From this we went clambering up narrow streets of steps to the church of San Michele, whilom a temple of Castor and Pollux, afterwards a convent of Benedictines, full of Roman antiquities, with a very old crypt, a number of inscriptions, and a variety of other memorabilia which I was surveying in helpless ignorance, when the general, who had sent Signor Bonaventura away on some mysterious mission, darted forward joyfully at seeing him appear with a young man, whom it turned out he had been despatched to summon.
“Here he is—here he is,” he exclaimed; “our archæologist, our poet, our historian!” and then, with a malicious twinkle in his eye, presented him to questa Signora Inglese molto dotta—this learned English lady, who was making researches on the classical remains of Ventimiglia, and wished for authentic information concerning them.
The general then seated himself near a confessional, and indulged in a little well-earned repose, while the youth, who was not more than nineteen or twenty, attired in a suit of chessboard-like checks, plunged at once into the duties that had been assigned him. He was a little nervous at first, but had none of the distressing bashfulness which would have overpowered an English lad, a complete bookworm and wholly unused to society; in fact, it is rare to see an Italian thoroughly awkward, or thoroughly timid. Their naked loquacity always stands them in good stead. In this instance, moreover, a certain amount of modest assurance was not wanting. With surprising fluency the young savant favoured us with a dissertation on the temple, the church, the crypt, Roman mile-stones, Etruscan vases, and mediæval architecture. The effect was remarkable; no orator could have desired a greater testimony in his favour. The lean sacristan, with the keys of the crypt in his hand, stood transfixed with admiration; Signor Bonaventura tried to look very wise; the general, awaking from his nap, made no effort at comprehending the discourse, but kept nodding his approbation; and the eight-and-twenty children, who had accompanied us into the church, ceased begging for centimes, and maintained a respectful silence. As for me, in whose honour this antiquarian lore was displayed, I felt incompetent to proffer more than a yes or no, hazarded at intervals, trembling lest some inappropriate rejoinder should discover my lamentable deficiency, and mortify the poor student, who was evidently so happy in holding forth to one he considered a kindred spirit, that it would have been a pity to dispel the harmless delusion. When at last we got out of the church, he grew more intelligible to my capacity; and leaving the past to itself, bethought himself of the attractions of the present, and conducted us to a bastion, just outside one of the gates of the city, which, small as it now is, with not more than 3000 inhabitants, was really of importance in the time of the Romans, or a still earlier period; from this grassy eminence, he said, one of the loveliest views in the whole Riviera was to be seen; and that he had Ugo Foscolo's authority for the assertion. And, in truth, he was not far wrong. Looking inland, there was a fertile plain, rich in the golden fruits and mellow tints of autumn, through which the river Roja ran its sparkling course, the mountains from whence it took its rise closing gradually on all sides, till a vast amphitheatre of hills formed the majestic background, towering in grandeur, piled one above another, the peaks of the last alpine range capped with snow, and suffused with a rosy light from the reflection of the setting sun. Then, turning to the sea, reposing in the gorgeous beauty of that hour, the close of a cloudless day, we saw the glittering towers and steeples of the cities of the coast—Bordighera, called the Jericho of Italy, from the palm-trees with which its environs are thickly studded; a few miles further on, the venerable walls of San Remo; more distant still, Porto Maurizio; and others, and others yet, each nestling against the guardian promontory which stretched forth for its shelter and protection—each mirrored in the fairy bay, which seemed exclusively its own.
Our young friend was much pleasanter here than in the crypt. He repeated Ugo Foscolo's description with an enthusiasm which made one regret that the talents and love of study he undoubtedly possessed should have taken so useless a direction. His case is an illustration of that of many an Italian man of genius, who has lost himself amid ruins, and given to crumbling remains the time and energies which might have benefited his country and mankind.
On escorting us to the carriage, he presented me with an Inquiry into the Dedicatory Inscription to Juno, and an Essay on the Antiquities of Ventimiglia, his first literary productions; and, finally, composed an ode full of classic, mythologic, and historical allusions in honour of the daughter of Albion, whose studies he fancied were of so edifying a description. It was enclosed the next day in a letter to the general, with a request that he would lay it at the feet of the illustrious stranger. The whole family were charmed; the general scanned the lines critically, and said: “The boy should go to Turin, and get on;” the comtesse copied them out; Signor Bonaventura was pleased that Ventimiglia was not without its representative in Parnassus; while I—delighted to find that at thirty miles from Nice, where I had despaired of seeing anything but English shops and English travellers, three days should have been so fertile in Italian scenes and Italian manners—looked upon this last incident as quite the crowning stroke of my pleasant visit to Latte.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
A glance at Turin in 1858—The progress of Sardinia—Exhibition of national industry—Productions of Piedmont—Appearance of the Piedmontese—Railway enterprise—Progress in machinery.
Artistically considered, Turin is the least interesting of all the Italian capitals. It boasts of no Roman antiquities, of but few mediæval monuments, and its museums and picture galleries, however creditable to the liberality of the sovereigns by whom they were founded or enlarged, can bear no comparison with the Vatican or the Uffizj. Though its position is singularly grand, with the Alps for a background, and the Po, the father of Italian rivers, circling round its base,—an absence of variety in the landscape, of the picturesque in the population and accessories, in whatever regards costume, colouring, and form, serves to complete its dissimilarity to Italy in all that has hitherto constituted Italy's sources of attraction.
But for those who love to mark a nation's struggles, progress, and development, this city has interest of another kind; and its contrast of life and energy with the decay so long familiar to me during my residence in the Papal States never struck me more forcibly than last summer, when, with a view to your edification and entertainment, reader, and to gather fresh impressions and revive former ones, the Signorine forestiere—a staid Signora now—paid a visit to Turin. Its outward characteristics are soon delineated. Broad, level, well-paved streets, intersecting each other at right angles, terminating towards the north and west by a noble panorama of the snow-capped Alps, on the east by the verdant Collina, a range of undulating hills studded with country seats, while southwards stretch the fertile plains of Piedmont; large, regularly-built squares, handsome, thriving shops; private carriages, omnibuses, and citadines dashing about in every direction; soldiers, gay and debonair; and a busy, plain, but honest-looking population.
According to the last census of 1858, Turin contains one hundred and eighty thousand inhabitants; an increase of forty thousand since 1848. This one fact serves to give some idea of the country's rapid development under a liberal Government. The same policy which has attracted refugees from all parts of Italy to swell the population of the State, has wrought a corresponding expansion in its material and intellectual resources. It is scarcely possible to overrate all that Sardinia has gained in the last ten years. An Englishman, unless thoroughly acquainted with the condition of the rest of the Peninsula, cannot appreciate the extent of these improvements. Measuring everything by the gauge of home perfection, he remarks that there is still much left to do;—while the Lombard, or Modenese, or any other subject of the various Italian States, compares all he sees with what he has left perhaps only a few miles behind him, and is filled with rapture and astonishment.