Vogogna—Country overflowed—The ferry—Isola
Madre—Baveno—Innkeeper—Isola Bella—Ground made in
1670—Arona—Castle of St. Charles of Borromeo—Castle of
Angera—Frescoes in its ruined halls—History of St. Charles of
Borromeo—Early habits—Resides in his diocese at Milan—Strives to
reform the church—Attempt to murder him—A miracle—His conduct
during the plague—Life of St. Anthony—Who cured the young pig—St.
Christopher, who was twelve feet high—The Ticino—Amusement on board
the ferry—The commissary—Sesto Calende—A charge—Somma and Julius
Cæsar’s cypress—Castle of the Visconti—Birthplace of
Teobaldo—Elected Pope when in the Holy Land with Edward the First of
England—Otho Visconti founder of his family’s grandeur—Gallerate—A
threatened beating—The Lord’s Supper on the auberge wall—The
robber’s seven towers—Battle between the Visconti—Unwarranted
preference shown by a ghost—Murder in the castle at Milan—The
murderer poisoned by his wife—Rhò—Milan.
Milan, 25th September.
Once more not “upon the waters” but on the road, though indeed I need
not have changed the quotation, since at Vogogna there is no bridge.
Leaving Domo, the road runs in a straight and even line along the
valley and between the wooded mountains, the Simplon and its snow
closing the glen behind us. The vine, so unsightly in France, here
confers great beauty, rising from the road in terraces of shady
arbours, or winding its flexible branches round cherry-tree and thorn,
the long untrained tendrils waving gracefully, and the rich bunches
hung heavily down. We passed, ere we reached Vogogna, which is six
miles from Domo d’Ossola, several tracts of land ruined by the late
overflow; meadows covered with mud, and Indian corn decaying on the
stalk. “Ha tutto rovinato,” said a poor woman, who was mournfully
gazing at her field of rotting corn. Arrived at Vogogna, the ferry-boat
was on the opposite side, and on ours, waiting to be transported
thither, were troops of horned cattle lying on the sand, and an English
carriage. Seeing there was small chance of speedy removal, as we could
distinguish on the other side a most obstinate cow, who was first to be
deposited on ours, we dismounted to sit patiently on the crags
scattered about us, left probably by the Anza, which joins the Tosa,
here rushing down through the valley of Anzasca, whose opening lay
behind us, and from its source in the glaciers of Monte Rosa. The
stonework, whence sprung the bridge which once transported travellers
to Vogogna, remains on each side the river, but the bridge carried away
in 1834, Italian indolence leaves unreplaced; substituting the worst of
ferry-boats, small and without barriers. The English gentleman, the
inhabitant of the carriage, had got out with his daughter, and come
near to admire Fanny and kindly yield his turn to us. Our horses
started at their unusual conveyance when led on board, particularly
mine, who we feared would spring into the water, but our good natured
countryman insisting on lending his assistance, the difficulty seemed
surmounted, till we found that the two boatmen, who had contentedly
ferried across one cow, were now preparing to drive six oxen on board,
an addition which, from the size of the boat, if it did not frighten,
was likely to force our horses over. We fortunately comprehended that
there was an alternative, and having before paid the fare, gave three
times the sum for _buona mano_, and were allowed to cross without them.
This had been a long delay, and to redeem lost time we cantered along,
leaving behind vines and wood and much of the road’s beauty,
substituting marsh and bare mountain. Arrived at Fariolo we found
compensation, for it is the first village on the lake border, and the
lake, blue and glassy, soothing in its calm and silence, was beautiful
beyond description. There is here an inn which appears a good one, and
had been recommended to us by the master of that of Domo, but the stage
would have been too short.
The first visible of the Borromean islands is the green and lovely
Isola Madre, backed by bold mountains, opening and receding to admit
the lake which stretches between them, completing its length of
fifty-four miles, for the portion along which we were riding forms its
west arm only; broken crags and wooded promontories, crowned by church,
convent, and castle, bounded the shore opposite and parallel to our
broad road carried under cliffs and green hills, their abrupt sides
covered with graceful vineyards, and their summit shaded by luxuriant
oak and sweet chestnut. We were disturbed in our admiration only by
swarms of flies, which made our horses kick violently; I personally, by
a half fear of the bright water, along whose edge this noble causeway
has been made, sometimes rising many feet above its level, and here, as
at the Simplon, the only obstacle between it and my starting little
steed, low granite posts unconnected and far apart. We passed the
quarries of pink granite which take so high a polish, and arrived at
Baveno, but it was early still, and the innkeeper has at present a
character for being both dear and insolent, while his house has one for
dirt; it is a pity, for it is well situated, with only the road and
some fine trees between it and the lake. This is the person, who,
having fleeced unmercifully an English party we met at Vevay, said in
reply to a remonstrance, “What the prices of Milan, or of any other
place may be, I never inquire; these are mine!” so having walked our
horses towards the inn whence this dignitary had issued at our approach
with a self-satisfied air and two waiters, we cantered by, though the
Monte Monterone rises behind the village, commanding from its summit a
view of the Lago de Orta on one side, and of the Lago Maggiore on the
other; we were yet too fresh from a mountain pass to desire a second. I
more regretted wanting time to visit the Isola Bella, distant but a
twenty-five minutes’ row from this spot, but it looks perhaps to more
advantage seen from the shore, its ten amphitheatrical terraces rising
green and glowing with its orange and citron forests from the bosom of
the blue water; and the lake supporting it gently, and smiling to
reflect it, as if it were proud of its presence, and bare its exotic
carefully. On the northern side of the island, that nearest Baveno, the
still unfinished palace rises abruptly from the lake, as do the inn and
a few poor dwellings almost by its side. Beyond them is a grove of
laurel and myrtle and the hardier shrubs, this exposition not being
favourable to all, for the terraced gardens have a southerly aspect,
and it is there that the aloes and camphor tree and cactus grow, with
the Alps looking down on them, as if in their own tropical soil. This
was a barren slate rock. Here, as well as on the other islands, naked
crags also, was the now fruitful earth transported by human labour in
1670, by order of Count Vitaliano Borromeo, whose descendant still
makes the palace his summer residence. Perhaps the hand of art is too
visible, and the Isola Bella less striking from its individual beauty
than its glorious position; but if not deserving the exaggerated praise
of some, it still less merits the contempt of others. I prefer indeed
the Isola Madre; for its forest of laurel, cypress and gigantic pine,
though planted on a made soil also, grows in the wild beauty of nature,
sheltering exotic birds, which live and multiply in freedom, and the
plants of southern climes flourishing in the open air.
We could distinguish the Isolino, the smallest of these islands,
nestling under the promontory of Pallanza. The Isola Pescatore lies
near the Isola Bella, like the beggar at the rich man’s gate, covered
with the dirty hovels of the fishermen, and without a green leaf to
enliven it. We rode on, viewing them only from the shore, though on the
Isola Bella is the bay-tree bearing the word Battaglia, carved by
Napoleon’s knife shortly before the battle of Marengo. The road
continued to skirt the lake, raised high above its waters, crossing a
fine bridge over a torrent, and passing through Stresa, where boats may
be hired to visit the islands, and Belgirate with its villas and
terraces of flowers. The sun set as we rode through the last, and
though the cool evening air was a relief, and the Swiss lakes sink into
mediocrity beside the beauty of this, the loneliness of the road caused
by the broken Simplon made me anxious to arrive ere nightfall; but the
distance at which we saw Arona, built at the promontory’s foot, and the
long curve of the road to arrive there, soon proved that this was
impossible, though, at the first glimpse, the extreme clearness of the
atmosphere deceives as to space. I was glad, as the sky darkened, to
meet custom-house officers on the look out for smugglers.
Pleasure-boats and fishing-smacks were silently moving along the water,
wanting the neatness and gaiety of those of Geneva, but manned by most
picturesque forms. My first impression of Italian beauty was a
favourable one, for from Domo d’Ossola to Arona I hardly saw one
peasant not handsome. Arona is picturesquely situated, the spire of its
church towering high above the old houses which descend to the water’s
edge, and the whitening remains of the ruined castle in which St.
Charles of Borromeo was born covering the tall crag which commands the
town. On the summit of the hill, ere arriving at Arona, we could
distinguish St. Charles’s statue looking black against the glowing sky,
but having little effect at that distance, though it is sixty-six feet
in height, and its pedestal forty-four; neither did I think the
attitude good; one hand holds a breviary, the other is extended to
bless the place of his birth, but the arm seems cramped. It had become
quite dark, and the road rather unsafe, for it is narrower and higher
above the lake. The full moon was rising slowly from behind the hill of
Angera opposite us, showing herself above the ruined castle which
surmounts it, and resting on its towers like a glory. The castle and
village once belonged to the dukes of Milan, and in the deserted halls
are still some fresco paintings, commemorating events of the life of
Archbishop Otho Visconti. There was just sufficient cloud in the sky to
make its blue seem more bright and pure, and the reflection of the moon
which crossed the lake to our feet danced so dazzlingly that the eye
pained to watch it. We had some trouble in forcing the horses past a
lime-kiln. The strong light flung across the road mingling with the
moonbeam, and falling on the fine dark faces of the Italians who stood
near; the ruin and that sky and water, made a picture for Vernet. I
dare say we shall never forget the moon rising over the Lago Maggiore.
We found our way to the inn with difficulty, through narrow streets of
lofty houses, into which the moonlight could not penetrate; and as
Arona boasts no lamps, would have been wholly dark but for the lights
glimmering from the windows to make their crookedness visible.
La Posta is clean, its owners civil, and dinners good, but the
nakedness of Italian rooms is melancholy. In France, even in an humble
inn, you will find the mirror over the chimney, with the clock and
vases of gaudy flowers to decorate it, and a comfortable chair, and
curtains to bed and window; but here the iron bedstead has none, the
chimney has no looking-glass, one or two upright straw chairs and a
deal table only on the dirty brick floor; and looking from the
furniture to the plastered walls, it is difficult not to fancy oneself
either in the cell of a prison or the ward of an hospital. I must say
in La Posta’s favour, that all the apartments to the lake, which are
the best, were already occupied when we arrived, so that having dined
and passed half an hour at the window of the corridor behind our rooms,
looking out on its beauty, I proceeded to my deal table and the
contemplation of the Life of San Carlo Borromeo. Pursuing my old habit
of borrowing a book to summon sleep, I am likely to read through a
strange library. The colossal statue is but half an hour’s walk from
the inn: the head, hands, and feet only, are of bronze, the drapery
composed of sheets of beaten copper, supported within by a species of
stone pyramid, crossed by bars of iron, which defend it from the
violence of the winds. It is possible to clamber up in the dark, making
these serve for ladder, first entering by an aperture between the folds
of the robe; but as the promenade would be impossible for a lady, and
the temptation to sit in the saint’s nose was not strong enough to
attract D——, we neither made a pilgrimage to his shrine, contenting
ourselves with his history.
Know then that he was born in 1538, in that ruined castle on the crag,
the mild child of pious parents, enthusiastic from his infancy, passing
his hours of recreation in the castle chapel, alone and in prayer—when
taken from a life of contemplation, which might have weakened his
intellects, studying with none of the relaxations of his age at Pavia
and Milan—at twelve years old provided with a rich abbey, whose
possession was hereditary in his family; and soon after, the Cardinal
De’ Medici, his uncle, becoming Pope Pius the Fourth, he ceded to him a
second and a priory. His elder brother dying in 1562, and his family in
consequence beseeching him to abandon the profession to which he was
yet unbound, and marry for the sake of his ancient line, to extinguish
at once their hopes of his doing so, he entered into holy orders and
was ordained bishop. It is strange that, before this and his brother’s
death, he wore the purple as cardinal at the age of three-and-twenty;
occupied divers posts of importance; taking part in the temporal
government of the pope’s states as well as in the affairs of the
church, protecting letters, and establishing an academy at the Vatican.
His biographer says he communicated to Pius the Fourth, infirm and
feeble, the energy so needful to him; gave the impulse wanting to the
deliberation of the Council of Trent, and prosecuted the reform of the
catholic church, so necessary in his time. At the Roman court he had
lived in splendour, but obtaining in 1565 the papal permission to
reside in his diocese, he practised in his own house a reform and
austerity unlikely to find imitators. He condemned himself to perpetual
abstinence and long fasts; gave up his other benefices, and resigned
his inheritance to his family; divided the revenues of his
archbishopric into three portions—the first for the poor, the second
for the wants of the church, the third for his own, and of the
employment of this last rendered up a strict account in his provincial
councils.
Having found the diocese of Milan in a most deplorable state from the
negligence, ignorance, and scandalous conduct of the clergy, he so
toiled to produce a better state of things that, despite his patience
and charity, his enemies among the religious orders, which had shaken
off all subordination, were virulent; and many and foremost of these,
as it had hitherto been most shameless and irregular, was that of the
“Umiliati.” One day, during mass, while the prelate prayed with his
whole household in his archiepiscopal chapel, and at the moment that
the anthem “Non turbetur cor,” &c., was commenced, a brother of the
order, named Farina, who had taken his post, seemingly in prayer also,
at the entrance of the chapel, but five or six paces distant from St.
Charles, who was kneeling before the altar, fired his harquebuss at
him. The chant ceased, the consternation was general, but the saint,
notwithstanding that he believed himself mortally wounded, made a sign
that the service should continue. Rising up when the prayer was done,
the ball, which had deposited itself in his robe, fell at his feet!!!
The assassin, and three monks, his accomplices, were punished with
death, though against St. Charles’s will; and their order, which had
existed from the eleventh century, was abolished by a bull of Pope Pius
the Fifth, and the archbishop employed its confiscated revenues in
founding colleges and hospitals. The event which best proves him worthy
of his reputation was the breaking out of the plague at Milan. He had
been on a visit to a distant part of his diocese, and on the receipt of
the fatal news, notwithstanding the advice of his council, he hurried
back, and during the six months through which it lasted, sought
fearlessly contagion where it existed in greatest violence,
administered the sacraments in person, kneeled by the bedside of the
dying, weeping over their sufferings; and to provide at least for their
temporal wants, parted with all the relics of his former splendour. He
did not fall a victim, but his strength insensibly gave way, and when
the scourge had passed by, and the archbishop had resumed his pastoral
visits, a low fever, which undermined his worn-out constitution,
obliged him to return to Milan, where he died, aged forty-six years. He
had chosen for sepulchre a vault near the choir in the cathedral of
Milan, and here his modern biographer observes that the numberless
miracles performed by his remains forced Pope Paul the Fifth, in 1610,
to verify his title to canonization, and authorize the prayers long
before addressed to him by the faithful.
With the life of San Carlo our host had lent another volume from his
stores, perhaps from our curiosity concerning his native saint,
thinking us on the road to conversion, and that it was right to light
our way by a few miracles more. The volume proved one of the renowned
“Golden Legends of Saints,” compiled by the Dominican Voragine,
archbishop of Genoa in the year 1298. Between asleep and awake, I read
the lives of saints Anthony and Christopher, and found that St.
Anthony, having been tempted on the seven mortal sins, and beaten by
the demons angry at their failure, tamed a lion about to devour his
monks, and obliged him to take service in the convent as lay brother!
that he then went to the court of Barcelona, where a sow brought to him
in her mouth one of her litter, born without feet or eyes, and, laying
it down before the saint, pulled him by the robe imploringly,—as much
as to say, “Pray bless it and cure it,” which St. Anthony did, and is
therefore represented in company of a young pig, as this one for the
remainder of his life never left him.
Saint Christopher had a hideous countenance, and was twelve feet high.
Being strong and brave he was calculated to serve some great prince,
and resolved on selecting for master the most powerful. He offered
himself to a mighty king, fought and conquered for him; but Christopher
had a bad habit of swearing, and he noticed that his majesty made at
every oath the sign of the cross, and asked him why he did so. The
monarch replied, he was afraid of the devil. “If that be the case,”
thought Christopher, “the devil must be a more powerful master,
therefore I will serve the devil.” Having formed this determination, he
set forth to a desert, and there found a knightly company, one of whom,
most terrible of aspect, asked him what he wanted. “I am looking,” said
Christopher, “for my lord the devil.” “I am he,” answered the knight;
and Christopher, very joyous, became his servant. But one day, passing
before a cross, he observed that the devil trembled, and he asked him
why. The devil confessed it was because the Saviour was more mighty
than him.
Christopher, in consequence, left his service, but this time was
embarrassed as to that he was henceforth to perform. He applied for
advice to a hermit, who desired him to fast; but Christopher, being
twelve feet high, did not approve of the counsel, and the hermit
desired him to take up his abode on the shores of a very rapid river,
and carry over for charity those who had business on the other side.
This Christopher, now on the way to be a saint, performed for some
time; and one day, sleeping in his hut, he was wakened by a child’s
voice, which said, “Christopher, come forth and bear me over;” and
going as he was called, he found a young child on the shore, who begged
he would lift him on his shoulders. St. Christopher took his staff and
entered the river, and the river rose by degrees more and more, and the
weight of the child increased till it became insupportable, and yet
Christopher, though about to drown, did not let go, and by dint of
struggling arrived on the beach, and said, “Child, that art so weighty,
who art thou?” and the child answered, “Do not marvel, for you have
carried the whole world and him who created it.”
Christopher understood that he had borne the Lord on his shoulders, and
became a great saint. At last, desiring martyrdom, he allowed himself
to be bound and carried before a pagan monarch, and when the latter
insulted him, he said he was bound because it was his will to be so,
and that if he chose, he could ravage his city still. His majesty
defying him to do so, he broke his bonds, destroyed all the pagan
temples, then allowed himself to be bound once more, and his head cut
off,—predicting that his blood would be a sovereign balm for all
maladies, which it proved; for the king and executioners were struck
with blindness, and bathing their eyes in his blood, saw and were well
again.
September 26th.
Left Arona for Milan, a beautiful morning. We followed the lake, though
no longer near its edge, but the road winding through a grove of fine
chestnut-trees, and the blue water seen through the vistas made by
their branches. Arrived at its extremity, at the turn of the road we
quitted its shore, crossing the plain which here bounds it; with the
view of its bright expanse, (Arona with its ruin, and Angera opposite,)
now on our left, and behind us the splendid ridge of Monterosa. We rode
along the flat till we entered a stunted oak wood, and issuing from it,
were about to leave the Piedmontese frontier, and cross the Ticino
(which at this spot issues from the lake), to Sesto Calende. The
douaniers came to demand the passport, and retiring withal, spent half
an hour in its examination, during which time we sate on our horses,
looking at the lake, and the ferry, improperly called Pont Volant,
approaching most leisurely—stared at ourselves by a dozen women, who
pressed round us, some veiled by the elegant mantilla, and the poorer
wearing the silver or pewter ornaments, ranged round the back of the
head, which, being hollow and of the exact shape, look like a crown of
spoons; all with the handsome faces and most undaunted dark eyes
peculiar to their nation, and here I think also to their sex; for the
men have an expression of effeminacy and the females of hardihood.
The passport returned and the flying bridge arrived, we led our horses
on board, during which operation Fanny in gratitude pulled me off the
plank into a foot and a half of water. The ferry-boat, unlike the last,
was a barge, and had barriers; and during the crossing, which occupied
three quarters of an hour, a stone-deaf man beat the flies off, and a
blind one played the violin, and sang far from badly. They are friends,
and find companionship convenient, each supplying to the other the
sense wanting. They divided most amicably the money we gave them, and
having paid our fare, and the buona mano, and then something more,
under what pretext I forget, we landed through the water again, and now
in Austria’s dominions. A soldier desired me to follow to the
commissary, while D—— remained with the horses: so, obeying the
mandate, I found him lodged at the end of a dirty street and top of a
dark stair. He asked me fifty questions quite irrelevant, fidgeted
exceedingly, because D——’s description was not down in the passport,
and at last, Oh, Wisdom! desired me to dictate one, which he wrote
down, and being “Middle height, grey eyes,” and otherwise as explicit,
would suit four-fifths of her majesty’s subjects. He then made me a
polite bow, said there was nothing to pay, and we went on again.
Sesto Calende and its environs enjoy a very indifferent reputation. I
can say nothing of the honesty of its inhabitants, but a great deal of
their incivility. Walking our horses through the town, the boys hooted
us as usual, but arrived at the outskirts, they were joined and
augmented by youths and men, till there were about thirty of these last
following at a few paces behind us, and shouting with the whole force
of their lungs. We bore it till it became insupportable, and at last
turned the horses, who were excited by the noise, and fretting at being
insulted, and I think perfectly understood they were to scatter the
enemy, for they darted on them at full speed; Fanny, in particular,
very warlike, with her small ears laid back, and her heels thrown up to
make way. The road was clear in a second, and when our charge was
executed and we quietly walked on, I suppose they returned to the town,
as no one followed us farther. Between Sesto and Somma we crossed wild
tracts of melancholy moor, and here and there a stunted copse. At Somma
is the ancient and superb cypress tree, averred to have been a sapling
in Julius Cæsar’s time, and certainly measuring twenty feet round its
stem, and a hundred and twenty in height. For the sake of its green old
age the road diverged from the straight line by Napoleon’s order. We
passed on our right, and within the village, a castle belonging to the
Visconti family, in which was born Teobaldo, who was archdeacon of
Liege, and elected pope in 1271, when absent in the Holy Land in
company of Edward the First of England, then Prince of Wales. When the
news of his promotion reached him, he ascended the pulpit and
pronounced a brilliant discourse, taking for text the two verses of the
137th Psalm:—
“If I forget thee, O Jerusalem! may my right hand forget her cunning.”
“If I do not remember thee, let my tongue cleave to the roof of my
mouth; if I prefer not Jerusalem above my chief joy.”
Arrived in Italy, Teobaldo, become Gregory the Tenth, exerted himself
to promote a crusade, and to accomplish his end commenced by striving
to reconcile Guelphs with Ghibellines, and to pacify Italy. It was he
who first made the law, after his death revoked, and then again put in
force, inclosing the cardinals in conclave after the decease of a pope,
till they should have elected his successor, to prevent the papal chair
from again remaining vacant through their tardiness, as it had done
before his accession, two years and nine months. The founder of his
family’s grandeur was Otho Visconti, born in 1208, created archbishop
of Milan by Pope Urban the Fourth, in opposition to the La Torre, then
chief of the Republic; but after long wars and various fortune,
presented with the perpetual lordship of the Milanese territory by the
people, weary of the cruelty and exertions of his descendant Napoleon,
and profiting by his defeat to free themselves from the yoke of his
family, substituting in its place that of the Visconti, whose
sovereignty (with one brief interval) was destined to flourish during
nearly two hundred years.
At Somma and Gallerate, which is the next town on our way, have been
found many Roman antiquities, inscriptions, and medals, and also arms:
for near Somma was fought the first great battle between Hannibal and
Scipio, in which the latter was defeated; and previously that of
Marcellus against the Insubrians. Gallerate takes its name, say the
antiquarians, from the legion Gallerata, encamped there under the
command of the consuls Marcellus and Cornelius. Beyond these we were in
the vine and corn country; for the first is trained to climb the trees,
oak or elm, planted in avenues for the purpose, dropping from one to
the other in deep festoons,—a mode of cultivation which seems wise as
well as ornamental, as it leaves a much larger portion of ground free
for other produce. The plain is here bounded by no mountains, and the
country interesting only as the vintage had begun; and the peasantry,
proceeding to or returning from it, reproducing at every step the
beautiful picture in the Louvre by Robert, who died so early and
unhappily: the oxen drawing slowly along the heavy car, with its barrel
laden with grapes; the men with red handkerchiefs tied round their
black hair, and male and female with legs bare and bronzed by the
climate, but with heads of surpassing beauty. I particularly noticed
one girl who had the fair hair and dark eyes, so seldom united, and the
very perfection of Grecian form: that French artists should reap
benefit in studying such features beneath such skies is not
extraordinary. We found little or no shade, for the road was bordered
only by low hedges of acacia, now in flower, and our horses missed the
bright streams and stone reservoirs by the road-side in Switzerland,
and impatiently sought muddy water in ditches not yet dried since the
rains. Suffering from thirst ourselves, D—— hailed some of the
vintagers, and they brought us a quantity of grapes, to which those of
France bear no comparison. Fanny turned her head to ask and receive her
share, and in gratitude walked on with unusual gentleness, though with
the reins on her neck, as I feared to drop any part of my burden. We
passed henceforth through a succession of villages, boasting most
savage inhabitants, exciting the wrath of D——, lately accustomed to
the more civilized Swiss of the German cantons. Before one auberge
stood a half drunken crowd, one of whom, as we went slowly by, seized a
long pole to rush on me withal, and was with difficulty held back by
two of his comrades; the rest laughed; and I, who had no expectation of
an attack, (not thinking a lady’s habit would wake such animosity,) as
mine enemy struggled hard, and I did not know how the contest might
end, thought proper not to wait to see, and we rode away. I dislike
their country churches,—begun with overweening pomp and left
unfinished when the funds have failed—their domes and pillared façades
unsuited to their situation among trees and cabins, and far less
picturesque than those of Switzerland built on their green or craggy
mounds, with pointed windows and spires of grey stone. We passed
crosses innumerable, many bearing, in lieu of the Saviour’s figure, the
sponge, nails, and spear, carved in wood; and small cemeteries, the
recesses of the low walls which inclose them, gaudily painted in fresco
with saints and martyrs. On a wall of a miserable inn near Milan, the
village artist has depicted a Lord’s supper! We rode through the
Cascina delle corde; or, as it is called, the Cascina del buon Jesu! a
little to the right of which is seen the town of Busto, whose church
was designed by Bramante. Of the seven old towers, formerly the refuge
of a famous robber-band, there remains but one standing. Near
Legnarello, on the shore of the little river Olona, is Parabiago,
celebrated as the site of a battle fought in February, 1339, by
Luchino, third son of Maffeo Visconti, against his cousin Lodvisio and
a rebel army. His horse had been killed under him, and his casque
broken, and himself bound to an oak tree, the blood gushing from his
wounds; till, the tide of fortune changing, he was delivered by a party
of Savoyards, and Lodvisio in his place taken captive. A wondrous
apparition startled, it was said, both armies, and put a stop to the
carnage. Saint Ambrose, who in the fourth century was archbishop of
Milan, suddenly arose between the rebels and allies. That he should
have left his grave to protect Luchino, would at least prove he
interested himself in an unworthy subject: for Luchino’s only merit
seems to have been courage. He advised and directed the murder of his
brother Marco (the bravest and perhaps the best of this stirring
family), when Azzo, the nephew of both, as the son of their elder
brother, was lord of Milan. Marco had distinguished himself in the
service of the Ghibelline party, and choosing that no political
consideration should interfere with its welfare, he saw indignantly
that his brother Galeazzo negotiated with the pope, and denounced his
proceedings to Louis of Bavaria. Galeazzo, his son Azzo, and his
brother, were in consequence arrested; but Marco was no sooner aware of
what his imprudence had caused, than he repented of it, solicited their
liberty of the emperor, with an earnestness not to be silenced; himself
aided in supplying their ransom, and, unable to furnish the entire sum,
consented to remain hostage till its completion.
Galeazzo died, and Azzo was in no haste to deliver his uncle; but
Marco, confided to a portion of the emperor’s army, so won the hearts
of the soldiers placed to guard him, that they named him their general.
Heading them, he surprised and took possession of Lucca, sold it to
Spinola to satisfy his soldiers with its price, and returned to Milan
in July, the citizens who had rejoiced in his triumphs—the soldiers
whom he preceded in danger—the peasants whose fields he had
guarded—flocking forth to meet him.
His nephew Azzo, and his brother Luchino, invited him to a festival in
their castle of Milan, and when the feasting was over and the night far
advanced, and Marco was about to retire, Azzo requested his private
hearing of a few words, and led him to an apartment, whose windows
looked on the public square. As the door closed on them, hired
assassins rushed on and strangled Marco, flinging his dishonoured
remains forth where the people, impotent to avenge, might see it and
shudder as they passed at the dark end of their warrior. Azzo died in
his bed; and Luchino, having inherited his authority, persecuted all
who had held place or power during his reign. His severity causing a
conspiracy to deprive him of his lordship, and elevate in his stead his
nephews, sons of his brother Stefano, he discovered the plot. The
conspirators died by the gibbet, by torture and famine; his nephews
were banished; but from that time the sombre disposition of Luchino
grew still more severe, and his pale and menacing brow never unbent
thenceforward. He had married twice; his second wife was Isabella of
Fiesco, a lady of rare beauty but shameless conduct, on whose account
he had exiled his nephew Galeazzo. Reconciled to her husband, Isabella,
under pretext of devotion, craved permission to make a pilgrimage to
Venice. A splendid flotilla was got ready on the river Po, and the
fairest dames of Milan accompanied their liege lady. Ugolino of
Gonzagua, son of the lord of Mantua, now found favour in her eyes. He
detained her some time in his father’s states, and accompanied her to
Venice, whither she repaired for the festival of the Ascension. On her
return to Milan the details of this journey became whispered abroad,
and the mutual accusations of the ladies of the court at last brought
the tale to Luchino’s ear. He listened in silence, for he meditated a
fearful revenge, and Isabella, ere she heard she was betrayed, read his
knowledge and her own fate in his dark features; and resolving to
forestall him in crime, mixed poison in his drink, and he died in the
castle wherein he had murdered Marco.
We passed through Rhò, a village of some importance; beyond are
rice-grounds and extensive and unhealthy marshes. The entrance to Milan
is fine: an avenue a mile in length of tulipiferas, now about to
blossom, with a grove on either side, conducting to Napoleon’s
memorial, the Arco del Sempione. Our passports examined, we crossed, as
the sun set, the extensive exercising ground, and the courts of the
building now serving for barracks, once the fortified castle of the
dukes of Milan, but still retaining its ancient aspect; built of dark
brick with heavy battlements and covered walls; that towards the town
flanked by two massive round towers, on which cannon are now pointed,
ready at need to awe the town.
We summoned an idler to be our guide, and without him should have
failed in arriving ere midnight, for Milan boasts an incomprehensible
collection of crooked streets, and an insolent population, who would
have lent no aid in the labyrinth. Young and old crowded about us,
almost preventing our horses from moving forward, and hooted manfully.
Yet I am told the governor’s daughter and officer’s wives ride
constantly in the Corso, but not daring to offer insult to the Austrian
masters, who I heard with satisfaction make no difficulty of correcting
with the blow of a cane or the flat of the sword, a word from a
refractory vassal, they compensate for the privation when an
opportunity offers, as now. We rode by the beautiful cathedral, and
through more winding alleys, some so narrow that two carriages cannot
pass, made dangerous for horses by the bands of flat pavement laid down
to facilitate the roll of the wheels, and arrived at dusk at San Marco.
I do not think it a good inn: its rooms are large, but dirty; its
servants numerous, but inattentive; and its cookery greasy beyond
description.