Walked about visiting, and heard all the gossip of Paris from little Madame Graham, who also invited me to Pozzo di Borgo's box at the Opera. I don't mean to record the gossip and scandal unless when I hear something out of the common way and amusing.

Dined with Stuart; Tweeddale, Gurwood, Allen, and some heavy _attaches_; no French. He appears to live handsomely. Afterwards to the Opera to see Taglioni, who did not dance; then to Madame Appony's, to whom I was introduced, and we had plenty of bowing and smirking and civilities about my family. Rather bored at the party, and am come home quite resolved to be off on Thursday, but am greatly puzzled about my route, for everybody recommends a different one.

March 9th, 1830 {p.285}

Dined with M. de Flahault; met M. de Talleyrand, Madame de Dino, General Sebastiani, M. Bertin de Vaux, Duc de Broglie, and Montrond. Sebastiani and Bertin de Vaux are Deputies, and all violent Oppositionists. After dinner M. de Lescure, another man, and the young Duc de Valencay, Madame de Dino's son, came in.

They talked politics all the time, and it was curious enough to me. Bertin is the sort of man in appearance that Tierney was, and shrewd like him; he is brother to the editor, and princ.i.p.al manager himself, of the 'Journal des Debats.' Sebastiani is slow and pompous. The Duc de Broglie is one of the best men in France.

They all agreed that the Government cannot stand. Talleyrand is as much against it as any of them. Sebastiani told me they should have 280 against 130. Talleyrand said that it was quite impossible to predict what might be the result of this contest (if the Court pushed matters to extremity) both to France and Europe, and that it was astonishing surrounding nations, and particularly England, did not see how deeply they were interested in the event. He said of us, 'Vous avez plus d'argent que de credit.' He looks horridly old, but seems vigorous enough and alive to everything. After dinner they all put their heads together and chattered politics as fast as they could. Madame de Flahault is more violent than her husband, and her house is the resort of all the Liberal party. Went afterwards to the Opera and saw Maret, the Duc de Ba.s.sano, a stupid elderly bourgeois-looking man, with two very pretty daughters. The battle is to begin in the Chamber on Sat.u.r.day or Monday on the Address. Talleyrand told me that the next three weeks would be the most important of any period since the Restoration. It is in agitation to deprive him of his place of Grand Chambellan.

[Page Head: MOUNTAIN SCENERY]

Susa, March 15th, 1830, 9 o'clock. {p.286}

Just arrived at this place at the foot of Mont Cenis. Left Paris on the 11th, at twelve o'clock at night. On the last day, Montrond made a dinner for me at a club to see M. des Chapelles play at whist. I saw it, but was no wiser; but I conclude he plays very well, for he always wins, is not suspected of cheating, and excels at all other games. At twelve I got into my carriage, and (only stopping an hour and a half for two breakfasts) got to Lyons in forty-eight hours and a half. Journey not disagreeable, and roads much better than I expected, particularly after Macon, when they became as good as in England; but the country presents the same sterile, uninteresting appearance as that between Calais and Paris--no hedges, no trees, except tall, stupid-looking poplars, and no chateaux or farm-houses.

I am at a loss to know why a country should look so ill which I do not believe is either barren or ill cultivated. Lyons is a magnificent town. It was dark when I arrived, or rather moonlight, but I could see that the quay we came along was fine, and yesterday morning I walked about for an hour and was struck with the grandeur of the place; it is like a great and magnificent Bath; but I had not time to see much of it, and, with beautiful weather, I set off at ten o'clock. The mountains (les ech.e.l.les de Savoie) appear almost directly in the distance, but it was long before I could make out whether they were clouds or mountains.

After crossing the Pont de Beauvoisin we began to mount the ech.e.l.les, which I did on foot, and I never shall forget the first impression made upon me by the mountain scenery. It first burst upon me at a turn of the road--one huge perpendicular rock above me, a deep ravine with a torrent rushing down and a mountain covered with pines and ilexes on the other side, and in front another vast rock which was shining in the reflected light of the setting sun. I never shall forget it. How I turned round and round, afraid to miss a particle of the glorious scene. It was the liveliest impression because it was the first. I walked nearly to the other post with the most exquisite pleasure, but it was dark by the time I got to La Grotta. I went on, however, all night, very unhappy at the idea of losing a great deal of this scenery, but consoled by the reflection that there was plenty left. As soon as it was light I found myself in the middle of the mountains (the Lower Alps), and from thence I proceeded across the Mont Cenis. Though not the finest pa.s.s, to me, who had never seen anything like it, it appeared perfectly beautiful, every turn in the road presenting a new combination of Alpine magnificence. Nothing is more striking than the patches of cultivation in the midst of the tremendous rocks and precipices, and in one or two spots there were plots of gra.s.s and evergreens, like an English shrubbery, at the foot of enormous mountains covered with snow. There was not a breath of air in these valleys, and the sun was shining in unclouded brightness, so that there was all the atmosphere of summer below with all the livery of winter above.

The alt.i.tude of some tall crag That is the eagle's birthplace, or some peak Familiar with forgotten years, that shows, Inscribed as with the silence of the thought Upon its bleak and visionary sides, The history of many a winter storm Or obscure record of the path of fire.

There the sun himself At the calm close of Summer's longest day Rests his substantial orb; between those heights, And on the top of either pinnacle, More keenly than elsewhere in night's blue vault Sparkle the stars, as of their station proud: Thoughts are not busier in the mind of man Than the mute agents stirring there,--alone Here do I sit and watch.

In one place, too, I remarked high up on the side of the rugged and barren mountain two or three cottages, to arrive at which steps had been cut in the rock. No sign of vegetation was near, so exactly the description of Goldsmith:--

Dear is that shed to which their souls conform, And dear that hill that lifts them to the storm;

[Page Head: THE MONT CENIS]

In another place there was a cl.u.s.ter of houses and a church newly built. Not far from Lans-le-Bourg (at the foot of Mont Cenis) is a very strong fort, built by the King of Sardinia, which commands the road. It has a fine effect perched upon a rock, and apparently unapproachable. A soldier was pacing the battlement, and his figure gave life to the scene and exhibited the immensity of the surrounding objects, so minute did he appear. At Lans-le-Bourg they put four horses and two mules to my carriage, but I took my courier's horse and set off to ride up the mountain with a guide who would insist upon going with me, and who proposed to take me up a much shorter way by the old road, which, however, I declined; he was on foot, and made a short cut up the hill while I rode by the road, which winds in several turns up the mountain. Fired with mountainous zeal, I had a mind to try one of these short cuts, and giving my horse to Paolo (my _valet de chambre_) set off with my guide to climb the next intervening ascent; but I soon found that I had better have stuck to my horse, for the immensity of the surrounding objects had deceived me as to the distance, and the ground was so steep and slippery that, unprepared as I was for such an attempt, I could not keep my footing. When about half-way up, I looked ruefully round and saw steeps above and below covered with ice and snow and loose earth. I could not get back, and did not know how to get on. I felt like the man who went up in a balloon, and when a mile in the air wanted to be let out. My feelings were very like what Johnson describes at Hawkestone in his tour in Wales. 'He that mounts the precipices at ---- wonders how he came thither, and doubts how he shall return; his walk is an adventure and his departure an escape. He has not the tranquillity but the horrors of solitude--a kind of turbulent pleasure between fright and admiration.' My guide, fortunately, was active and strong, and properly shod so he went first, making steps for me in the snow, into which I put my feet after his, while with one hand I grasped the tail of his blue frock and with the other seized bits of twig or anything I could lay hold of; and in this ludicrous way, scrambling and clambering, hot and out of breath, to my great joy I at last got to the road, and for the rest of the ascent contented myself with my post-horse, who had a set of bells jingling at his head and was a sorry beast enough. I was never weary, however, of admiring the scenery. The guide told me he had often seen Napoleon when he was crossing the mountain, and that he remembered his being caught in a _tormento_,[3] when his life was saved by two young Savoyards, who took him on their backs and carried him to a _rifugio_.[4] He asked them if they were married, and, finding they were not, enquired how much was enough to marry upon in that country, and then gave them the requisite sum, and settled pensions of 600 francs on each of them. One is dead, the other still receives it. As I got near the top of the mountain the road, which had hitherto been excellent, became execrable and the cold intense. I had left summer below and found winter above. I looked in vain for the chamois, hares, wolves, and bears, all of which I was told are found there. At last I arrived at the summit, and found at the inn a friar, the only inhabitant of the Hospice, who, hearing me say I would go there (as my carriage was not yet come), offered to go with me; he was young, fat, rosy, jolly, and dirty, dressed in a black robe with a travelling-cap on his head, appeared quick and intelligent, and spoke French and Italian. He took me over the Hospice, which is now quite empty, and showed me two very decently furnished rooms which the Emperor Napoleon used to occupy, and two inferior apartments which had been appropriated to the Empress Maria Louisa. The N.'s on the _grille_ of the door had been changed for V.E.'s (Victor Emmanuel) and M.T.'s (Maria Theresa), and frightful pictures of the Sardinian King and Queen have replaced the Imperial portraits. All sorts of distinguished people have slept there _en pa.s.sant_, and do still when compelled to spend the night on Mont Cenis. He offered to lodge and feed me, but I declined. I told him I was glad to see Napoleon's bedroom, as I took an interest in everything which related to that great man, at which he seemed extremely pleased, and said, 'Ah, monsieur, vous etes donc comme moi.' I dined at the inn (a very bad one) on some trout which they got for me from the Hospice--very fine fish, but very ill dressed. The sun was setting by the time I set off, it was dusk when I had got half-way down the descent, and dark before I had reached the first stage. When half-way down the descent, the last rays of the sun were still gilding the tops of the crags above, and the contrast between that light above and the darkness below was very fine. From what I saw of it, and from what I guess, straining my eyes into the darkness to catch the dim and indistinct shapes of the mountains, the Italian side is the finest--the most wild and savage and with more variety. On the French side you are always on the breast of the same mountain, but on the Italian side you wind along different rocks always hanging over a precipice with huge black, snow-topped crags frowning from the other ridge. I was quite unhappy not to see it. Altogether I never shall forget the pleasure of the two days' journey and the first sight of the Alps, exceeding the expectations I had formed, and for years I have enjoyed nothing so much. The descent (at the beginning of which, by-the-bye, I was very nearly overturned) only ends at this place, where I found a tolerable room and a good fire, but the _cameriere_ stinking so abominably of garlic that he impregnated the whole apartment.

[3] A _tormento_ (most appropriate name) is a tempest of wind, and sleet, and snow, exceedingly dangerous to those who are met by it.

[4] A _rifugio_ is a sort of cabin, of which there are several built at certain distances all the way up the mountain, where travellers may take shelter.

[Page Head: TURIN]

Turin, March 16th, 1830 {p.291}

Got here early and meant to sleep, but have changed my mind and am going on. A fine but dull-looking town. Found the two Forsters, who pressed me to stay. Made an ineffectual attempt to get into the Egyptian Museum, said to be the finest in the world.

It was collected by Drovetti, the French Consul, and offered to us for 16,000, which we declined to give, and the King of Sardinia bought it. Forster told me that this country is rich, not ill governed, but plunged in bigotry. There are near 400 convents in the King's dominions. It is the dullest town in Europe, and it is because it looks so dull that I am in a hurry to get out of it. This morning was cloudy, and presented fresh combinations of beauty in the mountains when the clouds rolled round their great white peaks, sometimes blending them in the murky vapour, and sometimes exhibiting their sharp outlines above the wreath of mist. I did not part from the Alps without casting many a lingering look behind.

Genoa, March 18th, 1830 {p.291}

Got on so quick from Turin that I went to Alessandria that night, and set off at half-past six yesterday morning. Crossed the field of battle of Marengo, a boundless plain (now thickly studded with trees and houses), and saw the spot where Desaix was killed. The bridge over the Bormida which Melas crossed to attack the French army is gone, but another has been built near it. The Austrians or Sardinians have taken down the column which was erected to the memory of Desaix on the spot where he fell; they might as well have left it, for the place will always be celebrated, though they only did as the French had done before. After the battle of Jena they took down the Column of Rossbach,[5] but that was erected to commemorate the victory, and this the death of the hero. I feel like Johnson--'far far from me and my friends be that frigid philosophy which can make us pa.s.s unmoved over any scenes which have been consecrated by virtue, by valour, or by wisdom'--and I strained the eyes of my imagination to see all the tumult of this famous battle, in which Bonaparte had been actually defeated, yet (one can hardly now tell how) was in the end completely victorious. This pillar might have been left, too, as a striking memorial of the rapid vicissitudes of fortune: the removal of it has been here so quick, and at Rossbach so tardy, a reparation of national honour.

[5] The battle of Rossbach was gained by Frederick the Great over the French and Austrians in 1757.

[Page Head: PALACES AND CHURCHES OF GENOA]

The Apennines are nothing after the Alps, but the descent to Genoa is very pretty, and Genoa itself exceeds everything I ever saw in point of beauty and magnificence.

How boldly doth it front us, how majestically-- Like a luxurious vineyard: the hill-side Is hung with marble fabrics, line o'er line, Terrace o'er terrace, nearer still and nearer To the blue heavens, here bright and sumptuous palaces With cool and verdant garden interspersed.

While over all hangs the rich purple eve.

MILMAN's _Fall of Jerusalem_.

I pa.s.sed the whole day after I got here in looking into the palaces and gardens and admiring the prospect on every side. You are met at every turn by vestiges of the old Republic; in fact, the town has undergone very little alteration for hundreds of years, and there is an air of gaiety and bustling activity which, with the graceful costume of the men and women, make it a most delightful picture. Genoa appears to be a city of palaces, and although many of the largest are now converted to humbler uses, and many fallen to decay, there are ample remains to show the former grandeur of the princely merchants who were once the lords of the ocean. Everything bespeaks solidity, durability, and magnificence. There are stupendous works which were done at the expense of individuals. In every part of the town are paintings and frescoes, which, in spite of constant exposure to the atmosphere, have retained much of their brilliancy and freshness.

The palaces of Doria are the most interesting; but why the Senate gave him that which bears still the inscription denoting its being their gift it is difficult to say, when his own is so superior and in a more agreeable situation. The old palace of Andrew is now let for lodgings, and the Pamfili Doria live at Rome. The walls are covered with inscriptions, and I stopped to read two on stone slabs on the spot where the houses of malefactors had formerly stood, monuments of the vindictive laws of the Republic, which not only punished the criminal himself, but consigned his children to infamy and his habitation to destruction; though they stand together they are not of the same date. There is no temptation to violate the decree by building again on the spot, for they are in a narrow, dirty court, to which light can scarcely find access. The Ducal Palace now belongs to the Governor. It has been modernised, but in the dark alleys adjoining there are remains demonstrative of its former extent--pictures of the different Doges in fresco on the walls half erased, and little bridges extending from the windows (or doors) of the palace to the public prisons and other adjoining buildings. The view from my _albergo_ (_della villa_) is the gayest imaginable, looking over the harbour, which is crowded with sailors and boats full of animation.

[Page Head: PALACES AND CHURCHES OF GENOA]

_Evening._--Pa.s.sed the whole day seeing sights. Called on Madame Durazzo, and went with her and her niece, Madame Ferrari, to the King's palace, formerly a Durazzo palace. Like the others, a fine house, full of painting and gilding, and with a terrace of black and white marble commanding a view of the sea. The finest picture is a Paul Veronese of a Magdalen with our Saviour. The King and Queen sleep together, and on each side of the royal bed there is an a.s.sortment of ivory palms, crucifixes, boxes for holy water, and other spiritual guards for their souls. For the comfort of their bodies he has had a machine made like a car, which is drawn up by a chain from the bottom to the top of the house; it holds about six people, who can be at pleasure elevated to any storey, and at each landing-place there is a contrivance to let them in and out. From thence to the Brignole Palace (called the Palazzo Rosso), where I met M. and Madame de Brignole, who were very civil and ordered a scientific footman to show us the pictures.

They are numerous and excellent, but we could only take a cursory look at them; the best are the Vand.y.k.es, particularly a Christ and a portrait of one of the Brignoles on horseback, and a beautiful Carlo Dolce, a small bleeding Christ. I saw the churches--San Stefano, Annunziata, the Duomo, San Ambrosio, San Cyro. There are two splendid pictures in the Ambrosio, a Guido and a Rubens; the Martyrdom in the San Stefano, by Julio Romano and Raphael, went to Paris and was brought back in 1814. The churches have a profusion of marble, and gilding, and frescoes; the Duomo is of black and white marble, of mixed architecture, and highly ornamented--all stinking to a degree that was perfectly intolerable, and the same thing whether empty or full; it is the smell of stale incense mixed with garlic and human odour, horrible combination of poisonous exhalations. I must say, as everybody has before remarked, that there is something highly edifying in the appearance of devotion which belongs to the Catholic religion; the churches are always open, and, go into them when you will, you see men and women kneeling and praying before this or that altar, absorbed in their occupation, and who must have been led there by some devotional feeling. This seems more accordant with the spirit and essence of religion than to have the churches, as ours are, opened like theatres at stated hours and days for the performance of a long service, at the end of which the audience is turned out and the doors are locked till the next representation. Then the Catholic religion makes no distinctions between poverty and wealth--no pews for the aristocracy well warmed and furnished, or seats set apart for the rich and well dressed; here the church is open to all, and the beggar in rags comes and takes his place by the side of the lady in silks, and both, kneel on the same pavement, for the moment at least and in that place reduced to the same level.

I saw the Ducal Palace, where there are two very fine halls,[6]

the old Hall of Audience and the Hall of Council, the latter 150 by 57 feet; and the Doria Palace, delightfully situated with a garden and fine fountain, and a curious old gallery opening upon a marble terrace, richly painted, gilt and carved, though, now decayed. Here the Emperor Napoleon lived when he was at Genoa, preferring Andrew Doria's palace to a better lodging: he had some poetry in his ambition after all. Lastly to the Albergo dei Poveri,[7] a n.o.ble inst.i.tution, built by a Brignole and enriched by repeated benefactions; like all the edifices of the old Genoese, vast and of fine proportions. The great staircase and hall are adorned with colossal statues of its benefactors (among whom are many Durazzos), and the sums that they gave or bequeathed are commemorated on the pedestals. In the chapel is a piece of sculpture by Michael Angelo, a dead Christ and Virgin (only heads), and an altarpiece by Puget. Branching out from the chapel are two vast chambers, lofty, airy, and light, one for the men, the other for the women. About 800 men and 1,200 or 1,300 women are supported here. Many of the n.o.bles are said to be rich--Ferrari, Brignole, Durazzo, and Pallavicini particularly. I forgot to mention the chapel and tomb of Andrew Doria; the chapel he built himself; his body, arrayed in princely robes, lies in the vault. There is a Latin inscription on the chapel, signifying that he stood by the country in the days of her affliction. It is a pretty little chapel full of painting and gilding. In the early part of the Revolution the tomb narrowly escaped destruction, but it was saved by the solidity of its materials. I gave the man who showed me this tomb a franc, and he kissed my hand in a transport of grat.i.tude.

[6] They are left just in the state in which they were in the time of the Republic; the bal.u.s.trade still surrounds the elevated platform on which the throne of the Doge was placed.

[7] The Albergo dei Poveri and the Scoghetti Gardens pleased me more than anything I saw in Genoa. I am sorry I did not see the Sordi e Muti, which is admirably conducted, and where the pupils by all accounts perform wonders. The Albergo is managed by a committee consisting of the princ.i.p.al n.o.bles in the town. The Scoghetti Gardens are delightfully laid out; there is a shrubbery of evergreens with a cascade, and a summer-house paved with tiles--two or three rooms in it, and a hot and cold bath. It is astonishing how they cherish the memory of 'Lord Bentinck.'[7a] I heard of him in various parts of the town, particularly here, as he lived in the house when first he came to Genoa. The Gardens command a fine view of the city, the sea, and the mountains. The saloon in the Serra is only a very splendid room, glittering with gla.s.s, and gold, and lapis lazuli; by no means deserves to be called, as it is by Forsyth, the finest saloon in Europe. It is not very large, and not much more gilt than Crockford's drawing-room, but looks cleaner, though it has been done these seventy years or more.

[7a] [Lord William Bentinck was Mr. Greville's uncle.]

[Page Head: SESTRI AND PISA]

Florence, March 21st, 1830 {p.296}

Arrived here at seven o'clock. Left Genoa on the 19th (having previously gone to see the Scoghetti Gardens and the Serra Palace), and went to Sestri to pa.s.s that evening and the next morning with William Ponsonby, who was staying there. The road from Genoa to Chiavari is one continual course of magnificent scenery, winding along the side of the mountains and hanging over the sea, the mountains studded with villages, villas, and cottages which appear like white specks at a distance, till on near approach they swell into life and activity. The villas are generally painted as at Genoa; the orange trees were in full bloom, and the gardens often slope down to the very margin of the sea. Every turn in the road and each fresh ascent supplies a new prospect, and the parting view of Genoa, with the ocean before and the Apennines behind, cannot be imagined by those who have not seen it. 'Si quod vere natura n.o.bis dedit spectaculum in hac tellure vere gratum et philosopho dignum, id semel, mihi contigisse arbitror, c.u.m ex celsissima rupe speculabundus ad oram maris mediterranei, hinc aequor caeruleum, illinc tractus Alpinos prospexi, nihil quidem magis dispar aut dissimile nec in suo genere magis egregium et singulare.'[8]

[8] Burnet's 'Theory of the Earth.'

Chiavari and Sestri are both beautiful, especially the latter, in a little bay with a jutting promontory, a rocky hill covered with evergreens, and shrubs, and heather, and affording grand and various prospects of the still blue sea and the white and shining coast with the dark mountains behind--

A sunny bay Where the salt sea innocuously breaks And the sea breeze as innocently breathes On Sestri's leafy sh.o.r.es--a sheltered hold In a soft clime encouraging the soil To a luxuriant beauty.

[Page Head: FLORENCE]

The mountain road from Chiavari to La Spezzia presents the same scenery as far as Ma.s.sa and Carrara, which I unfortunately lost by travelling in the night. I crossed the river in the boat by candle-light, which was picturesque enough, the scanty light gleaming upon the rough figures who escorted me and plied the enormous poles by which they move the ferry-boat. Got to Pisa to breakfast (without stopping at Lucca), and pa.s.sed three hours looking at the Cathedral, Leaning Tower, Baptistry, and Campo Santo, the last of which alone would take up the whole day to be seen as it ought. The Cathedral is under repair; the pictures have been covered up or taken down, and the whole church was full of rubbish and scaffolding; but in this state I could see how fine it is, and admire the columns which Forsyth praises, and the roof and many of the marbles. The Grand Duke has ordered it all to be cleaned, and very little of it to be altered. One alteration, however, is in very bad taste; he has taken away the old confessionals of carved wood, and subst.i.tuted others of marble, fixed in the wall, which are exactly like modern chimney-pieces, and have the worst effect amidst the surrounding antiquities. The exterior is rather fantastic, but the columns are beautiful, and John of Bologna's bronze doors admirable. The Campo Santo is full of ancient tombs, frescoes, modern busts, and morsels of sculpture of all ages and descriptions. The Leaning Tower[9] is 190 feet high, and there are 293 steps to the top of it, which I climbed up to view the surrounding country, but it was not clear enough to see the sea and Elba. Here is the finest aqueduct I have seen, which continues to pour water into the town. Part of the old wall[10] with its towers is still standing.

These pugnacious republics, who were always squabbling with each other and wasting their strength in civil broils, erected very ma.s.sive defences. The Pisans are proud of their ancient exploits.

The San Stefano or Chiesa dei Cavalieri is full of standards taken from the Turks, and the man who showed me the Campo Santo said that a magnificent Grecian vase which is there had been brought from Genoa by the Pisans before the foundation of Rome.

There are Egyptian, Etruscan, Roman, and Grecian remains, which have been plundered, or conquered, or purchased by patriotic Pisans to enrich their native city. The frescoes are greatly damaged. I went to look at the celebrated house 'Alla Giornata,'

a white marble palace on the Arno; the chains still hang over the door, and there is an inscription above them which looks modern.

My _laquais de place_ told me what I suppose is the tradition of the place--that the son of the family was taken by the Turks, and that they had captured a Turk, who was put in chains; that an exchange was agreed upon, and the prisoners on either side released, and that the chains were hung up and the inscription added, signifying that the Turk was at liberty to go again into the light of day. But it was a lame and improbable story, and I prefer the mystery to the explanation.

[9] There was another leaning edifice, but the Grand Duke had it pulled down; it was thought dangerous.