ordered them to disperse and go home quietly. home quietly. Every gesture was understood, without a word, amidst the most deafening sounds. Now, how useful would such an art be upon the hustings sometimes. We fancy we could easily compose a manual address to a boisterous constituency, in which, spite of all clamour from the rival party, we could express the usual routine and commonplace effusions of patriotism and zeal: could satisfactorily prove on our fingers that our competitor was unworthy of all confidence; and, with some aid from the nose and cheek, establish an undoubted claim to preference. A little sleight of hand would thus place the most asthmatic candidate on a level with the most stentorian demagogue.

But in Italy this dramatic system need not be taught, it is learnt spontaneously with the language. We have seen little girls of seven or eight repress the forwardness of a younger companion, with a dignity of attitude and correctness of action which would have become an Electra or a Lady Macbeth. Nay, we have been still more puzzled by seeing a blind man, the appearance of whose eyes convinced us that he had never enjoyed sight, make the very gestures which we have described, as correctly as if he had learnt them by imitation, and not by intuition. Often the gesture is not perfectly made but only indicated by approximating to the attitude it requires. It is thus better concealed from those who are not meant to perceive it, and forms a sort of demotic to the hieroglyphical expression in which the symbol is rather hinted than actually represented. But the part which the eye plays in this noiseless loquacity is most important, yet most indescribable. In Sicily, indeed, it is so powerful as to supersede all other means of communication; for long and complicated interviews may be carried on without any other aid. It is believed that the Sicilian Vespers were concerted, throughout the island, without the exchange of a syllable, and the day and hour for the indiscriminate massacre of the French fixed by interchanges of looks and perhaps a few signs. Thus we may say, that if the Italian communication by gesture is a species of telegraph, that of the Sicilians resembles more a system of signals by lights, equally complete, though more difficult to describe.

In discussing this subject we have drawn more upon our observation than upon the Canon's book, which, however, has ever been at our side, to form a corrective, when necessary, to our recollections. There is another part of his task in which we would gladly follow him more closely, did room permit in the application of modern gesture to the illustration of ancient art. But we know not how we well could do this without copying his plates, which are almost necessary for fully understanding this

part of the subject. Suffice it to say that his researches prove the system of action to have been identical in ancient and in modern Italy. The different positions of the hand described by Quintilian, Apuleius, and other classic authors, are yet in use; the figures painted in the celebrated Vatican Terence represent the very action which would now be employed with the words they utter; and the scenes on Greek vases, or reliefs, tell their own story to an eye practised in the mysterious language of gesture.

This, we apprehend, is enough to give some real interest to what we have treated in this article as matter of mere curiosity. For it must be as important to the antiquarian to decypher this symbolical speech, as the crabbed legend, over which he may pore for hours, till he fancies he has made a plausible conjecture. But there is another aspect under which this subject may be viewed, of still more general interest; we speak of its utility in understanding and appreciating later Italian art. On this point De Jorio has naturally said nothing, because it regards foreigners rather than his own countrymen, who understand it. We could easily give instances of this application of Italian gesture to works of art; we will content ourselves with one drawn from a real master-piece, the most speaking picture probably ever painted. Universally admired as Leonardo da Vinci's Last Supper is, one of its principal beauties will be overlooked if the action of the figures, as expressive of their words and sentiments, be not understood. Take, for instance, the figure of Judas. The gospel gives us two characteristics of him, that he was a thief, and carried a purse.* The latter mark was easily seized on by every painter, and meant as emblematical of the first. Yet the sacred text represents the two as distinct. The genius of Leonardo alone contrived to keep them so in painting. In his right hand the traitor holds a purse; but his left is extended and slightly curved, in the very position we described as denoting theft, which in reality is imitative of the pilferer's act in drawing to him, and enclosing within his hand, the thing which he steals. The painter too, by a clever device, left no doubt of the import of the action. For while all the rest of the bread on the table is of a coarse quality, he placed one white loaf just beyond Judas's hand, as the object towards which it was tending. By this simple expedient, he not only defines the action, but gives us the most contemptible and detestable idea of the avaricious wretch, who could thus take advantage of the confusion which his master's home-driven declaration of a traitor being among the company

* Jo. xii. 6.

made, to pilfer a miserable morsel of finer bread. And in fact his attitude seems to represent him as looking round to see whether all are so engaged, that his hand, moving in an opposite direction from his eye, may perpetrate the theft.

*

If from this perfect incarnation of baseness we turn to the principal figure, the purest and sweetest expression imaginable of superhuman excellence, we have the attitude and action exactly required in loving expostulation; the hands thrown down with the palm upwards, and the head bent forward and inclined to one side. No other action could possibly so well express the words: 66 one of you is about to betray me." It was a master thought of the artist's to select this moment for the subject of his picture of the last supper. Generally the institution of the blessed Eucha-rist is chosen, which allows no room for the play of human passions, and must unite the expression of all the countenances in a common sentiment of love and adoration. But the moment here chosen, immediately after our Saviour had uttered the words just quoted, admitted every variety of expression, and a greater action. On his right we have St. John in the deepest attitude of affectionate grief,—that is, with his hands crossed into one another. But Peter's predominant feeling is fervid zeal; pressing upon the back of Judas, treading upon his brother's foot, he urges John by the most energetic gesture to ascertain exactly who the traitor is. Any Italian would at once understand this upon seeing the fore-finger pressed upon John's breast. At the same time, his right arm a-kimbo, with a knife in its hand,† too well expresses a determined purpose of defending, if necessary, by violence the life of his master. Another of the apostles, however, meant for James, seizes his shoulder to draw him back, while of the two other figures on that side, Andrew raises his hand in an attitude expressive of astonishment mingled with horror, and Philip, standing up, leans forward to ascertain the cause of a commotion, which his distance has not allowed him to hear. On the other side of our Saviour there is equal expression: one apostle is in the act of asking earnestly who is the wretch, and Jude, beside him, no less earnestly protesting his own innocence. His head leans on one side as he presses

his

De Jorio, p. 203. "Palmulis in alternas digitorum vicissitudines connexis, ubertim flebam," says Apuleius, p. 43. St. Gregory attributes the same attitude to St. Scholastica, when her brother refused her request that he would stay with her: "Insertas digitis manus super mensam posuit," the very attitude of John in the picture.

+ See De Jorio, p. 200. It has been sometimes supposed that the knife is a later addition, when the painting was restored; but it is given in engravings anterior to the oldest retouchings.

hands to his bosom, appearing at the same time to open his vest, desirous to lay it bare before his master. The last figure on this side manifestly expresses that he considers the thing impossible, the position of the hands and head are such as, in Italy, would signify such a doubt; and the person standing up, by pointing with both his hands to our Lord, while his head is turned towards his incredulous companion, no less plainly answers him by appealing to the express declaration of their Redeemer. Another between them is more calmly assuring him of the fact.

We have dwelt upon this sublime work of art, and selected it from a thousand others, both on account of its truly eloquent character, and because it is better known than most pictures, through the many prints and even medallions published of it. It is evident that an artist who wishes to paint an Italian scene, or who desires to rival the expressiveness of the great masters, should be fully acquainted with this language of signs, as practised in their country. Instead of the dry and almost inanimate colloquies held among us, every knot of talkers there presents a group with varied attitudes, expression, and gesture ready to be drawn. It is the "pays de cocagne" of artists, where, if the streets are not paved with gold, living pictures run about them, seeming to call out, "Come and sketch me." A study of its peasantry is worth a thousand abstract treatises upon action and expression.

But we think such a study would be generally beneficial both in private and in public life, In the first place, it would rid us of the elegancies of our present elocution in both. It would annihilate the race of button-holders.* An Italian has no hand left for this "argumentum ad fibulam;" he wants all his fingers to himself, without one to spare for thus grappling you, as the Romans did the Carthagenians in their first naval engagement. There would be an end too of all string-twirling, by being deprived of which it has been said that celebrated pleaders have lost important causes; and which Addison somewhere describes in hustings' eloquence, as "cheapening beaver," by turning and displaying, to gaping spectators, all the phases of a hat, its crescent-shaped rims, and its full rotundity of top. But seriously speaking, we do think that our pulpit eloquence would be greatly improved by a study of Italian gesture; of action, not considered as the poising of limbs alternately or by given laws, the stretching out of the right hand at one member of a sentence, and of the left at another, as silly books on elocution describe, but of action considered as language addressed to the eyes, which as definitely

* We recollect to have heard of a celebrated Professor of Experimental Philosophy having suspended an address to a philosophical society, by turning to the attendant with the words " John, fetch me my lecturing stick." Armed with this baton the address was no longer a failure.

conveys ideas through them as the words do through the ears, and which consequently rivets the spectator as much as the auditor, and makes men long to see the orator. The oratorical action of Italy is substantially the same as the colloquial, only performed with greater deliberation, dignity, and grace. Hence it is not the result of study, but rather of attention. It is perfectly dramatic, and often represents the action described by the words. If, for instance, a book be appealed to, the left palm is displayed, while the forefinger of the right appears to trace the lines upon it, or the entire hand strikes upon it to express defiance joined to the appeal. The speaker will appear to listen to a heavenly concert when he describes it, or to look down with horror into the place of torments if he draws a picture of its woes. To a stranger there seems to be often exaggeration in all this, and we own that we sometimes have seen representative action carried to excess. But the good taste of the natives is disgusted by such exhibitions, except perhaps in ruder districts; and on the whole, we should say that the action of the Italian pulpit is as removed from vulgarity or caricature on one side, as it is from tameness and insipidity on the other. The fingers, indeed, which are of little use to an English speaker, whose action is chiefly in the arm, are in constant use, especially in enumerating or dividing a subject. This is the sort of gesture which appears most offensive to Northerns, yet it is the one given by the immortal artist before-mentioned to his exquisite Christ, now in the National Gallery, and the one that can be most accurately traced to classical times, through the descriptions of their writers.

The more indeed that we compare ancient and modern Italy, the more we discover the minute analogies between the two, and the resemblance of character, habits, and feelings, between their inhabitants. We have been occasionally surprised and delighted to discover this in the ordinary manners of the people, in actions or phrases generally overlooked by travellers. We remember, for instance, being at a loss to explain the custom of visitors, who, finding your room-door ajar, are not sure if you are within, opening it with the salutation "Deo gratias," "thanks be to God." An officer of the Roman custom-house, who reached an English gentleman's apartment, after thus exclaiming at every door of the suite, was supposed by the gentleman to be announcing his own name, and used to amuse his friends by telling them, how through the whole interview he was politely addressed as "Signor Deogratias." We used to think it a rather inappropriate salutation, as more in the form of an answer than of a first address. But we were soon reconciled to it, on finding in St. Augustine, that the ancient Christians always saluted with the same words,