Whence I went for my very first airing to Casa Simonetti, in search of
the echo so celebrated by my country-folks and fellow-travellers, but
did not find all that has been said of it strictly true. It certainly
does repeat a single sound more than seventy times, but has no power to
give back by reverberation a whole sentence. I have met too with another
petty mortification; having been taught by Cave to expect, that in our
Ambrosian library here at Milan, there was a MS. of Boethius preserved
relative to his condemnation, and confessing his design of subverting the
Gothic government in Lombardy. I therefore prevailed on Canonico Palazzi,
a learned old ecclesiastic, to go with me and beg a sight of it. The
præfect politely promised indulgence, but referred me to a future day;
and when we returned again at the time appointed, shewed me only Pere
Mabillon’s book, in which we read that it is to be found no where but
at Florence, in the library of Lorenzo de Medicis. We were however shewn
some curiosities to compensate our trouble, particularly the skeleton of
the lady mentioned by Dr. Moore and Lady Millar with some contempt. This
is the copy of her inscription:
ÆGROTANTIUM
SANITATI
MORTUORUM
INSPECTIONE
VIVENTES
PROSPICERE
POSSINT
HUNC
ΣΚΕΛΕΤΟΝ
P.
A MS. of the Consolations of Philosophy, very finely written in the tenth
century, and kept in elegant preservation;--a private common-place of
Leonardo da Vinci never shewn, full of private memoirs, caricaturas,
hints for pictures, sketches, remarks, &c.; it is invaluable. But there
is another treasure in this town, the præfect tells me, by the same
inimitable master, no other than an alphabet, pater noster, &c. written
out by himself for the use of his own little babies, and ornamented with
vignettes, &c. to tempt them to study it. I shall not see it however, as
Conte Trivulci is out of town, to whom it belongs. I have not neglected
to go see the monument erected to one of his family, with the famous
inscription,
Hic quiescit qui nunquam quievit;
preserved by father Bouhours. The same day shewed me the remains of a
temple to Hercules, with many of the fine old pillars still standing.
They are soon to be taken down we hear for the purpose of widening the
street, as Carfax was at Oxford.
My hunger after a journey to Pavia is much abated; since professor
Villa, whose erudition is well known, and whose works do him so much
honour, informed me that the inscription said by Pere Mabillon still
to subsist in praise of Boethius, is long since perished by time; nor
do they now shew the brick tower in which it is said he was confined
while he wrote his Consolations of Philosophy: for the tower is fallen
to the ground, and so is the report, every body being now persuaded
that they were composed in a strong place then standing upon the spot
called Calventianus Ager, from the name of a noble house to which it had
belonged for ages, and which I am told Cicero mentions as a family half
Placentian, half Milaneze. The field still goes by the name of _Il Campo
Calvenziano_; but, as it now belongs to people careless of remote events,
however interesting to literature, is not adorned by any obelisk, or
other mark, to denote its past importance, in having been once the scene
of sufferings gloriously endured by the most zealous christian, the most
steady patriot, and the most refined philosopher of the age in which he
lived.
I have seen a fine MS. of the Consolations copied in the tenth century,
not only legible but beautiful; and I have been assured that the hymns
written by his first wife Elpis, who, though she brought him no children,
as Bertius says, was yet _fida curarum, et studiorum socia_[46], are
still sung in the Romish churches at Brescia and Bergamo, somewhat
altered from the state we find them in at the end of Cominus’s edition of
the Consolations.
Tradition too, I find, agrees with Procopius in telling that this widow
of Boethius, Rusticiana, daughter of Symmachus, spent all the little
money she had left in hiring people to throw down in the night all the
statues set up in Rome to the honour of Theodoric, who had sentenced her
husband to a death so dreadful, that it gave occasion to many fabulous
tales reported by Martin Rota as miraculous truths. His bones, gathered
up as relics by Otho III., were placed in a chapel dedicated to St.
Austin in St. Peter’s church at Pavia four hundred and seventy-two years
after his death, with an epitaph preserved by Pere Mabillon, but now no
longer legible.
We are now cutting hay here for the last time this season, and all the
environs smell like spring on this 15th September 1786. The autumnal
tint, however, falls fast upon the trees, which are already rich with a
deep yellow hue. A wintery feel upon the atmosphere early in a morning,
heavy fogs about noon, and a hollow wind towards the approach of night,
make it look like the very last week of October in England, and warn us
that summer is going. The same circumstances prompt me, who am about to
forsake this her favourite region, to provide furs, flannels, &c. for the
passing of those Alps which look so formidable when covered with snow at
their present distance. Our swallows are calling their clamorous council
round me while I write; but the butterflies still flutter about in the
middle of the day, and grapes are growing more wholesome as with us when
the mornings begin to be frosty. Our deserts, however, do not remind us
of Tuscany: the cherries here are not particularly fine, and the peaches
all part from the stone--miserable things! an English gardener would not
send them to table: the figs too were infinitely finer at Leghorn, and
nectarines have I never seen at all.
Well, here is the opera begun again; some merry wag, Abate Casti I think,
has accommodated and adapted the old story of king Theodore to put in
ridicule the present king of Sweden, who is hated of the emperor for some
political reasons I forget what, and he of course patronises the jester.
Our honest Lombards, however, take no delight in mimicry, and feel more
disgust than pleasure when simplicity is insulted, or distress made more
corrosive by the bitterness of a scoffing spirit. I have tried to see
whether they would laugh at any oddity in their neighbour’s manner,
but never could catch any, except perhaps now and then a sly Roman who
had a liking for it. “I see nothing absurd about the man,” says one
gentleman; “every body may have some peculiarity, and most people have;
but such things make me no sport: let us, when we have a mind to laugh,
go and laugh at Punchinello.”--From such critics, therefore, the king of
Sweden is safe enough, as they have not yet acquired the taste of hunting
down royalty, and crowing with infantine malice, when possessed of the
mean hope that they are able to pinch a noble heart. This old-fashioned
country, which detests the sight of suffering majesty, hisses off its
theatre a performance calculated to divert them at the expence of a
sovereign prince, whose character is clear from blame, and whose personal
weaknesses are protected by his birth and merit; while it is to his open,
free, and politely generous behaviour alone, they owe the knowledge that
he _has_ such foibles. Paisiello, therefore, cannot drive it down by his
best music, though the poor king of Sweden is a Lutheran too, and if any
thing would make them hate him, _that_ would.
One vice, however, sometimes prevents the commission of another, and that
same prevailing idea which prompts these prejudiced Romanists to conclude
him doomed to lasting torments who dares differ from them, though in
points of no real importance, inspires them at the same time with such
compassion for his supposed state of predestinated punishment, that they
rather incline to defend him from further misery, and kindly forbear to
heap ridicule in this world upon a person who is sure to suffer eternal
damnation in the other.
How melancholy that people who possess such hearts should have the head
thus perversely turned! I can attribute it but to one cause; their
strange neglect and forbearance to read and study God’s holy word: for
not a very few of them have I found who seem to disbelieve the Old
Testament entirely, yet remain steadily and strenuously attached to the
precedence their church claims over every other; and who shall wonder
if such a combination of bigotry with scepticism should produce an
evaporation of what little is left of popery from the world, as emetics
triturated with opium are said to produce a sudorific powder which no
earthly constitution can resist?
But the Spanish grandee, who not only entertained but astonished us all
one night with his conversation at Quirini’s Casino at Venice, is arrived
here at Milan, and plays upon the violin. He challenged acquaintance
with us in the street, half invited himself to our private concert
last night, and did us the honour to perform there, with the skill of
a professor, the eager desire of a dilletante, and the tediousness of
a solitary student; he continued to amaze, delight, and fatigue us for
four long hours together. He is a man of prodigious talents, and replete
with variety of knowledge. A new dance has been tried at here too, but
was not well received, though it represents the terrible story which,
under Madame de Genlis’ pen, had such uncommon success among the reading
world, and is called _La sepolta viva_; but as the duchess Girafalco,
whose misfortune it commemorates, is still alive, the pantomime will
probably be suppressed: for she has relations at Milan it seems, and
one lady distinguished for elegance of form, and charms of voice and
manner, told me yesterday with equal sweetness, spirit, and propriety,
that though the king of Naples sent his soldiers to free her aunt from
that horrible dungeon where she had been nine years confined, yet if
her miseries were to become the subject of stage representation, she
could hardly be pronounced happy, or even at ease. Truth is, I would
be loath to see the spirit of producing every one’s private affairs,
true or false, before the public eye, spread into _this_ country: No!
let that humour be confined to Great Britain, where the thousand real
advantages resulting from living in a free state, richly compensate for
the violations of delicacy annexed to it; and where the laws do protect,
though the individuals insult one: but _here_, why the people would be
miserable indeed, if to the oppression which may any hour be exercised
over them by their prince, were likewise to be added the liberties
taken perpetually in London by one’s next door neighbour, of tearing
forth every transaction, and publishing even every conjecture to one’s
disadvantage.
With these reflections, and many others, excited by gratitude to private
friends, and general admiration of a country so justly esteemed, we shall
soon take our leave of Milan, famed for her truly hospitable disposition;
a temper of mind sometimes abused by travellers perhaps, whose birth
and pretensions are seldom or ever inquired into, whilst no people are
more careful of keeping their rank inviolate by never conversing on equal
terms with a countryman or woman of their own, who cannot produce a
proper length of ancestry.
I will not leave them though, without another word or two about their
language, which, though it sounded strangely coarse and broad to be sure,
as we returned home from Florence, Rome, and Venice, I felt sincerely
glad to hear again; and have some notion by their way of pronouncing
_bicchiere_, a word used here to express every thing that holds water,
that our _pitcher_ was probably derived from it; and the Abate Divecchio,
a polite scholar, and an uncommonly agreeable companion, seemed to think
so too. His knowledge of the English language, joined to the singular
power he has over his own elegant Tuscan tongue, made me torment him with
a variety of inquiries about these confusing dialects, which leave me at
last little chance to understand any, whilst a child is called _bambino_
at Florence, _putto_ at Venice, _schiatto_ at Bergamo, and _creatura_ at
Rome; and at Milan they call a wench _tosa_: an apron is _grembiule_
at Florence I think, _traversa_ at Venice, _bigarrol_ at Brescia and
some other parts of Lombardy, _senale_ at Rome, and at Milan _scozzà_. A
foreigner may well be distracted by varieties so striking; but the turn
and idiom differ ten times more still, and I love to hear our Milanese
call an oak _robur_ rather than _quercia_ somehow, and tell a lady when
dressed in white, that she is _tutto in albedine_.
On Friday the 22d of September then we left Milan, and I dropt a tear or
two in remembrance of the many civilities shewn by our kind and partial
companions. The Abate Bianconi made me wild to go to Dresden, and enjoy
the Correggios now moved from Modena to that gallery. I find he thinks
the old Romans pronounced Cicero and Cæsar as the moderns do, and many
English scholars are of the same mind; but here are coins dug up now out
of the Veronese mountain with the word Carolus, spelt _Karrulus_, upon
them quite plain; and Christus was spelt _Kristus_ in Vespasian’s time
it is certain, because of the player’s monument at Rome.--Dr. Johnson, I
remember, was always steady to that opinion; but it is time to leave all
this, and rejoice in my third arrival at gay, cheerful, charming