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 to 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; the 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 was 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 circumstance 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 time. 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 the 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 on 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 went 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 hours 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

power 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.

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 primitive 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 melting 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 the 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 gardens 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.

I 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

Nel 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.

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 forest, 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

question 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 laugh 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. If 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; and 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.

SEPTEMBER 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, mulcted 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 dress 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. But 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!

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 comfortably 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 look 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 were 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. The 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 more 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 now 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 this, 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 of 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.

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 blew 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]

The 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 shadows, 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 and 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 aspiration 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; and 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 the 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. In 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 is 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 English 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.

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.

The 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 extremity 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.

Crossing 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 feet,—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 one 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 hope 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 indescribably 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 river, 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 spare 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 each 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 bound 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 circuit 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, and 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 wrong, 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 slight 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 of 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 to 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 beyond, 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 of 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.

SATURDAY, 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, especially 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 they 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 water 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.

“We, after some delay, at about one o’clock, got under weigh for Lugano

(by coach and horses). Lovely ride, by this far the loveliest of the

lakes; quite fine, barring the clouds—full moon—the road lay close by

the lake, but very high above it—no parapets. Arrived at Lugano about

two. Shivered and smoked for an hour, and started again. Got to

Bellinzona about nine in the morning, and over a road much impaired by

the rain as far as Giornico. Here the road became so bad, that the

horses did little else than walk, the alternative being a standstill. At

last, at Faido, a man opened the door, and, with a perfectly

uninterested air, gave us _some_, we did not know what, information, and

then joined a group of silent staring idlers like himself. We paid no

attention for some time, till it struck us they were long in changing

horses. We then learned that the road towards Airolo was utterly broken

up and carried away; and if the rain ceased, and the torrents consented

to shrink _au plus vite_, the road could not be restored in much less

than a month. After long consultations—we were seven: an Italian of

Genoa, in bright blue trousers; an Uri grazier, about seven feet high;

P——, myself, two other passengers, and the mail-guard—the two nameless

travellers and myself were for sleeping where we were, and off in the

morning. The guard said he _must_ be off if he could get a guide. There

_was_ found to be a track, avoiding the Dazio Grande, over the

mountains; but only one guide could be found who had ever gone the road,

and he only once, in the great floods of 1834.

“Well, after dining, we started off. I was lame, but P—— promised he

would stick by me; it still rained boa-constrictors, its constant

practice of an afternoon, forenoon, and early morning. We had about 30

guides, variously laden with our lighter _impediments_; the _obstacles_

were escorted by a larger detachment, at a slower pace. The guides

squabbled, and it was dark, with rain and clouds; it was about 3

o’clock. The guides divided; P—— was involved in a mist of guides, so

that I could not discover him. They and he set off on the higher road. I

waited till I was nearly left alone, and then followed the only guide

who knew the route. I should have been lost, no doubt, but for that man,

who came back for me once when I had been standing a quarter of an hour

alone—scarcely able to keep my footing on the slanting sides of the

mountain, and by my obstruction creating quite a shallow or rapid in the

stream in which I stood. No road, nor track, nor print of a footstep to

be seen, before or behind, and no one in sight for a quarter of an hour.

The torrent 100 yards below, sheer below, roaring till I was deaf; and

its foam rising higher than my position, nearly blinded me, together

with the incessant rain. This was just over the worst part of the Dazio

Grande; where the road, at least what was left of it, was 60 feet under

the torrent in its present state. The Ticino had carried away about 150

yards of road here, and about 30 yards further on. The pass is called

Dazio Grande, on account of the tolls exacted to pay the great expense

occasioned by the casualties to which its dangerous position subjects

it. We saved the toll, at any rate. Well, _the_ guide came back for me,

and made holes for my feet, and rescued me; it was a _rescue_, and no

mistake. The blue Italian here joined us, crying like a child. In

another place we had to wait a quarter of an hour, to improvise a bridge

over an extempore torrent, which, on this its first public appearance,

was rolling rocks the size of a cow about like marbles. It carried its

antidote, however, with it in the shape of a tottering pine, over which

we crossed. The danger was probably not less than being principal in an

ordinary duel; but to this we had become indifferent by this time; also

perfectly indifferent (I at least) to the want of either shoes or

stockings—the soles of each had utterly disappeared. Our pace during the

greater part of this road (to which the tops of the houses in a London

street would be a royal road) was a fast run.

“After about three hours we rejoined the road, and arrived at an inn, at

Piota; here we waited, and then P—— and his twenty fellow-travellers

rejoined us, with certainly an equally momentous account of their road;

theirs was the _wrong_ one, and they were really providentially saved.

After two hours quick walking, re-inspirited by a tumbler of

_kirch-wasser_ per man, we got to Airolo—a nice clean but cold inn,

jolly English-loving fat landlord, and pretty daughters. The next day up

St. Gothard—very cold—the snow falling so fast, that, looking back, the

tracks of the wheels and horses were filled up and imperceptible before

we were out of sight of the place where they had been. This pass,

though, perhaps, not equal to the Splugen, as a work of engineering (_je

n’en sais rien_), is, I swear, infinitely more terrific in bad, and, I

should think, more beautiful in fine weather.

“At Hospital we dined, and got into a car alone, which drove for a

league through a lake, somewhere in which was the road: we might have

been _near_ it. Through Andermatt, thence by a shocking, most perilous

road—no parapets—over the Devil’s Bridge before we were aware of it: it

is very fine on looking back; but there is another by it, quite as grand

in position, though something safer. Thence at last to Amstag; whence,

indifferent at last to broken roads and torrents dashing across our

path, half carrying the horse away into the Reuss, we got to Altorf and

Fluelen; good inn. To our joy and surprise the honourable Austrians took

all additional expenses on themselves, and our payment at Milan covered

all. We here embarked on board the steamer on the lake of Lucerne, which

you know as well as I. Excuse this incoherent scrawl, if you read it;

and excuse the extreme personality of my narrative.”

RAMBLES

IN

GERMANY AND ITALY.