At eight the next morning, we reached the Sardinian capital. On repairing to the “Hotel de l’Europe,” I was ushered by a loquacious waiter into the bedroom of a gentleman, who, being in the act of donning his corazza, was not a little surprised, as his head emerged slowly and carefully from out the well-starched front, to see a dusty fellow in a slouched hat disappearing with a carpet bag. As I found I had failed to escape his observation, I stammered an apology in my very best Italian, which I found provocative of nothing beyond a stare and an ejaculatory comment in sound English upon my impudence. This latter was enough for me; the mistake was speedily explained, and in another minute I had shaken hands with W——m, who occupied an inner apartment. In the breakfast-room I was introduced to the rest, and a more agreeable travelling party it certainly had never been my lot to fall in with. It was enlivened moreover by the presence of several ladies, whose charming society contrasted most pleasantly with the dull and prosy discussions of the rooms above, in which the business of the deputation was carried on.
In submitting these sketches to the world, it forms no part of my intention to detail the extraordinary efforts made by this body of gentlemen, to carry out the grand object which had led them to Italy, neither would it become me to describe the movements of a party by whom I was only regarded in the light of a visitor, and in no other way identified. But as an eye-witness to the unwearied exertions made by the well-known leaders of that deputation, in the face of obstacles, which at the very outset would have deterred less energetic men, I may be allowed to express my own admiration of the clear-headed tact which characterized their proceedings, and my firm conviction that their undertaking would have been crowned with the most complete success, had the exchequers of certain of the Italian states not been so much upon a par with the short-sighted policy of their rulers.
About a week after my arrival in Turin, I was invited to accompany Mr. B——e, on a little engineering expedition to the Mont Cenis. Fortified with an order from Marina, the Minister of the Interior, and furnished with some provisions, and a change or two of linen, we left the hotel at one o’clock, with a light carriage and pair of posters, reaching the town of Susa about an hour before dusk. We employed this interval in a walk to Jailliéres, a romantic little village commanding a view of the valley of the Dora Susa, and enabling B——e to chalk out a route for the ensuing day.
The next morning we mounted a couple of strong mules, and escorted by an intelligent guide, took our course up the Susa Valley, B——e, plan in hand, making his observations by the way, with a view to discover the most practicable course for a line of railway through or over some portion of the Cenis. We halted for an hour at the town of Exilés, where the valley, at that point very narrow, is guarded by a strong fort. From hence the views, both up and down the course of the torrent, are wild and beautiful. Farther on, at a little place called Oulx, the road diverges into two branches, that to the south leading through the valley of the Dora to Cesanno, and over the ridge to the French frontier, the other following the course of the Dora Susa stream to its rise under the Col de Frejus. This latter was our road. On leaving Oulx, the valley widens into an extensive plain: a stony bridle path, at one time lost in the stream, and at another skirting the edge of a precipice, formed by the rushing of the waters, led us through several pretty little villages to Bardoneche.
I arrived here alone, my companion having left me a couple of hours before, to explore another valley, whose direction he imagined might be favourable to his views. The guide conducted me to a curious old tumble-down sort of house, where an obliging individual, acting in the various capacities of landlord, waiter, chambermaid, ostler, boots and cook, set before me the knuckle-end of a cold leg of mutton, a piece of cream cheese, and a yard of Genoese bread. I made a hearty dinner, though I should have enjoyed my meal much more had B——e not been absent. Having sat a long while solus, I strolled away in the direction by which I had arrived. It was now dark, and fearing that my companion might have lost his way in the mountains, I was beginning to feel some alarm for his safety. Having walked upwards of a mile, I stopped to listen: not a sound, save the rippling of the Dora Susa over its broad and pebbly bed. At last I bethought myself that a jodeln might perhaps be of service. I managed so loud a one, that it almost startled me, but instead of being answered, as I fondly imagined it might have been, by B——e, it was responded to in one quarter by a series of echoes so beautifully perfect, that I tried it over and over again. Listening to the sounds as they died away in the far distance, I detected one which I felt sure was none of my own raising, and I had travelled too far not to know that an Irish echo is never heard south-east of Skibbereen. I listened again, and this time the sound was so distinct, that I was convinced it came from my friend. Walking onwards, I soon had the satisfaction of seeing him emerge from the Dora Susa, which it appeared he had preferred to wade, rather than make a wide detour along its banks. He had, as I had supposed, lost his way, and after descending from a lofty part of the mountain, over a tract of snow, which had wetted him nearly up to his middle, completed the ducking by a stroll after dusk in the channel of the torrent.
On returning to our quaint hostelrie, we discussed with the guides the possibility of crossing the Col de Frejus, whose head was still covered with a mantle of deep snow. Although quite ready to risk it with us, they dissuaded us from the attempt, on the ground of our being the first to venture, besides that the undertaking was by no means easy, and as we were both too tired to like the idea of turning out of bed at three in the morning, which would have been necessary to insure a frozen surface on the snow, we gave up the idea of taking a peep into France, and decided on a return to Susa.
We were about starting, after an early breakfast, when our landlord insisted upon showing us the new church, a mean little white-washed building, of the most primitive description, although possibly considered by the unsophisticated Bardonecchians as a gorgeous temple. The good man appeared much flattered by our praises of its architectural merits, and accompanied us beyond the precincts of the village. I became so tired of riding, that I got off my mule to walk, reaching Oulx long before my companions, and making acquaintance on the road with a chatty mountaineer, who was on his way to the town to make some purchases. He got on with my wine-flask very much better than I with his patois, which was nearly unintelligible. The ride to Susa was very charming, our guides striking into a bye-path which skirted the Dora, and disclosed occasional glimpses of most romantic scenery. On reaching the inn, I found a letter from W—m, recalling me immediately to Turin, and I was obliged to leave my companion to prosecute his researches alone, whilst I took a place in the next vettura for that city.
My sudden recall had arisen, it appeared, in consequence of a determination on the part of my friends at Turin, to visit other states through which the course of the proposed line lay. And here I may draw my somewhat unconnected narrative to a conclusion. It would be needless to conduct the reader a second time to Ancona, Florence, and Rome, at which last-mentioned city we made a stay of a fortnight, to effect certain arrangements with the late Pope, and the Prince Torlonia, by whom we were courteously received. From hence a party of us made a sally to Naples and Leghorn, taking the steamer to Marseilles, and travelling night and day to Paris in an open britska. Lingering a month or two in the French capital, I returned to England in the spring, after an absence of somewhat more than three years.
THE END.
Richard Barrett, Printer, 13, Mark Lane, London.