We left Venice with mingled satisfaction and regret. We had to retrace
our steps as far as Padua, on our way to Milan. For four days’ journey,
from Padua to Verona, to Brescia, to Treviglio, to Milan, the whole way
was cultivated beauty and smiling vegetation. Not a rood of land lay
neglected, nor did there seem the smallest interruption to the bounty of
nature or the industry of man. The constant verdure fatigued the eye,
but soothed reflection. For miles before you, behind you, and on each
side, the trailing vines hung over waving corn-fields, or clear streams
meandered through rich meadow-grounds, and pastures. The olive we had
nearly left behind us in Tuscany, and were not sorry to part with its
half-mourning appearance amidst more luxuriant scenes and various
foliage. The country is quite level, and the roads quite straight for
nearly four hundred miles that we had travelled after leaving Bologna;
and every foot or acre of this immense plain is wrought up to a pitch of
neatness and productiveness, equal to that of a gentleman’s
kitchen-garden, or to the nursery-grounds in the neighbourhood of
London. A gravel-pit or a furze-bush by the roadside is a relief to the
eye. There is no perceptible difference in approaching the great towns,
though their mounds of green earth and the mouldering remains of
fortifications give an agreeable and romantic variety to the scene; the
whole of the intermediate space is literally, and without any kind of
exaggeration, one continued and delightful garden. Whether this effect
is owing to the felicity of the soil and climate, or to the art of man,
or to former good government, or to all these combined, I shall not here
inquire; but the fact is so, and it is sufficient to put an end to the
idea that there is neither industry nor knowledge of agriculture nor
plenty out of England, and to the common proverbial cant about the sloth
and apathy of the Italians, as if they would not lift the food to their
mouths, or gather the fruits that are drooping into them. If the
complaints of the poverty and wretchedness of Italy are confined to the
Campagna of Rome, or to some districts of the Apennines, I have nothing
to say; but if a sweeping conclusion is drawn from these to Italy in
general, or to the North of it in particular, I must enter my protest
against it. Such an inference is neither philosophical, nor, I suspect,
patriotic. The English are too apt to take every opportunity, and to
seize on every pretext for treating the rest of the world as wretches—a
tone of feeling which does not exactly tend to enhance our zeal in the
cause either of liberty or humanity. If people are wretches, the next
impression is that they deserve to be so; and we are thus prepared to
lend a helping hand to make them what we say they are. The Northern
Italians are as fine a race of people as walk the earth; and all that
they want, to be what they once were, or that any people is capable of
becoming, is neither English abuse nor English assistance, but three
words spoken to the other powers; ‘Let them alone!’ But England, in the
dread that others should follow her example, has quite forgotten what
she herself once was. Another idea that the aspect of this country and
of the country-people suggests, is the fallacy of some of Mr. Malthus’s
theories. The soil is here cultivated to the greatest possible degree,
and yet it seems to lead to no extraordinary excess of population.
Plenty and comfort abound; but they are not accompanied by an appearance
of proportionable want and misery, tracking them at the heels. The
present generation of farmers and peasants seem well of; the last,
probably, were so: this circumstance, therefore, does not appear to have
given any overweening presumptuous activity, or headstrong impulse to
the principle of population, nor to have determined those fortunate
possessors of a land flowing with milk and honey, from an acquaintance
with the good things of this life, to throw all away at one desperate
cast, and entail famine, disease, vice, and misery on themselves and
their immediate descendants. It is not, however, my intention to enter
into politics or statistics: let me, therefore, escape from them.
We reached Verona the second day: it is delightfully situated. Mr.
Addison has given a very beautiful description of the Giusti gardens
which overlook it on one side. They here shew you the tomb of Juliet: it
looks like an empty cistern in a common court-yard: you look round,
however, and the carved niches with the frescoes on the walls convince
you that you are in the precincts of an ancient monastery. The guide
also points to the part of the wall that Romeo leaped over, and takes
you to the spot in the garden where he fell. This gives an air of trick
and fiction to the whole. The tradition is a thousand years old: it is
kept up with a tender and pious awe: the interest taken in the story of
a passion faithful to death shews not that the feeling is rare, but
common. Many Italian women have read Shakspeare’s tragedy of Romeo and
Juliet, admire and criticise it with great feeling. What remains of the
old monastery is at present a Foundling Hospital. On returning from this
spot, which is rather low and gloomy, we witnessed the most brilliant
sight we had seen in Italy—the sun setting in a flood of gold behind the
Alps that overlook the lake of Garda. The Adige foamed at our feet
below; the bank opposite was of pure emerald; the hills which rose
directly behind it in the most fantastic forms were of perfect purple,
and the arches of the bridge to the left seemed plunged in ebon darkness
by the flames of light that darted round them. Verona has a less
dilapidated, pensive air than Ferrara. Its streets and squares are airy
and spacious; but the buildings have a more modern and embellished look,
and there is an appearance of greater gaiety and fashion among the
inhabitants. The English sometimes come here to reside, though not in
such crowds as at Florence, and things are proportionably less dear. The
Amphitheatre is nearly as fine and quite as entire as that at Rome: the
Gate of Galienas terminates one of the principal streets. We met with
nothing remarkable the rest of the way to Milan, except the same rich,
unvaried face of the country; the distant Alps hanging like a thin film
over the horizon, or approaching nearer in lofty, solid masses as we
advanced; the lake of Garda embosomed in them, and the fine fortress of
Peschiera buried in its almost subterranean fastnesses like a mole; the
romantic town of Virli, with a rainbow glittering over its verdant
groves and hills; a very bad inn at Brescia, and a very excellent one at
Treviglio. Milan was alive and full of visitors, thick as the ‘motes
that people the sun-beam;’ it felt the presence of its lord. The Emperor
of Austria was there! Milan (at least on this occasion) was as gay as
Bath or any town in England. How times and the characters of countries
change with them! In other parts of Italy, as at Rome and at Florence,
the business of the inhabitants seemed to be to hide themselves, neither
to see nor be seen: here it was evidently their object to do both. The
streets were thronged and in motion, and the promenades full of
carriages and of elegantly-dressed women, as on a festival or gala-day.
I think I never saw so many well-grown, well-made, good-looking women as
at Milan. I did not however see one face strikingly beautiful, or with a
very fine expression. In this respect the Romans have the advantage of
them. The North has a tinge of robust barbarism in it. Their animation
was a little exuberant; their look almost amounts to a stare, their walk
is a swing, their curiosity is not free from an air of defiance. The
free and unrestrained manners of former periods of Italy appear also to
have been driven northward, and to have lingered longer on the confines.
The Cathedral or Duomo is a splendid fabric of white marble: it is rich,
vast, and the inside solemn and full of a religious awe: the marble is
from a quarry on the Lago Maggiore. We also saw the celebrated theatre
of the Gran Scala, which is of an immense size and of extreme beauty,
but it was not full, nor was the performance striking. The manager is
the proprietor of the Cobourg Theatre (Mr. Glossop), and his wife
(formerly our Miss Fearon) the favourite singer of the Milanese circles.
I inquired after the great pantomime Actress, Pallarini, but found she
had retired from the stage on a fortune. The name of Vigano was not
known to my informant. I did not see the great picture of the Last
Supper by Leonardo nor the little Luini, two miles out of Milan, which
my friend Mr. Beyle charged me particularly to see.
We left Milan, in a calash or small open carriage, to proceed to the
Isles Borromees. The first day it rained violently, and the third day
the boy drove us wrong, pretending to mistake Laveno for Baveno; so I
got rid of him. We had a delightful morning at Como, and a fine view of
the lake and surrounding hills, which however rise too precipitously
from the shores to be a dwelling-place for any but hunters and
fishermen. Several English gentlemen as well as rich Milanese have
villas on the banks. I had a hankering after Cadenobia; but the Simplon
still lay before me. We were utterly disappointed in the Isles
Borromees. Isola Bella, belonging to the Marquis Borromeo, indeed
resembles ‘a pyramid of sweetmeats ornamented with green festoons and
flowers.’ I had supposed this to be a heavy German conceit, but it is a
literal description. The pictures in the Palace are trash. We were
accosted by a beggar in an island which contains only a palace and an
inn. We proceeded to the inn at Baveno, situated on the high road, close
to the lake, and enjoyed for some days the enchanting and varied scenery
along its banks. The abrupt rocky precipices that overhang it—the woods
that wave in its refreshing breeze—the distant hills—the gliding sails
and level shore at the opposite extremity—the jagged summits of the
mountains that look down upon Palanza and Feriole, and the deep defiles
and snowy passes of the Simplon, every kind of sublimity or beauty,
changing every moment with the shifting light or point of view from
which you beheld them. We were tempted to stop here for the summer in a
suite of apartments (not ill furnished) that command a panoramic view of
the lake hidden by woods and vineyards from all curious eyes, or in a
similar set of rooms at Intra on the other side of the lake, with a
garden and the conveniences of a market-town, for six guineas for the
half year. Hear this, ye who pine in England on limited incomes, and
with a taste for the picturesque! The temptation was great, and may yet
prove too strong. We wished, however, to pass the Simplon first. We
proceeded to Domo d’ Ossola for this purpose, and the next day began the
ascent. I have already attempted to describe the passage of Mont Cenis:
this is said to be finer, and I believe it; but it impressed me less, I
believe owing to circumstances. The road does not wind its inconceivable
breathless way down the side of the same mountain (like the
circumgyrations of an eagle), gallery seeing gallery sunk beneath it,
but makes longer reaches, and passes over from one side of the valley to
the other. The ascent is nearly by the side of the brook of the Simplon
for several miles, and you pass along by the edge of precipices and by
slender bridges over mountain-torrents, under huge brown rugged rocks,
hanging over the road like mighty masses of ruins or castle walls—some
bare, others covered with pine-trees to the top; some too steep for any
plant to grow on them, others displaying spots of verdure, the thatched
cottage, and the winding path half-way up, and dallying with vernal
flowers and the winter’s snow to the last moment. The fir generally
clothes them, and its spiny form and dark hues combine well with their
‘star-ypointing pyramids,’ and ashy paleness. The eagle screams
over-head, and the chamois looks startled round. Half-way up a little
rugged path (the pathway of their life) loitered a young peasant and his
mistress hand in hand, with some older people behind, following to their
peaceful humble home—half hid among the cliffs and clouds. We passed
under one or two sounding arches, and over some lofty bridges. At length
we reached the village of the Simplon, and stopped there at a most
excellent inn, where we had a supper that might vie, for taste and
elegance, with that with which Chiffinch entertained Peveril of the Peak
and his companion at the little inn, in the wilds of Derbyshire. The
next day we proceeded onwards, and passed the commencement of the
tremendous glacier of the Flech Horr. Monteroso ascended to the right,
shrouded in cloud and mist, at a height inaccessible even to the eye.
This mountain is only a few hundred feet lower than Mont-Blanc, yet its
name is hardly known. So a difference of a hair’s breadth in talent
often makes all the difference between total obscurity and endless
renown! We soon after passed the barrier, and found ourselves involved
in fog and driving sleet upon the brink of precipices: the view was
hidden, the road dangerous. On our right were drifts of snow left there
by the avalanches. Soon after the mist dispersed, or we had perhaps
passed below it, and a fine sunny morning disclosed the whole amazing
scene above, about, below us. On our right was the Swartzenberg, behind
us the Simplon, on our left the Flech Horr, and the pointed
Clise-Horn—opposite was the Yung-Frow, and the distant mountains of the
lake of Geneva rose between, circled with wreaths of mist and sunshine:
stately fir-trees measured the abrupt descent at our side, or the sound
of dimly-seen cataracts; and in an opening below, seen through the steep
chasm under our feet, lay the village of Brigg (as in a map) still half
a day’s journey distant. We wound round the valley at the other
extremity of it: the road on the opposite side, which we could plainly
distinguish, seemed almost on the level ground, and when we reached it
we found a still greater depth below us. Villages, cottages, flocks of
sheep in the valley underneath, now came in sight, and made the eye
giddy to look at them: huge cedars by the road-side were interposed
between us and the rocks and mountains opposite, and threw them into
half-tint; and the height above our heads, and that beneath our feet, by
being perceptibly joined together, doubled the elevation of the objects.
Mountains seem highest either when you are at their very summits and
look down on the world, or when you are midway up, and the eye takes in
the measure of their height at two distinct stages. I think the finest
part of the descent of the Simplon is about four or five miles before
you come to Brigg. The valley is here narrow, and affords prodigious
contrasts of wood and rock, of hill and vale, of sheltered beauty and of
savage grandeur. The red perpendicular chasm in the rock at the foot of
the Clise-Horn is tremendous; the look back to the snow-clad
Swartzenberg that you have left behind is no less so. I grant the
Simplon has the advantage of Mont Cenis in variety and beauty and in
sudden and terrific contrasts, but it has not the same simple expansive
grandeur, blending and growing into one vast accumulated impression; nor
is the descent of the same whirling and giddy character, as if you were
hurried, stage after stage, and from one yawning depth to another, into
the regions of ‘Chaos and old Night.’ The Simplon presents more
picturesque points of view; Mont Cenis makes a stronger impression on
the imagination. I am not prejudiced in favour of one or the other; the
road over each was raised by the same master-hand. After a jaunt like
this through the air, it was requisite to pause some time at the
hospitable inn at Brigg to recover. It only remains for me to describe
the lake of Geneva and Mont Blanc.