_22nd._ Quitting Turin, the road for the first eight or ten miles was excellent, but afterwards was not so good. St. Ambrosio, where we dined, is a small and dirty village. Every body already speaks French, and the Piedmontese-Italian, which we met with at Sarzana, and heard spoken till we reached Turin, is now quite lost in _patois_ of French and Italian. From St. Ambrosio we had a wet drive to Susa, a small town, prettily situated at the foot of Monte Cenisio or Mont Cenis. Our road lay through a valley bounded on each side by snowy Alps, mostly hidden in the dark grey clouds, which towards evening fell in a heavy shower, and then sailed away up the mountain, leaving the evening finer than could have been expected, and promising a fair day for the ascent of Mont Cenis to-morrow. _23rd._ I have now crossed Mont Cenis, one of the highest and most celebrated alpine passes, and I have been much disappointed; though I have seen it not only in the dark and veiling gloom of an approaching storm, but have also gazed upon its bleak and rugged rocks, its frozen lake, and its fields of snow, glittering in the redoubled splendour of the returning sunbeams after the storm had passed away; for I must confess that it cannot bear comparison either with the pass of the Löbel, or the Tauern. It has not the brilliant vegetation of either of these to relieve the eye during the long ascent, nor is the wanderer struck with the fine views that meet him on the Austrian passes, either during the ascent, on the summit, or on the descent. After leaving Susa and the lower vallies, all is bleak and dreary, rock or snow; the road is very good, and often defended by very stout bars. Ascending higher, we reached the _Case di ricovero_ or houses of refuge, small square cottages built on the road side at short distances from one another, and which afford shelter to travellers during the storms that are very frequent here, and are generally accompanied by tremendous winds. During our ascent we were visited by a storm of hail and rain, which lasted for about an hour. Nearly on the summit of the mountain is a hospital, with a few other houses, and two or three inns, and the whole bears the name of Les Tavernes. We here passed the boundary of Italy, and entered into the duchy of Savoy. In front of the little village is a small lake, which was still frozen, and the people at one of the inns told me that in summer its banks are haunted by large, but harmless serpents, which are very good to eat. About half a league beyond Les Tavernes we found ourselves on the summit of the pass, and looked down upon Lans-le-bourg, at the bottom of a wide but barren valley. A few snowy mountains appeared in the distance, but they were neither remarkable in form or height. The road on the French side is by no means so long or so steep as that on the Italian side, though it often winds round very unnecessarily. We descended to Lans-le-bourg in less than two hours, and remained there for the night.