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.