CHAPTER VIII. ARQUÀ. "There is a tomb in Arquà: rear'd in air, "I stood in Venice on the Bridge of Sighs." How glorious is the thrill, which shoots through our frame, as we first wake to the consciousness of our intellectual power; as we feel the spirit—the undying spirit-ready to burst the gross bonds of flesh, and soar triumphant, over the sneers of others, and our own mistrust. How does each thought seem to swell in our bosom, as if impatient of the confined tenementhow do the floating ideas congregate-how does each impassioned feeling subdue us in turn, and long for a worthy utterance! This is a very bright moment in the history of our lives. It is one in which we feel-indubitably feel that we are of the fashioning of God;-that the light which intellect darts around us, is not the result of education-of maxims inculcated-or of principles instilled;—but that it is a ray caught from the brightness of eternity-that when our wavering pulse has ceased to beat, and the etherialised elements have left the baser and the useless dust-that ray shall not be quenched; but shall again be absorbed in the full effulgence from which it emanated. Surely then, if such a glorious moment as this, be accorded to even the inferior votaries of knowledge to the meaner pilgrims, struggling on towards the resplendent shrines of science:how must he-the divine Petrarch, who could so exquisitely delineate love's hopes and story, as to clothe an earthly passion, with half the attributes of an immortal affection :-how must he have revelled in the proud sensations called forth at such a moment! It is the curse of the poet, that he must perforce leave the golden atmosphere of loftiest aspirations -step from the magic circle, where all is pure and etherial and find himself the impotent denizen, of a sombre and an earthly world. It was in the early part of September, that the brothers turned their backs on the Etrurian Athens. Their destination was Venice, and their route lay through Bologna and Arquà. They had been so satisfied, under the guidance of their old vetturino, that Sir Henry made an arrangement, which induced him to be at Florence, at the time of their departure;-and Pietro and Thompson were once more seated beside each other. Before commencing the ascent of the Appennines, our travellers visited the country seat of the Archduke; saw the gigantic statue executed by John of Bologna, which frowns over the lake; and at Fonte-buona, cast a farewell glance on Florence, and the ancient Fiesole. As they advanced towards Caravigliojo, the mountains began to be more formidable, and the scenery to lose its smiling character. Each step seemed to add to the barrenness of the landscape. The wind came howling down from the black volcanic looking ridges-then swept tempestuously through some deep ravine. On either side the road, tall red poles presented themselves, a guide to the traveller during winter's snows; while, in one exposed gully, were built large stone embankments for his protection—as a Latin inscription intimated-from the violence of the gales. Few signs of life appeared. Here and there, her white kerchief shading a sun-burnt face, a young Bolognese shepherd girl might be seen on some grassy ledge, waving her hand coquettishly; while her neglected flock, with tinkling bell, browsed on the edge of the precipice. As they neared Bologna, however, the scenery changed. Festoons of grapes, trained to leafy elms, began to appear-white villas chequered the suburbsand it was with a pleasurable feeling, that they neared the peculiar looking city, with its leaning towers, and old façades. It is the only one, where the Englishman recals Mrs. Ratcliffe's harrowing tales; and half expects to see a Schedoni, advancing from some covered portico. The next day found them in the Bolognese gallery, which is the first which duly impresses the traveller, coming from the north, with the full powers of the art. The soul of music seems to dwell in the face of the St. Cecilia; and the cup of maternal anguish to be filled to the brim, as in Guido's Murder of the Innocents, the mother clasps to her arms the terrified babe, and strives to flee from the ruthless destroyer. It was on the fourth morning from their arrival in Bologna, that they approached the poet's "mansion and his sepulchre." As they threaded the green windings of vine covered hills, these gradually assumed a bolder outline, and, rising in separate cones, formed a sylvan amphitheatre round the lovely village of Arquà. The road made an abrupt ascent to the Fontana |