"Between the blue and the white, against the backdrop of the opaque green hills, Genoa is mysterious in the way of London, the other European city made up of water-tight compartments."

"Tra l'azzurro ed il bianco, sul fondo dei colli di un verde opaco, Genova è misteriosa al modo di Londra, l'altra città europea fatta a compartimenti stagni."

"Pleasant Verona! With its beautiful old palaces, and charming country in the distance, seen from terrace walks, and stately, balustraded galleries. With its Roman gates, still spanning the fair street, and casting, on the sunlight of to-day, the shade of fifteen hundred years ago. With its marble-fitted churches, lofty towers, rich architecture, and quaint old quiet thoroughfares, where shouts of Montagues and Capulets once resounded, And made Verona's ancient citizens Cast by their grave, beseeming ornaments, To wield old partizans.With its fast-rushing river, picturesque old bridge, great castle, waving cypresses, and prospect so delightful, and so cheerful! Pleasant Verona!"

"Cross Adria’s gulf, and land where softly glide A stream’s crisp waves, to join blue Ocean’s tide; Still westward hold thy way, till Alps look down On old Verona’s walled and classic town. Fair is the prospect; palace, tower, and spire, And blossomed grove, the eye might well admire; Heaven-piercing mountains capped with endless snow, Where winter reigns, and frowns on earth below; Old castles crowning many a craggy steep, From which in silver sounding torrents leap: Southward the plain where Summer builds her bowers, And floats on downy gales the soul of flowers; Where orange-blossoms glad the honeyed bee, And vines in festoons wave from tree to tree; While, like a streak of sky from heaven let fall, The deep blue river, glittering, winds through all; The woods that whisper to the zephyr’s kiss, Where nymphs might taste again Arcadian bliss; The sun-bright hills that bound the distant view, And melt like mists in skies of tenderest blue,— All charm the ravished sense, and dull is he Who, cold, unmoved, such glorious scene can see. Here did the famed Catullus rove and dream, And godlike Pliny drink of Wisdom’s stream; Wronged by his friends, and exiled by his foes, Amid these vales did Dante breathe his woes, Raise demons up, call seraphs from the sky, And frame the dazzling verse that ne’er shall die. Here, too, hath Fiction weaved her loveliest spell, Visions of beauty float o’er crag and dell; But chief we seem to hear at evening hour The sigh of Juliet in her starlit bower, Follow her form slow gliding through the gloom, And drop a tear above her mouldered tomb. Sweet are these thoughts, and in such favoured scene Methinks life’s stormiest skies might grow serene, Care smooth her brow, the troubled heart find rest, And, spite of crime and passion, man be blest. But to our theme: The pilgrim comes to trace Verona’s ruins, not bright Nature’s face; Be still, chase lightsome fancies, ere thou dare Approach yon pile, so grand yet softly fair; The mighty circle, breathing beauty, seems The work of genii in immortal dreams. So firm the mass, it looks as built to vie With Alps’ eternal ramparts towering nigh. Its graceful strength each lofty portal keeps, Unbroken round the first great cincture sweeps; The marble benches, tier on tier, ascend, The winding galleries seem to know no end. Glistening and pure, the summer sunbeams fall, Softening each sculptured arch and rugged wall. We tread the arena; blood no longer flows, But in the sand the pale-eyed violet blows, While ivy, covering many a bench, is seen, Staining its white with lines of liveliest green,— Age-honouring plant! that weds not buildings gay, With love, still faithful, clinging to decay."

"Thrice blest Verona! since the holy three With their imperial presence shine on thee; Honoured by them, thy treacherous site forgets The vaunted tomb of all the Capulets; Thy Scaligers—for what was Dog the Great, Can Grande (which I venture to translate,) To these sublimer pugs? Thy poet too, Catullus, whose old laurels yield to new; Thine amphitheatre, where Romans sate; And Dante’s exile sheltered by thy gate; Thy good old man, whose world was all within Thy wall, nor knew the country held him in: Would that the royal guests it girds about Were so far like, as never to get out! Ay, shout! inscribe! rear monuments of shame, To tell Oppression that the world is tame; Crowd to the theatre with loyal rage, The comedy is not upon the stage; The show is rich in ribandry and stars, Then gaze upon it through thy dungeon bars; Clap thy permitted palms, kind Italy, For thus much still thy fettered hands are free!"

"Near to his evening region was the Sun, When Hurgonil with his lamented load, And faithful Tybalt their sad march begun To fair Verona, where the court aboad.They slowly rode till night’s dominion ceast: When infant morn (her scarce wak’d beames display’d) With a scant face peep’d shylie through the east; And seem’d as yet of the black world afraid.But by increase of swift expansive light, The lost horizon was apparent grown, And many tow’rs salute at once their sight; The distant glories of a royal town.Verona, sprung from noble Vera’s name; Whom careless time (still scatt’ring old records Where they are loosly gather’d up by fame) Proclaimes the chief of ancient Tuscan lords.Verona borders on that fatal plaine, Whose barren thirst was quench’d with valiant blood, When the rough Cymbrians by fierce Marius slain, Left hills of bodies where their ensignes stood.So safely proud this town did now appear; As if it but immortal dwellers lack’d; As if Theodoric had ne’r been there, Nor Attila her wealth and beauty sack’d.Here Hurgonill might follow with his eye (As with deep stream it through the city pass’t) The fruitfull and the frighted Adice, Which thence from noise and nets to sea does haste.And on her peopled bank they might behold The toyles of conquest paid with works of pride; The palace of king Agilulf the old, Or monument, for ere ’twas built he dy’d.To it that temple joynes, whose lofty head The prospect of a swelling hill commands; In whose coole wombe the city springs are bred: On Dorique pillers this tall temple stands.This to sooth Heav’n the bloody Clephes built; As if Heav’n’s king so soft and easy were, So meanly hous’d in Heav’n, and kind to guilt, That he would be a tyrant’s tenant here.And now they might arrest their wand’ring sight With that which makes all other objects lost; Makes Lombard greatness flat to Roman height, And modern builders blush, that else would boast;An amphytheater which has controll’d Unheeded conquests of advancing age, Windes which have made the trembling world look old, And the fierce tempests of the Gothick rage,This great Flaminius did in youth erect, Where cities sat to see whole armies play Death’s serious part: but this we may neglect, To mark the bus’ness which begins with day.As day new open’ng fills the hemisphear, And all at once; so quickly ev’ry street Does by an instant op’ning full appear, When from their dwellings busy dwellers meet.From wider gates oppressors sally there; Here creeps the afflicted through a narrow dore; Groans under wrongs he has not strength to bear, Yet seeks for wealth to injure others more.And here the early lawyer mends his pace; For whom the earlier cliant waited long; Here greedy creditors their debtors chase, Who scape by herding in th’ indebted throng.Th’ advent’rous merchant whom a storm did wake, (His ship’s on Adriatic billowes tost) Does hope of eastern winds from steeples take, And hastens there a currier to the coast.* * * * *There from sick mirth neglected feasters reel, Who cares of want in wine’s false Lethe steep. There anxious empty gamsters homeward steal, And fear to wake, ere they begin to sleep.Here stooping lab’rers slowly moving are; Beasts to the rich, whose strength grows rude with ease; And would usurp, did not their rulers’ care With toile and tax their furious strength appease.There th’ aged walk, whose needless carefulness Infects them past the mind’s best med’cine, sleep; There some to temples early vows address, And for th’ ore busie world most wisely weep.To this vast inn where tydes of strangers flow, The morn and Hurgonil together came; The morn, whose dewy wings appear’d but slow, When men the motion mark’d of swifter Fame.For Fame (whose journeys are through ways unknown, Traceless and swift, and changing as the wind) The morn and Hurgonil had much out-gone, Whilst Truth mov’d patiently within behind."

"Happy the Man, who his whole time doth bound Within th' enclosure of his little ground. Happy the Man, whom the same humble place, (Th' hereditary Cottage of his Race) From his first rising infancy has known, And by degrees sees gently bending down. With natural propension to that Earth Which both preserved his Life, and gave him birth. Him no false distant lights by fortune set. Could ever into foolish wandrings get. He never dangers either saw, or fear'd: The dreadful stormes at Sea he never heard. He never heard the shrill allarms of War, Or the worse noises of the Lawyers Bar. No change of Consuls marks to him the year, The change of seasons is his Calendar. The Cold and Heat, Winter and Summer shows, Autumn by Fruits, and Spring by Flow’rs he knows. He measures Time by Land-marks, and has found For the whole day the Dial of his ground. A neighbouring Wood born with himself he sees. And loves his old contemporary Trees. H’as only heard of near Verona’s Name, And knows it like the Indies, but by Fame. Does with a like concernment notice take Of the Red-Sea, and of Benacus Lake. Thus Health and Strength he to' a third age enjoyes, And sees a long Posterity of Boys. About the spacious World let others roam. The Voyage Life is longest made at home."

"Friar Lawrence: Hence from Verona art thou banishèd. Be patient, for the world is broad and wide.Romeo: There is no world without Verona walls, But purgatory, torture, hell itself. Hence banishèd is banish’d from the world, And world’s exile is death. Then banishèd Is death misterm’d. Calling death banished, Thou cutt’st my head off with a golden axe, And smilest upon the stroke that murders me."

"Lady Capulet: Verona’s summer hath not such a flower."

"Prince: Three civil brawls, bred of an airy word, By thee, old Capulet, and Montague, Have thrice disturb’d the quiet of our streets, And made Verona’s ancient citizens Cast by their grave beseeming ornaments, To wield old partisans, in hands as old, Canker’d with peace, to part your canker’d hate."

"Chorus: Two households, both alike in dignity (In fair Verona, where we lay our scene), From ancient grudge break to new mutiny, Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean."

"Fame tells us that Verona’s court Was a fair place. The feet might still Wander forever at their will In many ways of sweet resort; And still in many a heart around The poet’s name due honor found.Watch we his steps. He comes upon The women at their palm-playing. The conduits round the gardens sing And meet in scoops of milk-white stone, Where wearied damsels rest and hold Their hands in the wet spurt of gold.One of whom, knowing well that he, By some found stern, was mild with them, Would run and pluck his garment’s hem, Saying, “Messer Dante, pardon me,”— Praying that they might hear the song Which first of all he made, when young.“Donne che avete!” ... Thereunto Thus would he murmur, having first Drawn near the fountain, while she nursed His hand against her side: a few Sweet words, and scarcely those, half said; Then turned, and changed, and bowed his head.* * * * *So you may read and marvel not That such a man as Dante—one Who, while Can Grande’s deeds were done, Had drawn his robe round him and thought— Now at the same guest-table fared Where keen Uguccio wiped his beard.Through leaves and trellis-work the sun Left the wine cool within the glass. They feasting where no sun could pass; And when the women, all as one, Rose up with brightened cheeks to go, It was a comely thing, we know.But Dante recked not of the wine; Whether the women stayed or went, His visage held one stern intent: And when the music had its sign To breathe upon them for more ease, Sometimes he turned and bade it cease.And as he spared not to rebuke The mirth, so oft in council he To bitter truth bore testimony: And when the crafty balance shook Well poised to make the wrong prevail, Then Dante’s hand would turn the scale.And if some envoy from afar Sailed to Verona’s sovereign port For aid or peace, and all the court Fawned on its lord, “the Mars of war, Sole arbiter of life and death,”— Be sure that Dante saved his breath.And Can La Scala marked askance These things, accepting them for shame And scorn, till Dante’s guestship came To be a peevish sufferance: His host sought ways to make his days Hateful; and such have many ways.There was a Jester, a foul lout Whom the court loved for graceless arts; Sworn scholiast of the bestial parts Of speech; a ribald mouth to shout In folly’s horny tympanum Such things as make the wise man dumb.Much loved, him Dante loathed. And so, One day when Dante felt perplexed If any day that could come next Were worth the waiting for or no, And mute he sat amid their din, Can Grande called the Jester in.Rank words, with such, are wit’s best wealth. Lords mouthed approval; ladies kept Twittering with clustered heads, except Some few that took their trains by stealth And went. Can Grande shook his hair And smote his thighs and laughed i’ the air.Then, facing on his guest, he cried,— “Say, Messer Dante, how it is I get out of a clown like this More than your wisdom can provide.” And Dante: “’Tis man’s ancient whim That still his like seems good to him.”Also a tale is told, how once, At clearing tables after meat, Piled for a jest at Dante’s feet Were found the dinner’s well-picked bones; So laid, to please the banquet’s lord, By one who crouched beneath the board.Then smiled Can Grande to the rest:— “Our Dante’s tuneful mouth indeed Lacks not the gift on flesh to feed!” “Fair host of mine,” replied the guest, “So many bones you’d not descry If so it chanced the dog were I.”"

"Bologna is not as well known as it deserves: its severe beauties, the gloomy appearance of its streets and houses, its endless arcades, the play of shadows and lights of its winding streets and its bright squares, its solemn atriums and sumptuous staircases, the decorative details of its terracottas, the calmness of the seventeenth-century decorations do not allow the hasty traveler immediate enjoyment and do not elicit cries of admiration. The city, which first of all had an ancient civilisation, which radiated so much light through the Studio allied to the flourishing of the highly democratic and humanitarian Municipality, which produced painters to support Baroque art with a magnificent brush, must be loved patiently, it must be discovered step by step, corner by corner, act by act, intention by intention."

"Bologna non è conosciuta quanto essa merita: le sue bellezze severe, l'aspetto tetro delle vie e delle case, le fughe di portici interminati, i giochi di ombre e di luci delle sue vie tortuose e delle sue piazze luminose, gli atrii solenni e i fastosi scaloni, le minuzie decorative delle sue terrecotte, la pacatezza degli ornati seicenteschi non consentono al viaggiatore frettoloso immediati godimenti e non strappano gridi di ammirazione. La città, che ebbe prima fra tutte una civiltà antichissima, che tanta luce irradiò a mezzo dello Studio alleato al fiorire del Comune altamente democratico e umanitario, che produsse pittori a sostenere con magnifico pennello l'arte barocca, va amata pazientemente, va scoperta tratto a tratto, angolo per angolo, atto per atto, intenzione per intenzione."

"Towards evening I got out of this ancient, venerable, and learned city, and extricated myself from its crowds, who, protected from the sun and weather by the arched bowers which are to be seen in almost every street, walk about, gape about, or buy, and sell, and transact whatever business they may have."

"The Bolognese is full of fire, passion, generosity, and sometimes imprudence."

"Bologna the rich (or fat)."

"As seems the Carisenda, to behold Beneath the leaning side, when goes a cloud Above it so that opposite it hangs;Such did seem to me, who stood Watching to see him stoop, and then it was I could have wished to go some other way."

"Bologna la grassa."

"’Twas night; the noise and bustle of the day Were o’er. The mountebank no longer wrought Miraculous cures,—he and his stage were gone; And he who, when the crisis of his tale Came, and all stood breathless with hope and fear, Sent round his cap; and he who thrummed his wire And sang, with pleading look and plaintive strain Melting the passenger. Thy thousand cries, So well portrayed, and by a son of thine, Whose voice had swelled the hubbub in his youth, Were hushed, Bologna,—silence in the streets, The squares, when, hark, the clattering of fleet hoofs; And soon a courier, posting as from far, Housing and holster, boot and belted coat And doublet, stained with many a various soil, Stopt and alighted. ’Twas where hangs aloft That ancient sign, the pilgrim, welcoming All who arrive there, all perhaps save those Clad like himself, with staff and scallop-shell, Those on a pilgrimage. And now approached Wheels, through the lofty porticos resounding, Arch beyond arch, a shelter or a shade As the sky changes. To the gate they came; And, ere the man had half his story done, Mine host received the Master,—one long used To sojourn among strangers, everywhere (Go where he would, along the wildest track) Flinging a charm that shall not soon be lost, And leaving footsteps to be traced by those Who love the haunts of genius; one who saw, Observed, nor shunned the busy scenes of life, But mingled not, and mid the din, the stir, Lived as a separate spirit.Much had passed Since last we parted; and those five short years,— Much had they told! His clustering locks were turned Grey; nor did aught recall the youth that swam From Sestos to Abydos. Yet his voice, Still it was sweet; still from his eye the thought Flashed lightning-like, nor lingered on the way, Waiting for words. Far, far into the night We sat, conversing,—no unwelcome hour The hour we met; and, when Aurora rose, Rising, we climbed the rugged Apennine."

"Many an archèd roof is bent Over the wave, But none like thine, from the firmament To the shells that at thy threshold lave. What name shall shadow thy rich-blue sheen, Violet, sapphire, or ultramarine, Beautiful cave?Blue,—all blue,—may we not compare it With heaven’s hue, With the pearl-shell, with burning spirit, Or with aught that is azure too? No! for in ghostly realms alone Is the like of thy lustre shone, Cave of blue!Less of earth than the spirit-world, Morning ne’er Waters of thine with its dews impearled, Nor sunrise crimsoned the concave here; But evening in thee hath, as grandly glooms The twilight which thy one star illumes, A rival sphere.And that star—the great eye of heaven Watching thee— Waxes and wanes with morn and even, Beams as the skies beyond may be; Resting on thy horizon’s rim Steadfast, but burning bright and dim Changefully.On thy huge dome and cathedral aisles, Loftier far Than man’s monuments, Capri piles Island rocks, which mountains are. Gleams through the flood thy spangled floor, As light streams in by thine open door On rock and spar.The world without by that sole portal May enter in; And therefore sacred to shapes immortal For classic ages thy halls have been. Sailing along from the lessening skylight, Let us from the deepening twilight Its secrets win.Mermaids, mantled in mazarine, Fancy sees; The ocean-sirens, and her, their queen, Of music-charméd memories. Still breathes the ancient Parthenope, O’er waters of modern Napoli Her melodies.Blue,—blue,—beautiful and intense,— Everywhere: Spirits, or some one spirit immense, Breathing and burning in the air; Making an ardent presence felt, Till the rocks seem as like to melt In the glare!No! they may emit no heat, Those prisoned beams. At noontide, in thy coolness sweet, The glowing Italian summer dreams, And the limpid and sparkling lymph Bath of beauty, in form of nymph, Well beseems.World of wonders and strange delights, Submontane sea, Bowers of branching stalactites, Islands of lapis lazuli, And waves so clear, and air so rich, That, gazing, we know not which is which,— Adieu to thee!To bathe the burning brow is sweet In such baptism, Often to find out truth’s retreat, In sparkling grotto, in cool abysm; So shall deep quiet thy soul imbue, And melt into one harmonious hue The garish prism!"

"Beneath the vine-clad slopes of Capri’s Isle, Which run down to the margin of that sea Whose waters kiss the sweet Parthenope, There is a grot whose rugged front the while Frowns only dark where all is seen to smile. But enter, and behold! surpassing fair The magic sight that meets your vision there,— Not heaven! with all its broad expanse of blue, Gleams colored with a sheen so rich, so rare, So changing in its clear, translucent hue; Glassed in the lustrous wave, the walls and roof Shine as does silver scattered o’er the woof Of some rich robe, or bright as stars whose light Inlays the azure concave of the night.You cannot find throughout this world, I ween, Waters so fair as those within this cave, Color like that which flashes from the wave, Or which is steeped in such cerulean sheen As here gleams forth within this grotto’s screen. And when the oar the boatman gently takes And dips it in the flood, a fiery glow, Ruddy as phosphor, stirs in depths below; Each ripple into burning splendor breaks, As though some hidden fires beneath did lie Waiting a touch to kindle into flame, And shine in radiance on the dazzled eye, As sparkling up from wells of light they came, To make this grot a glory far and nigh."

"Tiberius took with him to Capri a number of learned Greek professors, and a picked force of soldiers, including his German bodyguard, and Thrasyllus, and a number of painted strange-looking creatures of doubtful sex and, the most curious choice of all, Cocceius Nerva. Capri is an island in the Bay of Naples about three miles from the coast. Its climate is mild in winter and cool in summer. There is only one possible landing place, the rest of the island being protected by steep cliffs and impassable thickets. How Tiberius spent his leisure time here—when he was not discussing poetry and mythology with the Greeks, or law and politics with Nerva—is too revolting a story even for history. I shall say no more than that he had brought with him a complete set of the famous books of Elephantis, the most copious encyclopædia of pornography ever gathered together. In Capri he could do what he was unable to do at Rome—practise obscenities in the open air among the trees and flowers or down at the water’s edge, and make as much noise as he liked. As some of his field-sports were extremely cruel, the sufferings of his playmates being a great part of his pleasure, he considered that the advantage of Capri’s remoteness greatly outweighed the disadvantages. He did not live wholly there: he used to go for visits to Capua, Baiæ and Antium. But Capri was his headquarters."

"Verbosa ac grandis epistola venit a Capreis."

"There is an isle, kissed by a smiling sea, Where all sweet confluents meet: a thing of heaven, A spent aërolite, that well may be The missing sister of the starry Seven. Celestial beauty nestles at its knee, And in its lap is naught of earthly leaven. ’Tis girt and crowned with loveliness; its year, Eternal summer; winter comes not near.’Tis small, as things of beauty ofttimes are, And in a morning round it you may row, Nor need a tedious haste your bark debar From gliding inwards where the ripples flow Into strange grots whose roofs are azure spar, Whose pavements liquid silver. Mild winds blow Around your prow, and at your keel the foam, Leaping and laughing, freshly wafts you home.They call the island Capri,—with a name Dulling an airy dream, just as the soul Is clogged with body palpable,—and Fame Hath long while winged the word from pole to pole. Its human story is a tale of shame, Of all unnatural lusts a gory scroll, Record of what, when pomp and power agree, Man once hath been, and man again may be. * * * * * Terrace and slope from shore to summit show Of all rich climes the glad-surrendered spoil. Here the bright olive’s phantom branches glow, There the plump fig sucks sweetness from the soil. Mid odorous flowers that through the Zodiac blow, Returning tenfold to man’s leisured toil, Hesperia’s fruit hangs golden. High in air, The vine runs riot, spurning human care.And flowers of every hue and breath abound, Charming the sense; the burning cactus glows, Like daisies elsewhere dappling all the ground, And in each cleft the berried myrtle blows. The playful lizard glides and darts around, The elfin fireflies flicker o’er the rows Of ripened grain. Alien to pain and wrong, Men fill the days with dance, the nights with song."

"What the mountainous Isle Seen in the South? ’Tis where a Monster dwelt, Hurling his victims from the topmost cliff; Then and then only merciful, so slow, So subtle, were the tortures they endured. Fearing and feared he lived, cursing and cursed; And still the dungeons in the rock breathe out Darkness, distemper. Strange, that one so vile Should from his den strike terror thro' the world; Should, where withdrawn in his decrepitude, Say to the noblest, be they where they might, 'Go from the earth!' and from the earth they went: Yet such things were—and will be, when mankind, Losing all virtue, lose all energy; And for the loss incur the penalty, Trodden down and trampled."

"Turin, lieber Freund, ist eine capitale Entdeckung ... der erste ort, in dem ich möglich bin!"

"For me, the way to Memphis and Thebes leads through Turin"

"Turin is a very fine city. In the matter of roominess it transcends anything that was ever dreamed of before, I fancy. It sits in the midst of a vast dead-level, and one is obliged to imagine that land may be had for the asking, and no taxes to pay, so lavishly do they use it. The streets are extravagantly wide, the paved squares are prodigious, the houses are huge and handsome, and compacted into uniform blocks that stretch away as straight as an arrow, into the distance. The sidewalks are about as wide as ordinary European STREETS, and are covered over with a double arcade supported on great stone piers or columns. One walks from one end to the other of these spacious streets, under shelter all the time, and all his course is lined with the prettiest of shops and the most inviting dining-houses.There is a wide and lengthy court, glittering with the most wickedly enticing shops, which is roofed with glass, high aloft overhead, and paved with soft-toned marbles laid in graceful figures; and at night when the place is brilliant with gas and populous with a sauntering and chatting and laughing multitude of pleasure-seekers, it is a spectacle worth seeing.Everything is on a large scale; the public buildings, for instance--and they are architecturally imposing, too, as well as large. The big squares have big bronze monuments in them. At the hotel they gave us rooms that were alarming, for size, and parlor to match. It was well the weather required no fire in the parlor, for I think one might as well have tried to warm a park. The place would have a warm look, though, in any weather, for the window-curtains were of red silk damask, and the walls were covered with the same fire-hued goods--so, also, were the four sofas and the brigade of chairs. The furniture, the ornaments, the chandeliers, the carpets, were all new and bright and costly. We did not need a parlor at all, but they said it belonged to the two bedrooms and we might use it if we chose. Since it was to cost nothing, we were not averse to using it, of course.Turin must surely read a good deal, for it has more book-stores to the square rod than any other town I know of. And it has its own share of military folk."

"In any case, an alternative to summit meetings was emerging. For centuries it had been customary to send envoys on specific, short-term missions. But by the mid–fifteenth century the tightly knit but feuding city states of northern Italy—Venice, Florence, Milan and Rome—kept permanent ambassadors in key cities in order to gather intelligence and foster alliances. In due course their governments created chanceries to manage the mounting mass of paper. From 1490 the great powers of Europe followed suit, led by Spain. It became normal to have at each of the major courts a resident “ambassador”—a word defined by the English poet and diplomat Sir Henry Wotton in a punning epigram as “a man sent to lie abroad for his country’s good.” Given the time required for travel, and the hazards en route—especially in an age of dynastic and religious warfare—permanent ambassadors offered a convenient substitute for personal summitry. And their detailed reports required the attention of specialist secretaries who oversaw foreign affairs, such as Francis Walsingham in Elizabethan London or Antonio Perez at the court of Philip III. Day-to-day diplomacy tended to slip out of the hands of rulers."

"With the main lines of business monopolized by the increasingly narrow elite, the decline was under way. Venice appeared to have been on the brink of becoming the world’s first inclusive society, but it fell to a coup. Political and economic institutions became more extractive, and Venice began to experience economic decline. By 1500 the population had shrunk to one hundred thousand. Between 1650 and 1800, when the population of Europe rapidly expanded, that of Venice contracted. Today the only economy Venice has, apart from a bit of fishing, is tourism. Instead of pioneering trade routes and economic institutions, Venetians make pizza and ice cream and blow colored glass for hordes of foreigners. The tourists come to see the pre-Serrata wonders of Venice, such as the Doge’s Palace and the lions of St. Mark’s Cathedral, which were looted from Byzantium when Venice ruled the Mediterranean. Venice went from economic powerhouse to museum."

"General Grant seriously remarked to a particularly bright young woman that Venice would be a fine city if it were drained."

"Venice once was dear, The pleasant place of all festivity, The revel of the earth, the masque of Italy."

"Venice by moonlight is an enchanted city; the floods of silver light upon the moresco architecture, the perfect absence of all harsh sounds of carts and carriages, the never-ceasing music on the waters, produced an effect on the mind which cannot be experienced, I am sure, in any other city in the world."

"Venice's government, eager to maintain its Jewish tax base, officially discouraged the blood libel, but the population was more inspired by the renowned Venetian poet laureate Raffaele Zovenzoni-whose hymn describing the sainted child's murder, which begged authorities to protect the people from bloodthirsty Jews, went viral. Within a few generations, Venice's brilliant idea of imprisoning Jews in ghettos went viral too."

"Since, furthermore, it was in late-medieval and early modern Europe that new techniques of warfare occurred more frequently than elsewhere, it was not implausible that one such breakthrough could enable a certain nation to dominate its rivals. Already the signs pointed to an increasing concentration of military power. In Italy the use of companies of crossbowmen, protected when necessary by soldiers using pikes, had brought to a close the age of the knight on horseback and his accompanying ill-trained feudal levy; but it was also clear that only the wealthier states like Venice and Milan could pay for the new armies officered by the famous condottieri. By around 1500, moreover, the kings of France and England had gained an artillery monopoly at home and were thus able, if the need arose, to crush an overmighty subject even if the latter sheltered behind castle walls. But would not this tendency finally lead to a larger transnational monopoly, stretching across Europe? This must have been a question many asked around 1550, as they observed the vast concentration of lands and armies under the Emperor Charles V."

"Italy is, after France and perhaps in the same degree, the land in which love of country has the deepest roots in the hearts of its inhabitants. The fact is that perhaps nowhere else has nature been so prodigal with its enchantments and seductions. Therefore, although Italy has been, since the fall of the Caesars, the object of European covetousness, the eternal battlefield of powerful neighbors, and the theatre of the fiercest and most prolonged civil wars, her children have always refused to leave her. Save for some commercial colonies hastily thrown upon the shores of Asia by Genoa and Venice, history has not, in fact, recorded in Italy any important outward movement of population."

"The Pope, anxiously revolving the sad vicissitudes of the Christians in the east, turned to Venice and Genoa, praying them for the love of Christ to combine and save the fair island of Cyprus, still unpolluted by the presence of the infidels. But the lion of St Mark was a fierce yoke-fellow. The more restricted the field of influence became between Venice and Genoa the more bitter grew their jealousy. Two fleets were, however, fitted out in response to the Papal appeal. Their prows had scarcely touched Cyprian waters when a fight took place between some of the allied ships, and to the edification of the Saracen the two greatest maritime powers of Christendom were soon engaged in mutual destruction."

"I think he suspected I was lying; but it was the sort of large-scale, flamboyant lie that appealed to him. As he told me later, only pettiness annoyed him. He delighted in color and movement, and in the protean appearance of things. In this respect, he told me, he was a true Venetian. Like many other subjects of the Serenissima, he believed in style over content, art over life, appearance over reality, and form over substance. He believed simultaneously in fate and free will. He viewed life as a sort of Renaissance melodrama, complete with unexpected appearances and disappearances, heartrending confrontations, preposterous coincidences, disguises and doubles, switched twins and mysteries of birth; all revolving around an obscure and melancholy point of honor. And, of course, he was perfectly right."

"Once did She hold the gorgeous east in fee; And was the safeguard of the west: the worth Of Venice did not fall below her birth, Venice, the eldest Child of Liberty."

"Anyone who sees Matera cannot help but be awe-struck, so expressive and touching is its sorrowful beauty."

"The rich city that to the Normans will be a beginning from which to grow great in Apulia."

"Its streets are narrow, to protect from the direct rays of the sun; it had at one time been defended by walls, but they are now in a dilapidated state. I was struck by the fine appearance of the cathedral and theatre, which had in early times been the hall, where the baronial councils of the Normans, who occupied this part of Italy, were held."

"A morning's ramble made me acquainted with all the characteristic beauties of the place, which is a perfect tame oasis among much uninteresting scenery. The picturesque buildings of the city (which seems to occupy the site of some ancient place); the valley below it, with its clear stream and great walnut-trees; the numerous fountains ; the innumerable caves in the rocks around, now used as stabling for goats, which cluster in swarthy multitudes on tiers of crags ; the convents and shrines scattered here and there in the suburbs ; the crowded houses and the lofty spires of the interior ; and the perfectly Poussinesque castle, with its fine corner tower commanding the whole scene: so many fine features in a circumscribed space it is not common to see, even in Italy."

"Yes, it is true that King David was a flop, but I’d do it all over again, because it gave me the opportunity to discover a remarkable city, Matera, which I would never have otherwise got to know."

"Some parts of the city are two thousand years old and it looks very much like what ancient Judea must have looked like. The architecture of the city, its rocks and the surrounding landscape are all excellent backdrops. The first time I saw Matera, I went crazy, because it was simply perfect."

"Matera is like a giant beehive–solid looking on the outside, but actually made up almost entirely of tunnels, passageways, chambers and chambers atop chambers [...] still very much alive, gaunt and barren, and strangely beautiful, had stood for millennia and may stand for millennia to come."

"I wanted to come to this town for 40 years: it's wonderful. There is a wonderful view from my hotel room that surprised and moved me."

"Houses 10, one above another like seats in a theatre, built down the sides of an oval hole; more men cannot stand on a mountain than on the under plain. Dined in a garden, offered by a farrier of the town as we were looking for a tree in the suburbs ; the man very civil and well behaved, which is the general character."