THE CITIES OF ITALY. with Pentecostal power working on the hearers' hearts, thousands are converted, tribes are "born in a day," and all the isles of the region turn from their idols, and listen to the Lord and "wait for his law." Or follow him to his end, as, having lived the life of labour, he died the death of violence, and, sent from his work to his reward, fell beneath the murderous clubs of those to whom he would have spoken peace and wished to save from hell. It is not easy to imagine a life more apostolically spent, or more apostolically closed-a life in which there could be found more points of resemblance to that of even the chiefest of the apostles. Yet are we gravely told by some that there is nothing apostolic in it; and that there is more of the apostle in the man who does none of these things, but sits at home, and doing little as a pastor, and having nothing to do as a bishop, distinguishes himself chiefly by invidious and vain-glorious proclamations of his own superiority over the ministers and missionaries of Christ. There is something sadly wrong, either with the mind or the hearts of such. They that exalt themselves shall be abased. How appropriately might such a man as John Williams speak of such censors, in the words of Paul, when vindicating the character of his own apostleship: "Are they ministers of Christ? I am more; in labours more abundant, in stripes above measure, in prisons more frequent, in deaths oft. Thrice I suffered shipwreck, a night and a day I have been in the deep; in journeyings often, in perils of water, in perils of robbers, in perils by mine own countrymen, in perils by the Heathen, in perils in the city, in perils in the wilderness, in perils in the sea, in perils among false brethren; in weariness and painfulness, in watchings often, in hunger and thirst, in fastings often, in cold and nakedness. If I must needs glory, I will glory of the things which concern mine infirmities. The God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, which is blessed for ever more, knoweth that I lie not." (And 'twould be strange indeed) And hope forsakes his breast; I am not banished from my home- O blessed Saviour! now I see In mansions bright and fair; MRS M. S. B. DANA. THE. CITIES OF ITALY. 559 BY THE REV. W. K. TWEEDIE, EDINBURGH. ARQUA AND FERARA-PETRARCH, ARIOSTO, AND TASSO -BOLOGNA, THE APENNINES, AND FLORENCE, OUR route from Venice lay by Ferara and Bologna, across the Apennines to Florence, and thence to Rome. The close of the first day's journey brought us to Mont Selice, among the Euganean Mountains; and we proceeded thence to Arqua, on a pilgrimage to the tomb of Petrarch. The sun had set ere we reached that retreat among the mountains; but we were lighted on our way by multitudes of Lucioli, a kind of fire-fly which glances with amazing velocity through the air, a few feet above the ground. They resemble the thousands of sparks emitted by fireworks, and literally illuminate the way-sides by their tiny but countless lights. These, and the hoarse croaking of the cigala, amused us till we reached the village, by a path so steep as to make our way to it a pilgrimage indeed. The alleged abode of the best loved of all the "I GO TO PREPARE A PLACE FOR YOU." poets of Italy is still in good preservation, though My Saviour! is my place prepared, he died in 1374. The apartment in which he was found dead, together with most of its furniture, are still said to be as he left them. The portraits of Laura and Petrarch are preserved on the walls, though time has left little beauty to her with whose praises Europe once rang. But why speak of her as an actual existence? Has it not been disputed whether such a being as Laura ever lived? Gibbon, Beattie, and a host besides, have engaged in a controversy regarding her; and have reduced the inquirer to the necessity of doubting whether, after all, she was a Platonic and ideal abstraction, the creature of the poet's fancy, or his veritable mistress. The question will never be solved now; men have reasoned about it till the most we can reach is a peradventure. Only this much is certain, that his passion, real or fictitious, did not tend to purity. Honoured as he was by all the illustrious of his age, he lived in the open violation of some of God's commandments; and this, in the light of eternity, will tarnish all his fame. Alchymy, astrology, scholastic theology, Their peaceful home. They'd think it strange and the works of Aristotle, shared with Laura the at I would not always dwell below, And yet 'tis well-'tis well for me, I love those dear ones far too well To wish that they should dwell Where I in sadness roam. I would not ask them to exchange tention of Petrarch. He was one of the prodigies of those times when mind was omnivorous, and when a single scholar, like Crichton or Leonardo da Vinci, knew as much as a modern cyclopædia contains. His influence on the revival of literature was great; and we do Petrarch no more than justice, by confessing that the epoch of his life is an instructive chapter in the history of the middle ages. A poet worthy of Petrarch has thus harmoniously epitomized his life :— "There is a tomb in Arqua; reared in air, Pillar'd on their sarcophagus, repose The bones of Laura's lover. Here repair Many familiar with his well-sung woesThe pilgrims of his genius. He arose To raise a language, and his land reclaim From the dull yoke of her barbaric foes. Watering the tree which bears his lady's name With his melodious tears, he gave himself to fame." From Mont Selice we proceeded to Ferara, through a country of rank productiveness, where we purchased grapes at less than a penny per pound. The vine harvest had begun, and all the blithe accompaniments of that season were seen and heard on every side. The wains, laden with the purple produce the wine-press and vats streaming with the abundance-the mirth of the gatherers, who had forgotten for a season their wretchedness-all were there. Fancy has arrayed these scenes in many attractions; but the mirth of the grape-gatherers has not been over-described. Yet there are drawbacks to a traveller's enjoyments amid such happy sights. In the course of a single day our passports were six times examined -our portmanteaus ransacked 1-our very pockets searched and our letters opened. We had crossed the Po at Vellice, and entered the States of the Church; that is, we were now in the dominions of the Man of Sin, and every precaution was adopted which could prevent one ray of light from entering them. It was with difficulty that we were allowed to retain a small English Testament and a book of devotion, and even these were detained for a time. Bologna had lately been in revolt the triple crown was trembling on the brow of Gregory; and hence more than usual scrutiny on the part of his police. Ferara is another Padua-an instance of spacious desolation-a vast cenotaph of human ambition. Its annexation to the Papal States in 1598 was fatal to its interests. Its manufactory of swords has dwindled away to a name; its palaces are empty and deserted; and its people have the appearance of being at once indolent and wretched. Everything here is connected with Ariosto, its most honoured citizen, who was born in this city in 1474, and died of consumption in 1533. His house is now preserved by the Government-his remains were deposited in the Church of St Benedict, where the lightning tore the iron laurel with which his bust was crowned. In 1801, the French General, Miollis, caused the bones of Ariosto to be removed with extraordinary pomp, and placed in a sarcophagus in the Public Library, where his pen, his chair, and his manuscripts are preserved. But though Italy thus honours Ariosto in his tomb, her gratitude to the author of the Orlando Furioso was not so great while he lived. He had a pension of seventy-five crowns from Cardinal Hippolyto d'Este; but as he was treated like that rich man's slave, he resigned the pittance to regain his freedom. Alphonso, Duke of Ferara, next became his patron, when Ariosto was made governor of a province among the Apennines, where he ruled over the reigning wildness, and tried to hunt down banditti. In short, kind words and compliments were the poet's portion-he lived in poverty and died neglected. The title of "The Divine Ludovico" was a poor requital for neglect from a cardinal and a duke; and his sorrows were aggravated by that independence of mind which is often the concomitant of genius. Though his productions form an era in the literature of his country, there is reason to believe that his morals were impure. Like Petrarch, he left natural children behind him, and furnished able to prevent man from sinking into grossest sins. another proof that the most brilliant gifts are not Popery, whether that of Rome or the unconverted heart, may call them venial, but, with the Bible for our standard, we must adjudge such views to be delusive. But Ferara is associated with the name of more than one poet. Torquato Tasso sang, and loved, and [ went deranged, and was imprisoned in a common mad-house, all in that city. We visited St Anne's Hospital, where he is said to have been immured, and saw the grating behind which the infuriated Tasso is reported to have raved out the story of his mis placed affection. An inscription tells that he was ill of sadness rather than delirium. The names of Byron and Moore are inscribed, among many others, at that shrine of literary superstition; for it is now believed that the story of Tasso's amour with Leonora d'Este is a fable. Her brother, whom Byron describes as distinguished from the common herd only by feeding in "A larger trough and wider stye," must, in that case, have had another reason for persecuting the poet than that commonly assigned-his ambitious affection for a royal mistress; but here, again, all, or nearly all, is uncertain. Some of the events in Tasso's life are disputed; and all that seems determined is the fact that the author of Gierusa lemme Liberata was deranged; immured in a prison, which increased his malady; and, after seven years of confinement, escaped. He once surrendered himself to the Inquisition as guilty of heresy; but as that was the act of a madman, he was not taken at his word. He was finally released in 1586, and died at Rome in 1595, when all Italy was preparing to crown him on the Capitol, as the poet of the age. His fiftyone years were spent in misery; and he did not live to receive at men's hands the poor compensation! which an olive or laurel branch, bound round his brow, would have yielded for all his sorrows. ashes repose in the Convent of St Onofrio on the Janiculum, on the right bank of the Tiber at Rome. His With all his poetry and exquisite sensibility, Tasso was an intense bigot. Some of his manuscripts were published at Paris about thirty years ago, in which he strenuously argues for extremest rigour in exter- Į minating the friends of the Reformation. THE CITIES OF ITALY. Ferara is a city which one leaves without regret, because its superstition seems to merit the fate it has met. Its Duchess, the celebrated Renée, at the time of the Reformation, embraced the Gospel; and her !, Court became an asylum for the persecuted. Calvin visited her for some time, and helped to confirm her in the faith; but the Inquisition drove him from Italy. Persecution at length assailed Renée herself. She was immured in a castle, in a distant part of the province; and the bigot's ready argument-the stakesoon extirpated the truth from Ferara. As a portion of the Pope's temporal kingdom, it is now one of the darkest and most enslaved in Italy.* In leaving the city where two of the sons of genius lived and were wretched, one could not but reflect on the common lot of the gifted, whose misery has often compensated to the rest of the world for their greatness. Homer was a blind ballad-singer-Rome's “least mortal mind," Cicero, was a proscribed outlaw-Shakespeare a deer-stealer-Milton blind and poor, so poor that he gladly sold his "Paradise Lost" for £15-Petrarch wailed and wept for one whose very existence is now denied-Ariosto was pensioned and treated like a slave-Tasso was immured as a lunatic for seven years and two months-Burns sank morally so low, that one of his biographers, Lockhart, has gravely to defend him from a charge of attempted murder-Byron, at Venice, turned his palace into a 'seraglio, and died at thirty-seven, self-outlawed from the decencies of his native land. Genius and beauty seem equally fatal to their possessor; and the solution tis, that the abuse of the best gifts turns them into the worst. But we cannot dwell longer on such scenes. Bologna might detain us long, as a seat of science-as a school of painting, which is second, perhaps, to none in Italy-as the birth-place of eight popes, and about thirty cardinals-as the scene of the labours of Dominic, the founder of the Inquisition, who is now enrolled and worshipped among its saints, just below Petronius, its patron. Here, also, Thomas Aquinas was born; Galvano, Mezzofante, and others, have, from time to time, adorned its University, and given Bologna a right to the title of "La Dotta." Nor has it disdained the aid of female genius; for, in former times, one lady was a professor of mathematics; and at another, another taught Greek. Guido Reni, the mildest, sweetest, blandest of all the painters, stands perhaps the first in the school of Bologna; and yet that criticism is adventurous when the Caracci, Guercino, Domenichino, and Caravaggio were his compeers. The St Cecilia of Raffaelle-canting in criticism all apart is a work which one approaches with a feeling of reverence, and leaves with unsatisfied wonder. The musical saint appears so soothed by the sounds herself has made, that it requires no effort to suppose the whole is life. We can only name the Leaning Tower of Bologna, which is one hundred and forty-five feet high, and eight feet from the perpendicular, and then hasten to glance at the character of the Bolognese. We found vice among them in the most obtrusive forms-so as not to In a field near Ferara we counted thirty-two oxen drawing four ploughs; in another, eight oxen and two horses drawing one. 561 be surpassed anywhere in Italy, except in the Ghetto among the Jews at Rome. Sabbath here, as elsewhere, is the day of mirth and music, balls and theatres. The Lord's-day is superseded by man's; and the result is, that in spite of the two thousand monks, secular and regular, with whom the city teems, religion is a theme only for merriment. The residence of a cardinal archbishop gives a kind of state to the miserable superstition; but manners more dissolute or gross we did not witness in Italy. Amid this reign of superstition, how dismal the condition of that soul which the Spirit of God has convinced of sin, of righteousness, and judgment to come! We have now travelled some hundreds of leagues in Italy, and been unable to find a Bible. Either it does not exist, or men are afraid to show it. us. The passage of the Apennines, from Bologna to Florence, occupies two days; but the scene is rarely interesting. The mountains are scarred and haggard, without grandeur, or even without beauty, when compared with those of Switzerland. Vines grow on the very summit. The grapes are well-flavoured, and we scarcely were at all reminded that we were among mountains, except by the slowness of our progress, though we had sometimes eight bullocks to transport At Pietra Mala, on the frontier of Tuscany, we saw a miniature volcano, which has burned, we were told, for ages, without either an eruption or apparent diminution. It was among the Apennines that we first became alive to the importance of geology, as a science likely to open up, after a long track of observation, a very thorough knowledge of creation. We, at the same time, felt more than ever convinced that our cosmogonists are visionaries. When they come to die, their lament may be with Grotius: "Vitam perdidi nil laboriose agendo." In approaching Florence, the Val d'Arno-the garden of Italy-opens upon us as we descend from the Apennines. Its clusters of villas, its olive gardens, its fig trees and vineries-all promise happiness, and would yield it, were man not a sinner; but the effects of sin haunt him under every climate; and, while we lingered to gaze upon the majestic valley of which Florence is the capital and ornament, as seen from the southern slope of the Apennines, we were immediately surrounded with clamorous beggars-the very ideal of wretchedness; and yet on these slopes we met with one just raised above the populace, who sang the poetry of Metastasio with all a Tuscan's passion, and recited the mellifluence of Tasso, so as to show that his whole soul was in it. Alfieri is their favourite now; and, if they durst be free, his love of liberty would inspire them yet more. We dare not enter Florence, at least in these Notes. It is the Athens of modern Italy-the focus of the arts-which the gigantic genius of Michael Angelo, and the gentler power of Raffaelle, have combined to adorn. We lived and enjoyed much among its beauties, and few of them all escaped our leisurely survey; but this is the end of the whole matter-all that Florence contains cannot, by itself, make glad the heart of man. In the midst of all that that city can present to gratify taste, and even over-inform the mind, there is a felt want-a craving for something more and better, and loftier far. No doubt, some of the most ex 562 quisite forms of beauty known in the world are in the Tribune of the Royal Gallery at Florence, and it were Gothic to deny that they are exquisite; yet, withal, they are not the proper source of perfect satis faction to the soul. We but embrace a cloud for a divinity, if we try to gratify our immortal spirits merely by them. "Show us the Father, and it sufficeth," is the true philosophy of happiness. Neither can we pause to describe Val Ombrosa. Arezzo, Cortona, the Lake of Thrasymene, Perugia, the falls of Terni, and other places, must all be passed in silence. We are drawing near to Rome, and our next Notes shall refer to the city impiously called eternal. When it was first seen from the height above the post-house of Baccano, reposing in its beauty in the bright Italian sun, we could understand the feelings which animated a Jew, when, from the mountains which stand round about Jerusalem, he caught the first glimpse of the Holy City, as he journeyed to its solemn feasts. Through the dreary, death-still Campagna, between rows of mouldering monuments, across the Tiber and along the Via Flaminia, we entered Rome, with remembrances and thoughts too crowding to be recorded. PORTRAIT OF A CHRISTIAN. THE Christian is a man, and more-an earthly saint -an angel clothed in flesh--the only lawful image of his Maker and Redeemer-the abstract of God's Church on earth-a model of heaven made up of clay -the temple of the Holy Ghost. For his disposition, it hath so much of heaven as his earth may make room for. He were not a man if he were quite free from corrupt affections; but these he masters and keeps in with a strong hand; and if at any time they grow testy and headstrong, he breaks them with a severe discipline, and will rather punish himself than not tame them. He checks appetite with discreet but strong denials, and forbears to pamper nature lest it grow wanton and impetuous. He walks on earth, but converses in heaven-having his fixed on the invisible, and enjoying a sweet eyes communion with his God and Saviour. While all the rest of the world sits in darkness, he lives in a perpetual light. The heaven of heavens is open to none but him; thither his eye pierceth, and beholds those realms of inaccessible glory which shine in no face but his. The deep mysteries of godliness, which to the great clerks of the world are as a book clasped and sealed up, lie open before him fair and legible; and while those book-men know whom they have heard of, he knows whom he hath believed. He will not suffer his Saviour to be ever out of his eye; and if, through some worldly interceptions he lose the sight of that blessed object for a time, he zealously retrieves him; not without a hungry check of his own miscarriage; and is now so much the more fixed by his former slackening, so as he will henceforth sooner part with his soul than his Redeemer. The terms of entireness wherein he stands with his Lord of Life are such as he can feel, but cannot express, though he should borrow the language of angels; it is enough-they two are one spirit. His reason is willingly captivated to his faith, his will to reason, and his affections to both. He fears nothing that he sees, in comparison of that which he sees not, and displeasure is more dreadful than start.-Hull. SAID John Newton to a gay friend; "I need not turn WHO KNOWS BEST? Deist, to enjoy the best and the most that this life be believed. He had, as he says, " experienced the can afford." Newton had a right to say this, and to good and evil on both sides." He had been a man of pleasure and impiety, and knew how to estimate send me an inventory of your pleasures, how charmthem. Thus he says to his friend: "If you were to ingly your time runs on, and how dexterously it is divided between the coffee-house, play-house, the card-table, and tavern, with intervals of balls, concerts, &c., I could answer, that most of these I have tried, and tried again, and know the utmost they can yield, and have seen enough of the rest most heartily to despise them all. pleasure can give, and I know it likewise." So far You know all that a life of they were equal. the pardon of his sins, communion with God, calm But Newton had another experience, found "in reliance on the divine providence, the cheering pro spect of a better life, with foretastes of heaven in his soul." Supposing that such pleasures would be despised, he adds: "But here lies the difference, my dear friend, you condemn that which you have never tried." questions the superiority of religion. The gay, the An all-sufficient answer this to every one who giddy, the sordid, and the impious, despise the duties and the joys of the pious mind; but they condemn what they have never tried," and why should they be believed?-why should they believe themselves even? Surely no one who seriously wishes to find the "true way," will give heed to such blind guides. THE FIRE AND THE WORM. A CONVERTED Indian was asked how he knew that he had experienced a change of heart. answer. He was asked if he saw the power. He gave no "No." "Did you hear it?" "No." "Did you feel it ?" "Yes." "Well, then, cannot you describe your feelings?" sand, made a small circle of chips and dry leaves. He paused a moment, and then, kneeling upon the ring, and with a spark from his pipe lighted his pile. He then got a little worm, and placed it inside the The poor worm, when it began to feel the heat, crept first to one point, then to another, and at last, after many ineffectual attempts to get out, finding that the flames completely surrounded it, crawled to the centre, as if in despair, and coiled itself up, awaiting the result. When it began to feel the heat too sensibly, the Indian took it in his fingers and placed it without the ring in safety. ing around me they began to scorch me—I ran every "Now," said he, " will explain my meaning. I was like that poor worm; the fires of hell were barzway-I drank fire-water-I triedhunting, everything; but could not get out. At last I threw myself i.. D and tried to pray, and then God stretched forth M FRAGMENTS. hand, and lifting me forth, gave me rest. Now," said he, "I cannot explain any better. I cannot tell you how it was done, but I felt a change, and I know it was so." Children's Column. THE BOY THE FATHER OF THE MAN. SOLOMON said, many centuries ago: "Even a child is known by his doings, whether his work be pure and whether it be right." Some people seem to think that children have no character at all. On the contrary, an observing eye sees in these young creatures the signs of what they are likely to be for life. When I see a boy in haste to spend every penny as soon as he gets it, I think it a sign that he will be a spendthrift. When I see a boy hoarding up his pennies, and unwilling to part with them for any good purpose, I think it a sign that he will be a miser. When I see a boy or girl always looking out for themselves, and disliking to share good things with others, I think it a sign that the child will grow up a very selfish person. When I see boys and girls often quarrelling, I think it a sign that they will be violent and hateful men and women. When I see a little boy willing to taste strong drink, I think it a sign that he will be a drunkard. When I see a boy who never prays. I think it a sign that he will be a profane and profligate man. When I see a child obedient to his parents, I think it a sign of great future blessings from Almighty God. When I see a boy fond of the Bible, and well acquainted with it, I think it a sign that he will be a pious and happy man. And though great changes sometimes take place in the character, yet, as a general rule, these signs do not fail.-Christian Mirror. CHILDREN! "BUY THE TRUTH." Go, ere the clouds of sorrow' Go now, and buy the Truth. A FAULT MORE ACKNOWLEDGED THAN AMENDED Is vain impertinent talk, which fills up the time of too many professors when they come together. When the famous Bishop Usher and Dr Preston, who were very intimate friends, were talking together, after much discourse of learning and other things, the bishop would say, "Come, Doctor, one word of Christ now before we part." Christians, who owe their all to Christ, should be often talking of him. And surely those who know the worth of souls cannot but be concerned for their ignorant, careless neighbours; which concernedness should put us upon doing all we can to keep them out of that condition. And if there be any that are asking the way to Zion, with 563 their faces thitherward, pray tell them the way. Tell them, 1. There is but one gate into this way, and that is the strait gate of sound conversion. 2. Tell them that the way is narrow-that there is not elbow-room for their lusts. Let them know the worst of it; and that those who would be good soldiers of Christ must endure hardness. 3. Tell them, notwithstanding this, it is a way of pleasantness; it gives spiritual, though it prohibits sensual, pleasures. 4. Tell them there is life eternal at the end, and let them be assured that one hour of joy in heaven will make them amends for an age of trouble upon earth. One sheaf of that harvest will be recompense enough for a seedtime of tears.—Henry. Fragments. Every other faith but that which apprehends Christ as a purifier, as well as our atonement and righteousness, is false and hypocritical. He can only be received into the soul when he is desired for his goodness; and when he is there, he will not sit down idle.-Adam. If a drowning man be resolved to keep hold of anything in his hand, this will prevent his taking hold upon the rope thrown out to him. Thus the sinner go every other dependence. who would lay hold upon the Saviour, must first let Better to be despised for too anxious apprehensions, than ruined by too confident a security.Burke. That which the French proverb hath of sickness is true of all evils-that they come on horseback, and go away on foot. We have often seen a sudden fall, or one meal's surfeit hath stuck by many to their graves; whereas pleasures come like oxen, slow and heavily, and go away like post-horses upon the spur. Sorrows, because they are lingering guests, I will entertain but moderately, knowing that the more they are made of the longer they will continue: and for pleasures, because they stay not, and do but call to drink at iny door, I will use them as passengers, with slight respect. He is his own best friend, that makes least of both of them.-Hall. Hard studies, much knowledge, and excellent preaching, are but mere glorious hypocritical sinning, if the ends be not right.-Baxter. He who rejoices over another's fall, rejoices in the devil's victory.—-Ambrose. Though the dews of the divine grace fall everywhere, yet they lie longest in the shade.-Patrick. Nothing is so formidable to the busy, as the visits of the idle. The world is much mistaken in the value of a sceptre or a crown. We gaze upon its brightness, and forget its britticness; we look upon its glory, and forget its frailty; we respect its colour, and take no notice of its weight. But if all those gay things which we fondly fancy to ourselves, are really to be found in greatness, yet still he pays too dear that pawns his heaven for it; he that buys a short bliss, gives not twenty, or an hundred years' purchase, but (if mercy prevent not) eternity.-Sancroft. He that makes light of small faults, is in a ready way to fall into great ones. Defer not thy charities till death; for certainly, if a man weigh it rightly, he that doth so is rather liberal of another man's than his own.--Bacon. |