thanks to the precautions of mine hostess of the Chapeau Rouge: the first part of our road lay almost parallel with the line of ruins, marking the course of the aqueduct, and afforded a more just idea of its extent and size than the view which we had taken before. To judge from the scattered groupes of arches, it must have extended as far as the hills bounding the bay of Napoule, up whose sides we began to wind, at the distance of about two miles from Frejus, and continued to ascend for six more. This morning's drive was agreeable enough from its novelty, so little reminding us of the usual features of France. The bold and sombre character of its fine woods, undiversified save by an occasional patch of cultivation, or a solitary hut, and swept by bodies of clouds in their progress from the Mediterranean, reminded us more of the descriptions of Norwegian forests, and of the mountains haunted by the Wild Huntsman, than of Provençal scenery. The enormous extent of these forests has not, as may well be supposed, improved the state of society. About fifteen years ago a banditti, composed of deserters, and of the peasantry of the country, and regularly organized, held them for a length of time, and defied the efforts of a numerous body of gend'armerie sent to subdue them. We observed also the traces of a wider spread conflagration, which we understood to have caused damage to the amount of a million of francs, and the perpetrators of which had equally escaped detection: it had made but a small comparative gap in these immense tracts of wood.

Soon after passing the post-house of Estrelles, situated on the summit of the mountain, the view which opens on the other side becomes strikingly fine, and extensive. The shores of the bay of Napoule, beautifully wooded and interspersed with white villas, lie under foot in a complete bird's-eye view, backed by the sweeping mountains of the neighbourhood of Grasse, and terminated by the cape where Antibes stands. Farther still the back-ground is surmounted by the colossal groups of the Maritime Alps. The descent from this hill to level ground is about seven miles of road as excellent as the former part of the stage; the whole having been very much improved by Buonaparte; and although the distance from Frejus to Cannes cannot be less than twenty-eight miles, it appears to occupy a shorter space of time than many much shorter stages.

A nearer approach to Cannes in no way disappointed us: the bay of Napoule, in the centre of which it is situated, presents, in different points of view, every variety of Italian scenery; and there may be conjectures less probable than that it was called originally by mariners the bay of Napoli, from some fancied likeness. To the latter celebrated spot it bears somewhat of a resemblance, but a stronger still to the Porto Venere, or bay of Spezia, both in the wilder and the softer part of its features; and the illusion is kept up by the grouping and form of the houses, and the Italian patois of the inhabitants, who are mostly a colony of Genoese fishermen. Nor ought the Hôtel des Trois Pigeons to be forgotten, though its cleanliness and comfort, and the cheerful alacrity of its inmates, remind the traveller more of some quiet country inn on the Devon or Somerset coast, than of any thing Italian or French. It stands on a little rock just out of the town, looking on the sea, and facing the island of St. Marguerite; and there is perhaps no scene in which more historical recollections are combined under one point of view, than that which its windows command. The island, whose garrison and buildings are distinguishable by the naked eye, was for many years the prison of the mysterious Masque de Fer, whose identity, like that of Junius, has hitherto baffled conjecture. In the room where we were sitting Murat passed some of the time intervening between his expulsion from Naples, and the crisis of his fate; and on the sands about half a mile to the left, is the spot where Buonaparte first landed from Elba, and bivouacked during the night, surrounded by numbers whom curiosity had drawn out of the town to behold him. There is perhaps something characteristic of the different fortunes of this singular man, in the place from which he had embarked for Elba a year before, and in that where he first set foot on his return, full of hope and confidence. The former was Frejus, a place dreary and comfortless, surrounded by memorials of departed greatness, shrunk within a small part of its former limits, and deserted by the very sea, and it might have been mercifully chosen on purpose as the scene of his exit, in order to blunt his regret at leaving France. The latter was Cannes, a place,[52] as I have fully described it, full of cheerfulness, beauty, and rich distant prospects, corresponding almost in brilliancy to those which his mind was forming at the time.

Far different must have been the feelings of Murat during the anxious interval of forced leisure which he spent at this place; and I will confess, that while listening to the landlord's simple account of the manner in which he passed his time, we forgot the massacre of Madrid in the well-known anecdote of the drowning officer's rescue. During the first eight days he remained shut up in the bed-room or sitting-room which we occupied, in expectation of despatches from Buonaparte, to whom he wrote on his arrival at Cannes. At the end of this time, having received no answer, he used to beguile his impatience by rambling on the sea shore, or watching the sports of the peasants, till at length, evidently heart-sick and desperate, he set out for Toulon on the rash expedition which closed his career. "Toujours, toujours, il avoit la mine triste.—Ah! si vous l'aviez connu, vous auriez pleuré son sort—il étoit un si bel homme!—d'une taille superbe!" said our honest host, whose knowledge of Murat was probably confined to his soldier-like figure, and his desolate state: he could have been no judge of the small extent of Buonaparte's obligations to his brother-in-law, whose former defection was but repaid in kind. He pointed out a green spot under the walls of an old castle which overlooked the inn, where he had frequently observed Murat lying with his face concealed in his hands, or in his more cheerful moments, watching the dances of the country people who resorted thither, and whose sports seemed to interest him considerably. It would be a task for the hand of a master poet or painter, to describe an ambitious and desperate man, softened for a time by disappointment, overleaping in thought the immeasurable distance between his present and his former self, and contemplating the sports of his youth with a sort of melancholy pleasure, yet under the influence of the strong fatality which hurried him to his end. It is by mixing somewhat of this feeling in the character of Macbeth, that Shakspeare has excited a momentary interest even for a murderer and usurper, who perceives "his life fallen into the sere and yellow leaf," and pauses for a moment in melancholy reflection as he rushes to "die with harness on his back."

Having spent an hour among the sunny basking places which abound in the rocks of this place, we hired a fishing-boat to convey us to the island of St. Marguerite. It was impossible to help being diverted by the uncouth appearance of our new conductors, which was two or three degrees wilder than that of poor Murat's amphibious subjects: one fellow in particular, was

or indeed thicker, and tanned a bright copper colour by sun and salt water; his broad face grinning with good humour, from beneath a mane as shaggy as a lion's. It may be supposed that two or three such rowers, proud of the new honour of officiating in a pleasure-boat, got us on more quickly than the less athletic boatmen of show lakes, and we soon landed at the small fort which was the object of our pursuit, and which the commandant politely allowed us to explore. At its eastern extremity is situated a guard-house, a chamber of which on the ground floor served as the prison of the mysterious captive; it is airy and commodious enough, in comparison with places of the sort in general; but the height of its only window, strengthened by treble bars from the sea, and the perpendicular cliff which it overhangs, with the dangerous breach under it, are sufficient protections against any escape. For the last five years no persons have been confined in this fort, which was formerly used exclusively as a state prison, but in the Revolution its benefits were extended to persons of all ranks. Restraint, indeed, is not at present the order of the day within its precincts, to judge from appearances. The soldiers seemed to have little or nothing to do, but to flirt with two or three gaudily-dressed negresses, who showed their white teeth and their black muzzles from the doors of the casernes, and to laugh at the chaplain of the garrison, for such I conclude was the grade of the old priest, who met us, toddling about in a state of drunken fatuity, very much resembling the condition of Obadiah in the Committee, with a nose exhibiting the visible effects of a fight or a fall. Having escaped at last from the good man's persecuting attentions, we got back to Cannes in time to make a sketch from the precise spot where Buonaparte landed.[54]

May 30.—From Cannes to Antibes eleven miles; a pleasant drive, chiefly running close to the sea. Though considerably flattered in Vernet's beautiful picture at the Louvre, Antibes, nevertheless, leaves a pleasing impression on the mind, from its airy, well-frequented, prosperous appearance, and the bustle arising from the presence of a garrison. Its inner harbour, and the neck of land which defends it, terminated by a little picturesque fort, seem beautifully constructed by nature for their respective purposes; but I do not know of any thing else meriting notice.

CHAP. XIII

NICE—COL DE TENDE—CONCLUSION.

From Antibes to Nice, sixteen miles, along a beautiful sweep of coast, the whole extent of which, crowned by the gigantic chain of Maritime Alps, lies in full view for the whole way. No sketch, much less any description, can give an idea of the combined effect of this extensive bay, or the air of cheerfulness spread over the whole; among all the celebrated first views of Italy, there are probably few which speak to the imagination in a more imposing as well as pleasing manner. We crossed the frontier by a long wooden bridge over the Var, a broad, wild stream, roaring down with violence after the storm of the preceding night. We were immediately struck with the different culture of the vines, festooning as near Naples, over the other trees, in a manner more picturesque than useful. The straw hats of the Nissardes, also resembling an inverted wicker corn basket, gave quite a new and laughable character to the human apex. Such little novelties as this, which would excite no more attention in a professed book of costumes, than a view into an old fancy clothes shop, are nevertheless recollected with interest when seen in travelling, as connected with particular trains of thought or association, which they preserve fresh in the mind; and to forget these extraordinary potlids of straw, and the fanciful little red toques occasionally substituted for them, would be to forget an important feature of the Italian frontier.

Much as I had heard of Nice, I was not disappointed either in the first view, or in the nearer survey of it. The situation of its ruined citadel on a commanding and insulated rock, and its narrow valley of almost tropical richness, surrounded by tier above tier of mountains, and studded with villas and orange-groves, present every variety of beauty; and there is a stateliness of proportion, and a careless elegance in its white houses, and an airiness in their situation, which very much remind the eye of the best parts of Naples near the Chiaja and Villa Real. The first glance of Nice, in short, bespeaks a higher and more fashionable tone of society than that of any French town, excepting Paris, through which we had passed. It is impossible, nevertheless, for a person looking beyond the mere amusement of the moment, to banish a certain train of morbid ideas which connect themselves with the sight of this beautiful town. There are few persons perhaps moving in good English society, whose ears do not familiarly recognise the hopeless phrase of "being sent to die at Nice," and many have watched the departure of the wrecks of what was once health, strength, and beauty, consigned to this painted sepulchre with the certainty of never returning from it. Thus the very efficacy of the air of Nice, which has brought it into vogue when all other resources have failed, has inseparably connected it in the mind with despondency and decay. If such ideas occurred to us, they were certainly not removed by the sight of a funeral which past the windows of the inn, within an hour or two after our arrival; the corpse laid on an open bier, the hands crossed, and ornamented with flowers, and the monks and attendants all joining in a solemn chant. A bell was also tolling in another quarter, the signal that a man just condemned to the galleys was passing in procession through the town, as is customary.

The English dance and dress during an assize week, and the lively Nissards, more naturally still, enjoy their fine climate, and elegant town, without entering into the gloomy reflections which haunt the mind of an Englishman on his arrival. The cafés and public walks were swarming with company, and the whole place appeared to take its tone of gaiety from the gaudy young officers, whose troops were quartered in the extensive barracks; the peasants were dancing their grand round on the quay, or fighting between jest and earnest with open hands; the native dandies managed their green fans with the same adroitness as their fair companions; the shops displayed every luxury and accommodation; and every thing, in short, savoured of the habits of a continental Cheltenham.

The Hôtel des Étrangers, where we established ourselves, is somewhat high in its charges, but proportionably good, and possesses a delightful garden of orange-trees adjoining. After being kept awake by mosquitos, which seem more prevalent than at Marseilles, and whose little angry note of preparation had apprized us of an attack, we walked in the morning to the citadel hill, whose solid masses of ruin had attracted our notice on the first view of the town. This point affords the best general idea of Nice and its vicinity, though in the month of May, it is not attained without a roasting walk. The heat indeed was tremendous, as may be expected in a triangular tongue of land only a few miles in extent, and encircled by lofty mountains; and the mildness of the climate in winter, as we were informed, bears a full proportion to its oppressiveness in summer. Green peas are to be had all the year: mulberries and gourds were already ripe, and every garden was a wood of the finest orange and lemon-trees loaded with ripe fruit. The thermometer too is seldom or never lower than 55 in the depth of winter. At the foot of the citadel hill is a road blasted out of the solid rock, running along the edge of the sea, and connecting Nice with its port; along which we walked towards the afternoon. I should be inclined to remark this spot, near which is an esplanade of good houses, as the most sheltered and desirable quarter of Nice. The breeze, which had begun to freshen, was just perceptible where we stood, though its effects in the open sea were visible by the plunging of the waves under our feet; and it appears hardly possible for any but a south or south-west wind to get at this point. Whether or not the part of Nice north of the citadel be equally calculated for an invalid, I should doubt. The mountain gully running up towards Escarene may possibly bring down searching winds from the north-east; and on the whole the marine esplanade seems to afford a situation cooler in summer, and warmer in winter, than the interior of the town.

Such as are tolerably active pedestrians will find themselves well repaid for an evening's toilsome walk to the height which divides Nice from Ville Franche, and whose situation is marked by a small fort.[55]

From hence the view to the west is very wide, including nearly the route of the two preceding days. Towards the east it is less extensive, but more striking. The town of Ville Franche, and the beautiful little basin which forms its port, appear as completely under the feet, as if you could leap over them to the opposite side of the water; and the headland between that town and Monaco, up and down which the road to Savona is seen meandering, is more boldly defined and on a larger scale than that of Lulworth Cove, and though strongly resembling it possesses greater beauty and variety.

One of Buonaparte's projects was to render the Corniche, as this giddy track is expressively called, practicable for carriages; but the Sardinian government, instead of completing, have defaced (as we heard, out of jealousy) the part which he had begun: this is, I think, rather too absurd for belief. It is at the same time probable enough, that the undertaking has been abandoned for want of adequate funds. We were lighted homewards by myriads of fire-flies, a circumstance which produces on a person unaccustomed to the sight, a more novel and brilliant effect than any other accompaniment of an Italian climate.

June 2.—Our original idea had been to have proceeded to Genoa either by a felucca or the Corniche, but learning that the latter route was impracticable, excepting on mules, and that the variable nature of the wind on this coast rendered feluccas a dangerous and uncertain mode of performing the journey, we preferred the road into Italy by the Col di Tende.

To Escarene twelve miles: the first four skirt along the beautiful valley at whose mouth Nice stands, following, and sometimes crossing, the course of the river Poglion; the rest gradually winds up into the heart of the mountains, through deep ravines and woods of gigantic olives, which in this district become picturesque forest-trees. We breakfasted at Escarene, a quiet pretty village, possessing tolerable accommodation. To Sospello fifteen miles of good road, the first seven or eight of which ascend the lofty wall of mountain which closes up the entrance of the valley, and appears at a distance like a score of corkscrews laid in a Vandyke figure. Up the whole of this we walked, mounting, by an easy but tedious circuit of good road, a long series of crags, and courses of torrents, and sometimes looking almost perpendicularly down upon the point which we had passed half an hour ago. Nothing can be more bare or desolate than the rocky mountain ridge in which this ascent terminates, and on which vegetation seems at its last gasp. A dance of Satyrs might be appropriately introduced to complete the wildness of a sketch from this spot, but that it does not afford a single berry or blade of grass to regale them, even if they could live like their cousins the goats. A large family of peasants, as wild and merry as these "hairy sylvans," accompanied us up the mountain with their cattle, on their way to the summer chalets, exhibiting the laughing side of human nature in a manner which it is delightful to witness in the poor.

"Pleased with a feather, tickled with a straw,"

and grateful for the slightest civility, they seemed to consider the mere change of place as a festival. The wife had twitched off her husband's cocked hat, which she wore in frolic; the bare-legged children appeared ready to dance to their own voices as they walked; and the very infant, committed in his cradle to the entire discretion of the family donkey, was equally pleased and satisfied with his own situation, as he headed the patriarchal cavalcade.

The view of the Mediterranean and the coast of France, which this point commands, is prodigious; and the intermediate ranges of mountains which shut out Nice, and which appeared elevated peaks when seen from its citadel, seem from this spot only masses of wavy ground. From hence a descent much steeper than the ascent and almost equally long, conducted us into the rich and well-inhabited valley in which Sospello stands. The inn at this place is rather below mediocrity; the mistress sturdy and rapacious in her demands, and shameless in retracting them when forced to do so.

From the valley of Sospello, which appears as completely insulated by nature from the society of the world as Rasselas's happy valley, we wound next morning up another eight miles of ascent as steep and tedious as the last. On a wild heath between the tops of two mountains called the Col de Brouais, in which this ascent terminated, we unexpectedly discovered a hut tenanted by an old gend'arme, a pet lamb, a kid, and two tame hares, to all which quadrupeds we were introduced by the master with great glee, while waiting for the carriage under his roof. We were so much pleased and diverted by the whimsical manner in which this merry contented mortal lived among his menagerie, that we sent the horses on to Breglio, and complied with his eager desire of entertaining us at his cabaret, if a hut the size of a tea-caddy, without another human habitation visible for four miles, could be so called. He produced, to our surprise, bread, milk, cheese, fresh curd, eggs, fruit, and preserves, all clean and neatly served, and was equally surprised at our giving him two francs a head, which tender he at first remonstrated against with great naivété as too extravagant. The trouble which he had taken in fetching most of these articles from a distance of five miles appeared not to enter into this honest fellow's calculation. The French were encamped in some force on the Col de Brouais at the time of the session of the Comtat of Nice and of Savoy by the king of Sardinia in 1796. It was, also, about four years previous to our visit, infested by a band of robbers, to whom its lofty situation afforded great facilities: these were, however, swept off and conveyed to the galleys by the exertions of the mountain patrole, of whom our host was one, and the whole of the country is now perfectly safe and undisturbed. After contemplating for a short time the principal summit of the Col de Tende, which from this point appears at its full height, we dived into the intervening valley of Breglio by a rapid descent, like the road into a mine. The trout stream, which runs past this place in its way to Vintimiglia, is such as would cause a traveller fond of fishing, to regret the want of his rod and tackle. After leaving Breglio we ascended the course of this river till it narrowed into a defile between two rocks; on entering which the town of Saorgio appears, after a mile or two, piled on the top and shelving side of the precipice to the right in a singular manner. The architect who planned it must have taken his idea from a colony of swallows' nests in a sand-rock, for it seems hardly possible to get to or from it without wings: to judge of it from the road, there is no room or footing for streets; a man might jump down the chimney of his neighbour's house, or be dashed to pieces on its roof, by leaping from his own ground floor; and the fall of a house in the upper tier would probably open a clear downward passage to the valley. A traveller desirous of making a sketch of what is an unique thing in its way, would do well to get three hours start of his carriage from Breglio,[56] and scramble among the heights to the right of the river, for a point which gives a more accurate idea of Saorgio than we could obtain from the valley. The view is attempted in aquatinta in Beaumont's Maritime Alps, and badly as it is executed, the original drawing must have been good, and, as far as I can judge, have given an accurate idea of it. The peasants call the place by some name sounding in their patois like Chavousse; it cannot, however, be mistaken. This is the only spot between Breglio and Tende which would be adapted for a drawing; but the scenery, nevertheless, is of the most stupendous and extraordinary nature I ever witnessed, exceeding, on the whole, the defile of Gondo and Iselle in the route of the Simplon, and more decided, though less varied in its features, than that justly admired spot. The pass is not on a larger scale than the Val d'Ollioules, as far as Saorgio; but after leaving the latter village, the rocks rise to a much greater height, and assume a more savage character. It is impossible to form an adequate idea of the depth of the defile and its effect on the eye, without actual inspection; the nearest approach to it will be made by conceiving a chasm rent from top to bottom by an earthquake through Snowdon, or any other mountain of similar height. For about twelve miles you travel in the condition of those fabled criminals,

Jutting rocks, whose gradual change of posture is marked by the inclination of the pines on them, hang toppling over your head at a height to which the strongest voice could not be heard from the valley; and above and between them just peep glimpses of still more elevated heights, where a tree appears hardly of the size of a pin's head. A peculiar gray, sombre atmosphere overspreads the whole at noon day, similar to that which prevails during a solar eclipse; and the deep echo of the river is the only sound heard for miles. On the whole, I never saw any place so calculated to convey gloomy and wild ideas, and the Sicilian name of "Val Demone," or John Bunyan's "Valley of the Shadow of Death," would be appropriately applied to this savage spot. Nor would the danger be imaginary at the breaking up of a frost, or after violent rains, which might bring one of the highest rocks perpendicularly down without the intervention of a single crag to give warning and break its fall. The visible rents made in the road from time to time, and the obstructions in the deep bed of the stream, show sufficient marks of these formidable incursions. In one place the valley originally afforded only a passage for the river, and the road has been cut and blasted along the cheek of the rock: Close to this spot an inscription on the stone informs you that this road was the work of the late king of Sardinia; and he had in truth a right to be proud of such an undertaking. The whole road from Nice to Turin is admirable, presenting hardly a single mauvais pas. The natural difficulties which the construction of the road presents have been surmounted in a manner which might be a study to a civil engineer, and the whole is, perhaps, as fine a specimen of labour and skill as Buonaparte's route over Mont Cenis or the Simplon. The natural features of its wilder parts resemble those in the pictures of Salvator Rosa, but on a larger scale than he ever attempted to give an idea of.

Within a mile or two of Tende,[57] the chasm in the rocks (for it was no more) widens into a small narrow valley of a peculiarly quiet character, in which the monastery of St. Gervase occupies one of those retired green spots which prove so well the good taste of the monks of old. A turn which this valley takes to the left affords the view, first, of the old castle of Tende, looking quite ghastly in the dusk of evening, and next of the town of Tende itself, which stands piled like Saorgio, against the shelving side of the valley. Tende is a large and apparently flourishing town, affording two inns of very respectable appearance. The Albergo Imperiale is high in its charges, but makes amends for it by the liberality and comfort of its appointments. It fronts one of the principal peaks which form the chain of the Col di Tende, which we contemplated as it caught the last rays of the evening sun, forming different guesses how we were to get up it.

June 4.—From Tende to Limone 15 miles. We left Tende at a quarter before four: after twisting and re-twisting for about an hour and a half among narrow defiles, through which the first part of the rise is gradually conducted, we reached a mountain valley at a high level above the sea, closed at the opposite end by the main ridge of the Col di Tende. Here the chief ascent commences, in a regular zigzag up a jutting shoulder of the mountain. The road is wide and good, and free from ravine or precipice; but from its continual turns, (of which I counted not less than sixty-five) is difficult and embarrassing to any but a crane-necked carriage; though in no place could an overturn produce worse consequence than a roll of a few yards. The distance may be abridged on foot, either by crossing the zig-zags, or by taking the summer path to the right through a fine range of Alpine pasture, which exhibits a profusion of hardy flowers growing up to the edge of the snow-drifts: amongst many others, whose names were unknown to us, we observed blue and yellow crocusses, hearts-ease, oxlips, cowslips, primroses, and two sorts of gentianella. In this direction the road cannot be missed to the turf cabaret which stands on the sharp edge of the mountain. It is curious to look back a moment from this elevated spot down the narrow valley behind you, and observe the road curling from below your feet into blue distance, like the coils of an immeasurable white snake.

At this fine season of the year, it exhibits a busy scene of passengers and loaded strings of mules, toiling up in your rear, or lessening in the perspective till hardly visible at the bottom of the ascent. The site of the cabaret borders on the line of perpetual snow, and though inferior in height to the crest of the Simplon road, stands in a situation, I should conceive, much more exposed to the effects of sudden hurricanes and snow storms. The road appears to be commanded by no spot where avalanches could accumulate, as on the precipice where you first overlook Brieg, and must, therefore, during the winter, be rather difficult than dangerous. On the other hand, no mountains intervene on the Turin side, to blunt the edge of the north winds from the Savoy Alps; and in the direction of Nice, the south-west winds must be concentrated and driven up the mountain avenue of Tende with the roar of artillery. I can, therefore, easily credit Beaumont's account, that many mules are annually lost in consequence of the tempestuous weather on the Col. We did not, however, taste any of the mule-hams at the cabaret, which, according to that writer, are afforded to the frugal natives by these casualties, but contented ourselves with a spoonful of brandy, and a taste of their good brown bread. Had our stomachs been desperate, other refreshments, I believe, were to be had.

The view to the north from this "raw and gusty" ridge affords a more striking idea of height and space combined, than any other prospect with which I am acquainted; though not on the whole so imposing as the first glimpse of the Swiss side of the Simplon. The eye is carried directly over two or three lower peaks of the Col, grinning with snow drifts, to the great range of Alps south-west of Mont Cenis, which appear hanging in mid air like the domains of a cloud-king; their jagged and glittering tops distinctly defined, but their bases melting into the hazy abyss which the plain of Piedmont presents.

As far as I can estimate, we were about five hours in performing the ascent from Tende. Two more hours took us to Limone, at a jog trot, down a zigzag road, less abrupt in its turns than that on the other side. At Limone the post-road to Turin begins. The post-house is a tolerably good inn: the douaniers, the most troublesome we had yet met with, refusing to compound for the customary donation, and asking for money when their search was ended. We had, therefore, the sweet revenge of first watching them as pick-pockets, and next refusing them as beggars.

To Coni fifteen miles; the first seven or eight through a beautiful valley fringed with chestnut woods; every thing, however, appeared diminutive, as our eyes had not yet recovered the strain which the enormous scenery of the Col had occasioned. In this fine open valley, goitres abound as much as near Sion; this malady, therefore, cannot be attributed, as some think, to the stagnation of air.

Coni, a neat arcaded town, deserves mention for the beauty of its situation, and the fine Alpine panorama which it commands. The glittering pinnacle of Monte Viso, is the most striking feature through this and the following day's journey.

June 5.—Breakfasted at Savigliano, a large flourishing town; slept at Carignan, and reached Turin to breakfast next day.

June 6.—The best of Turin is seen in the general survey of the town and its princely environs, particularly on the Moncaliere side. Our principal amusement was derived from Zuchelli's masterly performance at the Opera Buffa. The plot of the piece turned partly on the discomfitures and discontents of a supercilious English dandy, which part this singer performed with an immoveable countenance, which kept us in a roar of laughter, his grave rich toned bass voice giving a double effect to the solemn absurdity of the character. For the sake of avoiding open offence to our countrymen, the hero was styled a Danish count; but the portrait was perfect to the very tail of the coat, and could not be mistaken, and the countenances of some of his prototypes in the next box showed, that the satire, fair and gentlemanly as it was, cut deeper than the awkward puppet-show of "Les Anglaises pour rire." The Neapolitan character was handled more unmercifully in the part of a guttling, fulsome old coxcomb, as cowardly as the Dane was quarrelsome.

Milan, its inimitable cathedral, and its other curiosities, have, I am aware, been well-trodden ground for some years. No one, however, appears to notice the courier's little spaniel in the Archduke Rainier's hall, who has watched for his master's return from Russia more than a year without stirring from his mat, and whom the good-natured Viceroy feeds and protects without allowing him to be disturbed. I hope he will find a place in some future animal biography, for the credit of his species. As to the splendid Fête Dieu, which we just arrived in time to witness, with its military, civil, and ecclesiastical pageantry,—the beggar-boys plucking the guttering wax from the long tapers of the priests, and the priests occasionally singeing their noses in return, I could no more undertake to describe, than to sort a bag of gaudy feathers of different birds.

The best companion over the Simplon with which I am acquainted, is a little French tract, written, I think, by a M. Mallet, and touching slightly, but sufficiently, on all subjects of interest connected with that stupendous route. The short account which it gives of the life of Cardinal Borromeo may be read through while walking up the hill of Arona to visit his colossal statue, which deserves a higher rank than perhaps it holds, either as a work of art or an achievement of labour. The attitude of the figure is easy and graceful, and the artist has managed the flowing cardinal's robe with great taste. There is also an expression of benevolence and majesty in the countenance and extended hand, suitable to one's conceptions of this apostolic character, who seems looking and waving a blessing on his native Arona. The height of the figure and pedestal is stated at 104 feet; but the effect of its grace and proportion renders this difficult of belief, until you look back at the distance of two miles on the road to Baveno, and see it like a walking giant overtopping the neighbouring woods by more than the head and shoulders.

With this noble statue ends my admiration of Borromean taste: for it is not to be borne that the Isola Bella, which nature intended as a central finish to such a fairy land as the Lago Maggiore, should have been tortured into a piece of confectionary less elegant than the good taste of Gunter or Grange would have devised as the centre of a bowl of lemon cream. The Isola Madre, it is true, is beautiful; for no Italian landscape gardener has yet assailed it with his line and rule.

Our welcome into Switzerland was novel, but pleasing to lovers of animals. Several herds of cattle met us on our road to Brieg, accompanying their masters to the mountain chalets, and fairly beset us with their attentions. The cows crowded and shouldered each other to be scratched; one large goat; slipping under their legs, put her head under my arm, and took my hand in her mouth; and a whole flock of sheep turned round and ran after us in order to obtain more notice. I had no idea before that any animal but the dog might be tamed to such a degree of instinctive tact, as to perceive whether or not its caresses will be acceptable to a stranger; and I am convinced, that the celebrated Ritson might have made more converts to his Braminical system by importing and exhibiting a Swiss flock, than by writing a book against animal food, and classing eggs as a vegetable succedaneum.

It would be as superfluous to describe the well-known ground of Switzerland, as that of Cumberland; and indeed when once within sight of Geneva, one is almost at home. One and one only stage seems to remain, more desirable still.

THE END.

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