As The Road Is Cut Zigzag, In Many Parts, You
Appear To Preserve Nearly The Same Distance From Brieg After
Three hours'
march, as after half an hour only, since you have that village continually
under your eyes, nor do
You lose sight of it till near the toll-house.
Brieg appears when viewed from various points of the road like the
card-houses of children, the Valais like a slip of green baize, and the
Rhone like a very narrow light blue ribband; and when at Brieg before you
ascend you look up at the toll-house, you would suppose it impossible for
any human being to arrive at such a height without the help of a balloon.
It reminded me of the castle of the enchanter in the Orlando Furioso, who
keeps Ruggiero confined and who rides on the Hippogriff.
The village of the Simplon is a mile beyond the toll-house, descending. We
stopped there for two hours to dine. A snow storm had fallen and the
weather was exceedingly cold; the mountain air had sharpened our appetite,
but we could get nothing but fish and eggs as it was a jour maigre, and
the Valaisans are rigid observers of the ordinances of the Catholic church.
We however, on assuring the landlord that we were militaires, prevailed
on him to let us have some ham and sausages. German is the language here.
The road from the toll-house to Domo d'Ossola (the first town at the foot
of the mountain on the Italian side) is a descent, but the slope is as
gentle as on the rest of the road. Fifteen miles beyond the village of the
Simplon stands the village of Isella, which is the frontier town of the
King of Sardinia, and where there is a rigorous douane, and ten miles
further is Domo d'Ossola, where we arrived at seven in the evening. Between
Isella and Domo d'Ossola the scenery becomes more and more romantic,
varying at every step, cataracts falling on all sides, and three more
galleries to pass. Domo d'Ossola appears a large and neat clean town, and
we put up at a very good inn. At Isella begins the Italian language, or
rather Piedmontese.
The next morning we proceeded on our journey till we reached Fariolo, which
is on the northern extremity of the Lago Maggiore. The road from Domo
d'Ossola thro' the villages of Ornavasso and Vagogna is thro' a fertile and
picturesque valley, or rather gorge, of the mountain, narrow at first, but
which gradually widens as you approach to the lake. The river Toso runs
nearly in a parallel direction with the road. The air is much milder than
in Switzerland, and you soon perceive the change of climate from its
temperature, as well as from the appearance of the vines and mulberry trees
and Indian corn called in this country grano turco.
At Fariolo, after breakfast, my friend Zadera took leave of me and embarked
his carriage on the lake in order to proceed to Lugano; and I who was bound
to Milan, having hired a cabriolet, proceeded to Arona, after stopping one
hour to refresh the horses at Belgirate. The whole road from Fariolo to
Arona is on the bank of the Lago Maggiore, and nothing can be more neat
than the appearance of all these little towns which are solidly and
handsomely built in the Italian taste.
Before I arrived at Arona, and at a distance of two miles from it, I
stopped in order to ascend a height at a distance of one-eighth of a mile
from the road to view the celebrated colossal statue in bronze of St
Charles Borromaeus, which may be seen at a great distance. It is seventy
cubits high, situated on a pedestal of twenty feet, to ascend which
requires a ladder. You then enter between his legs, or rather the folds of
his gown, and ascend a sort of staircase till you reach his head. There is
something so striking in the appearance of this black gigantic figure when
viewed from afar, and still more when you are at the foot of it, that you
would suppose yourself living in the time of fairies and enchanters, and it
strongly reminded me of the Arabian Nights, as if the statue were the work
of some Genie or Peri; or as if it were some rebel Genius transformed into
black marble by Solomon the great Prophet. I am not very well acquainted
with the life and adventures of this Saint, but he was of the Borromean
family, who are the most opulent proprietors of the Milanese. Every tract
of land, palace, castle, farm in the environs of Arona seem to belong to
them. If you ask whose estate is that? whose villa is that? whose castle is
that? the answer is, to the Count Borromeo, who seems to be as universal a
proprietor here as Nong-tong-paw at Paris or Monsieur Kaniferstane at
Amsterdam.[53] Arona is a large, straggling but solidly built town, and
presents nothing worth notice.
We proceeded on our journey the next morning. Shortly after leaving Arona,
the road diverges from the lake and traverses a thick wood until it reaches
the banks of the Tessino; on the other bank of which, communicating by
means of a flying bridge, stands the town of Sesto Calende. The Tessino
divides and forms the boundary between the Sardinian and Austrian
territory, and Sesto Calende is the frontier of His Imperial, Royal and
Apostolic Majesty. After a rigorous search of my portmanteau at the
Douane, and exhibiting my passport, I was allowed to proceed on my
journey to Milan.
At Rho, where I stopped to dine, stands a remarkably ancient tree said to
have been planted in the time of Augustus. The country presents a perfect
plain, highly cultivated, all the way from Sesto to Milan. The chaussee
is broad and admirably well kept up and lined on both sides with poplars.
The roads in Lombardy are certainly the finest in Europe.
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