Having to embark at an early hour, we were obliged to pass a night at Porto-Torres, notwithstanding its notoriety for a most pestiferous atmosphere, occasioned, as usual, by the exhalations from the marshy lowlands adjoining the coast. The impression was confirmed by the miserable aspect of the place, one long wide vacant street, in which, as we drove down it, the effects of the intemperie were stamped on the sickly faces of the few stragglers we met. We found, however, a roomy and decent hotel, and, after rambling about the neighbourhood, sat down to our usual evening tasks of writing and drawing. We were in light costume, and had thrown open the casements, for though the apartment was both lofty and spacious, the air felt insufferably close and stifling. Shortly afterwards, on the waiter coming in to lay the supper table, he stood aghast at our exposure to the night air, and precipitately dosed the casements, exclaiming, “Signore, it would have been death for you to have slept here in August or September; and, even now, the risk you are running is not slight.”
This man was another of the Italian refugees, a Lombard; but of a very superior cast of character and intelligence to our maître de cuisine at Sassari. These qualities first opened out on his begging permission to examine my friend's drawings and some ancient coins which lay on the table; on both which he made remarks, showing that he was a person of education and taste. He had been an avocat at Milan, and, compromised by the insurrection, “You see,” said he, “what I have been driven to,” throwing a napkin, over his shoulder with somewhat of a theatrical air. “But a good time is coming; meanwhile, not having much to do here, I employ my time as well as I can. You shall see my little library;”—and he brought in some volumes, mostly classical, the Odyssey, Euripides, Sophocles, Æschylus, and Cornelius Nepos. After awhile he pulled out of his bosom, with some mystery, for he was still professedly a catholic, a small copy of Diodati's Italian version of the New Testament. “This,” he said, with emphasis, “is my greatest consolation; I retire into the fields, and there I read it.” It was impossible not to commiserate the fate of Ignazio Mugio, the Lombard refugee. A very different character was old Pietro, the steam-boat agent. Groping our way with some difficulty up a gloomy staircase, in the dusk of the evening, we found him, spectacles on nose, poring over a gazette by a feeble oil lamp. The old man was so eager for news that it was difficult to fix him to the object of our inquiries; and then he expatiated on the attractions of the neighbourhood, and the “chasse magnifique de grèves,” as he called thrush-shooting, in the country round, if we came to Porto-Torres in the month of December. We laughed at the idea of such sport; but I think it is said that the thrushes, fattening on the olive berries, are very delicious.
A considerable commerce, considerable for a Sardinian port, gives some life to this desolate place; facilitated by Porto-Torres being the northern terminus of the great national road running through Sassari, only nine miles distant. The principal exports are oil and wine. The little haven is defended by a strong tower, erected in 1549. We found moored in the port several Greek brigs, polaccas, and feluccas, with their long yards and pointed lateen sails; and the fine steam-boat which was to carry us to Genoa.
PORTO-TORRES.
The mountainous and nearly desert island of Asinara forms a fine object in running out of the gulf to which it gives its name, forming the north-western point; and the high lands of Corsica soon came once more in view. Our course lay along its western coast, the weather being favourable; but with a foul wind it is considered unsafe, and vessels run through the Straits of Bonifacio and coast the eastern side of the island. In the afternoon we were off the entrance of the Gulf of Ajaccio, and gazed from seaward on the Isles Sanguinaires, with the tower of the lighthouse, behind which the sun set on the pleasant evening when we took our view from the Chapel of the Greeks. Now, towards sunset, we were rapidly gliding along the shore of Isola Rossa, and the slanting rays glowing directly on the porphyritic cliffs gave a rich but mellow intensity to the ruddy hue whence they derive their name. Some of the boats stop at the town, a new erection by Pascal Paoli, and the seat of an increasing trade. Leaving it behind, we ran along the coast of Corsica with a fair wind, exultingly bounding homewards as, the breeze freshening, our boat sprung from wave to wave, dashing the spray from her bows. Farewell to Corsica! Her grey peaks and shaggy hill-sides are fast fading from our sight, in the growing obscurity. We pass Calvi, famous in Mediæval and Nelsonian annals, San Fiorenzo, on which we had looked down in our rambles on the chestnut-clad ridges of the Nebbio; and the mountain masses of the Capo-Corso, now loom like dark clouds on the eastern horizon. All beyond is a blank. Again we cross the Tuscan Sea in the depth of the night. We are on deck when rosy morning opens to our view the glories of the Bay of Genoa. At six we are moored in the harbour, and have to wait for the visit of the officer of health. At last we land, breakfast, and take the rail to Turin.
At Turin we passed some hours very pleasantly at the British Minister's. We are indebted to Sir James Hudson for facilitating our excursion in Sardinia with more than official zeal and interest in its success. He knows the island well, having braved the inconveniences of rough travelling in its wildest districts. At his hotel we chanced to meet Mr. I. W. Brett, the promoter of a line of electric telegraph intended to connect the islands of Corsica and Sardinia with the European and African continents. A company had been formed to carry out this project, consisting principally of Italian shareholders, part of whose outlay was to be recouped, on the completion of the undertaking, by the Governments interested in its success—the French in regard to Corsica and Algeria, and the Piedmontese as far as concerns Sardinia.
Starting from a point in the Gulf of Spezzia, the wires were to be carried by a submarine cable to the northern extremity of Capo-Corso; where landing they would be conveyed, through the island, partly by submarine channels, with a branch to Ajaccio, to its southern point near Bonifacio. Thence, submerged in a cable crossing the Straits, they would again touch the land at Capo Falcone, mentioned in these rambles as the nearest point in Sardinia; the distance being only about ten nautical miles. The wires were then to be conducted on posts, through the island of Sardinia, in a line, varying but slightly from our route, by Tempio and Sassari to Cagliari. From Cape Spartivento, or some point on the southern shore of Sardinia, a submarine cable was to be laid, the most arduous part of the whole undertaking, to the African coast; landing somewhere near Bona, a town on the western frontier of the French possessions in Algeria.
Up to the point of the landing in Sardinia all was evidently plain sailing; but when we met Mr. Brett at Turin, on our return from Sardinia, in November, 1853, he was under some anxiety about the land line through the island; the mountainous character of the northern province of Gallura presenting obstacles to the operation of carrying the wires through it, and the lawless character of the inhabitants threatening their safety. On both these points we were able to reassure him; we had seen and heard enough of the brave mountaineers to feel convinced that there was no cause for apprehension of outrages connected with the undertaking. And my fellow-traveller, who belonged to the scientific branch of the army, had not passed through the country without making such observations as enabled him to satisfy Mr. Brett's inquiries respecting the line to be selected and its natural facilities.
In the end, the wires were successfully stretched throughout the island from Capo Falcone to Cagliari, after surmounting, however, serious obstacles, though not of the sort previously apprehended. For the success of this operation the company are greatly indebted to the exertions of Mr. William S. Craig, H.B.M.'s Consul-General in Sardinia. Having neither any personal interest in the concern, nor official connection with a Company entirely foreign in its object and supporters, he devoted his time gratuitously to the furtherance of this branch of its operations, actuated only by a desire to promote an important public undertaking. The whole practical management of the work (I do not speak of engineering, little of which could be required) devolved on Mr. Craig; and with much self-sacrifice, he threw into it all that zeal and intelligence which, with universal goodwill, have acquired for him the high estimation in which he is generally held.