University of Virginia Library

TURIN.

One of the circumstances which gives the traveller rather
painful assurance of his approach to the northern
confines of Italy, is that he finds himself once more ensconced
within that most comfortless of all locomotives,
except the lettiga of Sicily,—a Diligence. The straggling,
untrimmed horses, and harlequin-looking postilions
bobbing up and down most pitifully; the constant cracking
of the whip, and the lurching and shivering of the
clumsy fabric, are but the exterior graces which the
vehicle boasts. At night, the roof within is often hung
with baskets of provisions, and countless hats and bonnets
which dangle most disturbingly in the face of the
sleeping passenger; and when he has, at length, lost
himself in a pleasant dream, and commenced an imaginary
colloquy with some fair object left at the place of his
last sojourn, a sudden jolt pitches him upon his neighbor,
or an abrupt stoppage of the ponderous machine, rouses

him to a sense of stiffened joints, yawing ostlers, and an
execrating conducteur. It is, however, well that one
leaving the dreamy atmosphere of the South, should be
thus initiated into a more practical habit, and have the
radiant mists of imagination dissipated from his brain.
The Diligence is an excellent preparatory symbol of the
more utilitarian regions and prosaic localities, towards
which his pilgrimage tends. From the corner of one of
these minature arks—despite the grumbling of an old lady
by my side, the nap of whose lap dog I disturbed, and the
angry chattering of a parrot, whose pendant cage was vibrating
overhead—I succeeded, one afternoon, in withdrawing
myself sufficiently, to look from the window over
the surrounding fields. They presented a broad level
plain, covered with fresh green grain, which a band of
women, whose heads were enveloped in red cotton handkerchiefs,
were assiduously reaping. The air was still,
and the sky cloudy. A few trees, chiefly small poplars
and mulberries, rose here and there along the road. And
yet, meagre as was the natural scenery, it was a spot
abounding in interest. Thirty-eight years before, it was
the arena where contending armies battled for the possession
of Italy, and men were mown down as the grain, then
waving over their graves, fell beneath the sickles of the
reapers. It was the plain of Marengo. Near yonder
plantation of vines, Desaix took up his position. Across
these fields the French line stretched imposingly away.
And when the Austrians were so incautiously pursuing
their success, it was in the midst of this now deserted level,
that Napoleon met his brave ally, who, rushing forward
at his bidding, met, almost immediately, his death. It
was hence, too, that the brave Melas, then more than
eighty years of age, considering the day won, and overcome
with fatigue, retired to Alexandria, only to hear in
a few hours, of his army's defeat. After this celebrated
battle, Turin became the metropolis of the French department
of the Po, and fourteen years after was restored to
Sardinia. It is not surprising that the young mind of
Alfieri was greatly impressed on entering this city. Its
broad, clean streets radiating from a common centre; its
airy arcades forming, like the passages of the French metropolis,
most agreeable promenades, and its cheerful aspect
may well captivate a stranger's eye. One scarcely
realizes, at Turin, that he is within the precints of an Italian
city. There is a modern look about the buildings,
an elegance in the shops and caffés, and altogether an air
of life and gayety, which brings Paris forcibly to mind.
Indeed, the proximity of this capital to France, neutralizes,
in no small degree, its Ausonian characteristics.
The language is a mixture of French and Italian; and
Goldoni found the taste here so strong for the French
stage, that, during his visit to Turin, he composed his comedy
of Moliere, to avail himself of the attraction of that
author's name. There are few finer public squares in
Europe than the Piazza del Castello, and no, more
beautiful prospect of its kind than that from the church of
La Superga, where the bones of the Sardinian kings repose.
The small number of paupers, and the frequent
instances of manly beauty among the military officers,
are peculiarly striking. Sometimes, beneath the porches,
a procession of nuns, poorly but neatly clad, is encountered,
with garlands and tapers, headed by a fat priest
chanting the burial service. The neighborhood of the
Alps is disagreeably indicated by the number of women
seen in the streets with goitres. They come, for the
most part, from the base of Mt. Cenis and Susa, where
this disease is very common, and still attributed by the
common people, to the chill the throat constantly receives
from the extreme coldness of the water. We are reminded
of old Gonzalo's query in the Tempest:—`Who would
believe that there were Mountaineers dew-lapp'd like
bulls, whose throats had hanging at them wallets of
flesh?' Turin is the coldest city in Italy. The circumadjacent
mountains are scarcely ever entirely free from
snow. As one looks upon them, frequently surmounted
by variegated clouds, or, in dull weather, bathed with the
yellow gleam of the struggling sunbeams playing on their
white scalps, with here and there a dark streak where the
snow has melted away, the appropriateness of the name of
this section of Italy becomes more apparent—pie di
monte—foot of the mountains.

I found an unusual number of priests reading in the
University library, and not a few peasants seated at the
reading desks—a note-worthy and pleasant circumstance.
It is interesting, when wandering about the precincts of
this institution, to remember that it was the scene of that
mis-education, of which Alfieri has drawn so vivid a picture
in his autobiography. It was here that so many of
his young days were wasted in wearisome sickness;
where he was bribed or threatened into labors for his stupid

but powerful school mate; where he looked so long
upon the adjacent theatre, which he was only allowed to
enter five or six times a year, during carnival; and where
he suffered so long from the tyranny of a capricious and
pampered valet. In Turin, the stern tragedian first knew
the sweet delights of poetry in his stolen and secret communion
with Ariosto and Metastasio. Here he laid the
foundation of those dissipated habits which, he had the
rare moral courage to vanquish—suddenly vaulting from
the low level of a life of pleasure, to the most determined
and assiduous career that genius and industry ever
achieved. Here, too, his ardent soul first experienced
the delicious excitements of music, horsemanship, and
love—those inspiring resources of his after years.

The exhibition of the stranger's passport at Turin, is
sufficient to introduce him to the Royal Gallery. It is
interesting chiefly for its specimens of the Vandyck
school—those expressive portraits which have so long
formed the study of artists, and ever charmed that large portion
of the curious who delight in observing the `human
face divine.' There is one of Carlo Dolce's most characteristic
Madonnas, full of the mildness, soft coloring, and
timid execution which belong to his heads. That class
of woman's admirers, who would fain make the standard
of her attractiveness proportionate to the absence of any
strong traits, should collect the female faces portrayed by
this artist. A short time spent in contemplating such an
array, would convince them of the absolute necessity of
elevating their ideal of the sex, if they would have the
spell of their graces perpetuated. But the picture which

chains the attention in this gallery, is one of Murillo's
master-pieces. Some of the biographers of the Spanish
limner, seem to lament that his purpose of visiting Italy
was never fulfilled. It would certainly be a cause of just
regret, if the obscurity of his lot had doomed him for life,
to paint nothing but banners for exportation, and fruit
pieces for immediate sale; but since scope was given to
his genius at the Escurial, and it was encouraged to a
free and happy development at home, we cannot but deem
it a happy destiny that prevented him from ever leaving
his native country. There is no little error in the prevalent
notion, that a true painter, so constituted by nature,
is necessarily to improve by a visit to Italy. On the contrary,
numerous instances might be cited, where such a
course has been fatal to the individuality of the artist's
style. His real force is thereby often sacrificed to a false
manner. Servile imitation frequently supersedes
originality. He ponders the works of the old masters too
often, only to adopt certain of their peculiarities, instead
of being quickened to put forth what is characteristic in
himself. Such has, in many cases, been the result with
regard to young votaries of art among us, who after giving
certain proofs of talent, have gone abroad only to bring
home an improved taste, perhaps, but not seldom a far
inferior execution. Murillo was a genuine child of nature.
He painted, as Goldsmith wrote, from individual
inspiration. Who laments that his style is not so elevated
as that of Raphael, nor so graceful as that of Correggio?
If it were one or the other or both, he would not be Murillo.
What we love in him, is his singular truth to
nature—so fresh and vivid in expression—such a unity
of coloring, such a semblance of life! When one stands
before his Mother and Child, in the Palace at Florence,
does it require much imagination, momentarily to fancy,
that the infant is springing from the bosom of its mother
into our arms? There is an almost perceptible motion
in its posture, and a look of recognition in its eyes, that
haunts us at every step. How often does the traveller in
Italy—he who is wedded to that inexpressible charm in
life, society and art, which we call nature—lament the
paucity of Murillo's paintings! How often does he sigh
for a journey into Spain, that he may behold more of them!
The picture of which Turin boasts, represents Homer
with the laurel wreath straggling round his head, as an
improvisatore, and an amanuensis recording his song.
The bard appears like a fresh portrait of one of those
blind old men so often seen in southern Europe. The
singular blandness of such countenances who has not
noted? They wear a pensive, but peaceful expression, as
if sweet thoughts were cheering their darkness. The
light of poetry hovers round the brow. We feel that although
bereft of vision, the bard sees. The deep things
of life are unveiled to his inward gaze. And, then, how
plainly the other figure listens! We soon cease to lament
the blindness of the minstrel, in regretting that he
is dumb.

A son of Carlo Botta, the historian, follows the profession
of an engraver in this capital. It is but recently
that his justly renowned parent died in poverty at Paris.
Five hundred copies of his works, in sheets, were given,

as the only recompense in his power to afford, to the physicians
who attended his wife in her last illness. This adds
one more to the countless anecdotes illustrative of the
melancholy lot of authors. But in this instance, the high
merit and estimable qualities of the individual, enhance
the pain with which every feeling mind must contemplate
his fate. It would be a pleasing thought if we, the people
of a free and prosperous land, had contributed to the comfort
of one in his declining years, who, when in the full
vigor of his intellect, devoted himself, most enthusiastically,
to recording the history of our Revolution. The details
of the war of independence are chiefly known on the
continent through the history of Botta. No single work
has served so effectually to establish the fame of that glorious
event in the minds of Italians. One of the first
questions they ask a comer from the New World is, if he
has read La Guerra Americana by Carlo Botta? The
work is a beautiful monument of the sympathy of one of
the gifted of that nation in the cause of freedom; and
happy would it have been, had our government added to
the honorary title of citizen, the means of smoothing the
venerable historian's passage to the grave. Another
of his sons is travelling in Arabia, for the Jardin des
Plantes. The father's last literary effort was a translation
of a voyage round the world by an American captain,
of whom this son was a companion. The latter is about
publishing it, and the proceeds, with the hon rable name
he boasts, will constitute his paternal heri age.

I could not leave Turin, without seeing the author of
Le Mie Prigioni. That beautiful and affecting record

of human suffering has spread the name of Silvio Pellico
over the civilized world. The despots of Europe have
endeavored in vain to prevent its entrance into their territories;
being well aware, that no harsh invectives
against tyranny, no panegyrics in praise of free institutions,
however eloquent and insidious, possess a tithe
of the power to arouse men to a sense of their rights,
which lives in such a calm and simple narrative of one of
the victims of their cruelty. How many honest bosoms
have glowed with indignation at the picture this amiable
and gifted Italian has painted, of his tortures under the
leads of a Venetian prison, and amid the cold walls of
the Spielberg fortress! How many have admired the resources
of intellect, philosophy, and affection, by which
the unfortunate prisoner made even captivity captive!
His correspondence with his fellow sufferer, his league
of amity with his keeper, his reading, poems, and reveries—how
do they shed a halo of moral brightness around
the gloom of his dungeon! His hope deferred, his agonizing
suspense, and, at length, his liberation and happy
return to the bosom of his family—all related with so
much truthfulness and feeling,—what an interest have
they excited in behalf of the innocent object of such cruel
persecution! Sharing this sentiment, I was not a little
disappointed to find that Pellico was absent from the
group of Piedmontese literati, who convene every evening
at one of the caffés. An abbé, his friend, informed
me, that the illuess of his father confined Silvio almost
constantly at home. Every one remembers the deep affection
with which he always alludes to his parents. I
found that the strength of this sentiment was not exaggerated
in his memoirs. His father was rapidly declining
with age, and the son only left his bed-side for a few
moments to breathe the fresh air. At one of these intervals,
I paid him a visit. Pellico is now about thirty-eight
years of age, small in stature, and wears glasses. His
complexion is deadly pale, blanched by the blighting shadow
of a dungeon. His brow is broad and high, and his
expression serious and thoughtful. He was courteous
and affable, spoke with deep emotion of his father, and
seemed much gratified at the interest his work had excited
in America. Notwithstanding the immense number
of copies of Le Mie Prigioni which have been sold on
the continent, and that it has been translated into so many
languages, the author has derived no pecuniary benefit,
except the two thousand francs he received from the
original publisher at Turin. He is at present patrouized
by a rich and liberal Marchesa, who has made him
her librarian. He dines almost daily at her table, but
resides with his parents. It must be confessed, that the
sufferings of Pellico have, in no small measure, subdued
his early enthusiasm. Some of the young advocates of
liberal principles, in Italy, profess no little disappointment,
that one who was so near becoming a martyr to
their cause, should have turned derotee. They are displeased
that Pellico should now only employ his pen upon
Catholic hymns and religious odes. Such objectors
seem not to consider the extent and severity of the trials to
which the mind of the author has been exposed. They
appear, too, to lose sight of the peril of his situation. It
is only by retirement and quiet, that he can hope to enjoy
in peace, the privilege of watching over and consoling
the last years of his parents. Jealous eyes are ever upon
him. Few are the spirits which would not be unnerved
from their native buoyancy, by such a tragic experience as
he has known; few the hearts that would not, at the close
of such sufferings, fall back upon themselves, and cherish
serenity as the great boon of existence. When I received
his kindly-uttered buon viaggio, and followed his retreating
figure as he went to resume his station by his father's
bed-side, I could not but feel that the tyranny of Austria
had not yet exhausted itself upon his nature—that his spirit
had not wholly rebounded from the repression of despotism;
but I felt, too, that he had nobly endured enough to
deserve aniversal sympathy, and be wholly justified in applying
to himself the sentiment of Milton: `They also
serve who only stand and wait.'