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Sixty Years' Memories of Art and Artists VIII . AFTER a few weeks' close study in this beautiful Alpine valley-where everything seemed to conspire to make tempting pictures for the artist, where the cataracts came down the mountain sides in foaming fury from the glaciers of the Rosenlani, and the grand group of the Bernese Alps towered above the rocky walls of nearer mountains-we found we must leave our pleasant home at Père Ruoff's and go on to Italy. I do not know how many hearts were broken at the parting, but I do know that we plodded up the road to the Grimsel Pass in silence, and at nightfall to that famous pass where winter and desolation reigned. This was in consonance with our feelings. Certainly I never saw more weird and desolate scenery as that which surrounded the forbidding walls of the Hospital at Grimsel. A storm came on the night, and all the guests were obliged to stop over the next day which was a dismal one. But following this was a genuine winter's day. Everything sparkled with snow. We buckled on our traps, and with a guide started for Briegg, forty-one miles away in the valley below. It was heavy work, up and down mountain roads all that day, but we did our task and arrived at Briegg at night tired and weary. We lodged with our generous landlord who had treated us so kindly at the foot of the Gemmi Pass. We now came to the famous Simplon Pass, where we lost our way, and got into impossible places from which we could extricate ourselves only by retracing our steps for many weary miles, and all from having undertaken a short cut, and not understanding the direction. Moral: Do not try short cuts in a strange country! But we happily got over the high altitude of the Pass, and Italy was spread out before us. What joy to look upon the sunny plains stretching far below. It was a perfect delight to go on with swinging gait down the smooth hard way, through the picturesque groves of chestnut covering the mountain sides. Soon the vineyards appeared, and we admired the trellised vines loaded with rich fruit. We were at Lake Maggiore. How beautiful was this broad blue sheet of water with airy mountains across it, and lovely red-tiled villas on its shores! The contrast with the ruggedness of the Alps was so sharp ! On to Milan and Como. Como we enjoyed much, even more than Maggiore because of its greater variety, and the more rugged and picturesque mountain forms surrounding it. At Milan we of course admired the Cathedral, but we could not stay as funds were getting low, so we took the shortest way to Genoa, where we took the boat for Leghorn, Kensett going on, after our arrival there, to Civita Vecchia, the port of Rome, while Dr. Ainsworth and myself rode to Florence. Florence was a delight to us. At that time it was the picturesque mediaeval city without modern improvements. Everything was cheap and good-at least we thought so-and the pictures at the Uffizzi Gallery and Pitti Palace were a revelation. The splendid Titians and Raphaels delighted us. Everything conspired-except the fleas-to make Florence almost the perfection of cities for us-the bright autumn sunshine, the Middle Age picturesqueness of the whole town, the bridges, the galleries, the pictures, the statues, the churches, all called loudly for our admiration. George L. Brown, the landscape painter, whose paintings I had seen and liked at home, and whose success had so far stimulated me to persevere in art, was then living in Florence, and had been there for some years with his pretty dark-eyed wife. We passed several evenings with them most pleasantly. Then we made arrangements to travel by carriage to Rome, a journey then of several days' duration. A complete agreement was made between us and the master of equipment, stipu-lating the price, the points where to stop, the inns, our places in the vehicle, and everything in due form. This was signed according to law, each holding his side of the contract. How different today with the railroad binding the two cities! But we had the advantage of passing leisurely through all the classic scenes, and seeing many things of interest, such as the falls of Terni ; we visited Assisi and other noted places. Our carriage had its complement of passengers, and among them some German and Danish artists, so that our journey was a rather notable one. We were in Rome at last. I will not attempt a description of this unique city, nor of my impressions of it. Kensett welcomed us. He had secured rooms for us in the neighborhood of other American artists near the Piazza di Spagna. Then followed for me a most delightful six weeks spent in exploring Rome and its environs, painting and sketching, and returning to dine with a pleasant company of artists. I do not remember the name of the restaurant, but it was one of moderate prices suited to lean purses, and of tolerably good quality. There were several tables in a large room, and each table was filled with artists of different nationalities. Among the American artists were: Thomas Hicks, T. P. Rossiter, George Baker, Louis Lang and Thomas Powell, all more or less distinguished in after years. Then there were McClurg of Pittsburg, Peter Stevenson of Boston, and a student of sculpture named Baker, also the afterwards famous sculptor Henry K. Brown of New York. This made a jolly crowd, full of fun and life. But while they all liked gaiety and amusement, there was a serious and working side to them, and, almost to a man, they were a studious set. I formed a lifelong friendship with them, seeing much of many of them in after life. |
