The Academia delle Scienze, in the Piazza Carignano, should not be missed, as it contains a very interesting Museum of natural history; Egyptian, Grecian, Etruscan, and Roman antiquities; and a fine gallery of paintings, including some of the best works of Vandyke, Raphael, Paul Veronese, Guido, Titian, Rembrandt, Guercino, Carlo Dolci, and other of the great masters.
Turin appeared to me to be a particularly quiet city, especially after business hours. The evening delights and amusements would seem to consist of the underground concert-rooms, where the long and silent drama is enjoyed over wine and tobacco. A peep into one of these places showed the evident disfavour in which the priesthood is held, a nun and a priest being introduced on the stage for the exposure of the laughter and hisses of the audience.
Although leaving much unseen in Turin, we did not regret our departure, as we were anticipating our journey on the morrow, by the Mont Cenis railway, through the magnificent and sublime scenery of which we had heard so much. It is said—and I can well imagine the truth of it—that, owing to the circle of mountains around it, Turin is exceedingly cold in winter, and very hot in summer, and therefore to be avoided during these seasons. The autumn is considered the pleasantest time for a visit. However, we fortunately found it bright and bracing during our brief stay.
We left Turin on April 12, by the 8.50 a.m. train.
It was a fine, bright morning, and we had a capital and comprehensive view of the whole of the glorious Alpine range; the peak of Monte Viso towering majestically to the clouds, and in the foreground the deep purple tints of the nearer hills contrasting finely against the white slopes in the distance, the green fields relieving the eye from the dazzling loveliness of the snow. Passing Alpigano, and entering a gap in the line of hills, the train left the plains, and commenced the ascent. San Ambroglio is soon passed, with its octagonal church; in the distance, on the top of Mount Piecheriano, is the old monastery Sagra di Michele. It is said that in the tombs of this Abbey, owing to the peculiar nature of the soil and atmosphere, the dead bodies are preserved perfectly mummified. Crossing the river Dora, and passing Borgone and Bassolemo, we now really commence the Mont Cenis railway. On the left is the old castellated fortress Bruzolo, picturesquely perched on the hilltop, a little village with a large church at its base. Recrossing the Dora, we pass some beautiful chestnut woods, through several tunnels, and thence on to Susa, the valley expanding, cultivated with terraced vineyards and gardens. We now obtain grand retrospective views of the beautiful valley below, with glimpses of ancient Roman ruins and aqueducts; the arch of Augustus peeping out of the magnificent scenery, and reminding one of the great spirits of the Latin race, with their eye ever open to the beautiful and the grand. The old Mont Cenis road winds prettily up the hill; the snow-clad Alps on the right and left, the great Roche Melon and Roche Michel soaring to the clouds. The valley then contracts and winds round a great rocky chasm (the Wild Gorge), where the hills are veritably rent asunder, passing through which one involuntarily shudders, and dreams of being in the land of some Titanic race, whose rocky thunder-bolts are ready to fall upon and crush the small, fragile creatures who have ventured to their mountain fastnesses.
After passing through several tunnels, with occasional glimpses of the scenery between, we at last emerge into the more peaceful plains near Chiomonti, the white-tipped mountains still soaring high above us. Now we once more plunge into the bowels of the earth, fitfully emerging into the bright sunshine, and skimming by splashing mountain streamlets and picturesque waterfalls, now and again gliding between banks of primroses and bluebells. At Saibertrand our two small engines are replaced by one of equal power. Here we have the snow lying in patches on the ground around us, and a fine rushing mountain stream fed by the many springs and rivulets from the mountain slopes, the Alpine range on our left beautifully timbered with fir forests. Now come another series of sparkling streams, flowing through the alluvial deposits carried down from the mountains, and so on to Casa No. 69. Passing a rushing mountain stream, spanned by an iron bridge, we leave the snowy Alps behind us, only one bold peak appearing at the end of the valley—where a little town is nested—almost filling up the gap with its wintry summit, and making a beautiful outline against the blue sky. And now we stop at Onyx, a station of some importance. Here we find the Hotel Gozie, a nice-looking building, close to the great Mont Cenis tunnel, and evidently intended for the convenience of Alpine climbers. Here we are apparently locked in by a little circle of hills, grand Alpine peaks forming a crescent on our left. The atmosphere is now much colder, for we are nearing the snowy hills. Another engine is attached to the train, and we are soon winding round and between the mountain barrier, then through a short tunnel, the fir-clad, rocky hills towering up on our left, great snow-drifts and icicles hanging down the gorges and slopes. One more short tunnel, and we wind round past Stazione 89 and stop at Bardonnecha, the line abruptly ascending. Now a little town appears, and conspicuous in its square is the statue of some eminent citizen, surmounted by an outspread eagle; and then we penetrate the snowy mountains; and at last, when expectation is almost spent, we enter the great Mont Cenis tunnel, at first getting little intermittent flashes of light, and then indeed entombed within the great mountains, like frogs in granite.
Here indeed—minus the dreaded sea above us—was an experience of the horrid discomfort of the insanely wished-for Channel Tunnel, and I heartily prayed the scheme might never be accomplished. We entered the tunnel at about 12.7 p.m., and emerged at about 12.35, having been about half an hour in going through. Yes! we have really pierced the great Groge range of the snowy Alps at a height of some 8000 or 9000 feet, and can form some faint idea of the God-given power of Man over Nature. Hovering on the outskirts of this thought, there comes a far-off glimpse of the infinite greatness and goodness of God; and where indeed could such a reflection more fitly come than here, amid the grandeur and beauty of these mighty, snow-clad hills, rearing their icy summits to the skies; the wild passes, with their solemn rocky chasms and narrow defiles; the rushing torrents and sparkling cascades; the cloudless blue sky; and the innocent bluebells and primroses lying so trustfully at the feet of the great frowning rocks above—all working together like the moving light and shadow in such perfect majestic harmony?
One feels—
In beauteous vale, on Alpine snow-clad heights,
In splendours of the days or glories of the nights,
In frowning rocks o'erhanging depths below,
On mossy banks where sweet flowerets grow,
We see God's power and love infinitely wide—
"Thy Truth, most mighty Lord, on every side."