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 naivete 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,
"Quos super atra silex jamjam lapsura, cadentique
Imminet assimilis."
[Footnote 56: There is, I believe, no inn at Saorgio.]
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.
[Footnote 57: Vide Cooke's Views.]
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 Fete 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.
"Cum peregrino,
Labore fossi venimus larem ad nostram,
Desideratoque acquiescimus lecto."
THE END.
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