“Fears! what are they? voices airy
Whispering harm, where harm is not;
And deluding the unwary,
Till the fatal bolt be shot.”[[7]]
The uncertainty is the worst part, as I have said; for, as I never contemplated staying more than a day or two here, I did not provide myself with any letters of introduction, and it is useless asking for any now, as I shall, I trust, be gone before they could arrive. Besides that, most of the Milanese are at their country-houses; and it is with them that I should have liked to form some acquaintance. By chance, I had a letter to the French consul; but his family is away, and he, meanwhile, dines at the table d’hôte of this same hotel; but he is also a good deal absent, visiting, and is no resource to me.
I spend my time, therefore, as I best may, in alternate walks and reading, or working. Each morning I pass a considerable time in the aisles of the cathedral. The interior is not of course to be compared to Westminster Abbey. The ceiling, for instance, is painted, not carved in fretwork; nor are there the solemn shadows, nor the antique venerable tombs; but, on the other hand, it is unencumbered by the hideous modern monuments which deform our venerable cathedral; nor is it kept in the same dirty state. My favourite haunt is behind the choir, where there is a magnificent painted window, which throws rich and solemn shadows all around. The influence of this spot soothes my mind, and chases away a thousand grim shadows, prognosticating falsehood, desolation, and hopeless sorrow. I throw off the strange clinging presentiments still more entirely when I have on fine days mounted to the outside of the Duomo. You know, by pictures and descriptions, how the exterior is covered by pinnacles and statues; many put up but yesterday, are snow-white and glitter in the sun. The city and the plain of Lombardy, are at my feet; to the north, my beloved mountains—magnificent shapes, which the heavens stoop to visit, and which, speaking of power and inspiring adoration, excite and delight the imagination, made lethargic by mere plain country. The Resegone is there, reminding me of the ecstasies I felt on the Lake of Como, which I remember as dreams sent from heaven, vanished for ever. I turn my eyes southward, and try to trace the route to Florence. I am much tempted, when I do get my expected letter, to go thither to see the friend whom I wished to visit at Venice, but who is now at Florence. Much of my desire in visiting Italy was derived from the hope of seeing her and her sister, whom I left gay blooming children;—but I must defer this pleasure.
Milan is not a pleasant town for one so strangely placed as I am, who would fain leave streets and houses to take refuge in solitary walks and country rambles. The country immediately round is low and uninviting, especially now that the autumnal rains seem to have set in; and the roads are dirty—indeed, to all appearance, impassable. Still, you may be sure I walk when I can; and when, on leaving the hotel, I do not turn to the left, towards the cathedral, I turn to the right, along a wide street, with the best shops, and where the shops cease there are some fine large palaces. The French have a laudable passion for public gardens; though their notion of what is agreeable in that respect does not coincide with ours; and grass and turf is, as I have before said, unknown out of England. They have laid out gardens in the outskirts of Milan, into which I turn; and then, ascending some steps, I enter on the Boulevard, a wide drive on the walls of the town, planted with trees. This is the Corso, where every evening the Milanese resort in their carriages—not now, however, as all of any rank are out of town. From this boulevard, which is elevated on the walls, one looks down on the vine-planted low lands beneath. A more agreeable spot—but it is too far for a walk—is the triumphal arch, begun by Napoleon, that forms the entrance to the city from the road of the Simplon. It is surrounded by a grassy plain. As a harrier, at the distance of some twenty miles, rise the Alps, the resting-places of the wandering clouds, the aspiration of earth to reach the heavens. When I see these majestic ranges, I always feel happier: those know not why who have never felt the love of mountains, which is a real passion in the hearts of mountaineers; and, though I am truly English-born, and bred in plains, yet in my girlhood I visited Scotland, and saw from my window the snow-clad Grampians, and I then imbibed this love for the “palaces of nature,” which, when far off, haunts me still, with a keen desire to be among them, and a sense of extreme content when in their vicinity.
At four o’clock, is the table d’hôte. I have been tempted to dine in my own rooms. I feel so cast away, going down alone; but I have resisted this feeling, for it is here only I can mingle at all with my fellow-creatures; and though the mode is tolerably disagreeable, yet I am the better for it afterwards. When we came, our party was at the foot of the table. I have mounted gradually, till now I am next my acquaintance, the French Consul, at top. All the guests are changed, and are always changing. They form a curious assemblage—mostly English, and some whom I cannot make out: they talk English as their native language, but there is something unlike ourselves about them. I have been told that where one encounters these Anglicans, who are not English, Scotch, or Irish—they are Americans; and so it may be. Sometimes I amuse myself by classifying the party. There is a round, good-humoured clergyman, with his family, who is the Curious Traveller. He is very earnest in search of knowledge, but gentlemanly and unintrusive. There is the Knowing Traveller: he pounced upon a poor little man sitting next him, to-day. “So you have been shopping,—making purchases; been horridly cheated, I’m sure. Those Italians are such rogues! What did you buy? What did you give for those gloves? Four swanzigers—you have been done! A swanziger and a half—that’s the price anywhere. Two swanzigers for the best gloves to be found in Milan—and those are not the best.” This gratuitous piece of misinformation made the poor purchaser blush up to the eyes with shame at his own folly.
I wish I could see a few Carbonari; but I have no opening for making acquaintance—I should like to know how the Milanese feel towards their present Government. Since the death of one of the most treacherous and wicked tyrants that ever disgraced humanity—the Emperor Francis,[[8]]—the Austrian Government has made show of greater moderation. As the price of the restoration of Ancona by the French, the exiles were permitted to return. While we were at Como, we had seen the honoured and noble Gonfalonieri, returned from Spielberg, the shadow of a man; his wife no more—his life withered, as a glorious exotic transported to the North, nipped by frosts it was never born to feel. In commerce, also, the Austrian is trying to improve. A railroad is projected to Venice—a portion of it is already constructed. They are endeavouring to revive trade, as much as it can be revived in a country where two-thirds of the produce of taxation is sent out of it; and it may be guessed what a drooping, inert revival it is. But the curious thing about the policy of present arbitrary governments is the encouragement they give to the education of the poor. Even the Emperor Nicholas, we are told, desires to educate the serfs. From whatever motive this springs, we must cling to it as a real blessing, for the most extensive advantages must result to the cause of civilisation from the enlightenment, however partial and slight, of the multitude. Knowledge must, from its nature, grow, and rooting it out can alone prevent its tendency to spread.
We ought, however, to consider one thing in the establishment of the normal schools by Austria. To our shame be it spoken, the education of the poor is far more attended to in Germany than with us. In Prussia, Würtemberg, and, above all, in Saxony, the normal schools are admirable. Austria was forced to appear to do the like; and they do so in a way which they hope will increase and consolidate their power. Government allows no schools but its own; and selects teachers, not as being qualified for the task, but as servile tools in their hands. The books they allow can scarcely be guessed at in this country, so totally void are they of instruction or true religion. The Austrian hopes to bring up the new generation in the lights he gives, and to know no more than he teaches. He has succeeded, and will probably long continue to succeed in Austria, but in Italy he will not. If the physical state of the poor in Lombardy is ameliorated, they will be tranquil; but hatred of the stranger must ever be a portion of the air he breathes.