Italy, the Magic Land. Lilian Whiting

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       Lilian Whiting

      Italy, the Magic Land

      Published by Good Press, 2019

       [email protected]

      EAN 4064066145361

Table of Contents

       THE MAGIC LAND

       ITALY, THE MAGIC LAND

       I THE PERIOD OF MODERN ART IN ROME

       II SOCIAL LIFE IN THE ETERNAL CITY

       III DAY-DREAMS IN NAPLES, AMALFI, AND CAPRI

       IV A PAGE DE CONTI FROM ISCHIA

       V VOICES OF ST. FRANCIS OF ASSISI

       VI THE GLORY OF A VENETIAN JUNE

       VII THE MAGIC LAND

       INDEX

       WORKS BY LILIAN WHITING

THE MAGIC LAND

       Table of Contents

      By woodland belt, by ocean bar, The full south breeze our forehead fanned; And, under many a yellow star, We dropped into the Magic Land.

      *****

      We heard, far-off, the siren’s song; We caught the gleam of sea-maids’ hair; The glimmering isles and rocks among We moved through sparkling purple air.

      Then Morning rose, and smote from far Her elfin harps o’er land and sea; And woodland belt, and ocean bar To one sweet note sighed—“Italy!”

      Owen Meredith.

      

ITALY, THE MAGIC LAND

       Table of Contents

I

       THE PERIOD OF MODERN ART IN ROME

       Table of Contents

      But ah, that spring should vanish with the Rose!

       That youth’s sweet-scented manuscript should close?

       The nightingale that in the branches sang,

       Oh, where and whither flown again—who knows?

      Omar Khayyam.

      Rome, as the picturesque city of the Popes in the middle years of the nineteenth century, was resplendent in local color. It was the Rome of sunny winters; the Rome of gay excursions over that haunted sea of the Campagna to pictorial points in the Alban and Sabine hills; the Rome of young artist life, which organized impromptu festas with Arcadian freedom, and utilized the shadow or the shelter of ruined temples or tombs in which to spread its picnic lunches and bring the glow of simple, friendly intercourse into the romantic lights of the poetic, historic, or tragic past. There were splendid Catholic processions and ceremonials that seemed organized as a part of the stage scenery that ensconced itself, also, with the nonchalance of easy possession, in the vast salons of historic palaces where tapestried walls and richly painted ceilings, arched high overhead, with statues dimly seen in niches here and there, and the bust of some crowned Antoninus, or radiant Juno, gleaming from a shadowy corner, all made up the mise-en-scène of familiar evenings. There were lingering hours in the gardens of the Villa Medici into whose shades one strolled by that beguiling path along the parapet on Monte Pincio, through the beautiful grove with its walks and fountains. The old ilex bosquet, with its tangled growth and air of complete seclusion, had its spell of fascination. Then, as now, the elevated temple, at the end of the main path, seemed the haunt of gods and muses. In all the incidental, as well as the ceremonial social meeting and mingling, art and religion were the general themes of discussion. This idyllic life—

      “Comprehending, too, the soul’s

       And all the high necessities of art”—

      has left its impress on the air as well as its record on many a page of the poet and the romancist. The names that made memorable those wonderful days touch chords of association that still vibrate in the life of the hour. For the most part the artists and their associates have gone their way—not into a Silent Land, a land of shadows and vague, wandering ghosts—but into that realm wherein is the “life more abundant,” of more intense energy and of nobler achievement; the realm in which every aspiration of earth enlarges its conception and every inspiration is exalted and endowed with new purpose; the realm where, as Browning says—

      “Power comes in full play.”

      The poet’s vision recognizes the truth:—

      “I know there shall dawn a day,

       —Is it here on homely earth?

       Is it yonder, worlds away,

       Where the strange and new have birth,

       That Power comes in full play?”

      The names of sculptor, painter, and poet throng back, imaged in that retrospective mirror which reflects a vista of the past, rich in ideal creation. Beautiful forms emerge from the marble; pictorial scenes glow from the canvas; song and story and happy, historic days are in the very air. To Italy, land of romance and song, all the artists came trooping, and

      “Under many a yellow Star”

      they dropped into the Magic Land. If the wraiths of the centuries long since dead walked the streets, they were quite welcome to revisit the glimpses of the moon and contribute their mystery to the general artistic effectiveness of the Seven-hilled City. All this group of American idealists, from Allston and Page to Crawford, Story, Randolph Rogers, Vedder, Simmons, and to the latest comer of all, Charles Walter Stetson, recognized something of the artist’s native air in this Mecca of their pilgrimage.

      It was, indeed, quite natural, on account of the stupendous work of Michael Angelo and the unrivalled museums of the Vatican, that Rome should have become pre-eminently the artistic centre of the nineteenth century and should have attracted students and lovers of art from all parts of the world. The immortal works of the two great periods, the Greek and the Renaissance—the art that was forever great because it was the outgrowth of profound religious conviction—were enshrined in the churches and the galleries of Rome. The leading countries of Europe sent here their aspiring students and established permanent academies for their residence. Germany, France, and England were thus represented. Thorwaldsen came as a pensioner from the Academy