Part 13

I have seen a fine MS. of the Consolations copied in the tenth century, not only legible but beautiful; and I have been assured that the hymns written by his first wife Elpis, who, though she brought him no children, as Bertius says, was yet _fida curarum, et studiorum socia_[46], are still sung in the Romish churches at Brescia and Bergamo, somewhat altered from the state we find them in at the end of Cominus’s edition of the Consolations.

Tradition too, I find, agrees with Procopius in telling that this widow of Boethius, Rusticiana, daughter of Symmachus, spent all the little money she had left in hiring people to throw down in the night all the statues set up in Rome to the honour of Theodoric, who had sentenced her husband to a death so dreadful, that it gave occasion to many fabulous tales reported by Martin Rota as miraculous truths. His bones, gathered up as relics by Otho III., were placed in a chapel dedicated to St. Austin in St. Peter’s church at Pavia four hundred and seventy-two years after his death, with an epitaph preserved by Pere Mabillon, but now no longer legible.

We are now cutting hay here for the last time this season, and all the environs smell like spring on this 15th September 1786. The autumnal tint, however, falls fast upon the trees, which are already rich with a deep yellow hue. A wintery feel upon the atmosphere early in a morning, heavy fogs about noon, and a hollow wind towards the approach of night, make it look like the very last week of October in England, and warn us that summer is going. The same circumstances prompt me, who am about to forsake this her favourite region, to provide furs, flannels, &c. for the passing of those Alps which look so formidable when covered with snow at their present distance. Our swallows are calling their clamorous council round me while I write; but the butterflies still flutter about in the middle of the day, and grapes are growing more wholesome as with us when the mornings begin to be frosty. Our deserts, however, do not remind us of Tuscany: the cherries here are not particularly fine, and the peaches all part from the stone--miserable things! an English gardener would not send them to table: the figs too were infinitely finer at Leghorn, and nectarines have I never seen at all.

Well, here is the opera begun again; some merry wag, Abate Casti I think, has accommodated and adapted the old story of king Theodore to put in ridicule the present king of Sweden, who is hated of the emperor for some political reasons I forget what, and he of course patronises the jester. Our honest Lombards, however, take no delight in mimicry, and feel more disgust than pleasure when simplicity is insulted, or distress made more corrosive by the bitterness of a scoffing spirit. I have tried to see whether they would laugh at any oddity in their neighbour’s manner, but never could catch any, except perhaps now and then a sly Roman who had a liking for it. “I see nothing absurd about the man,” says one gentleman; “every body may have some peculiarity, and most people have; but such things make me no sport: let us, when we have a mind to laugh, go and laugh at Punchinello.”--From such critics, therefore, the king of Sweden is safe enough, as they have not yet acquired the taste of hunting down royalty, and crowing with infantine malice, when possessed of the mean hope that they are able to pinch a noble heart. This old-fashioned country, which detests the sight of suffering majesty, hisses off its theatre a performance calculated to divert them at the expence of a sovereign prince, whose character is clear from blame, and whose personal weaknesses are protected by his birth and merit; while it is to his open, free, and politely generous behaviour alone, they owe the knowledge that he _has_ such foibles. Paisiello, therefore, cannot drive it down by his best music, though the poor king of Sweden is a Lutheran too, and if any thing would make them hate him, _that_ would.

One vice, however, sometimes prevents the commission of another, and that same prevailing idea which prompts these prejudiced Romanists to conclude him doomed to lasting torments who dares differ from them, though in points of no real importance, inspires them at the same time with such compassion for his supposed state of predestinated punishment, that they rather incline to defend him from further misery, and kindly forbear to heap ridicule in this world upon a person who is sure to suffer eternal damnation in the other.

How melancholy that people who possess such hearts should have the head thus perversely turned! I can attribute it but to one cause; their strange neglect and forbearance to read and study God’s holy word: for not a very few of them have I found who seem to disbelieve the Old Testament entirely, yet remain steadily and strenuously attached to the precedence their church claims over every other; and who shall wonder if such a combination of bigotry with scepticism should produce an evaporation of what little is left of popery from the world, as emetics triturated with opium are said to produce a sudorific powder which no earthly constitution can resist?

But the Spanish grandee, who not only entertained but astonished us all one night with his conversation at Quirini’s Casino at Venice, is arrived here at Milan, and plays upon the violin. He challenged acquaintance with us in the street, half invited himself to our private concert last night, and did us the honour to perform there, with the skill of a professor, the eager desire of a dilletante, and the tediousness of a solitary student; he continued to amaze, delight, and fatigue us for four long hours together. He is a man of prodigious talents, and replete with variety of knowledge. A new dance has been tried at here too, but was not well received, though it represents the terrible story which, under Madame de Genlis’ pen, had such uncommon success among the reading world, and is called _La sepolta viva_; but as the duchess Girafalco, whose misfortune it commemorates, is still alive, the pantomime will probably be suppressed: for she has relations at Milan it seems, and one lady distinguished for elegance of form, and charms of voice and manner, told me yesterday with equal sweetness, spirit, and propriety, that though the king of Naples sent his soldiers to free her aunt from that horrible dungeon where she had been nine years confined, yet if her miseries were to become the subject of stage representation, she could hardly be pronounced happy, or even at ease. Truth is, I would be loath to see the spirit of producing every one’s private affairs, true or false, before the public eye, spread into _this_ country: No! let that humour be confined to Great Britain, where the thousand real advantages resulting from living in a free state, richly compensate for the violations of delicacy annexed to it; and where the laws do protect, though the individuals insult one: but _here_, why the people would be miserable indeed, if to the oppression which may any hour be exercised over them by their prince, were likewise to be added the liberties taken perpetually in London by one’s next door neighbour, of tearing forth every transaction, and publishing even every conjecture to one’s disadvantage.

With these reflections, and many others, excited by gratitude to private friends, and general admiration of a country so justly esteemed, we shall soon take our leave of Milan, famed for her truly hospitable disposition; a temper of mind sometimes abused by travellers perhaps, whose birth and pretensions are seldom or ever inquired into, whilst no people are more careful of keeping their rank inviolate by never conversing on equal terms with a countryman or woman of their own, who cannot produce a proper length of ancestry.

I will not leave them though, without another word or two about their language, which, though it sounded strangely coarse and broad to be sure, as we returned home from Florence, Rome, and Venice, I felt sincerely glad to hear again; and have some notion by their way of pronouncing _bicchiere_, a word used here to express every thing that holds water, that our _pitcher_ was probably derived from it; and the Abate Divecchio, a polite scholar, and an uncommonly agreeable companion, seemed to think so too. His knowledge of the English language, joined to the singular power he has over his own elegant Tuscan tongue, made me torment him with a variety of inquiries about these confusing dialects, which leave me at last little chance to understand any, whilst a child is called _bambino_ at Florence, _putto_ at Venice, _schiatto_ at Bergamo, and _creatura_ at Rome; and at Milan they call a wench _tosa_: an apron is _grembiule_ at Florence I think, _traversa_ at Venice, _bigarrol_ at Brescia and some other parts of Lombardy, _senale_ at Rome, and at Milan _scozzà_. A foreigner may well be distracted by varieties so striking; but the turn and idiom differ ten times more still, and I love to hear our Milanese call an oak _robur_ rather than _quercia_ somehow, and tell a lady when dressed in white, that she is _tutto in albedine_.

On Friday the 22d of September then we left Milan, and I dropt a tear or two in remembrance of the many civilities shewn by our kind and partial companions. The Abate Bianconi made me wild to go to Dresden, and enjoy the Correggios now moved from Modena to that gallery. I find he thinks the old Romans pronounced Cicero and Cæsar as the moderns do, and many English scholars are of the same mind; but here are coins dug up now out of the Veronese mountain with the word Carolus, spelt _Karrulus_, upon them quite plain; and Christus was spelt _Kristus_ in Vespasian’s time it is certain, because of the player’s monument at Rome.--Dr. Johnson, I remember, was always steady to that opinion; but it is time to leave all this, and rejoice in my third arrival at gay, cheerful, charming

VERONA,

Whither some sweet leave-taking verses have followed us, written by the facetious Abate Ravasi, a native of Rome, but for many years an inhabitant of Milan. His agreeable sonnet, every line ending with _tutto_, being upon a subject of general importance, would serve as a better specimen of his abilities than lines dictated only by partial friendship;--but I hear _that_ is already circulated about the world, and printed in one of our magazines; to them let him trust his fame, they will pay my just debts.

We have now seen this enchanting spot in spring, summer, and autumn; nor could winter’s self render it undelightful, while uniting every charm, and gratifying every sense. Greek and Roman antiquities salute one at the gates; Gothic remains render each place of worship venerable: Nature in her holiday dress decks the environs, and society animates with intellectual fire the amiable inhabitants. Oh! were I to live here long, I should not only excuse, but applaud the Scaligers for straining probability, and neglecting higher praise, only to claim kindred with the Scalas of Verona. Improvisation at this place pleases me far better than it did in Tuscany. Our truly-learned Abate Lorenzi astonishes all who hear him, by _repeating_, not _singing_, a series of admirably just and well-digested thoughts, which he, and he alone, possesses the power of arranging suddenly as if by magic, and methodically as if by study, to rhymes the most melodious, and most varied; while the Abbé Bertola, of the university at Pavia, gives one pleasure by the same talent in a manner totally different, singing his unpremeditated strains to the accompaniment of a harpsichord, round which stand a little chorus of friends, who interpolate from time to time two lines of a well-known song, to which he pleasingly adapts his compositions, and goes on gracing the barren subject, and adorning it with every possible decoration of wit, and every desirable elegance of sentiment. Nothing can surely surpass the happy promptitude of his expression, unless it is the brilliancy of his genius.

We were in a large company last night, where a beautiful woman of quality came in dressed according to the present taste, with a gauze head-dress, adjusted turbanwise, and a heron’s feather; the neck wholly bare. Abate Bertola bid me look at her, and, recollecting himself a moment, made this Epigram improviso:

Volto e Crin hai di Sultana, Perchè mai mi vien disdetto, Sodducente Mussulmana Di gittarti il _Fazzoletto_?

of which I can give no better imitation than the following:

While turban’d head and plumage high A Sultaness proclaims my Cloe; Thus tempted, tho’ no Turk, I’ll try The handkerchief you scorn--to throw ye.

This is however a weak specimen of his powers, whose charming fables have so completely, in my mind, surpassed all that has ever been written in that way since La Fontaine. I am strongly tempted to give one little story out of his pretty book.

Una lucertoletta Diceva al cocodrillo, Oh quanto mi diletta Di veder finalmente Un della mia famiglia Si grande e si potente! Ho fatto mille miglia Per venirvi a vedere, Mentre tra noi si serba Di voi memoria viva; Benche fuggiam tra l’erba E il sassoso sentiero: In sen però non langue L’onor del prisco sangue. L’anfibio rè dormiva A questi complimenti, Pur sugli ultimi accenti Dal sonno se riscosse E dimandò chi fosse? La parentela antica, Il viaggio, la fatica, Quella torno a dire, Ed ei torne a dormire.

Lascia i grandi ed i potenti, A sognar per parenti; Puoi cortesi stimarli Se dormon mentre parli.

Walking full many a weary mile The lizard met the crocodile; And thus began--how fat, how fair, How finely guarded, Sir, you are! ’Tis really charming thus to see One’s kindred in prosperity. I’ve travell’d far to find your coast, But sure the labour was not lost: For you must think we don’t forget Our loving cousin now so great; And tho’ our humble habitations Are such as suit our slender stations, The honour of the lizard blood Was never better understood.

Th’ amphibious prince, who slept content, Ne’er listening to her compliment, At this expression rais’d his head, And--Pray who are you? cooly said; The little creature now renew’d Her history of toils subdu’d, Her zeal to see her cousin’s face, The glory of her ancient race; But looking nearer, found my lord Was fast asleep again--and snor’d.

Ne’er press upon a rich relation Rais’d to the ranks of higher station; Or if you will disturb your coz, Be happy that he does but doze.

But I will not be seduced by the pleasure of praising my sweet friends at Verona, to lengthen this chapter with further panegyrics upon a place I leave with the truest tenderness, and with the sincerest regret; while the correspondence I hope long to maintain with the charming Contessa Mosconi, must compensate all it can for the loss of her agreeable Coterie, where my most delightful evenings have been spent; where so many topics of English literature have been discussed; where Lorenzi read Tasso to us of an afternoon, Bertola made verses, and the cavalier Pindemonte conversed; where the three Graces, as they are called, joined their sweet voices to sing when satiety of pleasure made us change our mode of being happy, and kept one from wishing ever to hear any thing else; while countess Carminati sung Bianchi’s duets with the only tenor fit to accompany a voice so touching, and a taste so refined. _Verona! qui te viderit, et non amarit_, says some old writer, I forget who, _protinus amor perditissimo; is credo se ipsum non amat_[47]. Indeed I never saw people live so pleasingly together as these do; the women apparently delighting in each other’s company, without mean rivalry, or envy of those accomplishments which are commonly bestowed by heaven with diversity enough for all to have their share. The world surely affords room for every body’s talents, would every body that possessed them but think so; and were malice and affectation once completely banished from cultivated society, _Verona_ might be found in many places perhaps; she is now confined, I think, to the sweet state of _Venice_.

JOURNEY THROUGH TRENT, INSPRUCK, MUNICK, AND SALTZSBURG, TO VIENNA.

The Tyrolese Alps are not as beautiful as those of Savoy, though the river that runs between them is wider too; but that very circumstance takes from the horror which constitutes beauty in a rocky country, while a navigable stream and the passage of large floats convey ideas of commerce and social life, leaving little room for the solitary fancies produced, and the strokes of sublimity indelibly impressed, by the mountains of La Haute Morienne. The sight of a town where all the theological learning of Europe was once concentred, affords however much ground of mental amusement; while the sight of two nations, not naturally congenial, living happily together, as the Germans and Italians here do, is pleasing to all.

We saw the apartments of the Prince Bishop, but found few things worth remarking, except that in the pictures of Carlo Loti there is a shade of the Flemish school to be discerned, which was pretty as we are now hard upon the confines. Our sovereign here keeps his little menagerie in a mighty elegant style: the animals possess an insulated rock, surrounded by the Adige, and planted with every thing that can please them best; the wild, or more properly the predatory creatures, are confined, but in very spacious apartments; with each a handsome outlet for amusement: while such as are granivorous rove at pleasure over their domain, to which their master often comes in summer to eat ice at a banquetting house erected for him in the middle, whence a prospect of a peculiar nature is enjoyed; great beauty, much variety, and a very limited horizon, like some of the views about Bath.

At the death of one prince another is chosen, and government carried on as at Rome in miniature. We staid here two nights and one day, thought perpetually of Matlock and Ivy Bridge, and saw some rarities belonging to a man who shewed us a picture of our Saviour’s circumcision, and told us it was _San Simeone_, a baby who having gone through many strange operations and torments among some Jews who stole him from his parents, as the story goes here at Trent, they murdered him at last, and he became a saint and a martyr, to whom much devotion is paid at this place, though I fancy he was never heard of any where else.

The river soon after we left Trent contracted to a rapid and narrow torrent, such as dashes at the foot of the Alps in Savoy; the rocks grew more pointed, and the prospects gained in sublimity at every step; though the neatness of the culture, and quantity of vines, with the variegated colouring of the woods, continued to excite images more soft than formidable, less solemn than lovely. The barberry bushes bind every mountain round the middle as with a scarlet sash, and when we looked down upon them from a house situated as if in the place which the Frenchman seemed to have a notion of, when he thought the aerian travellers were gone _au lieu ou les vents se forment_, they looked wonderfully pretty. The cleanliness and comfort with which we are now lodged at every inn, evince our distance from France however, and even from Italy, where low cielings, clean windows, and warm rooms, are deemed pernicious to health, and destructive of true delight. Here however we find ourselves cruelly distressed for want of language, and must therefore depend on our eyes only, not our ears, for information concerning the golden house, or more properly the golden roof, long known to subsist at Inspruck. The story, as well as I can gather it, is this: That some man was reproached with spending more than he could afford, till some of his neighbours cried out, “Why he’ll roof his house with gold soon, but who shall pay the expence?”--“_I_ will;” quoth the piqued German, and actually did gild his tiles. My heart tells me however, though my memory will not call up the particulars, that I have heard a tale very like this before now; but one is always listening to the same stories I think: At Rome, when they shew a fine head lightly sketched by Michael Angelo, they inform you how he left it on Raphael’s wall, after the manner of Apelles and Protogenes; it is called Testa di Ciambellaro, because he came disguised as a seller of _ciambelle_, or little biscuits, while Raphael’s scholars were painting at the Farnesini. At Milan, when they point out to you the extraordinary architecture of the church _detto il Giardino_, the roof of which is supported by geometrical dependance of one part upon another, without columns or piers, they tell how the architect ran away the moment it was finished, for fear its sudden fall might disgrace him. This tale was very familiar to me, I had heard it long ago related of a Welch bridge; but it is better only say what is true.

This is a sweetly situated town, and a rapid stream runs through it as at Trent; and it is no small comfort to find one’s self once more waited on by clean looking females, who make your bed, sweep your room, &c. while the pewters in the little neat kitchens, as one passes through, amaze me with their brightness, that I feel as if in a new world, it is _so_ long since I have seen any metal but gold unencrusted by nastiness, and gold _will_ not be dirty.

The clumsy churches here are more violently crowded with ornaments than I have found them yet; and for one crucifix or Madonna to be met with on Italian roads, here are at least forty; an ill carved and worse painted figure of a bleeding Saviour, large as life, meets one at every turn; and I feel glad when the odd devotion of the inhabitants hangs a clean shirt or laced waistcoat over it, or both. Another custom they have wholly new to me, that of keeping the real skeletons of their old nobles, or saints, or any one for whom they have peculiar veneration, male or female, in a large clean glass box or crystal case, placed horizontally, and dressed in fine scarlet and gold robes, the poor naked skull crowned with a coronet, and the feet peeping out below the petticoats. These melancholy objects adorn all their places of worship, being set on brackets by the wall inside, and remind me strangely of our old ballad of Death and the Lady;

Fair lady, lay your costly robes aside, &c.

No body ever mentions that Inspruck is subject to fires, and I wonder at it, as the roofs are all wood cut tile-ways; and heavily pensile, like our barns in England, for the snow to roll off the easier.

Well! we are far removed indeed from Italian architecture, Italian sculpture, and Italian manners; but here are twenty-eight old kings, or keysers, as our German friends call them, large as life, and of good solid bronze, curiously worked to imitate lace, embroidery, &c. standing in two rows, very extraordinarily, up one of their churches. I have not seen more frowning visages or finer dresses for a long time; and here is a warm feel as one passes by the houses, even in the street, from the heat of the stoves, which most ingeniously conceal from one’s view that most cheerful of all sights in cold weather, a good fire. This seems a very unnecessary device, and the heated porcelain is apt to make one’s head ache beside; all for the sake of this cunning contrivance, to make one enjoy the effect of fire without seeing the cause.