Madame de Berri gave an entertainment on the birthnight of her son, and the old Duchesse d’Angouleme came from Vienna to attend it.  ’T was a scene of fairy-land, the palace full of light, so that from the canal could be seen even the pictures on the walls.  Landing from the gondolas, the elegantly dressed ladies and gentlemen seemed to rise from the water; we also saw them glide up the great stair, rustling their plumes, and in the reception-rooms make and receive the customary grimaces.  A fine band stationed on the opposite side of the canal played the while, and a flotilla of gondolas lingered there to listen.  I, too, amid, the mob, a pleasant position in Venice alone, thought of the Stuarts, Bourbons, Bonapartes, here in Italy, and offered up a prayer that other names, when the possessors have power without the heart to use it for the emancipation of mankind, might he added to the list, and other princes, more rich in blood than brain, might come to enjoy a perpetual villeggiatura in Italy.  It did not seem to me a cruel wish.  The show of greatness will satisfy every legitimate desire of such minds.  A gentle punishment for the distributors of letters de cachet and Spielberg dungeons to their fellow-men.

Having passed more than a fortnight at Venice, I have come here, stopping at Vicenza, Verona, Mantua, Lago di Garda, Brescia.  Certainly I have learned more than ever in any previous ten days of my existence, and have formed an idea what is needed for the study of Art and its history in these regions.  To be sure, I shall never have time to follow it up, but it is a delight to look up those glorious vistas, even when there is no hope of entering them.

A violent shower obliged me to stop on the way.  It was late at night, and I was nearly asleep, when, roused by the sound of bubbling waters, I started up and asked, “Is that the Adda?” and it was.  So deep is the impression made by a simple natural recital, like that of Renzo’s wanderings in the Promessi Sposi, that the memory of his hearing the Adda in this way occurred to me at once, and the Adda seemed familiar as if I had been a native of this region.

As the Scottish lakes seem the domain of Walter Scott, so does Milan and its neighborhood in the mind of a foreigner belong to Manzoni.  I have seen him since, the gentle lord of this wide domain; his hair is white, but his eyes still beam as when he first saw the apparitions of truth, simple tenderness, and piety which he has so admirably recorded for our benefit.  Those around lament that the fastidiousness of his taste prevents his completing and publishing more, and that thus a treasury of rare knowledge and refined thought will pass from us without our reaping the benefit.  We, indeed, have no title to complain, what we do possess from his hand is so excellent.