the pleasure of having my brother as an inmate was scarcely dimmed by this disappointment, and he remained with us until the autumn of 1850, a white nine months in my life. your grandfather wrote of him a year later, when he had engaged himself to be married: “i cannot exactly fancy george a married man, seeing that to the latest period his ways in this house have been precisely the same as when he was a rugby boy—as few wants, and as little assumption, though i have exhorted him to swagger and order a little.” and, as it was at donnington, so it had been in our diminutive town-house; indeed, i doubt whether any one of you, or any public school boy, would give so little trouble. he read hard, starting with me every morning directly after breakfast; went into no society, except that of a few old friends, and allured me away occasionally on summer afternoons, from law, and the reform of trade, to a game of cricket with the hampstead club, of which he had become a member, or in the[122] harrow playing-fields, where he was always more than welcome.
after the long vacation of 1850 he had intended to begin practice in doctors’ commons, but was delayed by an accident. he was struck in the eye by a spent shot, in cover shooting, and, though the accident proved not to be a serious one, he was ordered to rest his eyes entirely, and accordingly settled to spend the winter in italy. the vexation of such a check at the opening of his professional career, was almost compensated, i think, by the delight which this tour gave him. he had never been abroad at this time, except for a few days in france, and his education and natural tastes peculiarly fitted him for enjoying italy thoroughly, for he was passionately fond of art, as well as a fine classical scholar, having never dropped his latin and greek, as most of us are so apt to do the moment we have taken our degrees.
he lingered a little in france, on his way south, chiefly to accustom his ear and tongue to the language, and he writes:—
“marseilles, december 6th, 1850.
“i have not made much progress in french; everyone speaks english except the ouvriers. i address a waiter in a splendid sentence, which i expect will strike him with awe, and impress him with my knowledge of the french language, and he takes me down by answering in english; as much as to say, ‘for goodness’ sake speak your own[123] language, and i shall understand you better.’ in such a state of things, one can only listen to the conversation of frenchmen with one another, and try to imitate their accent. in spite of beard and mustachios, it is voilà les anglais wherever we go. the only person who passes for a frenchman is one of our american fellow-travellers, who has grown a most venerable beard; but, as he pronounces french just as if it were english, and calls dijon ‘dee john,’ he is afraid to open his mouth for fear of being convicted as an impostor immediately. i think an englishman’s walk betrays him; i think there is an unconscious swagger about it, which savours strongly of ‘ros-bif,’ and which the french detect in a moment. however, they are most polite and obliging, and i think they would be glad to do you any service.”
in italy, he went from city to city, revelling in picture galleries and studios, as his eyes regained strength; taking lessons in italian, visiting spots of historical interest, and sympathising with, and appreciating, the italians, while wondering at their patience under the yoke of their governments. it was the same winter which mr. gladstone spent in italy, and signalized by his pamphlet on the political prisoners at naples. fortunately for my brother, he found mr. senior and his family at naples, and again at rome, and through their kindness, and that of lady malcolm, saw as much of italian society as he cared for. a few selections from his letters will show you how he spent his time, and the impressions which his italian travel left on his mind:—
[124]
“naples, january 7, 1851.
“there is a party of street-singers, and a punch, outside under my window, who distract me horribly. they have an eternal tune here, which every ragged boy sings; it is called, i believe, ‘io ti voglio,’ and is rather pretty, but you may have too much of a good thing. the beggars are most amusing, and certainly work very hard in their vocation. there is an old woman who lies on the ground in a fit all day long; another elderly female stands by her in a despairing attitude, to draw attention to her protracted sufferings, and receive the contributions of the credulously benevolent. but the old lady is nothing to a boy, who lies on the ground and bellows like a bull positively for three or four hours together; i quite admire the energy with which he follows his profession. from the number of crippled and deformed persons one sees, i am inclined to believe that the neapolitans purposely mutilate themselves in order to succeed better in their favourite calling. they will do anything sooner than work usefully. punch and the singers have gone, and i am at peace. all that i see of continental countries makes me more glad that i am an englishman. none of them seem secure. the poor pope is kept at rome by the french; and here they say the king is very unpopular, except with the lowest class. this consciousness of insecurity makes them very suspicious and harsh. two or three days ago an italian, the legal adviser to our embassy, was popped into prison on suspicion of correspondence with mazzini. fancy queen victoria putting an englishman into newgate on her own authority for receiving a letter from a chartist. i suppose they are obliged to be harsh to prevent revolutions; thank heaven, england is free and loyal.”
“naples, january 13, 1851.
“i have discovered a cousin on board the english war steamer; he is one of the midshipmen, and on thursday i[125] took a boat to pay him a visit. i was obliged to obtain permission from the police to go on board. there are a quantity of miserable refugees lying concealed in naples, watching their opportunity to get on board the english ship, where they are safe under the protection of our flag. four are on board already, but there are two police-boats constantly on the look-out near our ship, to prevent more from coming. is it not a miserable state of things?”
“rome, january 1851.
“my dearest mother,
“.... tell my father that i have been very extravagant. i have bought a copy in marble of the psyche in the museum at naples; a very clever artist is executing it for me, and it will be finished about the middle of april. mr. senior is also having a copy taken. i do not know if my father knows the statue. it is attributed to praxiteles. nothing has pleased me so much, except perhaps the dying gladiator; and as it is very simple, the cost of the copy is comparatively trifling. it will look very well against the dark oak of your drawing-room at donnington, and i hope you will approve of my taste.”
“rome, january 28, 1851.
“we saw two things yesterday which will interest you: the catacombs in which the early christian martyrs were buried, and in which the christians met during the persecutions to worship god. they are immense subterranean passages, extending, they say, twenty miles; but you can only see a part, as they are closed, for fear of affording shelter to thieves. the other thing was, a little church about two miles from rome, on the appian road, to which a beautiful legend is attached. it is said that st. peter, during the persecution in which he suffered martyrdom, lost heart, and fled from rome by the appian road; he had arrived at[126] the spot where the church now stands, when our lord appeared to him, going towards rome. the apostle exclaimed in astonishment, ‘lord, whither goest thou?’ the answer was, ‘i go to rome to be crucified again.’ whereupon peter turned back, and re-entered the city, and suffered the death which had been predicted for him. there is no reason why this should not be true, but, true or not, it is a beautiful story, and i was much interested by it. they show a stone with the impression of our lord’s feet upon it, which is kept as a relic.”
“february 10, 1851.—i think that my italian progresses favourably. my master tells me that i pronounce it better than any other of his pupils; and as he is very strict, and finds fault with everything else, i suppose i must believe that he speaks the truth.”
“february 18, 1851.—you will be glad to hear that i have returned to rome from my walking tour without having been robbed, or murdered; but, indeed, i must repeat, that the good gentleman your informant must have been dreaming. we received nothing but kindness and civility, and i believe that you might walk along the same mountain paths with equal safety. as for us, we looked much too rough a lot to tempt robbers, being rather like banditti ourselves. one of my companions wore a venerable beard, and i am afraid we both looked picturesque ruffians. our other companion looked tame, and carried an umbrella. we used to take a cup of coffee and a roll soon after sunrise, then walk to some romantic village about ten miles off, and there breakfast. our breakfast consisted of an omelette, a frittata as they call it here, which we cooked ourselves. we used to rush into an osteria di cucina in a state of ravenous hunger. ——, my friend with the beard, who is a very good cook, seizes the frying-pan, i beat up the eggs, and s—— is degraded into scullion, to[127] cut up some ham and an onion!! i believe the people think us mad. they could not conceive why we liked to cook our own breakfast, and walk when we might have ridden. after breakfast, it was so hot that we used to select a convenient spot on the hill-side, and lie down for an hour, and then continue our walk till about sunset, when we reached our resting-place for the night. in this way we saw some of the most beautiful country you can imagine. every little exertion we made in climbing a rock was amply rewarded by something most strange and picturesque. the towns are particularly striking, some of them being built on the very top of mountains nearly 3,000 feet high, and reached with difficulty, by a narrow winding path. i am convinced that a walking tour is the only plan of really seeing italian scenery. i made some sketches, but am sorry to say that, coming into rome on saturday night, my pocket was picked of my sketch-book (a very useless prize to anyone but the owner, and perhaps you), so i lost them all. i am excessively vexed, for i wanted to show you the sort of places where we took our mid-day’s rest. tivoli was our last stage, and perhaps the most interesting,—there is such a splendid waterfall there. even if i do not see turin, i shall be quite satisfied with my recollections of it.”
after this he hastened home, meeting with no more serious adventure than the one recorded in a letter to the same correspondent, as follows:—
“i travelled from chambery to lyons all alone in a coupée with an italian lady! horrid situation! and what made it worse was, that the poor thing was very tired this morning, and fell fast asleep, and whilst in a state of oblivion, dropped her head comfortably on to my arm.[128] after revolving in my mind this alarming state of things, i thought it would be best to feign to be asleep myself; and accordingly, when we jolted over a gutter, and she awoke with a start, she found me with my eyes shut, and snoring. i hope i acted it well, but could hardly help laughing. i shortly afterwards rubbed my eyes and awoke, and she gave me a roll and some chocolate, for which i was very thankful; so i suppose she approved of my conduct.”
he returned entirely restored to health, and so good an italian scholar, that he was able to write fluently in the language, and to dedicate the little objects of art, which he brought home as presents, in appropriate verse.
one of these was an inkstand in the shape of an owl, now very common, which he presented to lady salusbury, a kinswoman of your grandfather, to whose adopted daughter he had lately engaged himself, with this inscription:—
“‘la stolidezza copresi talvolta di sembiante
savio; siccome per dar ricovero all’ inchi ostro
si fodera con piombo la civelta di bronzo
immago dell’ uccello di sapienza.’
“ecco la finta pompa dell’ uccello!
il quale, sotto ’l grave e savio viso
avendo pur di piombo il cervello
fra i tutti poi commuove il forte riso—
“così si trova dal sembiante bello
talvolta lo bel spirito diviso,
si trova con la roba da dottore
di piombo pur la testa, ed anch’ il cuore.”
[129]
to the young lady herself he wrote on his return: “i have continued writing a journal, and you will be astonished to hear that your name is not once mentioned in it. it is, however, written in invisible ink across every page. it may be absurd, but i consider my feelings towards you so sacred, that i should not like to parade them even to my nearest relations.”
