PART I.—1840. (continued 2)

76Tuesday, 28th.

The arrival of the steamer at noon is the event of our day. Several times acquaintance have come by it, chance visitants to the lake of Como. When we hear the bell, my companions leave their books to run down to see the disembarkation: to-day I heard one of them exclaim, “Ah, here’s D——!” This announced the arrival of a fellow-collegian, who joined our party for two or three weeks, to the great satisfaction of his friends.

Saturday, August 3.

The snow is gone from the mountain tops; warm, really warm weather has commenced, and we begin to enjoy one of the most delicious pleasures of life, in its way. The repose necessitated by heat during the day, the revival in the evening, the enjoyment of the cooler hours, the enchantment of the nights—to stroll beside or linger upon the divine lake, to see the sun’s declining rays gild the mountain peaks, to watch the stars gather bright over the craggy summits, to view the vast shadows darken the waters, and hear the soft tinkling bells, put by the fishermen to mark the spot where the nets are set, come with softened sound across the water: this has been our lot each evening. Each evening, too, at dusk, the girls from the silk mill close by, 77pass our inn on their way from work to their own village; they sing as they go, and look happy: some of them are very beautiful. They are all well conducted, I am told, keeping sharp watch on one another. The unmarried in Italy are usually of good conduct, while marriage is the prelude to a fearful liberty.

Monday, 5th.

We have crossed to Bellaggio several times, without visiting the villas on that shore. To-day has been excessively hot; at five a breeze sprung up: we crossed the lake, and, landing at the port of Bellaggio, went up the hill to visit the villa Serbelloni.

The extreme and narrow shoot of the promontory that divides the lake into two, is covered by the gardens of this villa. To the north, towards Cadenabbia, the descent is somewhat gradual to the water, and the hill is cut into terraces, planted with vines and olives. To the south, looking over the lake of Lecco, it is abrupt; dark, precipitous rocks, rise at once from the deep waters, broken into crags and pinnacles, crowned with rich vegetation, and adorned by majestic trees. Paths have been formed along the outmost brink of these picturesque precipices and ravines; and it is impossible 78to imagine anything more beautiful than the sight, looking down on the clear deep lake, and its high rocky barriers, broken into gorges and watercourses, tree-grown and verdant. A tower in olden time had been built on the height of the promontory—it is now in ruin—and through this there is an entrance to a summer-house that overlooks the deepest and most beautiful of the ravines, with its graceful wood. On the other side of the lake are the huge mountains surmounting Varenna, and, softened by distance, the roaring of a torrent falls on the ear; the sound of a mysterious fountain, called, from its milky colour, fiume latte, whose bed is full and noisy in summer, and empty and still in winter. The grounds of the Villa Serbelloni are peculiarly Italian. One path is cut through a cavern; and at a particular point a view is caught of the opposite bank and of the Villa Sommariva—a picture, as it were, set in a frame; descending terraces lead from the summer-house to the water’s edge. The gardens are not kept in English order; but Art has done much in laying them out to advantage, and the exuberant richness of Nature stands in place of trimness, which is not an apposite epithet for gardens in this country.^[5] There is a great deal of ground; 79the demesne is princely in its extent, and in the grandeur of the natural beauties it contains. Its great defect is the absence of a suitable residence.

In times gone by this estate belonged to the ducal family of Sfondrati, whose escutcheons adorn the walls. The Sfondrati were a family of Cremona, and the name appears in the pages of Italian history. In Charles V.’s time, a Sfondrati was employed in various negotiations by Francesco Sforza, Duke of Milan, and was among the most distinguished of the followers of the Emperor himself. Unfortunately, in those days the Italians of Lombardy were patriots no more, for they had no longer a country. Francesco Sfondrati was named by Charles V. Governor of Siena, and restored order to that distracted town; so that the Sienese named him Father of their country. As Siena had always been a Ghibelline city, it may be supposed that the majority of her citizens looked favourably on the acts of a governor appointed by the German Emperor. Sfondrati had married a lady of the illustrious house of Visconti, and was thus connected with the reigning family of Milan. When he lost his wife, he entered the Church. He became, first, Bishop of Cremona, and afterwards Cardinal. The youngest of his sons was also an ecclesiastic, and became Pope, under the name of Gregory XIV.; he 80was known as an author of some works on jurisprudence; and besides, there exists a poem of his, entitled “De Raptu Helenæ, Poema heroicum, libro tres,” published in Venice, in 1559. Another member of the same family, also a churchman, made himself conspicuous by defending the pretensions of the court of Rome in answer to the declaration of the French clergy, in 1682; and was, as a reward, made cardinal.

Nor is the name Serbelloni much less illustrious. This family was originally Burgundian; and three brothers of the name left France during the anarchy of the reign of Charles VI., when the factions of Burgundy and Orleans, and the English invasion, distracted that unfortunate country. One brother established himself in Spain, another at Naples, the third in Lombardy.

One of the descendants, Gabriel Serbelloni, was particularly famous. Had he supported a good cause, he had been a hero. But the Italians had ceased to be a nation, and fought for France or Spain, as circumstances might direct. Gabriel was a Knight of Malta, and fought against the Turks with reputation and success in Hungary. His military skill and prowess introduced him to the notice of Charles V.; and he invited him to enter his service. He fought in Germany and Brabant, and acquired a high reputation. The most honourable 81circumstance attending his career occurred when Don John of Austria undertook his famous expedition against the Turks. This prince refused to sail till Serbelloni was added to the number of his Generals. Everything that was most illustrious in Italy and Spain made a part of his expedition. The inimical fleets encountered each other near Lepanto. The greater number of the Generals, both Spanish and Italian, were for avoiding the conflict, the Turkish fleet having greatly the advantage in numbers. Serbelloni alone supported the opposite opinion. Don John yielded to his arguments; and Serbelloni, by his subsequent bravery, as well as by his counsels, was a chief cause of the victory. It was in this battle that Cervantes fought and lost his hand: it is one of the most famous naval combats in modern history. Serbelloni was rewarded by the Vice-Royalty of Sicily. He was employed on other occasions of difficulty and peril against the Turks, and was made prisoner at one time and exchanged for thirty-six Turkish officers of rank, taken in the battle of Lepanto.

He reaped a better glory when named Lieutenant by the Governor of Milan. The plague broke out in the city, and the Governor abandoned his post; Serbelloni remained, and exerted himself, by wise and humane measures, to alleviate the horrors of the 82time. He was again chosen by Don John to accompany him in his last campaign in Flanders; he was with him when he died, nor did he long survive him.

A more recent Serbelloni—probably grandfather of the present representatives of the family—served under the Emperor Charles VI., and distinguished himself in the wars of Italy, and more particularly during the Seven Years’ War. He was afterwards appointed Governor of Lombardy.

I can scarcely explain why I send you these details. These grounds are so attractive—their site so romantic—the name of the Sfondrati sounded so dignified to our ears, that we have been hunting for information with regard to them and their successors. I send you a portion of the result.

Two brothers now remain of the Serbelloni family—one a general, who served during the wars of the French Empire; the other, a church dignitary. Both are childless, and the estates will, on their death, be inherited by their sister.

Probably, in ancient days, all the habitation that existed was the ruined tower on the summit of the promontory. The escutcheons on the walls show, however, that the present villa was built by the Sfondrati; but it is much out of repair and quite unworthy of the grounds, being little better than 83the house of a fattore or steward. The plan of a new residence on a splendid scale is under consideration, as well as the completion and ornamenting the grounds. But the brothers discuss, and can never come to one mind; so things remain as they are.

Tuesday, 6th.

This evening we crossed again to visit other seats on the opposite bank. Villa Melzi is a very pleasant country house; its marble halls and stuccoed drawing-rooms are the picture of Italian comfort—cool, shady, and airy. The garden has had pains taken with it; there are some superb magnolias and other flowering trees, but one longs for English gardening here. What would not some friends of mine make of a flower-garden in Italy; how it would abound and run over with sweets—no potting and greenhouses to check, no frost to decimate. The Italians here know not what flowers and a flower-garden are.

After loitering awhile, we ascended the bank by a convenient and wide flight of some eighty steps, and reached the villa Giulia, whose grounds look upon the lake of Lecco. It was all shut up, as we were late. We found our way however, across the promontory to a little harbour 84on the water’s edge. Surely on earth there is no pleasure (excepting that derived from moral good) so great as lingering, during the soft shades of an Italian evening, surrounded by all the beauty of an Italian landscape, sheltered by the pure radiance of an Italian sky—and then to skim the calm water towards one’s home; while the stars gather bright overhead, and the lake glimmers beneath. These delights are, indeed, the divinest imparted by the visible creation; but they come to us so naturally as our due birthright, that we do not feel their full value till returned to a northern clime; when, all at once, we wonder at the change come over the earth, and feel disinherited of, and exiled from its fairest gifts.

Thursday, 6th.

The weather is now delicious; yet at times a cloud is spread over the sky; and wind and rain threaten us. This evening I had the pleasure of finding that I had not become quite a coward, and that I feared for P—— more than for myself. I crossed the lake with Mr. ——; the wind rose, and our little sail was hoisted; but the waves rose with the wind, and our craft is so small that a little breeze seems much. However, I had been scolded, and had scolded myself for my timidity, and would not now display even prudence, but 85went on; and though twenty times I was on the point of proposing to return, I did not, for I was not aware that my companion silently shared my alarm. At length we had nearly reached the opposite side of the lake; the wind and waves had both risen, and if they increased, danger was at hand. I did not feel fear, but I felt the risk. At length Mr. —— said, “I think we might as well return;” and at the word we tacked. It was a side wind, and our skiff was apt to make great leeway, which would take us below Cadenabbia, and heaven knows where we could land. Just then the wind fell, and danger passed away; but the waves continued high, and the sail grew useless, while sculling became fatiguing. It was hard work: at last we reached the port of Tremezzo; and getting a boy to row the boat back to Cadenabbia, we gladly walked home.

Monday 10th.

The moonlight nights are most inviting. I spent several hours on the water this evening. We put out just at sunset: when we reached Menaggio the full moon had risen above the mountain tops, and strewed a silver path upon the waves; instead of returning, we rowed along the shining track, towards the lake of Lecco. We hunted for the tinkling fisher-bells, and loitered delicious 86hours away. This evening I heard for the first time Manzoni’s Ode on Napoleon—strange, I had never before met with it. It was now repeated to me. It is a glorious poem; the opening calls at once the attention; its rapid sketching of events is full of fire; the recurrence to the poet’s self noble and appropriate; and the last stanza instinct with charity and pious hope. The hero, with all his faults, was fitly praised in verse as majestic as ever yet a poet wrote. It is a double pleasure to find poetry worthy of its better days spring up in modern Italy, showing that the genius of the Italians survives the blighting influence of misrule and oppression. The more I see of the inhabitants of this country, the more I feel convinced that they are highly gifted with intellectual powers, and possess all the elements of greatness. They are made to be a free, active, inquiring people. But they must cast away their dolce far niente. They must learn to practise the severer virtues; their youth must be brought up in more hardy and manly habits; they must tread to earth the vices that cling to them as the ivy around their ruins. They must do this to be free; yet without freedom how can they? for the governments of Italy know that to hold their own they must debase their subjects; they jealously bar their doors against all improvement; and every art and 87power is used to crush any who would rise above the vices and indolence of the day.

I love the Italians. It is impossible to live among them and not love them. Their faults are many—the faults of the oppressed—love of pleasure, disregard of truth, indolence, and violence of temper. But their falsehood is on the surface—it is not deceit. Under free institutions, and where the acquirement of knowledge is not as now a mark inviting oppression and wrong, their love of pleasure were readily ennobled into intellectual activity. They are affectionate, simple, and earnestly desirous to please. There is life, energy, and talent in every look and word; grace and refinement in every act and gesture. They are a noble race of men—a beautiful race of women; the time must come when again they will take a high place among nations. Their habits, fostered by their governments, alone are degraded and degrading; alter these, and the country of Dante and Michael Angelo and Raphael still exists.

88

LETTER VIII. Voyage to Como.—The Opera.—Walk towards Menaggio.

Cadenabbia, August 15.

Time speeds on; yet every hour being occupied, it appears to move slowly. How often do a few weeks—such as we have spent here—seem a mere shred of life, hardly counted in the passage of a year! But these weeks “drag a slow length along,” day succeeding day, each gifted with the calmest yet most living enjoyment. Calm; for no event disturbs us: instinct with glowing life, inspired by the beauty of the scenery and the delicious influence of the climate.

We hear from the boatmen on the lake snatches of the “Lucia”—the Bell’ Alma innamorata, especially. The Opera-house at Como is open; and, now and then, to vary their day, my companions have visited it, going by the steamer at four in the afternoon, and returning the next morning. I have been tempted thither once. The steamer, the Lario (a better is promised for next year), is a very 89primitive and slow boat. I now made a voyage I had made years before, when putting off from Como in a skiff we had visited Tremezzo. How vividly I remembered and recognised each spot. I longed inexpressibly to land at the Pliniana, which remained in my recollection as a place adorned by magical beauty. The abrupt precipices, the gay-looking villas, the richly-wooded banks, the spire-like cypresses—a thousand times scarcely less vividly had they recurred to my memory, than now they appeared again before my eyes. Sometimes these thoughts and these revisitings were full of inexpressible sadness; a yearning after the past—a contempt for all that has occurred since, that throws dark and chilling shadows over the soul. Just now, my mind was differently attuned; the young and gay were around; and in them I lived and enjoyed.

Madame Pasta has a villa on the lake, some miles distant from Como. She has an excessive fear of the water, and never goes to Como by the steamer. Unluckily there is no road on her side of the lake; and she has a house on the opposite shore, in which to remain, if the weather is stormy, to wait for the smoothing of the waters. Methinks the elements are rude indeed not to obey her voice—never did any so move, so penetrate the human heart. In “Giulietta,” in “Medea,” and, above all, in the 90melting and pathetic tenderness of the opening air of the “Nina Pazza per Amore” of the divine Paesiello, she has in truth taken from the heart its last touch of hardness, and melted it into sweetest tears. Pasta and Paganini alone have had this power over me, but yet different in its kind. By Pasta, the tenderest sympathy was awakened, joined to that soft return to one’s own past afflictions, which subdued the soul and opened the fountain of tears. Paganini excited and agitated violently—it was rather nervous hysterics than gentle sorrowing—it was irresistible—as a friend said, it realised the fables of Orpheus—it had the power of an enchantment. We heard him in a garish theatre, seeing him on a stage, playing simply to attract admiration and gain money. The violent emotions he excited, rose and faded in the bosom without any visible sign. But could we have listened in the wooded solitudes of Greece or Italy, and known that he himself was animated by some noble purpose, surely he might have inspired passion, animated to glorious action, and caused obstacles seemingly irresistible to give way—no fabled power of music ever transcended his.

It is bathos to return to the opera of Como—but it was very creditable. The house was clean and pretty. Teresa Brambilla sang the part of “Lucia” very tolerably, and it was an agreeable change. In 91the hotel at Como were staying some Italians, whose singing, however, far transcended that of the theatre. Prince B——, in the days of his exile and poverty, often said jestingly, that were his fortunes at their last ebb, the stage would be a sure resource. Perhaps no finer voice than his has been heard in a theatre for many years.

August 30th.

It is not always calm upon the lake. Sometimes a mighty storm comes down from the Alps, bringing with it driving rain, which resembles the mist of a cataract, and wind that lashes the water into waves and foam,—and then, in half an hour, all is sunny, sparkling—and calm is spread again upon the waters. Several times we had music on the lake: once we got the musicians over from Bellaggio—they were artisans of the place, who had formed themselves into a musical society—to the number of twenty-one, and they played a variety of airs of modern composers. Often we have visited our favourite Villa Serbelloni, and each visit discovered some new beauty. Once, in P.’s little boat, we doubled the promontory, and rowed beneath the crags we had looked down upon from the terraced walks above. Black, abrupt, and broken into islet, pinnacle, and cliff, but all crowned by greenest vegetation, they rose high ground us. Sometimes we visited the high terraced 92gardens of Villa Giulia, that overlooked the same branch of the lake.

Nor, nearer home, must I forget the Villa Sommariva. The grounds are not extensive, and, of course, broken into terraces, from the nature of the site; with overarching trees, forming shady alcoves and covered walks. It is a cool and pleasant retreat at noon: the house is a very good one, large and cheerful. It possesses a renowned work of Canova, the Cupid and Psyche. The expression of their faces is tender and sweet; but—I like not to confess it—I am not an admirer of Canova’s women. He is said to have had singular opportunities of studying the female form; but place his Venus, or any other of his female statues, beside those of Grecian sculpture, and his defects must strike the most untaught eye. There was a little antique of a sleeping nymph in the halls of the Villa Sommariva, which formed a contrast with the modern Psyche. It looked as the finger could impress the marble, as the imitated flesh had yielded to the posture of the figure. Canova’s seemed as if it moved only at the joints, and as if no other portion of the frame was influenced by attitude.

When alone in an evening, I often walk towards Menaggio. I have selected a haunt among rocks close to the water’s edge, shaded by an olive-wood. 93I always feel renewed and extreme delight as I watch the shadows of evening climb the huge mountains, till the granite peaks alone shine forth glad and bright, and a holy stillness gathers over the landscape. With what serious yet quick joy do such sights fill me; and dearer still is the aspiring thought that seeks the Creator in his works, as the soul yearns to throw off the chains of flesh that hold it in, and to dissolve and become a part of that which surrounds it.

This evening my friends are gone to Como, and I sat long on my favourite seat, listening to the ripplet of the calm lake splashing at my feet; to the murmur of running streams, and to the hollow roar of the mysterious torrent—the Fiume Latte—which is borne, softened by distance, from the opposite shore; viewing the magnificent mountain scene, varied by the lights and shadows caused by the setting sun. My heart was elevated, purified, subdued. I prayed for peace to all; and still the supreme Beauty brooded over me, and promised peace; at least there where change is not, and love and enjoyment unite and are one. From such rapt moods the soul returns to earth, bearing with it the calm of Paradise:

Quale è colui, che sognando vede,

E dopo ’l sogno la passione impressa

Rimane, è l’altro alla mente non riede;

Cotal son io, che quasi tutta cessa

Mia visione, ed ancor mi distilla

94Nel cor il dolce, che nacque da essa.

Cosi la neve al sol si dissigilla;

Cosi al vento nelle foglie lievi

Si perdea la sentenzia di Sibilla^[6].

It has seemed to me—and on such an evening, I have felt it,—that this world, endowed as it is outwardly with endless shapes and influences of beauty and enjoyment, is peopled also in its spiritual life by myriads of loving spirits; from whom, unawares, we catch impressions, which mould our thoughts to good, and thus they guide beneficially the course of events, and minister to the destiny of man. Whether the beloved dead make a portion of this holy company, I dare not guess; but that such exists, I feel. They keep far off while we are worldly, evil, selfish; but draw near, imparting the reward of heaven-born joy, when we are animated by noble thoughts, and capable of disinterested actions. Surely such gather round me this night, and make a part of that atmosphere of peace and love which it is paradise to breathe.

I had thought such ecstacy as that in which I now was lapped dead to me for ever; but the sun of Italy has thawed the frozen stream—the cup of life again sparkles to the brim. Will it be removed as I turn northward? I fear it will. I grieve to think that we shall very soon leave Cadenabbia—the first sad step towards quitting Italy.

95

LETTER IX. Italian Poetry.—Italian Master.—The Country People.—The Fulcino.—Grand Festa.—Adieu to Cadenabbia.

Cadenabbia, 7th Sept.

We leave Cadenabbia in a day or two. I go unwillingly; the calm weather invites my stay, by dispelling my fears. (P.’s boat has left us. I bade it a grateful adieu, glad that it went leaving me scatheless; sorry to see it go, as a token of our too speedy departure.) The heat is great in the middle of the day, and I read a great deal to beguile the time, chiefly in Italian; for it is pleasant to imbue one’s mind with the language and literature of the country in which one is living: and poetry—Italian poetry—is in harmony with these scenes. The elements of its inspiration are around me. I breathe the air; I am sheltered by the hills and woods which give its balmy breath, which lend their glorious colouring to their various and sunny verse. There are stanzas in Tasso that make themselves peculiarly felt here. One, when Rinaldo is setting out by starlight on the adventure of the enchanted 96forest, full of the religion that wells up instinctively in the heart amidst these scenes, beneath this sky. But I have chiefly been occupied by Dante, who, so to speak, is an elemental poet; one who clothes in the magic of poetry the passions of the heart, enlightened and ennobled by piety, and who regards the objects of the visible creation with a sympathy, a veneration, otherwise only to be found in the old Greek poets. I have read the Purgatorio and Paradiso, with ever new delight. There are finer passages in the Inferno than can be found in the two subsequent parts; but the subject is so painful and odious, that I always feel obliged to shut the book after a page or two. The pathetic tenderness of the Purgatorio, on the contrary, wins its way to the heart; and again, the soul is elevated and rapt by the sublime hymns to heavenly love, contained in the Paradiso. Nothing can be more beautiful than the closing lines, which I quoted in a late letter, which speak of his return to earth, his mind still penetrated by the ecstacy he had lately felt.

My companions wanted a master for Italian. I asked Peppina if there was one to be found near. She recommended a friend of her’s at Menaggio: he was not accustomed to give lessons, but would for her sake. This did not sound hopeful. I tried to understand his charges; but though I put the 97question fifty times, she, with true Italian subtlety, slid out of the embarrassment, and left me uninformed: while I, for the hundredth time, did that which a hundred times I had determined not to do—engaged a person’s services at no fixed sum. The whole thing turned out ill. The man belonged to the dogana at Menaggio; his Italian was no better than Peppina’s own—who could talk it very tolerably for a short time; but in longer conversations soon slid into Comasque, or something like it. The man had no idea of teaching; and came so redolent of garlic, that the lessons were speedily discontinued. Of course, his charges were double those of a regular master.

I have spoken in praise of the Italians; but you must not imagine that I would exalt them to an unreal height—that were to show that misrule and a misguiding religion were no evils. It is when I see what these people are,—and from their intelligence, their sensitive organisation and native grace, I gather what they might be,—that I mourn over man’s lost state in this country.

The country people, I have already told you, hereabouts are a fine handsome race; many of the young women are beautiful, but their good looks soon go off. There are silk mills at Cadenabbia and Bolvedro, which employ a great many girls, who 98laugh and sing at their work, and, leaving it in troops at the Ave Maria, pass under our window singing in chorus with loud, well-tuned voices. Their dress is picturesque; they wear their hair bound up at the back of the head in knotted tresses, to which are fixed large silver bodkins, which stand out like rays, and form a becoming head-dress; but, unfortunately, as they seldom take these bodkins out, and even sleep in them, they wear away the hair. You may guess, from this fact, that neatness and cleanliness are not, I grieve to say, among their good qualities.

It is strange that, though the men and women here are mostly handsome, the children are very plain. The contrary of this occurs in parts of Switzerland. Here, it a good deal arises from the diet: all the children look diseased—as well they may be, considering their food—and the wonder is, so many arrive at maturity. The deaths, however, are in a much larger proportion than with us. I hear of no schools in this part of the country, and the people are entirely ignorant: neither are the priests held in esteem. Thus thoroughly untaught, the wonder is that they are as good as they are. The church indeed is respected, though its ministers are not; but the enactments of the church are most rigorous with regard to fastings and ritual observances. 99If toil be virtue, however, these poor people deserve its praise. They work hard, and draw subsistence, wherever it can be by any toil abstracted, even from the narrow shelving of the mountains on which rich grass grows. The young men go to cut it each year; and it is so dangerous a task, that each year lives are lost, through the foot of the labourer slipping on the short grass, and his falling down the precipice. Fishing, of course, affords employment; and there is a good deal of traffic on the lake, which is carried on by flat-bottomed barges, impelled by large heavy sails, or by long oars, which they work by pushing forward. Unfortunately, in this part of Italy, they are not as sober as in the south, and drunken brawls frequently occur. The drunkenness of these men is not stupifying, as usually among us, but fierce and choleric. Great care is taken by government to prevent their carrying arms of any kind, even knives. They have, however, an implement called a fulcino, in shape like a small sickle, which is used for weeding, and cutting grass on the mountains; this they are apt to employ as a weapon of offence. It is, consequently, forbidden to carry it polished and sharpened, but simply in the tarnished worn state incident to its proper uses. This enactment is, of course, constantly evaded. They are drawn in every brawl; 100and the wound they inflict—a long ugly gash—is less dangerous, but more frightful than a stab. One evening, there was great excitement on a man being fulcinato at a drinking bout, at a neighbouring inn. One of my companions went to see him, and came back, horror-struck; he had a large, deep gash in the thigh, and was nearly dead from loss of blood. When a surgeon came, however, it was found that the wound was not dangerous. He was carried home in a boat; but it was two or three weeks before he could get about again. When these outrages occur, the police carry the aggressors to prison, where they are kept, we are told, ill off enough, till they consent to enlist. The life of a soldier in the Austrian service is so hard, ill-fed, and worse paid, that these poor wretches often hold out long; but they are forced, at last, to yield: nor is the punishment ill imagined, that he who sheds blood should be sent to deal in blood in the legal way. But the root of the evil still rests in the absence of education and civilisation; and one must pity the poor fellows, taken from their glorious mountains and sunny lake, and sent to herd among the sullen Austrians, far in the north, where the sound of their musical Italian shall never reach them more.

101September 8th.

This is our last day. We are leaving the Lake of Como just when its season is beginning; for the Italians always make their villeggiatura in the months of September and October, when the fruit is ripe, and the vintage—the last gathering in of the year—takes place. The nobles, therefore, are now beginning to visit their villas. English visitants have built a few keeled boats, which, on going away, they either sold or made presents of to their Italian friends. There are two or three pretty English-built skiffs on the lake, which render it more gay and busy than before.

Numbers of the middling classes also, shopkeepers from Milan, congregate at Como and the villages, at this season. In some respects, however, this is not so pleasant, as there are many more visitors at the Albergo Grande. Each day crowds come by the steamer; tables are spread for them in the avenue of acacias, where they eat, drink, and are merry. We live at the other end of the house; and as these chance-comers all leave by the steamer, at four o’clock, they do not inconvenience us. But an English lady, who had taken rooms overlooking the avenue, grew very angry at the disturbance, called the Albergo Grande a pothouse, scolded Luigi, 102mulcted his bill, and crowned her revenge by writing in his disfavour in the traveller’s book of the Hotel at Como. For my own part, I love Cadenabbia more and more every day: every day it grows in beauty, and I regret exceedingly leaving it. My dearest wish had been to visit Venice before I turned my steps homewards, as there is a friend there whom I greatly desired to see; but I cannot go, and must resign myself.

I write these few last words from an alcove in the gardens of the Villa Sommariva, whither I have fled for refuge from the noise and turmoil of our hotel.

This is a very grand festa, named of the Madonna del Soccorso, and relates to the progress of the plague being stopped on one occasion through the intercession of the Virgin. The church is on a hill, about two miles from Cadenabbia, and twelve chapels are built, as stations, on the road leading to it. The whole of the inhabitants of the mountains around were concerned in the vow, and flocked in multitudes to celebrate the feast. In one village in particular, far away among the mountains to the north, the inhabitants had vowed always to wear woollen clothes cut in a peculiar fashion, and of a certain colour, if the remnants of their population—for nearly all had perished—were saved. These people walked all night, to arrive about noon at Cadenabbia. Their 103dress was ungainly enough, and must have been very burthensome to the walkers this hot day. It was made of heavy dark-blue cloth, with a stripe of red at the bottom of the petticoat—I speak of the dress of the women. I forget in what that of the men differs from that of the peasants of Cadenabbia. The crowd is immense; and the Albergo Grande is the focus where, going to, or coming from paying their devotions on the hill, they all collect. I grew tired of watching them from my window, and have retired to a shady bower of the gardens of the Villa Sommariva, where the hum of many thousand voices falls softened and harmless on my ear. “Eyes, look your last!” Soon the curtain of absence will be drawn before this surpassing scene. You are very hard-hearted, if you do not pity me.

Midnight.

And now the moon is up, and I sit at my window to say a last good-night to the lake. The bells, so peculiar a circumstance in this night-scene, “salute mine ear,” across the waters. Many a calm day, many a delicious evening, have I here spent. It is over now, lost in the ocean of time past. It is always painful to leave a room for ever in which one has slept calmly at night, and by day nurtured pleasant thoughts. I grieve to leave my little cell. 104But enough—I will add a few words, the history of our last evening, and say good-night.

Very noisy and uproarious was our last evening; so that till now, when all is hushed, it seemed as if instead of quitting a lonely retreat among mountains, we were escaping from the confusion and crowd of a metropolis. The peasants drank too much wine; they quarrelled with Luigi, and the fulcini were drawn. Care had been taken, however, to have police-officers near; on their appearance, all who could threw then weapons into the lake; two were taken with the arms in their hands, and hurried off to prison, which they will only leave as soldiers.

Late in the evening we paid our bill, and gave presents to the servants, usually a disagreeable and thankless proceeding. But here, all was so fair, the people so pleased and apparently attached, that no feelings of annoyance were excited. Poor people! I hope to see them one day again—they all gathered round us with such shows of regret that it was impossible not to feel very kindly towards them in return.

Good-night!

105

LETTER X. Voyage to Lecco.—Bergamo.—The Opera of “Mosè.”—Milan.

Bergamo, 10th Sept.

For the sake of visiting scenes unknown to us, we arranged not to go by the steamer from Como to Milan, but hired one of the large boats of the place to take us to Lecco. We quitted Cadenabbia yesterday at five in the morning. Sadly I bade adieu to its romantic shores and the calm retirement I had there enjoyed. The mountains reared their majestic sides in the clear morning air, and their summits grew bright, visited by the sun’s rays. We doubled the promontory of Bellaggio, and quickly passing the picturesque rocks beneath the gardens of the Villa Serbelloni, we found that the lake soon lost much of its picturesque beauty. Manzoni and Grossi have both chosen this branch of the lake for the scene of their romances; but it is certainly far, very far, inferior to the branch leading to Como, especially as at the end of the lake you approach the flat lands of Lombardy and the bed of the Adda. We breakfasted 106comfortably at Lecco, and hired a calèche for Bergamo. It was a pleasant but warm drive. Oh, how loth will the Austrian ever be to loosen his gripe of this fair province, fertile and abounding in its produce,—its hills adorned with many villages, and sparkling with villas. These numerous country-houses are the peculiarity and beauty of the region: as is the neighbourhood of Florence, so are all these hills, which form steps between the Alps and the Plains of Lombardy, rendered gay by numerous villas, each surrounded by its grounds planted with trees, among which the spires of the cypress rise in dark majesty. The fields were in their best dress; the grapes ripening in the sun; the Indian corn—the second crop of this land of plenty—full-grown, but not quite ripe.

Variety of scene is so congenial, that the first effect of changing the mountain-surrounded, solitary lake for the view of plain and village, and wide-spread landscape, raised my spirits to a very springtide of enjoyment. We were very merry as we drove along.

There is a fair at Bergamo; it has lasted three weeks, and the great bustle is over. We had been told that the inns are bad; I do not know whether we have found admission into the best, but I know we could scarcely anywhere find a worse. The 107look of the whole house is neglected and squalid; the bedrooms are bare and desolate, and a loathly reptile has been found on their walls. The waiters are unwashed, uncouth animals, reminding one of a sort of human being to be met in the streets of London or Paris—looking as if they never washed nor ever took off their clothes; as if even the knowledge of such blessings were strangers to them. The dinner is uneatable from garlic. Of course, the bill to-morrow morning will be unconscionably high.

We have come to Bergamo chiefly for the sake of the opera, and to hear Marini, a basso—boasted of as next to Lablache—but, though fine, the distance is wide between. Being fatigued, I did not go to the upper town to see the view, which is extensive, and at the setting of the sun peculiarly grand. But to the opera we went. The house is large and handsome; but the draperies and ornaments of the boxes were heavy and cumbersome; they carried, too, the usual Italian custom of having little light in their theatres, except on the stage, to such an excess, that we were nearly in the dark, and could not read our libretto. The opera was the Mosè. That which is pious to a Catholic is blasphemous to a Protestant, and the Mosè is changed, when represented in England, to Pietro l’Eremita. None of the singers 108were good except Marini; but the music is the best of Rossini, and we appreciated this admirable master the more for having been of late confined to Donizetti. The quartetto of Mi manca la voce is perhaps his chef-d’œuvre. The way in which the voices fall in, one after the other, attracts, then fixes the attention. I listen breathlessly; a sort of holy awe thrills through the notes; the soul absorbs the sounds, till the theatre disappears; and the imagination, deeply moved, builds up a fitter scene—the fear, the darkness, the tremor, become real. The whole opera is rich in impressive and even sublime vocal effects. In the ballet we had Cerito—her first appearance at Bergamo—and she was received most warmly. She danced three pas, and after each she was called on seven times. I had not seen her before; and, though not comparable to Taglioni for an inexpressible something which renders her single in the poetry of the art, Cerito is light, graceful, sylphlike, and very pretty.

Milan, 11th.

This day has taken us to Milan, a long and rather dreary drive. We turned our backs on the hills, and proceeded through the low country round the capital of Lombardy, which is indeed the centre of a plain, whose shortest radius is twenty-five miles. 109The road is shut in by deep trenches, which serve as drains, and is lined by vines, trellised to pollard trees. We felt shut in by them, and unable to gain a glimpse of the mountains we had left to the north. Our drive was uninteresting, and grew very tiresome, till at last we arrive, and find rest and comfort, at the Hôtel de la Ville, an extensive hotel, kept by a Swiss, with a pretty English wife, and very comfortable in all its arrangements.

We expected letters here, on the receipt of which we instantly turn our steps northward. For in vain I have debated and struggled, wishing to visit Florence or Venice. My son must return to England; and, though I shall not myself cross the Channel immediately, I do not like being separated by so great a distance. Our letters, however, have not come, and we shall employ a day or two in sightseeing.

Sept. 14th.

First we visited the fading inimitable fresco of Leonardo da Vinci. How vain are copies! not in one, nor in any print, did I ever see the slightest approach to the expression in our Saviour’s face, such as it is in the original. Majesty and love—these are the words that would describe it—joined to an absence of all guile that expresses the divine nature 110more visibly than I ever saw it in any other picture. But if the art of the copyist cannot convey, how much less can words, that which only Leonardo da Vinci could imagine and pourtray? There is another fragment of his in the gallery—an unfinished Virgin and Child—in the same manner quite inimitable: the attitude is peculiar; with a common artist it had degenerated into affectation: with him it is simplicity and grace,—a gentle harmony of look and gesture, which reveals the nature of the being pourtrayed,—the chaste and fond mother, lovely in youth and innocence, thoughtful from mingled awe and love, with a touch of fear, springing from a presentiment of the tragical destiny of the divine infant, whose days of childhood she watched over and made glad. In the gallery is Raphael’s picture of the Marriage of the Virgin, in his first and most chaste style; where beauty of expression and grace of design are more apparent, than when, in later days, his colouring grew more rich, his grouping more artificial. A catalogue of pictures is stupid enough, except that I naturally put down those that attract my attention, and I try in some degree to convey the impression they made, so as to induce you to sympathise in my feelings with regard to them. The galleries are rich in Luinis—ever a pleasing artist. The Ambrosian library we, of course, visited; but they keep things 111now rigidly under lock and key: for some one, whose folly ought to have met with severe punishment, had endeavoured to purloin, and so mutilated, some of the relics of Petrarch.

Among other lions we went to a silk manufacture, where many looms were at work on rich silks and velvets. We saw here specimens of cloth of glass, which, hereafter, I should think, will be much used for hangings. It is dear now—as dear as silk, because the supply of the material is slight; but spun glass must, in itself, be much cheaper than silk. The fault of this cloth is, that it is apt to chip as it were, and get injured; it will, therefore, never serve any of the purposes of dress, but it is admirably fitted for curtains and hangings. What I saw was all bright yellow and white, resembling gold and silver tissue; of course, the glass would take other colours: it would not fade as soon as silk, and would clean without losing its gloss or the texture being deteriorated.

At the Opera they were giving the Templario. Unfortunately, as is well known, the theatre of La Scala serves, not only as the universal drawing-room for all the society of Milan, but every sort of trading transaction, from horse-dealing to stock-jobbing, is carried on in the pit; so that brief and far between are the snatches of melody one can catch. Besides 112this, they have the uncomfortable habit of giving the ballet between the two acts of the opera. The only good singer was Salvi—a bad actor, but with a tenor voice of good quality and great sweetness. He had some agreeable airs in the first act: but that over, came a ballet d’action. In this theatre I had seen Othello acted in ballet, with such mastery of pantomime, that words seemed superfluous for the expression of passion or incident; but no such good actors as were celebrated then, exist now. The ballet, founded on the last fortunes of Ali Pasha, was splendidly got up, but full of tumult, noise, and violence, till it ended in a grand blowing-up of Ali, his palace, and treasures. Amidst the din and dust the audience mostly departed, and I went also, thoroughly fatigued; but there was another act of the opera, and on a subsequent night I staid to hear it, though paying for the pleasure by a head-ache. Some of the best airs are in this; and the finale, an air of Salvi, is exquisitely tender and touching, and sung so sweetly by him, that I would rather have heard it than any other part of the opera.

On Sunday I went to the cathedral, and heard mass. There was a sermon—the text, the good Samaritan—the gloss, love your neighbour—an admirable lesson; the preacher, however, had but this one idea: and it was curious, during his sermon 113of half an hour, to hear the various and abundant words in which he contrived to clothe it. To a passing stranger, the Duomo comprises so much of Milan. It is chiefly the outside, with its multitudinous and snow-white pinnacles, that arrests the attention and charms the eye; a moonlight hour passed in the Piazza del Duomo—now beneath the black shadow of the building, then emerging into the clear white light—and looking up to see the marble spires point glittering to the sky, is a pleasure never to be forgotten.

114

LETTER XI. Non-arrival of a Letter.—Departure of my Friends.—Solitude.—The Duomo.—Table d’Hôte.—Austrian Government.

Milan, 23rd September.

A most disagreeable circumstance has occurred. I told you that we expected letters at Milan; one especially, that was to contain the remittance for our homeward journey: it did not—has not come. Perplexed and annoyed, we held council; our friends were all departing; and it seemed best that P—— should go with them, and that I should remain to await the arrival of my letter. I did not like the idea of the solitary journey; but in every point of view this seemed the best course. I gave what money I had to P——, barely sufficient to take him to England: he went, and here I am, feeling much like a hostage for a compact about to be violated. I left England with a merry party of light-hearted youngsters; they are gone, and I alone: this, the end of my pleasant wanderings. Such, you know, is the picture of life: thus every poet sings—thus every moralist preaches. I am more dispirited than I ought to be; but I cannot help it. It rained and 115blew for several days after the travellers left me,—inclement weather for them; but would I had been with them!

Each day I go to the post-office, and look over the huge packet of English letters; but there are none for me. I did not even ask P—— to write to me; for on any day I may get the expected letter, and at once leave Milan. This excessive uncertainty is the worst part of my troubles. To a rich person, such an accident were scarcely felt; and, indeed, with me, though if protracted it may entail on me a good deal of embarrassment, still it is only annoyance—while I, most unreasonably, feel it as a misfortune. I am miserable. Returning each day from the post-office I cannot rally my spirits; my imagination conjures up a thousand evils; yet, in truth, none as consequent on this accident, sufficient to justify the dismay that invades me. Feeling this, my fancy dreams of other ills—of which this shadow over my mind may be the forerunner; for often, as you know, “in to-day already walks to-morrow;” and yet the evil that comes is not the evil we fear—for, as another poet truly sings—

“Fears! what are they? voices airy

Whispering harm, where harm is not;

And deluding the unwary,

Till the fatal bolt be shot.”^[7]

116The uncertainty is the worst part, as I have said; for, as I never contemplated staying more than a day or two here, I did not provide myself with any letters of introduction, and it is useless asking for any now, as I shall, I trust, be gone before they could arrive. Besides that, most of the Milanese are at their country-houses; and it is with them that I should have liked to form some acquaintance. By chance, I had a letter to the French consul; but his family is away, and he, meanwhile, dines at the table d’hôte of this same hotel; but he is also a good deal absent, visiting, and is no resource to me.

I spend my time, therefore, as I best may, in alternate walks and reading, or working. Each morning I pass a considerable time in the aisles of the cathedral. The interior is not of course to be compared to Westminster Abbey. The ceiling, for instance, is painted, not carved in fretwork; nor are there the solemn shadows, nor the antique venerable tombs; but, on the other hand, it is unencumbered by the hideous modern monuments which deform our venerable cathedral; nor is it kept in the same dirty state. My favourite haunt is behind the choir, where there is a magnificent painted window, which throws rich and solemn shadows all around. The influence of this spot soothes my mind, and chases away a thousand grim 117shadows, prognosticating falsehood, desolation, and hopeless sorrow. I throw off the strange clinging presentiments still more entirely when I have on fine days mounted to the outside of the Duomo. You know, by pictures and descriptions, how the exterior is covered by pinnacles and statues; many put up but yesterday, are snow-white and glitter in the sun. The city and the plain of Lombardy, are at my feet; to the north, my beloved mountains—magnificent shapes, which the heavens stoop to visit, and which, speaking of power and inspiring adoration, excite and delight the imagination, made lethargic by mere plain country. The Resegone is there, reminding me of the ecstasies I felt on the Lake of Como, which I remember as dreams sent from heaven, vanished for ever. I turn my eyes southward, and try to trace the route to Florence. I am much tempted, when I do get my expected letter, to go thither to see the friend whom I wished to visit at Venice, but who is now at Florence. Much of my desire in visiting Italy was derived from the hope of seeing her and her sister, whom I left gay blooming children;—but I must defer this pleasure.

Milan is not a pleasant town for one so strangely placed as I am, who would fain leave streets and houses to take refuge in solitary walks and country rambles. The country immediately round is low 118and uninviting, especially now that the autumnal rains seem to have set in; and the roads are dirty—indeed, to all appearance, impassable. Still, you may be sure I walk when I can; and when, on leaving the hotel, I do not turn to the left, towards the cathedral, I turn to the right, along a wide street, with the best shops, and where the shops cease there are some fine large palaces. The French have a laudable passion for public gardens; though their notion of what is agreeable in that respect does not coincide with ours; and grass and turf is, as I have before said, unknown out of England. They have laid out gardens in the outskirts of Milan, into which I turn; and then, ascending some steps, I enter on the Boulevard, a wide drive on the walls of the town, planted with trees. This is the Corso, where every evening the Milanese resort in their carriages—not now, however, as all of any rank are out of town. From this boulevard, which is elevated on the walls, one looks down on the vine-planted low lands beneath. A more agreeable spot—but it is too far for a walk—is the triumphal arch, begun by Napoleon, that forms the entrance to the city from the road of the Simplon. It is surrounded by a grassy plain. As a harrier, at the distance of some twenty miles, rise the Alps, the resting-places of the wandering clouds, the 119aspiration of earth to reach the heavens. When I see these majestic ranges, I always feel happier: those know not why who have never felt the love of mountains, which is a real passion in the hearts of mountaineers; and, though I am truly English-born, and bred in plains, yet in my girlhood I visited Scotland, and saw from my window the snow-clad Grampians, and I then imbibed this love for the “palaces of nature,” which, when far off, haunts me still, with a keen desire to be among them, and a sense of extreme content when in their vicinity.

At four o’clock, is the table d’hôte. I have been tempted to dine in my own rooms. I feel so cast away, going down alone; but I have resisted this feeling, for it is here only I can mingle at all with my fellow-creatures; and though the mode is tolerably disagreeable, yet I am the better for it afterwards. When we came, our party was at the foot of the table. I have mounted gradually, till now I am next my acquaintance, the French Consul, at top. All the guests are changed, and are always changing. They form a curious assemblage—mostly English, and some whom I cannot make out: they talk English as their native language, but there is something unlike ourselves about them. I have been told that where one encounters these Anglicans, who are not English, Scotch, or Irish—they are Americans; 120and so it may be. Sometimes I amuse myself by classifying the party. There is a round, good-humoured clergyman, with his family, who is the Curious Traveller. He is very earnest in search of knowledge, but gentlemanly and unintrusive. There is the Knowing Traveller: he pounced upon a poor little man sitting next him, to-day. “So you have been shopping,—making purchases; been horridly cheated, I’m sure. Those Italians are such rogues! What did you buy? What did you give for those gloves? Four swanzigers—you have been done! A swanziger and a half—that’s the price anywhere. Two swanzigers for the best gloves to be found in Milan—and those are not the best.” This gratuitous piece of misinformation made the poor purchaser blush up to the eyes with shame at his own folly.

I wish I could see a few Carbonari; but I have no opening for making acquaintance—I should like to know how the Milanese feel towards their present Government. Since the death of one of the most treacherous and wicked tyrants that ever disgraced humanity—the Emperor Francis,^[8]—the Austrian Government has made show of greater moderation. As the price of the restoration of Ancona by 121the French, the exiles were permitted to return. While we were at Como, we had seen the honoured and noble Gonfalonieri, returned from Spielberg, the shadow of a man; his wife no more—his life withered, as a glorious exotic transported to the North, nipped by frosts it was never born to feel. In commerce, also, the Austrian is trying to improve. A railroad is projected to Venice—a portion of it is already constructed. They are endeavouring to revive trade, as much as it can be revived in a country where two-thirds of the produce of taxation is sent out of it; and it may be guessed what a drooping, inert revival it is. But the curious thing about the policy of present arbitrary governments is the encouragement they give to the education of the poor. Even the Emperor Nicholas, we are told, desires to educate the serfs. From whatever motive this springs, we must cling to it as a real blessing, for the most extensive advantages must result to the cause of civilisation from the enlightenment, however partial and slight, of the multitude. Knowledge must, from its nature, grow, and rooting it out can alone prevent its tendency to spread.

We ought, however, to consider one thing in the establishment of the normal schools by Austria. To our shame be it spoken, the education of the poor is far more attended to in Germany than with us. 122In Prussia, Würtemberg, and, above all, in Saxony, the normal schools are admirable. Austria was forced to appear to do the like; and they do so in a way which they hope will increase and consolidate their power. Government allows no schools but its own; and selects teachers, not as being qualified for the task, but as servile tools in their hands. The books they allow can scarcely be guessed at in this country, so totally void are they of instruction or true religion. The Austrian hopes to bring up the new generation in the lights he gives, and to know no more than he teaches. He has succeeded, and will probably long continue to succeed in Austria, but in Italy he will not. If the physical state of the poor in Lombardy is ameliorated, they will be tranquil; but hatred of the stranger must ever be a portion of the air he breathes.

It is against the rich and high-born, however, that the Austrian wages war. A hatred of the German is rooted in the nobility of Milan; they are watched with unsleeping vigilance: above all, the greatest care is taken that their youth should not receive an enlightened education. From the moment a young man is known to hold himself free from the prevalent vices of the times, to be studious and high-minded, he becomes marked; he is not allowed to travel; he is jealously watched; no career is open to him; he 123is hemmed in to a narrow and still narrower circle; till at last the moss of years and hopelessness gathers over and deadens his mind. For the present governments of Italy know that there is a spirit abroad in that country, which forces every Italian that thinks and feels, to hate them and rebel in his heart.

26th Sept.

Still no letter: the mystery of its non-appearance grows darker. I have been better off these last few days, from the arrival of the friends who accompanied us down the Moselle. With them I have revisited the Brera, and their society has cheered me. They are gone, and I am fallen again into solitude and perplexity.

27TH.

At last there is change; my letter is come, or rather I have found it, for it has been here almost ever since our arrival—long before I was left alone. I had as usual visited the post-office, and looked over the letters arrived this day—in vain. I then asked for yesterday’s letters; yesterday was not post-day from England, and I had not visited the office; but letters might have come to me from Venice or Florence. The huge packet of all the 124English letters was handed me; I looked it over listlessly, when—a bright light illumined my darkness—my letter—lost amidst the crowd—yet I had often looked over this same heap of letters, and it had not been there. I mentioned this to the clerk, who replied, “O, then it must have been out at the time.” It seems that they send the uncalled-for English letters round the town to the different hotels, to be claimed; but by ill luck mine did not reach me. By mistake it had been directed in the first place to Como; but it had arrived in Milan on the 17th, and this is the 27th.

All is changed now—all is hurry and bustle—I am making inquiries for my journey to Geneva. I sit down to close this letter, and to say that I quit Milan the day after to-morrow. My next letter will reach you from Paris. Adieu.

125

LETTER XII. Departure from Milan.—Journey across the Simplon.—Lake of Geneva.—Lyons.—Steamboat to Chalons.—Diligence to Paris.—History of the eventful Journey across Mont St. Gothard.

Milan, 28th Sept.

I have made a compact with a veturino, to take me and my maid to Geneva for ten napoleons, in six days. He is to provide us with sleeping-rooms, a dinner, and coffee in the morning. This is very reasonable; but we are not to have the carriage to ourselves: he is already engaged to take three English ladies, and I am to join the party. I sent M—— to their hotel to look at our companions; she brings back word that they are certainly ladies—three sisters they are; but, from their accent, she thinks them Irish. Three Irish ladies out on their travels without any attendant, seems odd; but I trust to my maid’s tact as to their being, as she phrased it, really ladies. The whole day has been occupied in getting a passport. P—— had taken mine; and there is always a good deal of trouble in getting a fresh one visé in Austrian Italy.

126The weather is beautiful: it seems, on looking back, that unwillingly as I had remained behind, yet thus I have secured for myself a pleasant journey in fine weather, while my friends encountered inclement skies, and perhaps disasters thereon attendant. It had been agreed that they were not to write, as I should probably leave Milan before a letter could arrive. I cannot, therefore, hear how it has fared with them in their passage across Mont St. Gothard till I reach Paris.

I have taken leave of the Cathedral. I have said adieu to the gardens and walks, which I have paced with a heavy heart the last fortnight. I do not think I should like to live at Milan. The Milanese nobility live much among themselves, keeping their palaces sacred from the Austrian; they do not entertain; and their chief assembly-room is the Opera-house—at least this is the account that strangers give. Probably, if the veil were lifted, and the truth known, we should find something very pleasant hidden behind.

Arona, Tuesday, 29th September.

I quitted Milan at five in the morning. The ladies I was to accompany had desired to spend a day at Como: they had gone the day before, and we were to join at Sesto Callende, at the southern 127extremity of the Lago Maggiore. The drive thither had nothing greatly to recommend it: but Sesto itself is agreeably situated on the borders of the Ticino, just as it leaves the lake, with, to the north, the amphitheatre of the Alps we were about to cross. Here I met the companions of my journey. The first word they spoke discovered their country; they are Scotch, with as rich a Doric accent as the Lowlands can produce. I cannot well explain the reason, but the enigma vanishes on the discovery of their native land; for there is something in Scotch-women more independent than in English and Irish; above all, one expects a better style of person on smaller outward means. They are three sisters, who have been seeing sights all over Italy, and are now returning home. The elder one has mingled something with the world; and besides being acquainted with good Edinburgh society, she has visited our poets of the Lakes. She is well informed, and with a full, unebbing flow of conversation, which, though much, is always sensible and anecdotic; and, when I am not overtired, I find it agreeable. I have no wish to describe or designate further ladies, who, though chance companions, have a right to enjoy the shelter of privacy, undragged into public by one, who has only to congratulate herself that she is for a few days thrown in their way.

128Crossing the Ticino from Sesto, we left Austrian Lombardy for the territories of the King of Sardinia, and were, of course, detained a considerable time at the Dogana. The road lay along the margin of the Lago Maggiore. This lake differs considerably from that of Como: it is wider; higher mountains form its barriers, but they are much further off, and the immediate banks are less precipitous, more cultivated, and diversified with many villages and some considerable towns. The culture, vines and Indian corn, have arrived at maturity, and the fields are alive with labourers, gathering in the last harvest and busied with the vintage. These gay varied fields on one hand, the picturesque and placid lake on the other; the majestic Alps before, and blue sky to dress all in cheerful and summer hues, impart every delight which this journey can have, but one—I cannot help repining that the horses’ heads are not turned the other way, and that I am not entering Italy instead of leaving it. We reached Arona, where we are to sleep, early in the glowing sunny evening, and have walked up a neighbouring height to see the bronze statue of San Carlo Borromeo. It is very striking, of gigantic stature, the attitude commanding and simple; standing as it does on a grassy plot of ground on a hill side, with huge mountains all around, the beautiful lake at its 129feet,—there is something in it that inspires awe. A colossal figure in a building cannot have the same effect; one is accustomed to it, one knows what it means, and no unexpected emotion is excited. But placed thus, amidst a sublime and majestic scene, the first impression is, not that it is one’s petty self on a larger scale, but a being of a higher order and of grander proportions, better fitted than we pigmies are, to tread the huge round earth and scale the Alps. There is a church adjoining, containing the room where the saint died, and a waxen mask, taken after death; it looks ghastly, but the features are good: it was from this that the face of the statue was modelled.

30th Sept.

We still wound along the margin of the lake, which opened wider, and its Alpine boundaries grew higher and nearer. At the usual spot we received the usual invitation from boatmen to visit the islands, which I accepted. My companions were tired out by sightseeing, and declined. I do not minutely describe: these islands are well known. Islands in a lake have a peculiar charm; they are rare too. Three only exist on this lake: Isola Madre; Isola Bella, on which stands the mansion of the Borromeo family, with its terraced grounds; and 130one other, covered by a town inhabited by fishermen. They are at some little distance from shore. An island all to one’s self is ever flattering to the imagination. No one to intrude unknown; the whole rule of the demesne in one’s sovereign hands; and to look from this natural throne amidst the clear waters on the populous shores and glorious mountains that surround the Lago Maggiore, affords a picture of dignified seclusion one covets to realise. Fault has been found with the artificial structure of the gardens of Isola Bella; but it must be remembered that its shape is so conical, that without the assistance of these terraces the soil would be washed into the lake. It is acknowledged that Italian taste in gardening is not our taste; but with the wild mountain paths so near, and scenery impending over on such a scale, that man’s art vanishes among it, as the path of a boat on the sea, one the less objects to a little nook of ground—one’s immediate habitation—being adorned with artificial embellishments. English culture and taste would, indeed, turn these islands into a wilderness of sweets. The palace itself could not be mended. Taken all in all, I should like to live here; here to enjoy the aspect of grand scenery, the pleasures of elegant seclusion, and the advantages of civilisation, joined to the independent delights of a solitude which we would 131hope to people, were it ours, with a few chosen spirits.

Such reveries possessed me, as I fancied life spent here, and pictured English friends arriving down from the mighty Simplon, and Italians taking refuge in my halls from persecution and oppression—a little world of my own—a focus whence would emanate some light for the country around—a school for civilisation, a refuge for the unhappy, a support for merit in adversity: from such a gorgeous dream I was awakened when my foot touched shore, and I was transformed from the Queen of Isola Bella into a poor traveller, humbly pursuing her route in an unpretending vettura. Such, for the most part, has been my life. Dreams of joy and good, which have lent me wings to leave the poverty and desolation of reality. How without such dreams I could have past long sad years, I know not.

We stopped at a pleasant inn at Baveno. A party of English were staying there—sketching, and making excursions in the neighbourhood. They were enjoying themselves, apparently, very much. At Baveno begins the ascent of the Simplon. What it must be, I continually said to myself, to descend this road into Italy, and on the first entrance, to meet this glorious lake, with its luxuriant vegetation; its rich chesnut woods; its thoroughly Italian aspect, so 132indescribably different from Switzerland! With a heavy heart I gazed, till a turn in the road shut out Lago Maggiore and Italy from my sight.

The weather was beautiful. As I have mentioned, two days before there had been rain and storm, the effects of which were very visible. Among them, at different inn-books, were dolorous complaints of travellers detained for days at wretched huts among the mountains. The road was broken up in many places—a circumstance we made light of, for it was no annoyance to alight, and cross the subsiding torrent on a plank. Had it rained, our difficulties had been great. And here we find one of the great evils of the division of Italy. The southern side of the Simplon belongs to the King of Sardinia, but its road leads at once into Lombardy. This sovereign, therefore, purposely neglects the most magnificent Alpine pass that exists, and devotes it as well as he can to ruin, that travellers may be induced to prefer Cenis. If there were no choice except between Cenis and the Simplon, there might be a selfish policy in this; but there are now so many passes, that no one desirous of visiting the north-east of Italy, need be forced to cross Cenis, even if the road of the Simplon were destroyed. However, so it is. A bridge had been carried away five years before. It is rebuilding, but very slowly; and the 133river, when swollen by the melting of the snows or by rains, is a formidable obstacle; besides that, broken by floods and torrents, the Piedmontese portion of the road is in a very rough and inconvenient state. So much for what Pope calls—

“The low ambition and the pride of kings;”

which here shows itself in destroying a work, which if pride, only less pernicious, achieved, yet is a monument of the best and most useful powers of man.

1st October.

We slept at Duomo d’Ossola, at the Post, a very comfortable inn, and the next morning we commenced early the passage of the mountain. The carriage was light and comfortable; three sat inside and two in a sort of coupée outside, so we had plenty of room. Our veturino was of Turin; and if any one going to that city see a carriage with the name of Amadeo on it, and he is in search of a veturino, let him engage him at once—a more civil, obliging fellow I never met. He was engaged to provide us with rooms; and every evening he came to me to ask if I was content, or wished for another. We crossed the mountain with the speed of post; indeed, from Duomo d’Ossola to the village of the Simplon, he rode forward with his own horses to 134spare them, and we had four posters; and afterwards two posters, in addition to his own, till the summit of the mountain was passed.

The weather was admirable; not a cloud. I walked a great deal of the way. I desired to enjoy to the full the sublime scenery of this grand pass: two circumstances occurred to prevent my seeing it in all its sublimity. One, that our horses’ heads were not turned the other way; and I do not repeat this from the sentiment of the thing, but as the simple fact, that to have the best point of view of the mighty features of the scene, you must look towards Italy; and thus as I walked, I stopped continually and turned to catch those views which I had studied with such longing to really see them, in Brockedon’s prints. But the scene was indeed different. He speaks of Alpine horrors; the cascade of icicles; the ice-bound torrent; the snow which, with fantastic shapes covered all, and spreading wide and desolate around, gave a wild and awful appearance to the bare rocks and mighty pines, speaking of storm and avalanche, of danger and death. The snow had fled. We caught glimpses of where it lay eternally on the far summits of the impassable Alps; but we had none. Still the scene in its summer appearance was sublime; abrupt precipices, majestic crags, and naked pinnacles, reared themselves on 135each side of the ravine formed by the torrent, along which the road is constructed: waterfalls roared around; the pines spread abroad their vast weather-beaten arms, distorted by storms into strange shapes. The road also, now free from snow, gains rather than loses, as we can judge better of the torrents its bridges span, the living granite crags its grottoes perforate, the tumultuous cascades it almost seems to bridle and direct, as their living waters were led by various channels away from our path. There was no horror; but there was grandeur. There was a majestic simplicity that inspired awe; the naked bones of a gigantic world were here: the elemental substance of fair mother Earth, an abode for mighty spirits who need not the ministrations of food and shelter that keep man alive, but whose vast shapes could only find, in these giant crags, a home proportionate to their power. As we approached the village of Simplon, the features of the scene became softer; the summit of the mountain was spread into a grassy meadow, with a lake: villages and cottages peeped out; cattle were grazing; flowers decked the fields; afar off we saw the Alpine ranges towering above, clad in perpetual snow. This sight alone reminded us, that the almost rural scene we viewed, was removed far above the usual resorts of man; and, for at least eight months in the year, was 136bound in frost and hidden by snow—the resort of tempests, where it becomes labour and pain to exist.

We breakfasted at the Simplon. We found there an English traveller, who told us of the failure of Hammersley’s bank: this was a bathos from sublimity which, yet to many, would have been pathetic; a great blow was given also to many English tourists, his notes being in wide circulation. Fortunately, neither I nor my companions were troubled by it. A few miles after leaving Simplon the descent began. I still walked, for the weather was fine, the air elastic, and I desired greatly to gaze my fill on the mighty and glorious shapes around, so that I could not endure remaining in the carriage. The descent is pretty steep: I believe the greatest difficulties for the construction of the road, presented themselves on the Swiss side. On the Italian, the road is cut for the greater part on the face of the precipices beside the Vedro, and follows the windings of the ravine; but northward, the mountain falls more abruptly. It was necessary to follow the sinuosities of its shape along its shoulder, as it were, and so to reach a neighbouring mountain, divided only by a torrent; this is crossed by a bridge, and then the road turns at an acute angle. I looked long, to study with untaught eyes, why this exact route had been chosen by the engineer; and could judge, by the large 137circuit he took, of the immense difficulties of his task. This portion of the road belonging to the Swiss, is kept in admirable order, forming a striking contrast with its ruinous condition on the Italian side. We reached Brigg at sunset, and had the satisfaction of knowing that the post could not have taken us quicker; and, for my peculiar instruction, I found that had I left Milan when I intended, I might have joined my grumblings to those of many travellers, who recorded their impatient annoyance of being detained three or four days at the miserable village of Isella, or in a wretched hovel at Divedro, weather-bound by the storms that raged from the 20th to the 24th of September; while for me, all unworthy, the heavens were cloudless and serene.

3rd October.

Our road now lay along the valley of the Rhone, more picturesque far than the valley of the Rhine near Coire. Some of the finest waterfalls in Switzerland precipitate themselves from the cliffs of rock that border the road, or can be reached by a short walk. After the rains, we saw them in great perfection. As I looked on some of these, my imagination was hurried on to endow with life and will these elemental energies. It seemed Love—the love of burning youth, forcing through all obstacles, 138and with hurry, and dash, and fury making its way; yet beauteous from its nature, sublime from its uncontrollable determination, and thus proceeding right onward to its object, in spite of every let and hindrance, till, having accomplished it, it steals away, almost hidden, almost still, gently murmuring its happiness.

My guide to one of these waterfalls was a deaf and dumb child. She was interesting from the intelligence as well as the beauty of her countenance, and a certain grace of gesture, whose vivacity and distinctness became as intelligible as words.

The valley we threaded is diversified by towns. At Martigny, there are many tablets let into the walls of the houses to say where the waters had reached during the memorable inundation, caused by the tremendous overflow of the Dranse, in 1818. In some parts, conical rocky hills rise in the midst of the valley, crowned by castles. The scenery wants the southern sunny glow which I prefer, but is grand and full of variety.

Geneva, 4th Oct.

On Friday night, we slept at Sion. The next day, at noon, we reached Saint Maurice, where I left my companions. I had a whim, instead of coasting along the side of the lake by Saint Gingoux, to go to Vevay, and make the voyage in the steamer. I was in the 139wrong, I afterwards found; for, being alone, I had no heart to walk about and see sights at Vevay, and the day for my voyage proved cloudy and cold, so that I could not gain sight of Mont Blanc, for the sake of which I had undertaken it. However, on this account, I bade adieu to my companions at Saint Maurice, and jumped into the coupée of a diligence, which took me to Vevay. And the next morning, bleak and cloudy, as I have said, I embarked on board the steamer.

I felt now that I had passed a boundary-line, and was in another country, meeting people with a totally different set of ideas and associations. The subject of the war with Mehemet Ali, and of the dissensions with France, was raging at its height; and several persons thought me very rash to venture into that country. The fate of English travellers at the time of the peace of Amiens can never be forgotten. It was not a pleasant day for my voyage, as I have said. The far Alps were hid; the wide lake looked drear. At length, I caught a glimpse of the scenes among which I had lived, when first I stepped out from childhood into life. There, on the shores of Bellerive, stood Diodati; and our humble dwelling, Maison Chapuis, nestled close to the lake below. There were the terraces, the vineyards, the upward path threading them, the little port where our boat lay moored; I could mark and recognise a thousand 140slight peculiarities, familiar objects then—forgotten since—now replete with recollections and associations. Was I the same person who had lived there, the companion of the dead? For all were gone: even my young child, whom I had looked upon as the joy of future years, had died in infancy—not one hope, then in fair bud, had opened into maturity; storm, and blight, and death, had passed over, and destroyed all. While yet very young, I had reached the position of an aged person, driven back on memory for companionship with the beloved; and now I looked on the inanimate objects that had surrounded me, which survived, the same in aspect as then, to feel that all my life since was but an unreal phantasmagoria—the shades that gathered round that scene were the realities—the substance and truth of the soul’s life, which I shall, I trust, hereafter rejoin.

Disappointed in my voyage, for it was dreary, I arrived at Geneva, and took refuge in the Hôtel de Bergues—the model and perfection of these Swiss hotels, where all is conducted on a system that no number of guests can disturb, and a certainty of expense, always convenient. I dined at the table d’hôte. The tables lined three sides of a large salle-à-manger, and were crowded by a happy flock of travellers, all turning their steps towards Italy. The talk was Hammersley’s failure, the consequence 141of which had been very disastrous to the poorer race of travellers. It was a fine evening; and I walked a little about the town, and took my place in the diligence for Lyons.

10th Oct.

I left Geneva in the coupée of the diligence, and found myself alone in it. Our fine weather returned, and the drive was pleasant; but still, from the height of Jura, Mont Blanc was veiled from my sight.

Here we fell into the hands of the French douane, a long and troublesome operation. One is always impatient of stoppages in travelling. At length we were allowed to proceed. The way, amidst the vast range of the Jura, was interesting. I remembered it as dreary; but summer dressed all in smiles and cheerfulness. We continued near the Rhone; and the aspect of the river lent life and variety to the scene. I enjoyed it in a melancholy grumbling way, losing myself, as I best might, in fantastic dreams and endless reveries. In some things, the travelling in the coupée of a diligence is not so bad. Your limbs are not confined and manacled as in an English stage-coach. I never travelled all night in the latter, and cannot imagine how it can be endured: it is bad enough for a few hours. The meals are the worst part of French public travelling—turned out all together 142to feed at one table, loaded with badly-dressed French dishes, with difficulty persuading a servant to allow you to make yourself comfortable with cold water and a towel, being perpetually reminded in consequence you must go without your dinner.

By this time I became aware of a truth which had dawned on me before, that the French common people have lost much of that grace of manner which once distinguished them above all other people. More courteous than the Italians they could not be; but, while their manners were more artificial, they were more playful and winning. All this has changed. I did not remark the alteration so much with regard to myself, as in their mode of speaking to one another. The “Madame” and “Monsieur,” with which stable-boys and old beggar-women used to address each other, with the deference of courtiers, has vanished. No trace is to be found of it in France. A shadow faintly exists among Parisian shopkeepers, when speaking to their customers; but only there is the traditional phraseology still used: the courteous accent, the soft manner, erst so charming, exists no longer. I speak of a thing known and acknowledged by the French themselves. They want to be powerful; they believe money must obtain power; they wish to imitate the English, whose influence they attribute to their money-making propensities: but now and then they go a step 143beyond, and remind one of Mrs. Trollope’s description of the Americans. Their phraseology, once so delicately, and even to us more straight-forward people, amusingly deferential (not to superiors only, but toward one another), is become blunt, and almost rude. The French allege several causes for this change, which they date from the revolution of 1830. Some say it arises from every citizen turning out as one of the National Guard in his turn, so that they all get a ton de garnison: others attribute it to their imitation of the English. Of course, in the times of the ancien régime, the courtly tone found an echo and reflection from the royal ante-chambers down to the very ends of the kingdom. This had faded by degrees, till the revolution of ’30 gave it the coup-de-grâce. I grieved very much. Perhaps more than any people, as I see them now, the French require the restraint of good manners. They are desirous of pleasing, it is true; but their amour propre is so sensitive, and their tempers so quick, that they are easily betrayed into anger and vehemence. I am more sorry, on another score. The blessing which the world now needs is the steady progress of civilisation: freedom, by degrees, it will have, I believe. Meanwhile, as the fruits of liberty, we wish to perceive the tendency of the low to rise to the level of the high—not the high to be dragged down to the low. This, we are told by many, is the inevitable tendency 144of equality of means and privileges. I will hope not: for on that hope is built every endeavour to banish ignorance, and hard labour and penury, from political society.

This is a long digression: but I have not much more to say. We arrived in Lyons at half-past three in the morning, and with difficulty got admitted into an hotel. The system of French hotels has no resemblance to that of the Swiss; and you must conclude from this, that they do not emulate them in activity, order, and comfort. I was bound for Paris; and proceeded by the steamer, up the Saône, to Chalons. On board these long, narrow, river steamers, I found the same defects—the air, most agreeable to a traveller, of neatness, and civility, was absent. There is, however, no real fault to be found, and I should not mention this were it not a change; and I sincerely wish the French would return to what they once were, and give us all lessons of pleasing manners, instead of imitating and exaggerating our faults, and adding to them an impress all their own—a sort of fierceness when displeased, which is more startling than our sullenness. As I said, this has no reference to any act towards myself; but the winning tone and manner that had pleased me of old no longer appeared, and it was in the phraseology used among each other that the change was most remarkable.

145Saturday, 10th.

The worst bit of the journey is from Chalons to Paris. The road is much frequented. I was obliged to wait a day for places in the diligence, and then could only get bad ones, in the intérieur, with three little boys going to school in Paris from Marseilles, and a sort of tutor conveying them; for boys are never trusted, as with us, to go about alone; such a proceeding would be looked upon as flagrantly improper. Nothing can equal the care with which French youth are guarded from contact with the world; girls in our boarding-schools are less shut up. They rise early, work hard—(a boy once said to me, “We are always at work; but we do it very slow”)—little or no exercise, and poor fare. Such is the fate of the noblest French youths, as well as those of an inferior class, at the highest public schools.

It had been pleasant travelling under different circumstances, in a picturesque country, for the weather continued serene and warm; but the drear extent of this part of France is uninteresting; and besides, two days and two nights in a diligence was, if nothing else, extremely fatiguing. We came to an end at last—the dreary, comfortless moment of arriving in a metropolis by a public conveyance, 146especially in Paris, where the luggage must be examined before it leaves the diligence office—this moment was also over, and in a short time I found myself comfortably lodged in Hotel Chatham—a quiet hotel—not more expensive, I fancy, than any other, and Madame l’Hôte herself is an agreeable person to deal with.

Paris, 12th Oct.

I send you the following graphic account of the perilous journey of my friends, after they parted from me at Milan, sent me by P——’s fellow-traveller. I had let them go without anticipation of evil, and felt not a pang of fear on their account, while lingering so disconsolately behind; so blind are we poor mortals to events near at hand, while we tremble at unseen ills! Imagine what the difficulties of the journey had been, if I, as we intended, had accompanied them. I could not have crossed the mountain as they did. Compare, I entreat you, my easy pleasant drive, with their perilous exposure to the elements.

“We started from Milan at four o’clock, p.m., on the 20th of September—raining cats and dogs—alone inside the diligence as far as Como—recognised by the good folks dell’ Angelo (what a fuss 147they made, landlord and all!), though we only stayed in the town five minutes, waiting for the mail letters. Went on to a little dirty pothouse, a post from Como, to supper, as they called it—all garlic (the cost, one franc and a half)—quite uneatable. About a quarter past ten arrived at Bissone, on the borders of the Lake of Lugano.

“At Como we picked up a very agreeable priest, who, observing on the continued rain for many days past, and pouring doubly down at the time, said that he feared we should not be able to get across the lake, as they had been unable to make the passage the day before for many hours.

“After waiting at Bissone for an hour, and after many misgivings as to the result of the quarrel going on outside between the Austrian mail-guard and the deputation of boatmen, we learned gladly, and yet with some alarm, that we were about to embark. The wind was howling, shrieking, roaring, and, more than all, it was blowing, pulling, tearing, and tugging. It had ceased to rain, and the clouds were driving, as if they were behind their time, and afraid of being overtaken by the fellow behind. We were ushered on to a raft, about twelve yards long and six broad, whereon the diligence, horses and all, were quietly standing. There were no sides to the raft, but a parapet of about a foot high, so that the 148water rushed every now and then over our feet. When we got full into the wind, we expected to be upset every moment. The priest prayed, evidently sincerely, for he was quite calm and engrossed. P—— and I pulled and pushed alternately at the diligence, to moderate the alarming vibrations, which threatened to topple the whole thing over, assisted by the whole number of boatmen, incapacitated, by the breaking of their oars, for anything active in the propelling way, but oaths. (We had had double the usual number of men, at double the usual price per man.) I asked P—— what we had better do?—we were dreadfully hot with our exercise. He said, ‘Jump over and swim till the horses are drowned, and then swim back to the raft.’ This would have been the best plan if, as seemed inevitable, we had gone over. So we took off our coats and boots, and put them inside the diligence. But we did get safe over, though very far from the proper landing-place, and after a very unusually long passage.