Blackwood\'s Edinburgh Magazine, Vol. 53, No. 331, May, 1843 by Various
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Various >> Blackwood\'s Edinburgh Magazine, Vol. 53, No. 331, May, 1843
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23 BLACKWOOD'S EDINBURGH MAGAZINE
NO. CCCXXXI. MAY, 1843. VOL. LIII.
CONTENTS.
DUMAS IN ITALY
AMMALAT BEK. A TRUE TALE OF THE CAUCASUS FROM THE
RUSSIAN OF MARLINSKI.--CHAPTER VI.
REYNOLD'S DISCOURSES. CONCLUSION
LEAP-YEAR. A TALE
THE BATTLE OF THE BLOCKS. THE PAVING QUESTION
POEMS AND BALLADS OF SCHILLER.--No. VIII.
NATURAL HISTORY OF SALMON AND SEA-TROUT
CALEB STUKELY. PART THE LAST
COMMERCIAL POLICY. SPAIN
DUMAS IN ITALY.
[_Souvenirs de Voyage en Italie, par_ ALEXANDRE DUMAS. 5 vols. duod.]
France has lately sent forth her poets in great force, to travel, and to
write travels. Delamartine, Victor Hugo, Alexandre Dumas, and others,
have been forth in the high-ways and the high-seas, observing,
portraying, poetizing, romancing. The last-mentioned of these, M. Dumas,
a dramatist very ingenious in the construction of plots, and one who
tells a story admirably, has travelled quite in character. There is a
dramatic air thrown over all his proceedings, things happen as pat as if
they had been rehearsed, and he blends the novelist and tourist together
after a very bold and original fashion. It is a new method of writing
travels that he has hit upon, and we recommend it to the notice of our
countrymen or countrywomen, who start from home with the fixed idea,
happen what may, of inditing a book. He does not depend altogether upon
the incidents of the road, or the raptures of sight-seeing, or any odd
fantasy that buildings or scenery may be kind enough to suggest: he
provides himself with full half of his materials before he starts, in
the shape of historical anecdote and romantic story, which he
distributes as he goes along. A better plan for an amusing book could
not be devised. Your mere tourist, it must be confessed, however
frivolous he submits for our entertainment to become, grows heavy on our
hands; that rapid and incessant change of scene which is kindly meant to
enliven our spirits, becomes itself wearisome, and we long for some
resting-place, even though it should be obtained by that most
illegitimate method of closing the volume. On the other hand, a teller
of tales has always felt the want of some enduring thread--though, as
some one says in a like emergency, it be only _packthread_--on which his
tales may be strung--something to fill up the pauses, and prevent the
utter solution of continuity between tale and tale--something that gives
the narrator a reasonable plea for _going on again_, and makes the
telling another story an indispensable duty upon his part, and the
listening to it a corresponding obligation upon ours; and ever since the
time when that young lady of unpronounceable and unrememberable name
told the One Thousand and One Tales, telling a fragment every morning to
keep her head upon her shoulders, there has been devised many a strange
expedient for this purpose. Now, M. Dumas has contrived, by uniting the
two characters of tourist and novelist, to make them act as reliefs to
each other. Whilst he shares with other travellers the daily adventures
of the road--the journey, the sight, and the dinner--he is not compelled
to be always moving; he can pause when he pleases, and, like the
_fableur_ of olden times, sitting down in the market-place, in the
public square, at the corner of some column or statue, he narrates his
history or his romance. Then, the story told, up starts the busy and
provident tourist; lo! the _voiture_ is waiting for him at the hotel; in
he leaps, and we with him, and off we rattle through other scenes, and
to other cities. He has a track _in space_ to which he is bound; we
recognize the necessity that he should proceed thereon; but he can
diverge at pleasure through all _time_, bear us off into what age he
pleases, make us utterly oblivious of the present, and lap us in the
Elysium of a good story.
With a book written palpably for the sole and most amiable purpose of
amusement, and succeeding in this purpose, how should we deal? How but
receive it with a passive acquiescence equally amiable, content solely
to be amused, and giving all severer criticism--to him who to his other
merits may add, if he pleases, that of being the first critic. Most
especially let us not be carping and questioning as to the how far, or
what precisely, we are to set down for _true_. It is all true--it is all
fiction; the artist cannot choose but see things in an artistical form;
what ought not to be there drops from his field of vision. We are not
poring through a microscope, or through a telescope, to discover new
truths; we are looking at the old landscape through coloured glasses,
blue, or black, or roseate, as the occasion may require. And here let us
note a favourable contrast between our dramatic tourist, bold in
conception, free in execution, and those compatriots of our own, authors
and authoresses, who write travels merely because they are artists in
ink, yet without any adequate notion of the duties and privileges of
such an artist.
When a writer has got a name, the first rational use to make of the
charming possession is to get astride of it, as a witch upon her
broomstick, and whisk and scamper over half the kingdoms of the earth.
Talk of bills of exchange!--letters of credit!--we can put our name to a
whole book, and it will pass--it _will_ pass. The idea is good--quite
worthy of our commercial genius--and to us its origin, we believe, is
due; but here, as in so many other cases, the Frenchman has given the
idea its full development. Keeping steadily in view the object of his
book, which is--first, amusement--secondly, amusement--thirdly,
amusement; he adapts his means consistently to his end. Does he want a
dialogue?--he writes one: a story?--he invents one: a description?--he
takes his hint from nature, and is grateful--the more grateful, because
he knows that a hint to the wise is sufficient. It is the description
only which the reader will be concerned with; what has he to do with the
object? That is the merely traveller's affair. Now, your English
tourists have always a residue of scruple about them which balks their
genius. Not satisfied with pleasing, they aspire to be believed; are
almost angry if their anecdote is not credited; content themselves with
adding graces, giving a turn, trimming and decorating--cannot build a
structure boldly from the bare earth. This necessity of finding a
certain straw for their bricks, which must be picked up by the roadside,
not only impedes the work of authorship, but must add greatly to their
personal discomfort throughout the whole of their travels. They are in
perpetual chase of something for the book. They bag an incident with as
much glee as a sportsman his first bird in September. They are out on
pleasure, but manifestly they have their task too; it is not quite
holiday, only half-holiday with them. The prospect or the picture gives
no pleasure till it has suggested the appropriate expression of
enthusiasm, which, once safely deposited in the note-book, the
enthusiasm itself can be quietly indulged in, or permitted to evaporate.
At the dinner-table, even when champagne is circulating, if a jest or a
story falls flat, they see with an Aristotelian precision the cause of
its failure, and how an additional touch, or a more auspicious moment,
would have procured for it a better fate; they stop to pick it up, they
clean it, they revolve the chapter and the page to which it shall lend
its lustre. Nay, it is noticeable, that without much labour from the
polisher, many a dull thing in conversation has made a good thing in
print; the conditions of success are so different. Now, from all such
toils and perplexities M. Dumas is evidently free; free as the wildest
Oxonian who flies abroad in the mere wanton prodigality of spirits and
of purse. His book is made, or can be made, when he chooses: fortune
favours the bold, and incidents will always dispose themselves
dramatically to the dramatist.
Our traveller opens his campaign at Nice. It may be observed that M.
Dumas cannot be accused, like the present minister of his country, of
any partiality to the English; if the mortifying truth must be told, he
has no love of us at all; to which humour, so long as he delivers
himself of it with any wit or pleasantry, he is heartily welcome. Our
first extract will be thought, perhaps, to taste of this humour; but we
quote it for the absurd proof it affords of the manner in which we
English have overflooded some portions of the Continent:--
"As to the inhabitants of Nice, every traveller is to them an
Englishman. Every foreigner they see, without distinction of
complexion, hair, beard, dress, age, or sex, has, in their
imagination, arrived from a certain mysterious city lost in the
midst of fogs, where the inhabitants have heard of the sun only
from tradition, where the orange and the pine-apple are unknown
except by name, where there is no ripe fruit but baked apples,
and which is called _London_.
"Whilst I was at the York Hotel, a carriage drawn by post
horses drove up; and, soon after, the master of the hotel
entering into my room, I asked him who were his new arrivals.
"'_Sono certi Inglesi_,' he answered, '_ma non saprei dire se
sono Francesi o Tedeschi_. Some English, but I cannot say
whether French or German.'"--Vol. i. p. 9.
The little town of Monaco is his next resting-place. This town, which is
now under the government of the King of Sardinia, was at one time an
independent principality; and M. Dumas gives a lively sketch of the
vicissitudes which the little state has undergone, mimicking, as it has,
the movements of great monarchies, and being capable of boasting even of
its revolution and its republic. During the reign of Louis XIV. the
territory of Monaco gave the title of prince to a certain Honore III.,
who was under the protection of the _Grand Monarque_.
"The marriage of this Prince of Monaco," says our annalist,
"was not happy. One fine morning his spouse, who was the same
beautiful and gay Duchess de Valentinois so well known in the
scandalous chronicles of that age, found herself at one step
out of the states of her lord and sovereign. She took refuge at
Paris. Desertion was not all. The prince soon learned that he
was as unfortunate as a husband can be.
"At that epoch, calamities of this description were only
laughed at; but the Prince of Monaco was, as the duchess used
to say, a strange man, and he took offence. He got information
from time to time of the successive gallants whom his wife
thought fit to honour, and he hanged them in effigy, one after
the other, in the front court of his palace. The court was soon
full, and the executions bordered on the high road;
nevertheless, the prince relented not, but continued always to
hang. The report of these executions reached Versailles; Louis
XIV. was, in his turn, displeased, and counselled the prince to
be more lenient in his punishments. He of Monaco answered that,
being a sovereign prince, he had undoubtedly the right of pit
and gallows on his own domain, and that surely he might hang as
many men of straw as he pleased.
"The affair bred so much scandal, that it was thought prudent
to send the duchess back to her husband. He, to make her
punishment the more complete, had resolved that she should, on
her return, pass before this row of executed effigies. But the
dowager Princess of Monaco prevailed upon her son to forego
this ingenious revenge, and a bonfire was made of all the
scarecrows. 'It was,' said Madame de Sevigne, 'the torch of
their second nuptials.' ...
"A successor of this prince, Honore IV., was reigning
tranquilly in his little dominions when the French Revolution
broke out. The Monacites watched its successive phases with a
peculiar attention, and when the republic was finally
proclaimed at Paris, they took advantage of Honore's absence,
who was gone from home, and not known where, armed themselves
with whatever came to hand, marched to the palace, took it by
assault, and commenced plundering the cellars, which might
contain from twelve to fifteen thousand bottles of wine. Two
hours after, the eight thousand subjects of the Prince of
Monaco were drunk.
"Now, at this first trial, they found liberty was an excellent
thing, and they resolved to constitute themselves forthwith
into a republic. But it seemed that Monaco was far too
extensive a territory to proclaim itself, after the example of
France, a republic one and indivisible; so the wise men of the
country, who had already formed themselves into a national
assembly, came to the conclusion that Monaco should rather
follow the example of America, and give birth to a federal
republic. The fundamental laws of the new constitution were
then discussed and determined by Monaco and Mantone, who united
themselves for life and death. There was a third village called
Rocco-Bruno: it was decided that it should belong half to the
one and half to the other. Rocco-Bruno murmured: it had aspired
to independence, and a place in the federation; but Monaco and
Mantone smiled at so arrogant a pretension. Rocco-Bruno was not
the strongest, and was reduced to silence: from that moment,
however, Rocco-Bruno was marked out to the two national
conventions as a focus of sedition. The republic was finally
proclaimed under the title of the Republic of Monaco.
"The Monacites next looked abroad upon the world for allies.
There were two nations, equally enlightened with themselves, to
whom they could extend the hand of fellowship--the American and
the French. Geographical position decided in favour of the
latter. The republic of Monaco sent three deputies to the
National Convention of France to proffer and demand alliance.
The National Convention was in a moment of perfect good-humour:
it received the deputies most politely, and invited them to
call the next morning for the treaty they desired.
"The treaty was prepared that very day. It was not, indeed, a
very lengthy document: it consisted of the two following
articles:--
"'Art. 1. There shall be peace and alliance between the French
Republic and the Republic of Monaco.
"'Art. 2. The French Republic is delighted with having made the
acquaintance of the Republic of Monaco.'
"This treaty was placed next morning in the hands of the
ambassadors, who departed highly gratified. Three months
afterwards the French Republic had thrown its lion's paw on its
dear acquaintance, the Republic of Monaco."--P. 14.
From Monaco our traveller proceeds to Geneva; from Geneva, by water, to
Livorno, (_Anglice_, Leghorn.) Now there is little or nothing to be seen
at Livorno. There is, in the place _della Darnesa_, a solitary statue of
Ferdinand I., some time cardinal, and afterwards Grand-Duke of Florence.
M. Dumas bethinks him to tell us the principal incident in the life of
this Ferdinand; but then this again is connected with the history of
Bianca Capello, so that he must commence with her adventures. The name
of Bianca Capello figures just now on the title-page of one of Messrs
Colburn's and Bentley's _last and newest_. Those who have read the
novel, and those who, like ourselves, have seen only the title, may be
equally willing to hear the story of this high-spirited dame told in the
terse, rapid manner--brief, but full of detail--of Dumas. We cannot give
the whole of it in the words of M. Dumas; the extract would be too long;
we must get over a portion of the ground in the shortest manner
possible.
"It was towards the end of the reign of Cosmo the Great, about
the commencement of the year 1563, that a young man named
Pietro Bonaventuri, the issue of a family respectable, though
poor, left Florence to seek his fortune in Venice. An uncle who
bore the same name as himself, and who had lived in the latter
city for twenty years, recommended him to the bank of the
Salviati, of which he himself was one of the managers. The
youth was received in the capacity of clerk.
"Opposite the bank of the Salviati lived a rich Venetian
nobleman, head of the house of the Capelli. He had one son and
one daughter, but not by his wife then living, who, in
consequence, was stepmother to his children. With the son, our
narrative is not concerned; the daughter, Bianca Capello, was a
charming girl of the age of fifteen or sixteen, of a pale
complexion, on which the blood, at every emotion, would appear,
and pass like a roseate cloud; her hair, of that rich flaxen
which Raphael has made so beautiful; her eyes dark and full of
lustre, her figure slight and flexile, but of that flexibility
which denotes no weakness, but force of character; prompt, as
another Juliet, to love, and waiting only till some Romeo
should cross her path, to say, like the maid of Verona--'I will
be to thee or to the tomb!'
"She saw Pietro Bonaventuri: the window of his chamber looked
out upon hers; they exchanged glances, signs, promises of love.
Arrived at this point, the distance from each other was their
sole obstacle: this obstacle Bianca was the first to overcome.
"Each night, when all had retired to rest in the house of the
Salviati, when the nurse who had reared Bianca, had betaken
herself to the next chamber, and the young girl, standing
listening against the partition, had assured herself that this
last Argus was asleep, she threw over her shoulders a dark
cloak to be the less visible in the night, descended on tiptoe,
and light as a shadow, the marble stairs of the paternal
palace, unbarred the gate, and crossed the street. On the
threshold of the opposite door, her lover was standing to
receive her; and the two together, with stifled breath and
silent caresses, ascended the stairs that led to the little
chamber of Pietro. Before the break of day, Bianca retired in
the same manner to her own room, where her nurse found her in
the morning, in a sleep as profound at least as the sleep of
innocence.
"One night whilst our Juliet was with her Romeo, a baker's boy,
who had just been to light his oven in the neighbourhood, saw a
gate half open, and thought he did good service by closing it.
Ten minutes afterwards, Bianca descended, and saw that it was
impossible to re-enter her father's house.
"Bianca was one of those energetic spirits whose resolutions
are taken at once, and for ever. She saw that her whole future
destiny was changed by this one accident, and she accepted
without hesitation the new life which this accident had imposed
on her. She re-ascended to her lover, related what had
happened, demanded of him if he was ready to sacrifice all for
her as she was for him, and proposed to take advantage of the
two hours of the night which still remained to them, to quit
Venice and conceal themselves from the pursuit of her parents.
Pietro was true--he adopted immediately the proposal; they
stepped into a gondola, and fled towards Florence.
"Arrived at Florence, they took refuge with the father of
Pietro--Bonaventuri the elder, who with his wife had a small
lodging in the second floor in the place of St Mark. Strange!
it is with poor parents that the children are so especially
welcome. They received their son and their new daughter with
open arms. Their servant was dismissed, both for economy and
the better preservation of their secret. The good mother
charged herself with the care of the little household. Bianca,
whose white hands had been taught no such useful duties, set
about working the most charming embroidery. The father, who
earned his living as a copyist for public offices, gave out
that he had retained a clerk, and took home a double portion of
papers. All were employed, and the little family contrived to
live.
"Meanwhile, it will be easily imagined how great a commotion
the flight of Bianca occasioned in the palace of the noble
Capello. During the whole of the first day they made no
pursuit, for they still, though with much anxiety, expected her
return. The day passed, however, without any news of the
fugitive; the flight, on the same morning, of Pietro
Bonaventuri was next reported; a thousand little incidents
which attracted no notice at the time were now brought back to
recollection, and the result of the whole was the clear
conviction that they had fled together. The influence of the
Capelli was such that the case was brought immediately before
the Council of Ten; and Pietro Bonaventuri was placed under the
ban of the Republic. The sentence of this tribunal was made
known to the government of Florence; and this government
authorized the Capelli, or the officers of the Venetian
Republic, to make all necessary search, not only in Florence,
but throughout all Tuscany. The search, however was unavailing.
Each one of the parties felt too great an interest in keeping
their secret, and Bianca herself never stirred from the
apartment.
"Three months passed in this melancholy concealment, yet she
who had been habituated from infancy to all the indulgences of
wealth, never once breathed a word of complaint. Her only
recreation was to look down into the street through the sloping
blind. Now, amongst those who frequently passed across the
Place of St Mark was the young grand-duke, who went every other
day to see his father at his castle of Petraja. Francesco was
young, gallant, and handsome; but it was not his youth or
beauty that preoccupied the thoughts of Bianca, it was the idea
that this prince, as powerful as he seemed gracious, might, by
one word, raise the ban from Pietro Bonaventuri, and restore
both him and herself to freedom. It was this idea which kindled
a double lustre in the eyes of the young Venetian, as she
punctually at the hour of his passing, ran to the window, and
sloped the jalousie. One day, the prince happening to look up
as he passed, met the enkindled glance of his fair observer.
Bianca hastily retired."
What immediately follows need not be told at any length. Francesco was
enamoured: he obtained an interview. Bianca released and enriched her
lover, but became the mistress of the young duke. Pietro was quite
content with this arrangement; he had himself given the first example of
inconstancy. He entered upon a career of riotous pleasure, which ended
in a violent death.
Francesco, in obedience to his father, married a princess of the house
of Austria; but Bianca still retained her influence. His wife, who had
been much afflicted by this preference of her rival, died, and the
repentant widower swore never again to see Bianca. He kept the oath for
four months; but she placed herself as if by accident in his path, and
all her old power was revived. Francesco, by the death of his father,
became the reigning Duke of Tuscany, and Bianca Capello, his wife and
duchess. And now we arrive at that part of the story in which Ferdinand,
the brother of Francesco, and whose statue at Livorno led to this
history, enters on the scene.
"About three years after their nuptials, the young Archduke,
the issue of Francesco's previous marriage, died, leaving the
ducal throne of Tuscany without direct heir; failing which the
Cardinal Ferdinand would become Grand-duke at the death of his
brother. Now Bianca had given to Francesco one son; but,
besides that he was born before their marriage, and therefore
incapable of succeeding, the rumour had been spread that he was
supposititious. The dukedom, therefore, would descend to the
Cardinal if the Grand-duchess should have no other child; and
Francesco himself had begun to despair of this happiness, when
Bianca announced to him a second pregnancy.
"This time the Cardinal resolved to watch himself the
proceedings of his dear sister-in-law, lest he should be the
dupe of some new manoeuvre. He began, therefore, to cultivate
in an especial manner the friendship of his brother, declaring,
that the present condition of the Grand-duchess proved to him
how false had been the rumours spread touching her former
_accouchement_. Francesco, happy to find his brother in this
disposition, returned his advances with the utmost cordiality.
The Cardinal availed himself of this friendly feeling to come
and install himself in the Palace Pitti.
"The arrival of the Cardinal was by no means agreeable to
Bianca, who was not at all deceived as to the true cause of
this fraternal visit. She knew that, in the Cardinal, she had a
spy upon her at every moment. The spy, however, could detect
nothing that savoured of imposture. If her condition was
feigned, the comedy was admirably played. The Cardinal began to
think that his suspicions were unjust. Nevertheless, if there
were craft, the game he determined should be played out with
equal skill upon his side.
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