Atlantic Monthly, Vol. VI.,October, 1860. No. XXXVI. - Various
Arriving at the railway-station, we found a tall, elderly, comely
gentleman walking to and fro and waiting for the train. He proved to
be a Mr. Alexander,--it may fairly be presumed the Alexander of
Ballochmyle, a blood-relation of the lovely lass. Wonderful efficacy
of a poet's verse, that could shed a glory from Long Ago on this old
gentleman's white hair! These Alexanders, by-the-by, are not an old
family on the Ballochmyle estate; the father of the lass having made a
fortune in trade, and established himself as the first landed
proprietor of his name in these parts. The original family was named
Whitefoord.
Our ride to Ayr presented nothing very remarkable; and, indeed, a
cloudy and rainy day takes the varnish off the scenery, and causes a
woful diminution in the beauty and impressiveness of everything we
see. Much of our way lay along a flat, sandy level, in a southerly
direction. We reached Ayr in the midst of hopeless rain, and drove to
the King's Arms Hotel. In the intervals of showers I took peeps at the
town, which appeared to have many modern or modern-fronted edifices;
although there are likewise tall, gray, gabled, and quaint-looking
houses in the by-streets, here and there, betokening an ancient place.
The town lies on both sides of the Ayr, which is here broad and
stately, and bordered with dwellings that look from their windows
directly down into the passing tide.
I crossed the river by a modern and handsome stone bridge, and
recrossed it, at no great distance, by a venerable structure of four
gray arches, which must have bestridden the stream ever since the
early days of Scottish history. These are the "Two Briggs of Ayr,"
whose midnight conversation was overheard by Burns, while other
auditors were aware only of the rush and rumble of the wintry stream
among the arches. The ancient bridge is steep and narrow, and paved
like a street, and defended by a parapet of red freestone, except at
the two ends, where some mean old shops allow scanty room for the
pathway to creep between. Nothing else impressed me hereabouts, unless
I mention, that, during the rain, the women and girls went about the
streets of Ayr barefooted to save their shoes.
The next morning wore a lowering aspect, as if it felt itself destined
to be one of many consecutive days of storm. After a good Scotch
breakfast, however, of fresh herrings and eggs, we took a fly, and
started at a little past ten for the banks of the Doon. On our way, at
about two miles from Ayr, we drew up at a road-side cottage, on which
was an inscription to the effect that Robert Burns was born within its
walls. It is now a public-house; and, of course, we alighted and
entered its little sitting-room, which, as we at present see it, is a
neat apartment, with the modern improvement of a ceiling. The walls
are much over-scribbled with names of visitors, and the wooden door of
a cupboard in the wainscot, as well as all the other wood-work of the
room, is cut and carved with initial letters. So, likewise, are two
tables, which, having received a coat of varnish over the
inscriptions, form really curious and interesting articles of
furniture. I have never (though I do not personally adopt this mode of
illustrating my humble name) felt inclined to ridicule the natural
impulse of most people thus to record themselves at the shrines of
poets and heroes.
On a panel, let into the wall in a corner of the room, is a portrait
of Burns, copied from the original picture by Nasmyth. The floor of
this apartment is of boards, which are probably a recent substitute
for the ordinary flag-stones of a peasant's cottage. There is but one
other room pertaining to the genuine birthplace of Robert Burns: it is
the kitchen, into which we now went. It has a floor of flag-stones,
even ruder than those of Shakspeare's house,--though, perhaps, not so
strangely cracked and broken as the latter, over which the hoof of
Satan himself might seem to have been trampling. A new window has been
opened through the wall, towards the road; but on the opposite side is
the little original window, of only four small panes, through which
came the first daylight that shone upon the Scottish poet. At the side
of the room, opposite the fireplace, is a recess, containing a bed,
which can be hidden by curtains. In that humble nook, of all places in
the world, Providence was pleased to deposit the germ of the richest
human life which mankind then had within its circumference.
These two rooms, as I have said, make up the whole sum and substance
of Burns's birthplace: for there were no chambers, nor even attics;
and the thatched roof formed the only ceiling of kitchen and
sitting-room, the height of which was that of the whole house. The
cottage, however, is attached to another edifice of the same size and
description, as these little habitations often are; and, moreover, a
splendid addition has been made to it, since the poet's renown began
to draw visitors to the way-side ale-house. The old woman of the house
led us through an entry, and showed a vaulted hall, of no vast
dimensions, to be sure, but marvellously large and splendid as
compared with what might be anticipated from the outward aspect of the
cottage. It contained a bust of Burns, and was hung round with
pictures and engravings, principally illustrative of his life and
poems. In this part of the house, too, there is a parlor, fragrant
with tobacco-smoke; and, no doubt, many a noggin of whiskey is here
quaffed to the memory of the bard, who professed to draw so much of
his inspiration from that potent liquor.
We bought some engravings of Kirk Alloway, the Bridge of Doon, and the
Monument, and gave the old woman a fee besides, and took our leave. A
very short drive farther brought us within sight of the monument, and
to the hotel, situated close by the entrance of the ornamental grounds
within which the former is inclosed. We rang the bell at the gate of
the inclosure, but were forced to wait a considerable time; because
the old man, the regular superintendent of the spot, had gone to
assist at the laying of the corner-stone of a new kirk. He appeared
anon, and admitted us, but immediately hurried away to be present at
the concluding ceremonies, leaving us locked up with Burns.
The inclosure around the monument is beautifully laid out as an
ornamental garden, and abundantly provided with rare flowers and
shrubbery, all tended with loving care. The monument stands on an
elevated site, and consists of a massive basement-story, three-sided,
above which rises a light and elegant Grecian temple,--a mere dome,
supported on Corinthian pillars, and open to all the winds. The
edifice is beautiful in itself; though I know not what peculiar
appropriateness it may have, as the memorial of a Scottish rural poet.
The door of the basement-story stood open; and, entering, we saw a
bust of Burns in a niche, looking keener, more refined, but not so
warm and whole-souled as his pictures usually do. I think the likeness
cannot be good. In the centre of the room stood a glass case, in which
were reposited the two volumes of the little Pocket-Bible that Burns
gave to Highland Mary, when they pledged their troth to one another.
It is poorly printed, on coarse paper. A verse of Scripture, referring
to the solemnity and awfulness of vows, is written within the cover of
each volume, in the poet's own hand; and fastened to one of the covers
is a lock of Highland Mary's golden hair. This Bible had been carried
to America by one of her relatives, but was sent back to be fitly
treasured here.
There is a staircase within the monument, by which we ascended to the
top, and had a view of both Briggs of Doon; the scene of Tam
O'Shanter's misadventure being close at hand. Descending, we wandered
through the inclosed garden, and came to a little building in a
corner, on entering which, we found the two statues of Tam and Sutor
Wat,--ponderous stone-work enough, yet permeated in a remarkable
degree with living warmth and jovial hilarity. From this part of the
garden, too, we again beheld the old Brigg of Doon, over which Tam
galloped in such imminent and awful peril. It is a beautiful object in
the landscape, with one high, graceful arch, ivy-grown, and shadowed
all over and around with foliage.
When we had waited a good while, the old gardener came, telling us
that he had heard an excellent prayer at laying the corner-stone of
the new kirk. He now gave us some roses and sweetbrier, and let us out
from his pleasant garden. We immediately hastened to Kirk Alloway,
which is within two or three minutes' walk of the monument. A few
steps ascend from the road-side, through a gate, into the old
graveyard, in the midst of which stands the kirk. The edifice is
wholly roofless, but the side-walls and gable-ends are quite entire,
though portions of them are evidently modern restorations. Never was
there a plainer little church, or one with smaller architectural
pretension; no New England meeting-house has more simplicity in its
very self, though poetry and fun have clambered and clustered so
wildly over Kirk Alloway that it is difficult to see it as it actually
exists. By-the-by, I do not understand why Satan and an assembly of
witches should hold their revels within a consecrated precinct; but
the weird scene has so established itself in the world's imaginative
faith that it must be accepted as an authentic incident, in spite of
rule and reason to the contrary. Possibly, some carnal minister, some
priest of pious aspect and hidden infidelity, had dispelled the
consecration of the holy edifice by his pretence of prayer, and thus
made it the resort of unhappy ghosts and sorcerers and devils.
The interior of the kirk, even now, is applied to quite as impertinent
a purpose as when Satan and the witches used it as a dancing-hall; for
it is divided in the midst by a wall of stone-masonry, and each
compartment has been converted into a family burial-place. The name on
one of the monuments is Crawfurd; the other bore no inscription. It is
impossible not to feel that these good people, whoever they may be,
had no business to thrust their prosaic bones into a spot that belongs
to the world, and where their presence jars with the emotions, be they
sad or gay, which the pilgrim brings thither. They shut us out from
our own precincts, too,--from that inalienable possession which Burns
bestowed in free gift upon mankind, by taking it from the actual earth
and annexing it to the domain of imagination. And here these wretched
squatters have lain down to their long sleep, after barring each of
the two doorways of the kirk with an iron grate! May their rest be
troubled, till they rise and let us in!
Kirk Alloway is inconceivably small, considering how large a space it
fills in our imagination before we see it. I paced its length, outside
of the wall, and found it only seventeen of my paces, and not more
than ten of them in breadth. There seem to have been but very few
windows, all of which, if I rightly remember, are now blocked up with
mason-work of stone. One mullioned window, tall and narrow, in the
eastern gable, might have been seen by Tam O'Shanter, blazing with
devilish light, as he approached along the road from Ayr; and there is
a small and square one, on the side nearest the road, into which he
might have peered, as he sat on horseback. Indeed, I could easily have
looked through it, standing on the ground, had not the opening been
walled up. There is an odd kind of belfry at the peak of one of the
gables, with the small bell still hanging in it. And this is all that
I remember of Kirk Alloway, except that the stones of its material are
gray and irregular.
The road from Ayr passes Alloway Kirk, and crosses the Doon by a
modern bridge, without swerving much from a straight line. To reach
the old bridge, it appears to have made a bend, shortly after passing
the kirk, and then to have turned sharply towards the river. The new
bridge is within a minute's walk of the monument; and we went thither,
and leaned over its parapet to admire the beautiful Doon, flowing
wildly and sweetly between its deep and wooded banks. I never saw a
lovelier scene; although this might have been even lovelier, if a
kindly sun had shone upon it. The ivy-grown, ancient bridge, with its
high arch, through which we had a picture of the river and the green
banks beyond, was absolutely the most picturesque object, in a quiet
and gentle way, that ever blessed my eyes. Bonny Doon, with its wooded
banks, and the boughs dipping into the water! The memory of them, at
this moment, affects me like the song of birds, and Burns crooning
some verses, simple and wild, in accordance with their native melody.
It was impossible to depart without crossing the very bridge of Tam's
adventure; so we went thither, over a now disused portion of the road,
and, standing on the centre of the arch, gathered some ivy-leaves from
that sacred spot. This done, we returned as speedily as might be to
Ayr, whence, taking the rail, we soon beheld Ailsa Craig rising like a
pyramid out of the sea. Drawing nearer to Glasgow, Ben Lomond hove in
sight, with a dome-like summit, supported by a shoulder on each side.
But a man is better than a mountain; and we had been holding
intercourse, if not with the reality, at least with the stalwart ghost
of one, amid the scenes where he lived and sung. We shall appreciate
him better as a poet, hereafter; for there is no writer whose life, as
a man, has so much to do with his fame, and throws such a necessary
light upon whatever he has produced. Henceforth, there will be a
personal warmth for us in everything that he wrote; and, like his
countrymen, we shall know him in a kind of personal way, as if we had
shaken hands with him, and felt the thrill of his actual voice.
* * * * *
PASQUIN AND PASQUINADES.
At an angle of the palace which Pius VI., (Braschi,) with paternal
liberality, built for the residence of his family, before the French
Revolution put an end to such beneficence, stands the famous statue of
Pasquin, giving its name to the square upon which it looks. It is
little more now than a mere trunk of marble, bearing the marks of
blows and long hard usage. But even in this mutilated condition it
shows traces of excellent workmanship and of pristine beauty. The
connoisseurs in sculpture praise it,[1] and the antiquaries have
embittered their ignorance in regard to it by discussions as to
whether it was a statue of Hercules, of Alexander the Great, or of
Menelaus bearing the body of Patroclus. Disabled and maimed as it is,
it is thus only the more fitting type of the Roman people, of which it
has been so long the acknowledged mouthpiece; and the epigrams and
satires which have made its name famous have gained an additional
point and a sharper sting from the patent resemblance in the condition
of their professed author to that of those for whom he spoke.
It is said to have been about the beginning of the sixteenth century
that the statue was discovered and dug up near the place where it now
stands, and the earliest account of it seems to be that given by
Castelvetro, in 1553, in his discourse upon a _canzone_ by Annibal
Caro. He says, that Antonio Tibaldeo of Ferrara, a venerable and
lettered man, relates concerning this statue, that there used to be in
Rome a tailor, very skilful in his trade, by the name of Pasquin, who
had a shop which was much frequented by prelates, courtiers, and other
people, so that he employed a great number of workmen, who, like
worthless fellows, spent their time in speaking ill of one person or
another, sparing no one, and finding opportunity for jests in
observing those who came to the shop. This custom became so notorious
that the very persons who were hit by these sharp speeches joined in
the laugh at them, and felt no resentment; so that, if any one wished
to say a hard thing of another, he did it under cover of the person of
Master Pasquin, pretending that he had heard it said at his shop,--at
which pretence every one laughed, and no one bore a grudge. But,
Master Pasquin dying, it happened, that, in improving the street, this
broken statue, which lay half imbedded in the ground, serving as a
stepping-stone for passengers, was taken up and set at the side of the
shop. Making use of this good chance, satirical people began to say
that Master Pasquin had come back. The custom soon arose of attaching
to the statue bits of writing; and as it had been allowed to the
tailor to say everything, so by means of the statue any one might
publish what he would not have ventured to speak.[2]
Thus did Hercules or Alexander change his name for that of Pasquin,
and soon became almost as well known throughout Europe under his new
designation as under his old. If the statue were not dug up, as is
said, until the sixteenth century, its fame spread rapidly; for,
before Luther had made himself feared at Rome, Pasquin was already
well known as the satirist of the vices of Pope and Cardinals, and as
a bold enemy of the abuses of the Church.
But the history of Pasquin is not a mere story of Roman jests, nor is
its interest such alone as may arise from an amusing, though neglected
series of literary anecdotes. In the dearth of material for the
popular history of modern Rome, it is of value as affording
indications of the turn of feeling and the opinions of the Romans, and
of the regard in which they held their rulers. The free speech, which
was prohibited and dangerous to the living subjects of the temporal
power of the Popes, was a privilege which, in spite of prohibition,
Pasquin insisted upon exercising. Whatever precautions might be taken,
whatever penalties imposed, means were always found, when occasion
arose, to affix to the battered marble papers bearing stinging
epigrams or satirical verses, which, once read, fastened themselves in
the memory, and spread quickly by repetition. He could not be
silenced. "Great sums," said he one day, in an epigram addressed to
Paul III., who was Pope from 1534 to 1549, "great sums were formerly
given to poets for singing: how much will you give me, O Paul, to be
silent?"
"Ut canerent data multa olim sunt vatibus aera:
Ut taceam, quantum tu mihi, Paule, dabis?"
In his life of Adrian VI., the successor of Leo X., Paulus Jovius, not
indeed the most trustworthy of authorities, tells a story which, if
not true, might well be so. He says, that the Pope, being vexed at the
free speech of Pasquin, proposed to have him thrown into the Tiber,
thinking thus to stop his tongue; but the Spanish legate dissuaded
him, by suggesting, with grave Spanish wisdom, that all the frogs of
the river, becoming infected with his spirit, would adopt his style of
speech and croak only pasquinades. The contemptibleness of the
assailant made him the more dreaded. Did not the very reeds tell the
fatal secret about King Midas?
Pasquin was by no means the only figure in Rome who gave expression to
thoughts and feelings which it would have been dangerous to the living
subjects of the ecclesiastical rule to utter aloud. His most
distinguished companion was Marforio, a colossal statue of an ocean or
river god, which was discovered in the sixteenth century near the
forum of Mars, from which he derived his name. Toward the end of the
same century, he was placed in the lower court of the Palazzo de'
Conservatori, on the Capitol, and here he has since remained.
Dialogues were often carried on between him and his friend Pasquin,
and a share in their conversation was sometimes taken by the Facchino,
or so called Porter of the Palazzo Piombino. In his "Roma Nova,"
published in 1660, Sprenger says that Pasquin was assigned to the
nobles, Marforio to the citizens, and the Facchino to the common
people. But besides these there were the Abate Luigi of the Palazzo
Valle,--Madama Lucrezia, who still sits behind the Venetian palace
near the Church of St. Mark,--the Baboon, from which the Via Babbuino
takes its name,--and the marble portrait of Scanderbeg, the great
enemy of the Turks, on the _facade_ of the house which he at one time
occupied in Rome. Each of these personages now and then issued an
epigram or took part in the satirical talk of his companions. Such a
number of cold and secure censors is not surprising in a city like
Rome, where the checks upon open speech are so many, and where priests
and spies exercise so close a scrutiny over the thoughts and words of
men. Oppression begets hypocrisy, and a tyrant adds to the faults of
his subjects the vices of cowardice and secrecy. Caustic Forsyth,
speaking of the Romans, begins with the bitter remark, that "the
national character is the most ruined thing at Rome"; and in the same
section he adds, "Their humor is naturally caustic; but they lampoon,
as they stab, only in the dark. The danger attending open attacks
forces them to confine their satire within epigram; and thus
pasquinade is but the offspring of hypocrisy, the only resource of
wits who are obliged to be grave on so many absurdities in religion,
and respectful to so many upstarts in purple." Thus if the Romans
lampoon only in the dark, the fault is to be charged against their
rulers rather than themselves. The talent for sarcastic epigram is
hereditary with the people. The pointed style of Martial was handed
down through successive generations. The epigram in his hands was no
longer a mere inscription, an idyl, or an elegy; it had lost its
ancient grace, but it took on a new energy, and it set the model,
which the later Romans knew well how to copy, of satire condensed into
wit, in lines each of whose words had a sting.
The first true Pasquinades--that is, the first of the epigrams which
were affixed to Pasquin, and hence derived their name--are perhaps
those which belong to the reign of Leo X. We at least have found no
earlier ones of undoubted genuineness; but satires similar to those of
Pasquin, and possibly originating with him, as they now go under the
general name of Pasquinades, were published against the Popes who
preceded Leo. The infamous Alexander VI., the Pope who has made his
name synonymous with the worst infamies that disgrace mankind, was not
spared the attacks of the subjects whom he and his children, not
unworthy of such a father, degraded and abused. Two lines could say
much:--
"Sextus Tarquinius, Sextus Nero, Sextus et iste:
Semper sub Sextis perdita Roma fuit."
"Sextus Tarquinius, Sextus Nero, this also a Sextus" (Alexander
Sextus, that is, Alexander the Sixth): "always under the Sextuses has
Rome been ruined." And as if this were not enough, another distich
struck with more directness at the vices of the Pope:--
"Vendit Alexander claves, altaria, Christum:
Emerat ille prius, vendere jure potest."
"Alexander sells the keys, the altars, Christ. He bought them first,
and has good right to sell."[3]
Alexander had gained his election by bribes which he did not pay, and
promises which he did not keep; and Guicciardini tells in a few words
what use he made of his holy office, declaring, that, "with his
immoderate ambition and poisoned infidelity, together with all the
horrible examples of cruelty, luxury and monstrous covetousness,
selling without distinction both holy things and profane things, he
infected the whole world."[4]
In 1503, after a pontificate of eleven years, Alexander died. Rome
rejoiced. Peace, which for a long time had been banished from her
borders, returned, and she enjoyed for a few days unwonted freedom
from alarm and trouble. Her happiness found expression in verse:--
"Dic unde, Alecto, pax haec effulsit, et unde
Tam subito reticent proelia? Sextus obit."
"Say whence, Alecto, has this peace
shone forth? wherefore so suddenly has
the noise of battle ceased? Alexander
is dead."
The rule of Borgia's successor, Pius III., lasting only twenty-seven
days, afforded little opportunity to the play of indignant wit; but
the nine years' reign of Julius II., which followed, was a period
whose troubled history is recorded in the numerous epigrams and
satires to which it gave birth. The impulsive and passionate vigor of
the character of Julius, the various fortunes of his rash enterprises,
the troubles which his stormy and rapacious career brought to the
Papal city, are all more or less minutely told. The Pope began his
reign with warlike enterprises, and as soon as he could gather
sufficient force he set out to recover from the Venetians territory of
which they had possession, and which he claimed as the property of the
Papal state. It was said, that, in leading his troops out of Rome, he
threw into the Tiber, with characteristic impetuosity, the keys of
Peter, and, drawing his sword from its sheath, declared that
henceforth he would trust to the sword of Paul. The story was too good
to be lost, and it gave point to many epigrams, of which, perhaps, the
one preserved by Bayle is the best:--
"Cum Petri nihil efficiant ad proelia claves,
Auxilio Pauli forsitan ensis erit."