the environs of the inn: just opposite my window there is a steep
verdant bank shaded by tall cypress. The hills above are studded with
chestnut, ilex, beech, the wild cherry, and vast assemblage of pretty
trees. Passed through a neat town, to which our inn was a suburb. Kept
ascending for miles. A magnificent torrent roaring at our feet and
the sharp pinnacles of the Apennines springing above our heads. The
industry of the inhabitants is manifested by their cultivating every
little spot that is accessible to the foot of man, and success warrants
their enterprise, as the production is abundant, and the walls prop up
the little field.
These mountains must have afforded a secure asylum to those numerous
predatory bands which infested this delightful country in former days;
the bold robber might bid defiance to the vigilance of the _Holy
Brother_. Indeed, the wretched state of society about the Middle
Ages must have rendered travelling a service of danger, from the
perpetual wars between each petty State, the burdensome jurisdiction of
the barons, and the outrages committed by outlaws.
We dined at the post-house within 300 yards of the top of the mountain
which we had been crawling up all day. The summit is the boundary of
Tuscany and the frontier of the Modenese State. We began descending
this side of the mountains; much more beautiful than the other,
springs of very clear, cool water afford a delicious draught to the
exhausted, weary traveller. Torrents and cascades tumbling from the
heights between thick groves of pines down the sides of the mountains
till they reach the torrent in the valley, which is _there_ called
the Scoltenna, but soon after changes its name and becomes the Panaro.
Snow is still lying in the crevices of the mountain; the rays of the
setting sun produce a pretty effect upon the white masses intermingled
with woods and sharp rocks. The _chaussée_ in these States as fine
as any in Europe; indeed, except those in the Austrian dominions, I
believe no roads can be compared to those of Italy. The peasants work
in their agricultural toils armed--a sad memento of the terrors of
those times when such things were necessary. How dreadful that the most
useful members of the community were exposed, whilst labouring for the
benefit of mankind, to outrages that demanded self-defence!
At Barigazzo, a small volcano like Pietra Mala. A flame issues from the
ground and burns without having anything to feed on, till extinguished
either by a high wind or by water; it is used to burn lime. Muscovite
is found in large quantities in this mountain. To the S.-E. of the
village, upon the top of the mountain, a large lake, called Lago
Santo, because blessed by the Bishop of Lucca; it has most miraculous
properties. The night was heavenly: the splendour of the stars above
and the millions spangled upon the surface of the earth formed by the
Luccioli, produced a glittering scene that dazzled the eye; to add to
the brilliancy, a black cloud, distant in the horizon, emitted flashes
of bright lightning. The vivacity of the light almost too much. Such
must have been the splendour surrounding the God of Thunder when he
showed himself _dans tous ses atours_ to the astonished eyes of
the curious Semele. We travelled all night and reached Modena at 5
o’clock in the morning.
[Sidenote: THE PLAINS OF LOMBARDY]
_Thursday, 4th July._--I already feel the difference between the
heat of Lombardy and the refreshing breezes of Florence. I am just
going to see the Guercinos at the Palace. _L’homme propose, Dieu
dispose_, the _custode_ was eating, drinking, or sleeping; I
could not gain admittance. Arrived at Parma about 6 o’clock. Slept
there. I saw Parma last October. The ‘St. Jerome,’ the ‘Madonna della
Scodella,’ the ceiling of a dome in a church, are some of the finest of
_Correggio_.
Marat has resumed his functions in the Convention. We crossed a dozen
ferries in the night, and reached Placentia soon after daybreak.
_5th July._--Saw the Ducal Palace, the equestrian statue,
Cathedral, and St. Augustin. Alberoni was a native of this city.
Crossed the Po at the gates of the town. Very near meeting with an ugly
accident in getting out of the boat; the banks were steep, the mud very
deep, the carriage rolled considerably back into the water. Our cook
we were obliged to pass as a Swiss, Frenchmen being refused admittance
into the Milanese. Rice plantations and deep sands to Lodi. Arrived at
Milan at 12 o’clock. The Palmerstons, Sir Benjamin Thompson,[69] and
Sir C. Blagden here.
_Saturday, 6th._--The heat unbearable; close suffocating feel,
like a hot day in England. Miss Carter and Sir Benjamin dined with
me. After dinner, instead of the custom of the country to take the
siesta, I took a long-winded discourse from Sir Benjamin upon politics,
happiness, morality, etc. He thinks Dumouriez was bribed by the
Austrians throughout his career. Saw my old acquaintance Csse. Maxe.
Her present _cavaliere servente_ is her husband’s brother, and
her husband is the _bon ami_ of his elder brother’s wife, the
Marchesina di Litta. One must learn not to stare at these connections
in Italy; they are not uncommon.
_7th July, Sunday._--Left Milan at 10 o’clock. We intend, if the
Grand St. Bernard is free of snow _and French_, to cross it, and
get by that route into Switzerland. Crossed the Ticino at Buffalora;
it was very low compared to the floods of last year. Found letters
pressing us to stop at Château de Masin in the valley of D’Aost on
our way to the mountain. We shall there find the Trevors, T. P., and
Swinburne. We slept at Vercelli, for though it was not late when we
arrived, yet it was too far to Masin to attempt to reach it by their
supper hour.
_8th._--Set off at 4 o’clock in the morning, changed horses at
Germano, and those horses conveyed us hither. This antique structure is
a baronial castle upon the summit of a high, isolated rock, overlooking
a rich plain in which the Dora Baltea meanders fantastically. To the
north is the entrance into the valley D’Aost, backed by the Alps,
among which is St. Bernard. To the east the Plain of Lombardy, with a
distant view of Milan. Villages, towns, lakes, rivers, hills, and all
the beauties of nature and art may be discovered from the lofty towers
of this venerable abode. This castle has undergone many sieges from the
French; before the introduction of gunpowder it was impregnable, and
even since its use it has held out. In 1554 Maréchal de Biron received
just under my bedchamber window the wound which made him a cripple for
life. The old walls in many places are loaded with the cannon balls
which have been poured by volleys into them. The room we dine in is
vaulted and bomb proof; the ceiling and cornices are decorated by the
arms of Masin quartered with those of the greatest families. I saw
those of Austria in several escutcheons.
[Sidenote: CHÂTEAU DE MASIN]
The Count Masin is a well-bred man of a certain age, hospitable, and
doing with dignity the honours of his house, where plenty and luxury
are united. He is proud of his high descent and alliances. He showed me
amongst the armorial bearings a stirrup with the motto ‘Ferme toi.’ An
ancestor of his in battle lost all his weapons, desperate he took his
stirrups and assaulted his antagonist, and his sovereign Lord in honour
of the achievement allowed him to take the quartering as an emblem of
his courage.
In the evening we drove about the alleys; high, clipped hedges on each
side defended us from the evening breeze, which in this high spot is
more than a _breeze_ generally, but was this evening insufferably
hot, more from a stagnation in the air than from the positive degree
of heat. The doubts increase about the passage of the St. Bernard; at
all events we intend going to Aost. In the evening the letters from
Turin arrived. I had a letter from Ld. Henry,[70] and he writes out
of spirits; complains of solitude. He dislikes his appointment to
Stockholm. A courier saw Mayence in flames on the 27th June; if it has
fallen it will facilitate our journey up the Rhine.
We retired early to our rooms. My apartment was curious and
magnificent. It consisted of a bedroom, a dressing-room, a
receiving-room, besides accommodation near for my _valet-de-chambre_
and my maid. The bedroom is a bastion, which makes inside a delightful
circular room; a balcony goes round it, and from the spot where I was
this minute, from it down to the fosse, is upwards of 100 feet. A
private door opens upon a spiral staircase, which carries one to the
_porte-de-secours_. I dismissed my maid, and sat me down to write,
read, and think. The wind rose and made a most furious noise in my
chimney, and in the vaulted rooms beneath. I could not help thinking
that if an ancestor of Masin’s were to appear and tell me some horrid
tale of his unburied bones rotting in a dungeon in the towers of the
castle, a more hideous noise and crash would not usher him in than
what I have heard. In the midst of this reflection I perceived upon
the large glass on the left of me, and which stands opposite to the
doors of a long suite of apartments, all open, a glimmering light, and
I heard at the same moment a noise from the rooms. I am no coward with
respect to supernatural appearances, but I was out of spirits, and the
solitude of my situation apart from the rest of the family contributed
at that moment to give me a qualm. I looked at the glass, and perceived
the light stronger and some white drapery flowing behind it. _Pour le
coup_ I trembled and hid my face. A minute brought Swinburne with a
night taper, in his dressing gown, to my sight. I laughed at my fears.
He came from Mrs. Trevor, who was ill, to get some camphor julep from
me. I locked my door and was courageous enough to go to bed without
rousing anybody.
_Tuesday, 9th._--We were to have gone this morning, but our
journey is deferred. Passed the day pleasantly enough. Trevor went to
Turin to meet General Grenville. Mrs. Trevor crosses the mountain. We
shall, if it is possible for any of us to go across.
[Sidenote: VAL D’AOST]
How much I detest the prospect of a residence in England, even though
it be but for a few weeks; country, climate, manners, everything is
odious to me. _Il faudra se résoudre à souffrir._ Patience,
_pazienza_. Left the hospitable castle early in the morning. We
descended the steep hill, upon which rises majestically the castle,
into the plain towards Ivrea, an ancient fortified town distant only
five miles from Masin. The walls are now repairing, and the whole is
getting into a state of defence with the utmost expedition. The King of
Sardinia is now making a progress through this part of his dominions.
_This_ costs him 25,000_l._ in useless pomp, and he receives
a subsidy from England of 200,000_l._ To the right a castle, very
picturesque in its situation, called Mont’alto; the hill upon which it
stands is composed of calcareous earth from whence the lime used in the
country is drawn.
We entered the Val d’Aost at a narrow pass at the Pont St. Martin,
an old bridge across the Dora. The weather was delicious, the change
of the climate very perceptible already. We dined at Donnaz, a small
village placed in an excavation of the rock, supposed by some to be
a work of the Romans. Our whole party met at dinner. Trevor defers
his return to Turin until he has seen us all well over the mountain,
as his interposition may be necessary to get us mules. Fort le Bard,
about half a mile from Donnaz, a strong mountain pass, assisted by art.
Nature has given it a rapid river and mountains; Vauban, ramparts and
cannon. The mode of training the vines is singular. They are trailed
upon a _treillage_ horizontally placed upon stone pillars; they
are from 4 to 5 feet and even higher from the ground. It is admirably
adapted for catching the warmth of the sun. The valley is at the widest
half a mile, but it is generally narrower. The oxen are very fine, and
the manner of yoking them is very picturesque. We went on six miles
beyond where their party slept to Chatillon, where M. Regis gave us
very good accommodation in his house, and his company. He is a friend
of Masin, or rather a dependant. On the road I got out at Monjovet,
celebrated for fine steatites and garnets imbedded in quartz; I
obtained a few specimens.
The Piedmontese army are upon the Petit St. Bernard; the French are
at the foot of it by the Isère. Each army has not more than 3000 men.
The troops are very sickly, the hardships they have encountered are
incredible; the barracks are absolutely upon the top of the mountain, a
post which is not much benefited by the climate of August. Numbers are
in the hospital at Aost, and we are alarmed by hearing of an epidemical
disorder being among them.
_Thursday._--Though the Trevors were six miles behind me, they
were diligent enough to pass me before even I was out of my bed. The
road from Chatillon lies by the Dora. The Dora Baltea is a rapid
torrent, which runs into the Po near Turin. The Isère rises on the
French side of the mountain, and finds its way into the Rhône. The
Dora comes raving with great impetuosity and swiftness--a just emblem
of time, that rushes forward and never is retarded. It gave me the
vapours to think of the many misspent hours I have irretrievably lost.
Half my time is spent in making resolutions to amend, but the precious
moments escape when to begin, for as some ancient poet says, ‘He that
leaves for to-morrow that may be done to-day is like the countryman
waiting upon the banks of the river to cross when the waters have run
by and left it dry.’ About five miles before we reached Aost we caught
a magnificent view of Mont Blanc; the whiteness of it was dazzling.
[Sidenote: MT. ST. BERNARD]
Aost or the _Cité_, as it is called here, is an ugly town. We
are lodged at the Baron d’Aviso’s. I have this instant heard that the
distemper is contagious, and that the master of this house is dying of
the epidemical fever. The intelligence is not pleasant, but I rejoice
at my children being out of the way. I am kept up from the melancholy
that surrounds me; the bell never ceases its doleful knell of death,
the muffled drums announce under my window a funeral, and the stir in
the room below where I sleep is a proof that the poor invalid is still
alive, though probably in anguish. We are advised against going out of
the house, a precaution that probably is very necessary. Mrs. Trevor
fears we may be obliged to pass another day here.
_Friday._--The whole morning in making arrangements about mules;
at last the Commandant gave an order, and we have obtained some. The
price they ask is exorbitant, 70 louis for our carriages, both of which
are very light--one at least is. I have stolen some of the Baron’s
specimens of minerals; my conscience smites me almost for the plunder.
At six in the evening we set off for St. Remy. My journey there was not
pleasant as to my _monture_, for my own saddle was broken, and I
was, after shifting from pack saddles, etc., obliged to submit to be
chucked upon a sack of wheat on a _bête-de-somme_. The muleteer
considered me as a bale of goods entrusted to his care to convey
without damage, and so far thought of me, but not the least as to my
ease or comfort. As much as I could see of the scenery by daylight very
beautiful. La Cluse very pretty, but we did not reach St. Remy till
twelve o’clock, all tired and cold, and such an inn! But it did shelter
us from the bleak wind, and that was a point gained.
We set off at half-past five o’clock to cross the famous mountain
of St. Bernard. It has only been used by travellers since the Mont
Cenis has been shut up by the neighbourhood of the French. I went in
a _chaise à porteurs_. Our carriages were dismounted and placed
by piecemeal on mules. We began ascending from St. Remy. The mountains
are from their base bare and without much vegetation, the road so
embarrassed with snow that I thought it impracticable for the mules to
bring the carriage. Just above St. Remy there is a forest of larches,
which the inhabitants preserve with the most religious care, as their
own safety is interested in its preservation, for it protects them from
the avalanches or _chûte des neiges_, so fatal in these countries.
The path is very narrow and rugged; here and there immense blocks of
granite intercept the passage, difficult to be clambered over, but no
precipices to terrify and make the head giddy. Little torrents running
down like cascades, the snow in many places very soft, yielding readily
to the pressure of the men’s feet.
In about three hours from St. Remy I reached the Convent. The plain
on which it stands is about two acres in extent; a black-looking
lake adjoining it was frozen. Eternal snows surround this peaceful,
melancholy dwelling, but the warmest charity issues from the bosom of
its inmates. Distress is claim enough to rouse them to every action
of spirited humanity. On a rock close to the lake stood a temple to
Jupiter, dedicated, some say, by Hannibal in his passage across the
mountain. Numbers of _ex-voto_ are found here, a proof that it
was considered as a perilous pass by the ancients. It is the highest
habitation in the old world. It is 1246 toises[71] above the level
of the sea. A strong sense of active benevolence can alone induce
men to abandon the charms of the habitable world for this _triste
séjour_. The _clavandier_ or steward of the Convent offered us
every refreshment. I accepted willingly some strong wine, and wrapped
myself in eiderdown for a couple of hours. The fine dogs known for
their sagacity in seeking the bewildered traveller lost under a mass of
snow were not at home; they were ranging over the mountain.
[Sidenote: MT. ST. BERNARD]
I turned my back on Italy with regret. The men carried me backwards
down the mountain. The snow on this side very deep, and they waded
through it with great labour; they often fell, but I was neither hurt
nor frightened. My intrepidity is more owing to an indifference about
life than to natural courage. I have nothing to love, so life is not to
me invaluable. Half-way we stopped to look at the melancholy receptacle
for the bodies of those who perish on the mountains. There is only one
body; it has been exposed for a year, but the rarefaction of the air
was such that the putrefaction has not commenced. It was shrivelled,
but the features were perfectly distinguishable. The sun set. We
reached St. Pierre, a small village dependent on the monastery we had
just quitted. I lodged in the house of a _curé_ at Liddès, where
I slept, who had formerly been a monk in the upper region, but growing
infirm he was rewarded with half-freezing. He said he lived a happier
life among the community than in solitude. The small house he has is
pretty and fantastically covered with some creeping plant over the
walls. Early in the morning I was awakened by the melody of the birds
and the fragrance of the plants; the sun shone into my bed by 5 o’clock.
On the 14th, early in the morning, I set off. The carriages were
put upon the wheels, but the baggage was conveyed on mules. The
roads exceed anything I ever beheld in point of danger. A narrow
_corniche_ without a _garde-fou_, upon the brink of a precipice of many
hundred feet; in some places I am sure the fall would have been 1500
perpendicular feet.
The Drance gushes with the violence and noise of a torrent in the
valley. Orsières is the first village; the houses are made of wood with
immense high _treillages_ to dry beans upon them. The next village
was Sembrancher; about half a mile on this side of it the view is
delicious--I was quite enraptured. We got close to the Drance, whose
roar whitened its waters. We crossed it frequently; one of the bridges
was very old and weak; they persuaded me to get out and walk over
it. The valley is evidently opened by violence, as the angles of the
mountains on each side correspond exactly. The sublimity of the scenery
among these mountains inspires one with a notion of the grandeur of our
world, but this thought is still dissipated on a starlight night, for
then we behold what a speck we are in the creation--a twinkling orb
like them.
We dined at Martigny, the capital of the Valois, a dirty town abounding
in loathsome objects, _crétins_ and bugs. The much celebrated
cascade of the Pisse Vache was in full beauty, but even so it is much
inferior to Tivoli and Terni. The Rhône is very fine and the adjacent
country beautiful; we crossed it over an old Roman Bridge at St.
Maurice. Just on this side of the bridge the Berne bear announced our
arrival into its territory.
Upon my coming into Bex I met Prince Hatzfeldt and my tiresome Scotch
lover, Mr. Douglas. We supped together at the inn, where I had a pretty
terrace to walk upon out of my bedroom.
Early in the morning, Tuesday, 16th, I set off in a _char-a-bande_
[_sic_] to see the _salines_ of Bex. My _compagnon de voyage_ was,
as usual, ill-disposed and sulky, and spared me the torment of his
company. I went into a subterranean gallery perforated for 3000 feet
under the mountain; the smell of the lamps made me sick, and I was
obliged to return without seeing the cylinder which is the film (?)
of rock salt. The salt springs are fully impregnated with the saline
matter.
[Sidenote: LOST FRIENDS]
Left Bex at one o’clock. Dined at Vevey. Hodges came out to meet us;
he brought me a packet of letters. My father continues ill, but less
dangerously so than by my former letters. The last time I was in Vevey
the Guiches dined with us in a pavilion belonging to the Count St.
Leger. Ludlow’s[72] house is on the skirts of the town; the little
rampart round it formerly planted with swivels is still to be seen.
He lived in perpetual dread of being taken by the Royalist party; he
was often fired at. I felt melancholy at the sight of Lausanne now,
deserted by all the cheerful band who had assisted in making me pass
cheerfully some of the pleasantest hours of my uncomfortable life.
Gibbon’s house is abandoned; he is in England. Poor Ly. Sheffield’s
apartment will never again contain her; she is no more. Mde. de Juigné
is again no more. All my friends are living in obscure poverty, or have
fallen in the field of battle. The English here are the Cholmondeleys,
the old Duchess of Ancaster, Ld. Morpeth, his friend who travels with
him, and various other English, and the son of an Irish bishop.
The events in Paris are still disgusting and bloody. Biron[73]
is impeached; the charge is having conducted the war with
_insouciance_. Those who know him say his disposition is to
do everything so, but he is humane and gentlemanlike. He preserved
all Lady Rivers’ goods, etc., when he entered Nice. Lord Beauchamp,
now Lord Yarmouth,[74] is at Frankfort upon some political mission;
hopes are entertained that it is to adjust a general Congress for the
termination of these horrid scenes. Ld. Porchester is made an earl,
as a reward for deserting Mr. Fox, whose party is breaking up apace;
some quit him from opinion, but most for the loaves and fishes which
are promised to them for their desertion. Mr. Fox’s debts are to be
paid by a subscription among his friends; he is to have an annuity
of 3000_l._ per annum. As he is not popular, people think it
a mean transaction, but formerly it was proposed as an honourable
one. Ld. Cholmondeley tells me that party runs very high in England,
disgustingly so.
I have heard that my dear children are well; Lady Shelley has written
me a satisfactory account of them. I went to Mde. Cerjat’s. She is very
unhappy about her sons; one is besieging Valenciennes. From her gardens
we saw across the lake to Evian, where the detested tricolor flag is
flying on the tree of liberty; we heard the drums distinctly.
_18th, Thursday._--A small dinner at home, Hodges, etc. In the
evening I went to the poor Duchess’s, who has not, I fear, many weeks
to languish. Lord Morpeth[75] is clever, very handsome, and very
captivating. I see the Cholmondeleys[76] are trying to catch him
for Miss L.; he appears indisposed to the project. He is evidently
_le mieux possible_ with Mde. A. If I were addicted to coquetry
I believe I could easily become her rival, but I never possessed a
particle of the vanity necessary to such a character, nor is there
anything in my eyes flattering in such proceedings. A pretty young
woman is always sure of as many lovers as she chooses, but to _me_
there would be more humiliation than glory in such a train.
[Sidenote: MARAT’S DEATH]