THE DUOMO THE -THE MONUMENT OF CO THE STRADA DEGLI OREFICI General Grant and his party also visited Genoa, where they were received by the nobility of the city in a most cordial manner. A correspondent writes from this point as follows:- The surname which distinguished Venice's princely rival in the struggle for supremacy in the Middle Ages did not signify so much the "magnificent" as the "proud." Genova la Superba stood for independence and lofty self-confidence; it was the synonym of all that was haughty in politics, aristocratic in association, domineering in commerce. Genoa was more thoroughly Italian than Venice; her position was more central; her policy, so to speak, more national. Venice stood in a more exceptional position, and was as much a world's wonder as a working practical power among the family of nations. But both these cities, fallen as they now are from their independent sovereignty, have kept, more than any others, the outward form with which imagination not very inaccurately clothes their busy life of earlier days. Both of them abodes of luxury and homes of elegant and advanced civilization, they have kept almost intact the outer shell of their old courtly life. Rome, torn by the internal broils of robber barons and occasional popular revolutions, had but a rude aspect, and contained within her bosom more fortresses than museums. When the Popes returned from Avignon, and enlightened men, artists, and literati began to gather round the throne of the Medici, the Roveri, the grand Sixtus V., and others of like renown, Rome took on the garment of a civilization which naturally borrowed much from the old classic times, the peculiar pride of her people. As centuries rolled on, the ecclesiastical nature of the government, blending with the artistic associations of classicism, produced a type unique in Italy, or, indeed, in Europe. Florence, a thoroughly stirring, progressive commonwealth, became, from a sovereign city, the capital of an important principality, and went gracefully and naturally with the current of innovation, till it became a kind of intellectual "sanctuary ”—the neutral abode of exiles of all lands; the placid harborer of every new idea, however impracticable; and the nucleus of a large foreign population. Naples, the least historical, because the least independent, of Italian States in the Middle Ages, drifted from one foreign ruler to the other, always a prize for the victor, but never herself a serious party to the transfer. Pleasureloving and frivolous, like decrepid Imperial Rome in the days when the unthinking mob cried "Panem et circenses!" and willingly let even the semblance of autonomy drop from their hands, Naples was as wax in the grasp of her rulers, and never had that vigorous national life which alone can and does give a characteristic aspect to the outward form and buildings of a city. Milan, the Paris of Italy, has followed, especially of late, in the footsteps of her prototype, and gradually swept away all architectural signs of individualism. The city of St. Charles and St. Ambrose is now, save for a few of its churches and religious establishments, little more than a modern town clustered round a fairy-like cathedral. Turin, the most dismal and precise of the principal towns of Italy, was burnt down within the last seventy or eighty years, and rebuilt on the rectangular plan, which, in an old, historical land, is so distressingly monotonous, and so typical of a buried individuality. The Royal Palace is like an exaggerated barrack, and the principal streets remind one of the paths of an immense cemetery, lined with gigantic mausoleums. Something of this dreary impression is made on the traveller's mind by the first view of Munich; but then, here the cold exterior is compensated by the quick throbbing of the artist-life which is the very heart's-blood of the German city. Of all the capitals of old Italy, none have remained so outwardly unchanged as the two rival Republics, the marts of a world-wide commerce. Both kept their shadowy power until absorbed by Napoleon, and, though their supremacy had long been but nominal, still the charm lingered around the stately piles where dwelt the descendants of their merchant-princes and their former lordly patrons of art and letters. Both became only secondary seats of power, after their independence was taken from them. Milan was made the Austrian capital of Lombardo-Venetia, while Venice remained subordinate, and Genoa had to look to Turin as her mistress. Artistically speaking, this was no loss; for if, as a rule, capitals draw to themselves all the talent of a nation, yet their influence is often such as to desecrate the talent they reward-to vulgarize it by homage indiscriminately, and often carelessly, given, as a mere matter of course, and to lower art in the eyes of its own votaries by making success the only test of its worth. The official and political life of a capital corrupts the atmos phere and thickens the air, so that the calm needed for the true growth of art is not to be found therein; or else art itself is taken up, made a pet of, tied to the car of political and social triumph as an embellishment, a set-off, a favorite slave, sumptuously arrayed, yet carefully debarred from any independent aspirations. Art cannot breathe in this artificial condition; it may consent to be the friend and companion of princes, but never stoops to become their creation and their puppet. The moment its children accept this subordinate attitude they cease to be true worshippers of the beautiful, and become apostates from the traditions of their brotherhood. The expedient takes with them the place of the beautiful, and they are no longer shepherds, but hirelings. It is, perhaps, a matter of discussion whether the two queen cities of northern Italy were better off as tributary than as capital towns; but it is nevertheless indisputable that their exclusion from the busy political life of disturbed Italy has given them an aspect of peace which they otherwise could not have worn, and which is peculiarly favorable to the illusions of the stranger and the traveller. We can reconstruct for ourselves the picture of the past of the sovereign Republics, as we pace the narrow streets and look in at the solemn portals of their silent palaces; but how difficult it would be to bring back that past if we had to pierce the disguise of common, bustling, bureaucratic life in the nineteenth century! As it is, there is scarcely anything to shock one's sense of the fitness of things, on entering "Genoa the Superb." The splendid harbor is still full of shipping, the amphitheatre of hills that cradles the city is proudly crowned, partly by ramparts and bastions, partly by the natural defenses of rock and forest. The beauty of a summer sunrise glorifies the city a hundred-fold, as seen from the deck of a vessel at sea. Every hour of the day lends some new and regal beauty to the Queen of the Mediterranean; but night also has its peculiar effect, and sheds a more mysterious charm over the great, silent, densely crowded harbor and the deserted wharves and streets. It was at night and by sea that we reached Genoa, and the romance of our stay began in the very first hour of our landing. A boat came to take us off the ship, and, the usual Italian bustle being hushed, the descent down the steep sides of the vessel, and the crowding into an open boat with a large awning, was accomplished almost in silence. We were tired with the long journey, and among us was one whose health could stand but little in the way of fatigue; so there was nothing said on the way to the mole, or pier-none of the usual tourists' gossip and wondering, and eager, restless planning. Noiselessly the boat threaded its way among the great, black hulls of the numerous merchant-vessels. Here and there gleamed the ray of a colored lantern; now and then a deep voice would shout a warning. Over our heads were the crossed bowsprits of many ships, lying close together, and once or twice we caught sight of a figure-head — a gorgeous mermaid with golden hair, or a flying Cupid holding a toy anchor. We had not seen Venice then, but the thought of that beautiful sea-city came uppermost in our minds, as we glided through that throng of ships, and tried to picture to ourselves where the Bucentaur might be lying, getting ready for the coming bridal with the Adriatic. Long afterwards, when Venice became a present reality, the impression it left was far different to that of the busy port of Genoa, even in its temporary hush. Venice has no fleet of merchantmen whitening her lagoons with their sails; |