ht 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 L16,000, 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