which I will now return. On the south side of the valley, three enormous
crags rise immediately into the region of perpetual snow; the
Wetterhorn, which is 11,720 feet high, the Mettenburg somewhat less, and
the Eiger 12,240. Grindelwald is 3,182 feet above the sea. It is not
perhaps quite the summit of these rocks that is visible, and there are
some hundred feet of slope at the bottom; the rest is almost
perpendicular cliff, at least what appears such to the eye, whose height
indeed you may estimate, but whose effect you will find it difficult to
imagine. Between these three vast mountains are two glaciers, at one of
which I spent the morning in attempting to imitate its forms and
colouring, in company with two very agreeable young Englishmen, whom I
met at Grindelwald. On the 20th I returned down the valley to Zwey
Lütchinen, and thence to Unterseen. The walk was delightful, but that
from Unterseen to Grindelwald would have been still finer; for in that
case I should have had the three great mountains successively before me:
first the Wetterhorn and the mountain behind it, the Hinter gletscher
horn, over the woods and rocks of the valley; then the Mettenburg, and
then the Eiger; and after some interval the same objects in the opposite
order, with the accompaniments entirely changed. About a mile from
Unterseen is the castle of Unspunnen, which makes some figure in Swiss
history; and near this, a spot whence one has the finest imaginable view
over both lakes. Each appeared enchanting; the lake of Thun more varied,
but with the surrounding objects in shade, as I was looking towards the
sun; the lake of Brientz, with its cliffs and woods in light, more
uniformly wild and savage. From Unterseen I walked to Müllinen. What a
country to ramble in! Wherever one goes, some new object, some new mode
of beauty delights us; but language has little of the variety of nature;
and the perpetual recurrence of lakes and streams, rocks and mountains,
woods and cultivation, and snow and ice, fatigues, instead of exciting
the attention. I made a diversion to the top of the Niesen, 7,310 feet
in height: snow still lingered on the summit, but only in patches. I
expected a fine view of the Simmenthal and Kanderthal, but clouds
obstructed the prospect. In the other direction, Bern and the Jura were
distinguishable at intervals, through openings in the thick bed of
clouds which lay before me. The next morning I proceeded up Kanderthal.
The clouds hung low upon the mountains, but now and then exposed the
waste of snow above me, and I saw enough to persuade me that Kanderthal
was well worth a visit, even after Lauterbrunnen and Grindelwald; and
that its style of beauty, or of sublimity, is quite different from that
of those vallies. On the 25th I passed the Gemmi: the ascent is steep,
but not otherwise bad, and at the top is a public house, where I
procured some hot milk. The scenery is wild and dreary in the extreme,
and the natural melancholy of the place was heightened by the gloom of
the weather. The Dauben See is a shallow and muddy pool at the top. I
met there a solitary Englishman, who was taking a wrong track; my guide
set him right. He observed to me that there was something very sublime
in crossing the Alps alone in a snow storm, which in fact was then
coming on very heavily. I regretted afterwards that he had been set in
the right path, for there only wanted to complete the sublime, that he
should lose his way; and there would have been no danger, since meeting
with the lake would have shewn him his error. The flakes of snow soon
hid him from my sight, and I shortly after arrived at the descent: but
what a descent! It is impossible I can give you any idea of it. It would
be easier to make a road up the most inaccessible part of the wildest
mountain in England, than up the Gemmi. The inn-keeper at Lausanne told
me that the Gemmi was passable all the year; and in fact the couriers do
pass it at all seasons, but it is extremely dangerous, and accidents
frequently occur. Last year there were six avalanches, and three
couriers lost their lives. These avalanches fill the road with snow, and
the couriers are obliged in some places to creep upon ledges of rock,
half supporting themselves on the snow; and sometimes to trust
themselves entirely to the snow over a precipice of six or eight hundred
feet. It does not appear that these accidents arise from negligence or
ignorance; but the men advance with full sense of their danger, and
using every possible precaution to avoid it. The road is cut out of the
face of the precipice, and in some instances completely into the rock.
At this time of year there is no danger; yet I would not advise a person
to undertake the descent, whose head is apt to be giddy. After reaching
the bottom I looked back, and began to wonder where the path could be,
or how it had been possible to descend such a horrible precipice.
The company had nearly left the baths of Lötsch, and had I been a few
days later, I should have found the inn deserted, except by a single
individual, who is left to take care of the house, and to give shelter
to any stray wanderer. During the proper season, the invalids begin to
resort to the bath about five o’clock in the morning, and remain there
four or five hours, usually taking their breakfast while sitting in the
warm water. At eleven they dine, and afterwards return again to sit in
the bath. At six they sup, and go to bed at eight. How should you like
this regimen?
Next morning I walked down to Leuk, or Lötsch, where I breakfasted, and
hired a _char à banc_, which took me to Brigg. The Vallais is a fine
valley, much narrower here than I had imagined from my view of it from
above Martigny: the mountains which bound it are steep slopes, the
bottom appears flat, and altogether, it wants variety; yet it offers
some beautiful scenes, especially at the openings of the little vallies.
The inhabitants are esteemed to be lazy, dirty, and goitrous, and by far
the most licentious in Switzerland, but rather improving of late years.
Till the road over the Simplon was made, it was one of the most
unfrequented parts of the country, and it may serve as an encouragement
to those who fear that good roads and freer intercourse with their
neighbours, will spoil the sobriety and simplicity of the Swiss
character.
On Friday morning I set off to cross this famous pass. A thick dark bed
of clouds covered the opposite mountains, and against them was reflected
the finest rainbow I ever saw. The middle colours were repeated seven
times. The road is excellent, as good as any about London, but not so
wide; and here and there the rubbish fallen down from above, has
contracted it perhaps to fifteen or eighteen feet, but this is a mere
guess; I did not measure it. It is certainly a most noble work, but the
scenery of the ascent is not picturesque. It winds up sloping hills
covered with wood, and runs round the little vallies, hardly ever making
a zig-zag upon the face of the hill. The village of Simplon is about two
leagues beyond the summit. The republic of the Vallais is repairing the
road, and there is no indication of any intention to abandon it, nor do
the inhabitants seem to entertain the least idea that such a design
could be entertained.
I slept at the village of Simplon, where I was told that it is always
cold, and certainly I found it so. The people were cleaner and honester,
and spoke better French than I had met with the preceding days in the
Vallais. Next morning I resumed my walk towards Italy: the descent on
this side is highly romantic, but after winding among savage rocks and
subterranean passages, and looking against mountains crowned with snow,
I was delighted to come out of the confined pass at Dovedro, and find
myself in a fertile valley full of corn-fields, vineyards, and villages.
In one part of this day’s walk, I observed a quantity of snow which had
fallen the preceding winter, and being afterwards thickly covered with
earth, was sprinkled with vegetation. After this opening the valley
again contracts into another wild and rocky pass, though not with the
frowning horrors of the preceding: this leads into the comparatively
open Val Ocella, one league along which brought me to Duomo d’Ossola.
I have now left Switzerland, but I will not begin another subject
without a few general observations. The country churches are generally
small and poor buildings, each with a square tower at the west end,
which terminates in a high gable. They are, I believe, always of stone;
the cottages always of wood. These latter are generally elevated on a
stone basement of six or eight feet in height. There are two stories
below the roof, and one in it. The wood-work is not painted all over,
and sometimes not at all; but there are frequently broad horizontal
bands ornamented with painting, as well as with carving. The roofs span
the long way of the building, and project five or six feet all round;
they are consequently immensely large; and they are covered with
shingles, or with slates. On one side, or often on both, is a gallery
under the shelter of the roof, and the whole of this covered way forms
an admirable place for drying flax, and sometimes corn: the flax, by the
bye, is dressed without steeping.
I did not find any building at Duomo d’Ossola to excite much attention.
There is a _Via Crucis_, that is, an ascent leading to a church or
convent, on which is a series of chapels, representing the circumstances
of our Saviour’s passion. Each chapel is here a small room filled with
figures, carved in wood and painted: as much light is admitted as will
shew them distinctly, and two or three holes are left, with gratings of
wire, through which one may peep to see the imagery. These things are
very common in Italy, but not all on so expensive a scale: the chapels
are generally much smaller, like watch-boxes, and are adorned only with
a painting exhibited in the same manner: sometimes they are mere arched
recesses, to protect the series of pictures. This history is not
confined to the facts related in the scriptures, but is heightened by
tradition or invention. It is regularly a part of the story, not only
that our Saviour himself carried the cross, nearly if not quite all the
way, but that he fell down under it three times; and the circumstance is
improved, if we may use the methodist expression in speaking of Roman
Catholic superstition, by the inscriptions placed underneath. Little
stations of this sort are also frequent by the road-sides, with a saint
painted at the bottom of the niche.
From the top of the hill of the Via Crucis at Duomo d’Ossola, there is a
fine view of the flat circular valley, at the edge of which stands the
town. A considerable portion of this plain is covered by the enormous
beds of gravel and sand brought down by the mountain torrents. In other
places it appears rich and fertile, and the meadows are as green as in
England.
The churches in this part of Italy have very high slender towers,
covered with a depressed pyramidal roof of red tiles, or sometimes with
a little cupola; they are almost always white, and form a very striking
and characteristic feature in the landscape.
I dined at Duomo d’Ossola in company with a young Englishman, who seemed
to have been all over the world; and afterwards, as we were talking
together in the balcony, he exclaimed, “Do you keep a pet scorpion?” I
followed the direction of his eyes, and saw one of the largest size,
crawling on my right breast. I soon got rid of him, but I dare say I
looked fifty times at my waistcoat during the evening to see if any
other had taken its place: I have no conception how it came there. The
room we were in had been newly plastered, but we found another on the
wall: they seem to be dull, sluggish animals.
On Monday, 30th of September, I left Duomo d’Ossola, and crossing the
valley, great part of the way on beds of gravel covered with _Hippophæ
rhamnoides_, mounted by a pleasant rocky defile to Val Vigezza. These
Italian vals are for the most part surrounded on three sides by
mountains, and on the fourth connected with the plain country by a deep
ravine, through which the waters are discharged. I should perhaps rather
say separated than connected, as it is only by a narrow track on the
slope of the mountain, that the communication is preserved; and it has
in some cases been found easier to make the road across the mountain,
than to carry it through the defile. Val Vigezza occupies the highest
part of the hollow, and discharges its water both ways; partly by the
defile through which I ascended, and partly by Cento Valli, where there
is hardly any open space, and where the views are finer than on the
ascent, but which I should probably have admired more, if I had not just
passed the grander and more impressive scenery of the Simplon. I eat,
and slept, at the house of the parish priest in the little village of
Borgnone, in the Swiss state of Ticino, and the next morning continued
my walk to Locarno. I did not fare very well on this road, probably from
not being sufficiently aware of the manners of the people, nor having
learned to apply for food at the proper hours. In all these remote
places you must comply with the customs of the country; it is too
difficult a task to teach the inhabitants to accommodate themselves to
yours.
On Wednesday morning I walked to Ascona, and thence, along the shores of
the lake, to Canobio. The road near the villages is usually between two
stone walls, with a trellis supporting the vines overhead. The grapes
within reach are whitewashed, apparently to prevent passengers from
eating them. In the remoter parts these precautions are omitted, and the
rude trellis, which supports the vines, rests on posts of granite or
mica slate; but the trees and vines seldom permit an extensive view,
though the road is a continued succession of steep ascents and descents.
I became rather tired of this, and at Canobio hired a boat to take me
down the lake, and to the Borromean islands. The scenery improves as we
descend; the mountains divide, and present more variety in themselves,
as well as give occasional views of higher and more distant summits.
About Intra, Palanza, and Laveno, it is particularly fine: the long
continuous range of mountains, forming the eastern shore of the lake,
here ceases; and at the last mentioned place, and below it, we have only
hills of moderate elevation, covered with trees and cultivation, and
terminating in steep banks or little cliffs at the water’s edge. The
range on the western side also ceases at Intra; but there is a fine
detached hill behind Palanza, and mountains again occur of considerable
height, beyond the bay which incloses the Borromean islands. Two rivers
fall into the head of this bay: their vallies are separated by a noble
crag, and a long perspective of a succession of mountains, exposes the
snowy summits of the higher Alps, which form a delightful contrast with
the beauties of the nearer scenery. There is one island near Palanza
which commands this view better than any other; but it is seldom
visited, because there is only a small villa upon it. On the Isola Madre
is a larger villa; on another island (Isola Peschiera) is a little
village; but the great object of curiosity is the Isola Bella, where we
see a magnificent villa of the Borromean family, in sublimely bad taste,
both inside and out. There are however, some handsome rooms within; and
the profuse and extended scale on which art has exerted itself, joined
to a luxuriant vegetation, produces no small effect of grandeur without.
The views from it are most beautiful, both up and down the lake, and up
the bay. I landed at Stresa, and walked to Belgirate, and thence to
Arona. The lower part of the lake is quiet, and without any of the
sublime character of the upper, but still very beautiful; and points of
cliff occasionally rise from the water. Arona is a very picturesque
little place, seated on a point at the foot of one of these cliffs. On a
hill above it is the statue of St. Charles Borromeo; 66 feet high, on a
pedestal of above 30, so that the whole is about 100 English feet in
height. As I walked along the road below, the pedestal was quite lost;
and the great priest, walking among the woods, which reach only to his
middle, and holding up his fingers in the act of blessing the people,
had a very singular effect. It is made partly of cast bronze, and partly
of plates of copper on timber framing, and the execution is very good.
The views from it are exceedingly fine. From Arona I crossed the lake to
Ispra, where the custom-house officers took it into their heads to
examine my little bundle, and then asked me for something to drink. From
Ispra I walked to Comerio, near the lake Varese. The entire change of
scenery had a pleasing effect; instead of rocks and mountains, I was
among gently swelling hills, well cultivated with different sorts of
grain, and shaded with fine chesnut trees. The maize was nearly ripe:
the barren flowers and the upper leaves had just been cut off, that the
juices of the plant might all be directed to the seed. In some instances
the heads of seeds had likewise been gathered and hung up to dry about
the houses. Many of the inhabitants were employed in beating down the
chesnuts; which were large and good, like the Spanish chesnut; whereas
among the mountains, though great part of the wood is formed of chesnut
trees, yet the fruit is small, like what we have in England.[29] From
Gavirate to Comerio, the land rises considerably, and there are
extensive surfaces of white limestone, containing beds of flint rather
than chertz. Before me lay a great extent of country of the same
character as that which I had passed; the Lake of Varese lying on the
right; to the left is the woody hill on whose slope the road runs; and
behind are the distant mountains of Lago Maggiore, and the still more
distant snowy mass of Monte Rosa. My eye is so familiarized to white
tops, that I can hardly fancy any mountain high without them, and
something always seems wanting where they are not. As it was meagre day,
I could get nothing at the little inn but some small fish, called
_Cavezzali_, not much bigger than minnows, maccaroni, and an omelet, but
the fellow charged for my supper five francs, the usual price to English
travellers at the better inns in this part of Italy, and three for a
miserable bed. I gave him six francs, which I am told was twice as much
as I ought to have paid; indeed he seemed perfectly conscious that it
was too much. I walked in this direction as far as Varese, and then
turning short to the left, soon found myself again among mountains, much
broken and varied, but not very high. The road lies so low and is so
much sheltered, that we only see enough of the scenery to tantalize us;
but by the deviation of a few yards, before the descent to Porto on the
Lake of Lugano, I enjoyed one of those delicious scenes which baffle all
description, comprising every mode of rich and beautiful in landscape,
set in a frame of magnificent mountains. A man, who overtook me on the
road, asked me a louis for a boat to Lugano, then a napoleon, then
eighteen francs, as the least possible. I offered him five, which he
accepted, and seemed just as active and good humoured as if he had
obtained his whole demand.
The Lake of Lugano is very beautiful, and very different from Lago
Maggiore; yet I despair of making you perceive the difference. The
mountains are rugged and abrupt, generally rising from the water’s edge;
but at the bottom of each of its six bays, they recede, and leave
cultivated vallies. The lower part of the slopes is covered with vines
and olives, and spotted with villages wherever they are not too steep to
admit of it; in other places they are clothed with wood, and the upper
parts are all woody, except where the perpendicular rocks prohibit
vegetation. Two of the crags, San Salvadore and Valsolda, are
particularly fine. Lugano is a nice little town with an excellent inn:
it is celebrated for one of the best newspapers on the continent. The
women here (and the fashion is common through the north of Italy,) form
a sort of star of pins, in fastening the hair at the back of the head,
which is a very conspicuous and not ungraceful ornament.
A boat belonging to Porlezza was at Lugano; I engaged it for four
francs. The olive-trees here are not pollards, like those of the south
of France, nor collected together into olive-grounds; but graceful trees
of a gray green, scattered among the yellow vineyards, and contrasting
with the warm hues of the chesnut. They are entirely confined to the
lower and more sheltered parts of the hills: the colour is perhaps,
rather dull; nevertheless they are, to a northern eye, a beautiful
novelty in the landscape. From Porlezza I walked to Menaggio, by a
delightful path between mountains; and a charming little lake (Lago di
Piano) occurs in the way: all was sweetness and repose. The first view
over the Lake of Como is still finer than that I enjoyed of the Lake of
Lugano. Some boatmen accompanied me, to persuade me to go to the top of
the lake, for which one of them asked me a louis. I offered him seven
francs, at which he burst into a laugh, declaring it was quite
ridiculous to think of doing it for so little; but it was afterwards
accepted by him and his companion; so you see what sort of people I have
to deal with; and in the inns it is nearly the same. The next morning,
accordingly, I set out on this expedition: the head of the Lake of Como
is much more broken than that of Lago Maggiore, and presents some
stupendous crags; in each lake, however, the middle is the finest part.
There is, perhaps, nothing on the Lake of Como equal to the view up the
bay of the Borromean islands, on the Lago Maggiore; yet there is greater
variety, and on the whole, greater beauty; indeed the scenes about
Menaggio and the opposite shore are exquisitely fine. We caught some
_Agomi_ on our return; these are small fishes, little larger than our
bleak, and much resembling them in appearance. On being taken out of the
water, the colours change very beautifully. They are sold here at thirty
sous the pound of thirty ounces, and are very good eating. The next
morning I resumed my walk; every step was beautiful; and yet, to say the
truth, I got tired of passing continually through rich vineyards and
noble groves of chesnut, with the lake eternally spread out on the left.
From Caretti I crossed the lake to see the Villa Pliniana; a house built
absolutely in the water, at the foot of a steep mountain. Behind it,
there is a celebrated intermitting spring, which I believe diminished a
little while I was there, but so little that I could hardly be certain
of it. It is said to ebb and flow three times a day, but at uncertain
intervals; in rainy weather the quantity of water increases very much.
Just by there is a waterfall, which the _Cicerone_ estimated at 300
feet, and I at half that height, but in dry weather there is but little
water. Since I have crossed the Alps, the weather has been fine and
warm, and the first feelings of summer have been accompanied by the
symptoms of approaching winter. The leaves had not begun to fall in
Switzerland, but in Italy I found them strewed abundantly on the ground.
I left this desolate villa, and returned to the little public-house at
Caretti, where there was a tidy little bed-room, a very fair dinner, and
moderate charges.
On Thursday morning I walked to Cernobio, where at last, the mountains
begin to open. The Princess of Wales has purchased a villa here, and I
believe, added to it considerably. There are twenty-one windows in
front, on the principal floor; but in Italy this is not reckoned very
large. Curiosity prompted me to apply for admittance, but it was
refused. Bread here is eighteen French sous per pound: wages in
agriculture, three lire per diem. The Milanese lira is about two-thirds
of the French. My landlord attributes to the high price of bread, the
robberies which are sometimes heard of in these parts. Whatever there
might be of romantic in being robbed by a horde of picturesque banditti,
it would be altogether flat and disagreeable, to be knocked on the head
by distressed peasants: however, it does not appear that any thing of
the sort is frequent. On the surface of a large plain, the distant
objects seem crowded together; but as you approach, they separate, and
you find ample space between them: thus it is with these robberies. To
you in England; France, Germany, and Italy, are all crowded together;
and in these distant events, time as well as space is very much lost;
when you come here and find that only one robbery has happened in six
months, the danger does not seem very alarming. The south-western branch
of the Lake of Como, like the upper part of Lago Maggiore, is inclosed
by hills too uniform and unbroken to be altogether pleasing.
Como boasts a large and curious cathedral of the middle ages, but I did
not find it out till it was too dark to make any particular observations
upon it; and early the next morning I got into the diligence and came to
Milan, of which I shall not, at present, attempt any description.
LETTER XV.
MILAN.