I
know no place so pathetic, and yet so impressive, in its decay.
It
is not a ruin - all ruins are frauds - it is only decayed. It is a
kind of Stokesay or Ightham Mote, better preserved than the first,
and less furnished than the second, but on a grander scale than
either, and set in incomparably finer surroundings. The path
towards it passes the church, which has been spoiled. Outside this
there are parts of old Roman columns from some temple, stuck in the
ground; inside are two statues called St. Peter and St. Paul, but
evidently effigies of some magistrates in the Roman times. If the
traveller likes to continue the road past the church for three-
quarters of a mile or so, he will get a fine view of the castle,
and if he goes up to the little chapel of S. Quirico on the top of
the hill on his right hand, he will look down upon it and upon
Arona. We will suppose, however, that he goes straight for the
castle itself; every moment as he approaches it, it will seem finer
and finer; presently he will turn into a vineyard on his left, and
at once begin to climb.
Passing under the old gateway - with its portcullis still ready to
be dropped, if need be, and with the iron plates that sheathe it
pierced with bullets - as at S. Michele, the visitor enters at once
upon a terrace from which the two foregoing illustrations were
taken.
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