Pouring rain all this day—one of the longest I have passed, for we staid at the Moro to rest the horses.
27th.
Left early. The morning cold as December, but the sun, when it appeared at last, burning once more. To the left and behind us, the broad plains were bounded by the distant Appennines; and away on the right, beyond nearer and picturesque hills, we could distinguish a snow mountain once more. A peasant said it was Mont Cenis; it was at least one of the range, and we were glad to see it on our horizon.
The road skirts Tortona, having passed a half dried river, a shrunken stream creeping along the centre of its wide winter bed. A high crag commands the town, having on its summit the ruins of the fortress constructed by Amedée the Third, and which the French blew up in 1796—the eminence, like the plain it stands on, bare of wood, and devoid of beauty. An idler, as we rode by, told us we might, without much increasing the distance, traverse the “città,” and seemed surprised that we should choose to avoid its broken pavement and bad air. Arrived on the plain of St. Giuliano, the village of Marengo was on our right, interesting from its situation as well as its history, for, excepting the two or three houses built by the road side, the habitations straggle back over the rich meadows where they stand picturesquely grouped with green trees and a grey tower, between and above which rises a wooded hill, with a white church shining on it. To the left stretched the plain; before us were a few fine sycomores and a bridge, traversing a brighter and narrower river which winds between fringed shores. From one of these houses is hung for sign a cannon-ball, reminding us of Desaix, the gallant young general who returned hither from Egypt to die, having first, with his four thousand infantry, altered the fate of the battle almost lost by Lannes and Victor, and after his fall destined to become desperate once more, and be wondrously won by Kellerman’s charge with five hundred horse; for this handful of men was during an entire hour master of the field of battle, the infantry of both armies being scattered and flying, and the French not rallied till the expiration of that time. Alessandria is close to Marengo, its trees and fortifications looking to advantage as they rise from the perfect flat of the plain. Went to the Albergo d’Italia, a really good inn, with a most civil master.
28th October.
Up by candlelight to start with dawn, which shines not till seven: for, though the mornings have become painfully cold, the mid-day sun is scarcely bearable. Leaving the hotel and asking the way of several people, who all said “Straight on,” we proceeded straight, as desired, and issued from the town on a high road, which we found in the dreadful state of all which traverse Piedmont; but having proceeded some way, we thought proper (the direction being wholly different from that we have lately followed) to ask whither it led, and were answered “Savona;” so turned back, the equanimity of our tempers disturbed. Perhaps from this cause I thought more brutal than he was in reality, a driver of calves, who was before me with his charge on the side of the road which I had chosen as least heavy for Fanny, the mud in the centre being three feet thick, and who desired me to proceed thither and get out of his way, swearing in no gentle guise. Approving of the order neither in matter nor manner, we passed by, scattering his herd, and left him uttering still direr oaths, and floundering about in the deep pools to collect the stragglers. Travelling back over bad pavement and through the town, we had lost an hour ere we arrived at the fine citadel, round which the road winds, crossing an ancient covered bridge, through whose open arches the wind blew almost strongly enough to lift me from my saddle. A company of convicts, chained together, were busy sweeping; they looked hardened and wretched. An hour after we met a fresh detachment, tied with cords in carts, and strongly guarded. We had a cold fog for comrade, and the Tanaro has overflowed the country, saddening its whole face, ruining crops and meadows. Near Asti it improves, as it swells in hillocks and sinks in dells: the former covered by the vine which produces the famed Asti wine, but not trained, as in Lombardy, over tall trees; and wearing a wintry aspect ere winter has come, from the custom of plucking its leaves to feed the cattle. Met Capt. K—— with his family; the pretty white Arab led behind the carriage. They crossed the mountain a few days since in beautiful weather, and this good news hurried us onward. The people of the Albergo Reale had treated them ill; yet outside it makes fairer show than the Leon d’Oro, whither, at their recommendation, we went. Here, as at Alessandria, the doors and windows of our apartments open on the cold gallery which runs round the inner court: bad dinner and bad attendance, and an unpleasant landlord. This morning, when we wished to leave early, the stableman had lost Grizzle’s bridle, and two hours were wasted in its search, the fairest of the day: for, when we had ridden down the avenue just outside the town, the drizzling mist changed to torrents, which continued to fall without cessation till we arrived. We were to stop at the Angelo, but had forgotten the name of the bourg he protected, twelve Piedmontese miles (about four-and-twenty English) from Asti; and the questions we made remained almost always unanswered, the Piedmontese dialect solely being spoken by the peasantry. At last, in the pouring rain, up came a waggoner, and told us Poirino and the Angelo were about three miles farther. We would willingly have hastened our horses, but it was impossible: for the roads are either two feet deep in mud or newly repaired with beds of loose stones, into which they sank to the fetlock. Here and there the path by their side was in better order, and we adopted it; and D—— justly observed, that but for his Sardinian majesty’s footpaths, horse-travelling in his dominions would be impossible. When it seemed the three weary miles must have been long passed over, and still nothing was to be seen in the most desolate plain, save the broad wet road stretching before, and behind us, a few trees and a spire, we again accosted a peasant and inquired for Poirino. “It is a good bit farther,” said the man, “and the inn is not in the town, which you must traverse, and turn first to the right and next to the left, and then ride straight on, as it stands in the country.” I presume this intelligence, which at the time made us despair, was given in a mischievous spirit, though the weather and our plight should have excited compassion: for we shortly arrived at Poirino, and inquiring for the Angelo, some replying “Straight on,” and some not at all, we made our way through the filthy town to the filthier yard. Our poor horses under cover, D——, who followed them into the warm stable, was better off than I. I made my way to the kitchen door, which I found full of vetturini, this being their dinner hour, and the place where they dine. Received with more curiosity than civility, I called to mine hostess, who was busy cooking, and desired she would conduct me to a room. Without turning her head, she begged me to walk up stairs, which I did, and found myself in the before-mentioned open gallery, and, from the voices which proceeded from the various chambers, knew they were all occupied. Having stood there some minutes, dripping and shivering, looking down into the yard at the rain plashing on the stones and the half-dozen vetturini carriages, of whose departure there seemed to be no chance, my gift of patience was not so strong as to lead to further contemplation, and I descended once more, not this time to the door, but to the kitchen fire, where I disturbed the lady’s culinary pursuits, by telling her I was going to the inn I had noticed next to hers, as I found my presence was an inconvenience. This appeal softened her heart: for she put down her fryingpan and took up a key and marched before me to open what was, in reality, her only room unoccupied. It had a broken window and no fireplace; but she brought me a half cold chauffrette, and begged I would be patient, as I should be benissimo when the carriages went on, which they would do in a quarter of an hour; so that on my side I called up the patience required, changed my wet clothes, and sat (not the quarter) but a whole hour in such shivering misery as makes one expect an inflammation of the chest next morning. The vetturini were then in motion, and I made my way to a fireplace just as D—— appeared from the stables where he had seen our poor companions provided for.
After all we were served less ill than I expected, and the dinner and beds were good. Our hostess demanded prices which lacked justice and modesty; but, remonstrance made, grew reasonable. All night the rain poured, but they told us it had done so for a month, so that to wait might serve us nothing—the road little better than hitherto, and the country uninteresting till near Moncaglieri, to which place rain accompanied us less heavily than yesterday, but without pause.
The high hill on which it is built formed a commanding object long before we reached it; the route sweeps round its foot between it and the broad Po, whose shores are here wooded and beautiful. A person of whom we asked the way to Turin sent us through Moncaglieri up the paved hill and across the town, doubling the fatigue to our horses. We were recompensed by passing before the old castle where Victor Amedée, the abdicated king, was arrested, and where he died; and also by the fine view we obtained as we rode down the avenue and steep hill on the other side of the valley and the river. Heavy clouds hid the Alps, and the snow, lying on the hills close to us, looked an ominous presage of what was to succeed on the mountain.
Notwithstanding the unfavourable atmosphere through which we saw it, I prefer Turin as a town to any I have seen in Italy. Its situation is finer than the vaunted one of Florence, with a broader river and more beautiful valley, and hills more wooded surrounding it. One of these the Superga crowns, built in consequence of the vow made by Victor Amedée the Second (when the troops of Louis the Fourteenth besieged his capital) to consecrate a temple to Our Lady, should her aid enable him to force their troops to raise the siege. It was whispered that the duchess of Burgundy, whose influence was all-powerful at the French court, had used it for her father’s protection, and to lengthen the operations of the French General, Duc de la Feuillade. Prince Eugene having had time to come up, and Turin being relieved on the day of the nativity of the Virgin, the king accomplished his vow. The principal basso relievo of the high altar represents the deliverance of Turin by the intercession of the Virgin; it was observed of this Madonna that she bare a strange resemblance to the duchess of Burgundy. A fine bridge led us across the river to the Piazza del Pò. The arcaded streets are broad, and the houses handsome, but mostly unfinished, to that degree that the holes made in their walls, for the placing of scaffoldings, remain unfilled.
We went to the hotel Fœder, kept, like all good inns in Italy, by French masters. Its cleanliness and comfort were to us, for some time unused to them, a very luxury.