “Whites” are diametrically opposed to each other is in the nature of history rather than that of contemporary record or of prophecy; and that this is a traditional attitude in this city of the CÆsars is not a fact by any means unknown; but the situation is complicated by the third party—the Socialists—who, by allying themselves with either, would easily turn the scales and command the situation. If they were ardent Catholics and were advocates of the Papal supremacy, the temporal power of the Pope would be restored in less time almost than could be recorded, and Pius X would be in residence in the Palazzo Quirinale rather than Victor Emanuele III. But this great modern uprising in Italy—a movement that is gathering force and numbers so rapidly that no one can venture to prophesy results even in the comparatively immediate future—this great modern movement is neither for church nor state. The Socialist uprising is very strong in Milan and through Northern Italy. It is much in evidence in the Umbrian region—in Foligno, Spoleto, Nervi, and those towns; and from Frascati to Genzano and in the Lake Nemi chain of villages—Rocca di Papa, Castel Gandolpho, Ariccia, Albano—these villages within some fifteen miles of Rome. In these there is a veritable stronghold of Socialism, where its purposes and policy are entrenched. Yet when one alludes to its policy, the term is rather too definite. If it had a settled and well-formulated policy on which all its adherents were in absolute accord they would carry all before them. But Socialism is still a very elastic term and covers, if not a multitude of sins, at least a multitude of ideas and ideals. There is now a rumor that the situation is forcing the absolutely inconceivable union of church and state—of the Vatican and the Quirinale—that they may thus withstand their common foe. A more amazing and extraordinary turn of affairs could not be imagined; and if the rumor (which is now becoming more coherent in Rome) should prove to be the forerunner of any truth, the situation will be one of the most amazing in all history.

Epoch-making events in the course of progress are always preceded by circumstances that form to them a natural approach and chain of causation. They are the results of which the causes stretch backward in the past. One of the things that has an incalculably determining influence on the present situation is that of the character of the present Pope. His Holiness, Pius X, brings to the Papacy an entirely new element. He is no ascetic or exclusive ecclesiastic; he is no diplomat or intriguant, but rather a simple, kindly man, of a simplicity totally unprecedented in the annals of the Palazzo Vaticano. Instead of clinging with unswerving intensity of devotion to the idea of the restoration of the temporal power of the church, Pope Pius X would not be disinclined to the uniting of church and state as in England; the Vatican to remain, like the See of Canterbury, the acknowledged head of the spiritual power, while the Quirinale remained the head of the government to which the church should give its political adherence, the Quirinale in return giving to the Vatican its religious adherence. Perhaps it is not too much to say that something not unlike this might easily become—if it is not already—the dream of Pius X. But in the mean time there is another factor with which to reckon, and that is the present Papal Secretary of State, Cardinal Merry del Val. He it is who really holds the mystic key of St. Peter’s. He is a diplomatist, an ecclesiastic, an embodiment of all that is severe and archaic in authority. The Pope is by no means able to set his course by his own watch-lights. The College of Cardinals surrounds him, and the College of Cardinals is practically one Cardinal, the keen scholar and the all determining Cardinal Merry del Val, whose personality dominates the court of the Vatican. This remarkable prelate represents the most advanced and progressive thought of the day in many ways,—as has been noted in preceding pages,—but as a Jesuit he is unalterably devoted to what he considers the only ideal,—the restoration of the temporal power of the Pope. Spain revealed her attitude when King Alphonso asked of all the monarchs of Europe that the name of each should be borne by his infant son, the heir-apparent; and for Italy he asked the name of the Pope and not of the King, thus recognizing Pius X rather than Victor Emmanuel III as the head of the nation.

That the Socialists have very logical and serious grounds for complaint is true. That their leader, Signor Enrico Ferri, an Italian journalist and a Senator, is one of the most able men in Italy since the time of Cavour is equally undeniable. The Socialists are fortunate, too, in other leading men. Turati, the editor of the Critica Sociale, Pantaleoni, Colajanni, and others are absolutely the hope of Italy at the present time in the struggle for better conditions. For the conditions of life in Italy, as regards taxation, the problems of transit, the government restrictions on agricultural production and on manufactures, are absolutely intolerable and should not be endured for a day. The taxation is so exorbitant that it is a marvel Italy is not depopulated. On land the tax rate is from thirty to fifty per cent; the income tax is not merely, as one would suppose, levied on a legitimate income derived from a man’s possessions, but is levied on salaries, ranging from ten to twenty per cent of these, and also, not content with this unheard-of extortion, the tax is levied on the nature and source of his salary, and even the smallest wage is thus subject to an income tax. Again, there is a most absurd tax on salt, which, like sugar and tobacco, is held as a government monopoly. No poor person living on the seacoast in Italy is allowed to take even a pail of water from the sea to his house, as the government assumes that, by evaporation, it might yield a few grains of salt. The tax on sugar effectually checks an industry that might be made most profitable, that of putting up fruit in jams, jellies, and compote, and renders the price of these commodities absurdly high. Again, when taxes are paid the process is even worse than the unjust and exorbitant tax itself. No one is allowed to send a check or postal order; no tax gatherer calls at the home or the office. Each person must go himself or send a personal representative to a given place between certain hours. Here stand a long procession, each person in town going up, filling out pages of written formalities; talking of each item and discussing it according to the national custom, until the office hours are over for that day, and often not one-fourth of the persons waiting have been served. All then must take their chances the next day, and perhaps even a third or a fourth day,—a loss of time and energy that in no other country would be tolerated for a moment. But time has not yet any recognizable value in Italy. Every enterprise and manufacture is taxed in Italy, and as the returns of these are inevitably revealed so that no evasion is possible, and as the exactions of the government consume nearly all the profits, the result is that all business enterprises are discouraged and that Italy swarms with a great idle population, while nearly all articles and supplies are imported from other countries, with the payment of enormous duties, making their cost far greater, proportionately, than their value.

There are great tracts of country in Southern Italy suitable for tobacco raising, but (as it is one of the government monopolies) people are forbidden to raise it; and in private gardens only three plants are permitted. Again, all industries are crippled, if not paralyzed, by the tax at the frontier, and also by the tax at every gate of every city. At every porta in Rome are stationed government officers who scrutinize every box, basket, and package; and all fruit, eggs, garden stuff, milk, and commodities of every kind are taxed as they are brought inside the walls.

The railroads of Italy are, at present, very poor in all facilities of transit. Within a year the Italian government has “taken over” these roads and better conditions are promised, which are, alas! not yet in sight. There are many “counts” to the indictment against the Italian railroads which are only suitable to adorn the very lowest circles of the Inferno described by Dante. They are uncleanly; the roadbeds are so rough that the miserably built compartments jolt and jostle over the tracks; the seats are so high that the feet can hardly touch the floor, and the facilities for light and air are as badly managed as is possible to conceive. As is well known, these are divided into first, second, and third class, these compartments all being in the same train, and between the first and second there is little difference save that of price. Curiously, the price of even second-class travelling in Italy is over half a cent a mile higher than that of the splendid trains in America, with their swift time, their smooth roadbeds, their admirable conveniences in every way. Again, no luggage is carried free, and the prices asked for it are extortionate beyond words. One may check all his impedimenta from San Francisco to New York without extra charge; but in going from Rome to Naples, or from Florence to Genoa to sail, the same luggage will cost from six to eight dollars to convey it to the steamer. Again, these railroads pay their employÉs so poorly that only the most inefficient service can be retained at all; only those persons who are the absolute prisoners of poverty will consent to accept such meagrely paid service.

The Italian government consists, like that of most countries, of an upper and lower house, the Senate and the House of Deputies. But the former is rather a matter of miscellaneous honors than one of political initiative. There is no limit to the number of Senators; they are created by being named by the King, and the office is for life. If a man attracts the favorable notice of the King,—because he is a good artist, engineer, archÆologist, chemist, or financier,—presto, he is liable to be made a Senator. Canova, the celebrated sculptor, was made a Senator because, indeed, he was a great artist! There is one condition, however, that a Senator must be one who pays annually not less than three thousand lire in taxes. The Senators receive no salary, and their times of meeting are uncertain and no man’s presence is obligatory. The House of Deputies has five hundred and eight members, all of whom must be Italian subjects over thirty years of age. They have no salary, but are given the entire freedom of the realm in all transit on railroads and steamers. The Chamber of Deputies is largely made up of professional men, and it is little wonder that the Socialists are demanding an entire reform in the government of the country. There was never in any country more defective conditions than now prevail in Italy. The very fact that the young King is an estimable gentleman, who is personally not in the least to blame for the prevailing status of unfortunate conditions, is in one way an added misfortune, as the personal loyalty he justly inspires militates by so much against the revolution in government which is so deeply a necessity of Italy before her better and more prosperous life can begin. It is now a country of stagnation. All Southern and Central Italy simply lives off its tourists; and every year prices and fees and extortion in general from the visitors to Italy become greater.

Senator Enrico Ferri, the leader of Socialism in Italy, was born in 1856 in Mantua. He had a university education, was admitted to the bar, and in 1881 was called to the chair of penal law in the University of Bologna. The Senator is a scientific Socialist,—a man of the most exceptional gifts and qualities, and the author of a noted work, entitled “Criminal Sociology,” which is translated into several languages. Senators Ferri and Lombroso are special friends and also co-workers.

On taking his seat in the University of Bologna, Professor Ferri delivered a lecture, entitled “New Horizons in Penal Law,” which was a most impressive effort. In it he said:—

Such is the man to whom it is no extravagance to allude as one of the present leaders of progress in Italy. He is in the early prime of mature life; he is a man of education, culture, great original gifts, and of sympathies with humanity as wise and judicious as they are liberal and all-embracing. Scientific Socialism tolerates no lawlessness, no violence, nor does it, like the so-called Christian Socialism, attempt to graft impossible conditions on society. It regards the laws of economics, and it is practicable and possible as well as considerate and just. And the great inspirer, proclaimer, and leader of scientific Socialism is Enrico Ferri.

Italy not only inspires the enthusiasm of the lover of beauty in nature and art, she inspires a vital and abiding interest in all that shall make for her true progress, and she inspires, as well, absolute faith in her ultimate future. At present her monarchy is among the most liberal and progressive of Europe. King Victor Emmanuel is a man of integrity, of intelligence, and of devotion to the best interests of his country as he understands these interests to be. If they might be better served by a more democratic form of government, it is hardly to be asked or expected that such a view should present itself to an hereditary monarch. Among the most liberal element there are not wanting men who believe that for the immediate future the present form of government is the most feasible. In their conviction Italy is by no means prepared to be a republic. The masses of the people are uneducated; and a great work, requiring time, must be effected in the popularization of intelligence and of instruction, before democratic government could be adopted. Yet there is no faltering in the outlook on a glorious future. The noble words of Mazzini still ring in the Italian air: “Walk in faith, and fear not. Believe, and you will conquer.” By way of enforcing his convictions Mazzini said:—

“Poetry,” added Mazzini, “will teach the young the nobleness of sacrifice, of constancy, and silence; of feeling one’s self alone without despairing, in an existence of suffering unknown or misunderstood; in long years of bitterness, wounds, and delusion, endured without murmur or lament; it will teach them to have faith in things to come, and to labor unceasingly to hasten their coming, even though without hope of living to witness their triumph;” and his final word in this great invocation to the new potencies of the opening future is an exhortation to believe in all greatness and goodness. “Faith,” he said, “which is intellect, energy, and love, will put an end to the discords existing in a society which has neither church nor leaders; which invokes a new world, but forgets to ask its secret, its Word, from God.” In universal education must lie the first national aid to the development of Italy. “L’anima del gran mondo È l’allegria.”

As Florence is pre-eminently the city of culture, so is Milan of activities. Her keynote is modernitÉ. The visitor is at once impressed by her energy, her enterprise, and her commercial prosperity. Milan has the best municipal facilities and conveniences in all Italy. The electric lighting of streets, public buildings, and residences, the street transit, the arrangement and conduct of shops and all industrial matters, are in such contrast to any other city in Italy as to lead the sojourner to ask himself whether he can still be on the southern side of the Alpine range. In the Galleria Vittorio Emanuele Milan has the most wonderful structure in all Europe. This arcade was built in 1865, and under the magnificent glass dome it includes nearly one hundred of the most attractive and well-stocked shops, bazaars, and establishments. The dome is decorated with frescoes and caryatides, and with the statues of numbers of eminent men, among whom are Dante, Raphael, Savonarola, and Cavour. The offices and banks in Milan are centres of incessant energy.

For all this stress of activity the visitor does not, however, forget the art features; the visit to the antique Church of St. Ambrosio; to the old convent where Leonardo da Vinci’s celebrated fresco, “The Last Supper,” is to be seen, though so faded that it is now difficult to discern all the figures. Nor does he fail to climb the wonderful cathedral that lifts its airy grace, as if about to float upward in the skies. Every flight of the steps, in the ascent, brings one to a new vision of beauty. On the roof of this cathedral one wanders as in a very forest of sculpture. Its scheme of decoration includes more than two thousand statues, two of which are by Canova. From the summit, when the air is clear, there are beautiful views of the Alps.

To the savant and scholar the Ambrosian library in Milan is one of the special treasures of Europe. It contains some of the most rare and valuable manuscripts in the entire world,—some of Virgil’s with annotations from Petrarcha; a manuscript of Dante’s; drawings by Leonardo da Vinci, and other interesting matters of which no other copies exist.

The Magic Land is seen under its most bewitching spell in the region of the Italian lakes. The palace of Isola Bella; the charming gardens; the lake of Como, green-walled in hills whose luxuriant foliage and bloom form a framework for the white villas that cluster on their terraced slopes,—all form a very fairyland of ethereal, rose-embowered beauty. At night the lakes are a strange, unreal world of silver lights and shadows.

The completion of the Simplon tunnel has opened between Italy and Paris a route not only offering swifter facilities for transit, but adding another to the regions of beauty. This route has also still further increased the commercial importance of Milan, the portal and metropolis of Northern Italy. Milan has become the national centre of all scientific and technical pursuits, and it is fairly the Mecca for young men of Central and Southern Italy who are entering into the professions, or into civil and electrical engineering and other of the technical arts and industries.

Bologna, with her historic University, with the long covered arcades of the streets, the fountain, which is the work of Giovanni di Bologna, and the gallery where many of Guido’s best works are placed, has its individual interest for the tourist; and Verona, Pavia, Modena, Parma, and Turin all repay a visit from the leisurely saunterer in Italy.

Pisa offers to the visitor four interesting architectural monuments in the Duomo, the Baptistery, the Leaning Tower, and the Campo Santo, all of which are unique. The cathedral has unique designs in its black and white marbles that render it almost as much an object of artistic study as is the cathedral in Siena. The view from the summit of the Leaning Tower reveals the Mediterranean six miles in the distance, gleaming like a sea of silver. The Campo Santo dates from the thirteenth century, when the earth of which it is composed was brought (in 1228) from the holy places in Jerusalem, conveyed to the city (then a seaport) by fifty galleys sent out by the Republic of Pisa. The interior walls of the Campo Santo are covered with fresco paintings by Orcagna which are one of the artistic spectacles of the country in their extravagant portrayal of theological beliefs, so realistically presented in their dramatic scenes from Paradise and from Hades, as to leave nothing to the imagination. The fantasies in this emblematic sculpture of memorial monuments over a period of seven hundred years can be seen in the Campo Santo of Pisa,—a strange and often a most grotesque medley.

Genoa is well named La Superba. Her thoroughfares are streets of palaces. Her terraced gardens and villas, reached by the subterranean funicular street railway, are regions of unique and incomparable beauty, with the blue Mediterranean at their feet. Genoa is the paradise for walking. The streets are largely inaccessible to carriages, but the admirable street electric railway penetrates every locality. It passes in dark tunnels under the hills, reappears on the high terraces, and climbs every height. From the crest of one of these Corsica can often be seen. All the hill-slopes are a dream of pictorial grandeur, with their terraces, their palaces, their sculpture, fountains, and flowers. On the summit of almost every hill there is a fortress, and often ramparts which are silhouetted, in dark masses, against the sky. Orange groves abound on the terraces, often showing the golden fruit, buds, and blossoms all at the same time.

Genoa is fairly a metropolis of sculpture. The great families have themselves perpetuated in portrait statues rather than in painted portraits. In one of the grand ducal palaces in the Via Balbi the visitor may see, not only the life-size statues and the busts of the family ancestry, but one group comprising nine figures, where three generations are represented, in both sitting and standing poses, ingeniously combined.

The churches of Genoa are among the richest in Europe. That of the Annunziata, the special monument of the Lomellini family, glitters and gleams with its gold ceilings and rich frescoes. The cathedral has the special allurement of the emerald dish which King Solomon received as a gift from the Queen of Sheba. The little “street of the jewellers” is an alluring place,—so narrow that one can almost stand in the centre of the road and touch the shop windows on either hand, and these windows dazzle the eye with their fascinating glitter of gold and silver filigree work and their rich jewels.

Beyond all other curious excursions that even a Magic Land can offer is that to the Campo Santo of Genoa. A cloistered promenade encloses a square, and above are terraced colonnades, each and all revealing statues, and monuments, and groups of sculpture whose varied beauty, oddity, or bizarre effects are a curious study. Some memorials—as one of an angel with outstretched wings; another of a flight of angels bearing the soul away; another combining the figure of Christ with the cross, and angels hovering near—are full of beauty. Others are a marvel of ingenious and incongruous combination. One of the latter represents the man whose memory it commemorates as lying on his bed in his last illness; the physician stands by, his fingers on the patient’s pulse; on the opposite side a maid is approaching with a dish holding some article of food, and near the physician are grouped the wife, with a little child clinging to her skirts; the son, holding his hat with both hands and looking down on it, and the daughter, a young girl, with her eyes raised to heaven. Each of these figures is in life size; the bed is reproduced in marble, with the pillows and all the coverings in the most absolute realism, and the entire effect is so startling in its bizarre aspect that one could hardly believe in its existence until by personal observation he had verified so singular a monument.

Yet there is beauty and symbolic loveliness, too, in many of the memorial sculptures of this Campo Santo, and turning away from this cemetery in which lies the body of the noble Mazzini, one hears on the air the refrain of his words on Dante:—

Eighty thousand people followed Mazzini to his tomb, and his name lives in the Italy of to-day as one to be associated with that of Dante as prophet and inspirer.

The enchantment of approaching Genoa from the sea at night is an experience to remain as one of the pictorial treasures of memory. The magnificent lanterna, the lighthouse with its revolving light, that can be seen for fifty miles out from the coast; the brilliant illumination defining the fortezza on the summit of one hill; the curving lights of the terraced residential district and the illumination of the very forest of shipping clustered in the bay,—all combine into a scene not easily effaced from the memories of foreign scenes.

It is only in close relations with Italian literature that Italy can be adequately enjoyed and that the sojourner may enter into sympathetic associations with contemporary Italian life. Dr. Richard Garnett believes that the literature of Italy “is a less exhaustive manifestation than elsewhere of the intellect of the nation,” and that “the best energies of the country are employed in artistic production. It is, indeed, remarkable,” he continues, “that out of the nine Italians most brilliantly conspicuous in the first rank of genius and achievement,—Aquinas, Dante, Columbus, Leonardo, Michael Angelo, Raphael, Titian, Galileo, Napoleon,—only one should have been a man of letters.”

Contemporary Italian literature follows the trend of the day in reflecting the life of the people. The novels of Fogazzaro, the poems of Carducci, the biography and history written by Villari, to say nothing of several other writers who, while not approaching these authors, have still a definite place in the literature of the present, offer illumination on the outer scenery of life, and offer interpretation of the life itself. Art has declined; literature has advanced in Italy, even within the past decade. The law of progress is as inevitable as is the law of gravitation.

The future of Italy inspires faith in the renewal of its noblest ideals of achievement. Its ineffable beauty is a heritage of joy to every visitor who comes under the indescribable spell of its attraction and finds that, in all the panorama of foreign life which haunts his memory, it is Italy which shines resplendent as the Magic Land!