LETTER XLV.

Allessandria-Battle-Field of Marengo-Pavia-Milan.

MILAN. DEAR E.—I have been four days on the way to Milan, in order to visit the battle-field of Marengo, which is a half a day's journey out of the way. I was struck with the care taken of the road over the Apennines. It is not only smooth, and in excellent order, but men are stationed at certain intervals during the summer months to wet it once a day as we do Broadway, to keep the dust down. We should regard this at home an entire waste of labor.

We did not arrive at Marengo in time to visit the field that evening, so passed on to Allessandria, where we stopped over night. This is the strongest fortified inland place I have ever seen. Well manned and provisioned, it would be impossible to take it. It is a singular city, and soldiers seem to form the majority of the population. The peasantry that come in at morning to sell fruit, et cetera, are a squalid-looking race.

The field of Marengo, is not like most other modern battle grounds, overrun with guides, who tell you some truth and a good deal fable. It is left undisturbed, and not a guide can be found. Few visit it, and I found a written description I had in my pocket indispensable. This was one of those battles where Bonaparte excaped, as by a miracle, utter defeat. The Austrians were full 40,000 strong, while Napoleon could muster but little more than half that number. Napoleon formed three lines; one in advance of Marengo at Padre Buona; one at Marengo; and one behind this little hamlet, which indeed consists of scarcely more than half a dozen houses. The first line was under Gar. donne; the second under Victor; and the third commanded by Napoleon in person. It is a broad plain, with nothing to

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intercept the charge of cavalry for miles, beside scattering trees and huts; with the exception of a narrow, but deep stream, with a miry bottom, that passes directly in front of Marengo. Here Victor stood. The Austrian heavy infantry formed in the open field and came down on Gardonne, driving him back on Victor, posted on the other side of the ravine. The tiralleurs of both armies were ranged on opposite sides of this stream, and there, with the muzzles of their pieces almost touching, stood and fired into each other's faces and bosoms for two hours. It did not seem possible, as I stood by that stream, so narrow I could almost leap across it, that two armies could stand for that length of time, so close to each other, and steadily fire at each other. They were but a few rods apart; and the cannon and musketry together, swept down whole ranks of living men. At length the indomitable Victor was compelled to retire before such a superior force, and fell back on Lannes, who was advancing to meet him. The two formed a second line of defence, but the furious charge of the Austrians drove them back; while General Elsnitz having marched around, attacked him on the right flank, and began to pour squadron after squadron of his splendid cavalry on the retreating columns of Lannes. But the stern hero immediately formed his troops "en echelon," and retired without confusion. But the retreat had become general, and had the Austrian commander Melas pushed the battle here, nothing short of a miracle could have saved Bonaparte from utter ruin. But he thought the battle already won, and that it was now only a pursuit, and retired to the rear, weary and exhausted; and no wonder, for he was eighty-four years of age. But at that moment, Desaix appeared on the field, bringing up the reserve. Desaix rode up to Bonaparte and said, "I think this must be put down as a battle lost." "I think it is a battle won," replied Napoleon; "push on, and I will rally the line behind you." Riding along the army he had just stayed in its rapid retreat, he said, "Soldiers, we have retired far enough-let us now advance-you know it is my custom to sleep on the field of battle." At that moment Desaix led on a fresh column of 5000 grenadiers, but at the first fire he fell dead, shot through the heart. "Alas! it is not permitted me to weep," said Napoleon. "On!" and they did on, sweeping line

after line, till the whole army was routed, and the battle became a slaughter. The Austrian cavalry fell back on their own infantry, trampling them to the earth; while the French horse charged like fire over the broken columns. The routed army at length reached the Bormida, and were precipitated down its steep banks till its stream was choked with the bodies of men and horses, rolled by thousands into its purple flood.

Bonaparte's star was still in the ascendant.

How changed was the scene as I looked upon it. The herdsman was watching his herd on the quiet plain, and the careless husbandman driving his plough through the earth, once heaped with the dead. The Bormida looked as if it never had received a slain army in its bosom, nor its bright waters been discolored with the blood of men.

That night we slept at Pavia, where we arrived late and weary, having been detained in crossing the Po. The next morning we took Certosa in our way. The church and buildings standing alone and with no village near, present a singular, yet most magnificent appearance. They cover ground enough to hold a large village, and there is on the high altar precious stones enough to build a dozen churches. One altar piece is composed entirely of the teeth of the hippopotamus. I thought I would describe this one church to you-built by a rich villain to atone for his piracies and robberies—but I believe I'll not attempt it.

I have now been several days in Milan. The Marengo gate is beautiful, and so are the "Place d'Armes," and the promenade— but I have an eye only for the Cathedral; it impresses me more than St. Peter's, though differently. St. Peter's is a magnificent temple-the Milan Cathedral, a magnificent church. Its beautiful Gothic architecture, and its hundreds of statues on the outside alone, and the whole fabric of white marble, do not affect me so much as the solemn interior. The lofty nave, and immense columns-the setting sun streaming through its stained windows-and the gathering gloom of twilight, together with the pealing organ, have subdued me more than I thought I could be subdued by mere external causes. Every evening finds me

there, wandering up and down over the marble pavement, till the worshippers one after another disappear, and the deeper darkness shuts out the magnificent proportions that so charm the eye and the spirit.

For effect it is superior to any Church or Cathedral I ever entered.

Truly yours

LETTER XLVI.

Character of the People.

MILAN.

DEAR E.-Perhaps you would ask me what I now think of Italian character. I should answer that my first impressions had changed very little. The Italian women I have spoken of before. The men are more polite than Americans, and more polished. They treat strangers with greater kindness, and receive them with truer hospitality. Friendships, too, are more frequent and warmer among them than with us. Indeed, I have often wondered why in our country, where there are such strong domestic and social ties, there were not closer friendships among men-they are scarcely known in the higher, purer sense. Here, on the contrary, friendships are constantly contracted, marked by the intensest affection and self-sacrifice. I have often watched, in my own country, with a sort of stupid amazement, two men who had been very intimate in prosperity, suddenly grow quite indifferent when misfortune had overtaken one. A friend lets an unfortunate friend struggle on in poverty, without ever thinking of sacrificing a few thousand dollars, if by it he should circumscribe his own enjoy. ments. No one complains of the justice of this, but it certainly shows a want of that high generous affection, which is worth more to a man than money.

There is a great deal of intellect in Italy, and a great many bold, decided men, but the mass cannot be relied upon. The Italians want the steadiness of the English, while they have not the headlong impetuosity of the French. Hence, they shrink from great emergencies, and prefer the present evils that afflict them, to greater evils they may encounter, in shaking off the tyranny under which they groan. Yet there is courage here, if it could only be rightly managed. Whether Italy will ever as