The Falls of the Maira near here form a perfect picture. On again! Down steep declivities, past dark ravines, ruined castles, foaming cascades, tremendous precipices, fearful gorges, and gloomy caverns. Still onward! Over swift rushing rivers, behind us the realms of eternal snow. Cornfields, vineyards, and mulberry groves again. Hark! the song of the Italian peasant. Sunshine, flowers, and the music of birds. It is Italy, beautiful Italy! We are approaching the plains of Lombardy. Through Riva, by the edge of the Lake of Como, to Colico, where the steamboat is waiting to convey us across the silvery waters of the beautiful lake, whose name raises bright dreams, realised only by those who have crossed its glittering surface,

"Broke into gold by many a fairy prow!"

and whose distant sails

"For floating birds we take,

Bathing in azure wave their plumes of snow

Wherein shore, tower, and town their mirror make."

II. FROM MARTIGNY OVER THE SIMPLON.

From Martigny to Sion, where the railway terminates, the road exhibits numerous traces of the frightful inundations frequent here. In Martigny we are shown water-marks which prove "that sometimes the whole valley is flooded up to the first-floor windows, and all up the valley there are similar indications of torrent desolation. These devastations are principally during the spring, when the snow has begun to melt." We are now in a region of ancient castles. Every eminence seems to have had, at one time or another, its own particular fortress. At Sion there are two such edifices in ruins, another castle becoming observable as the town is more closely approached. Here the shale mountains are

beautifully terraced like those of the Rhine. One hour is sufficient to exhaust the sights of Sion, so taking our places in the diligence, the word to start is given, crack goes the whip, and off we start for the Simplon. A mulberry plantation here, a ruined castle there, and we are at Sierre. Over the Rhone, past hills formerly the resort of brigands, past Alpine villages, glistening church towers, waterfalls, castles, rocks, valleys, snow mountains, alternations of sterility and fertility, onward we go, taking little heed of the "handsome old market town" of Leuk; Susten; Tourtemagne, with its splendid cascade, 150 feet in depth; Viège, or Vispach, whence numerous tours may be made to the glacier region of Zermatt; and we are in Brigue (Brieg), where the work of ascent really commences. Here we bid farewell to the romantic valley of the Rhone, and enter upon the land which Mr. Laing quaintly epitomises as one of "avalanches, snows, glaciers, winding roads, with cataracts and precipices below, and clouds and blue sky above, and all the other romance furniture of Alpine scenery." The road now pursued by us was constructed by Napoleon, after the famous battle of Marengo. The scenery becomes wilder and grander at every turn. Bridge after bridge is crossed, gallery after gallery gone through, houses of refuge passed by, and then comes the stupendous panorama of the Alps, the real grandeur of which is beyond the power of words to paint, and which forms a sight well worth the whole cost of the journey from England. In the distance is an eagle soaring majestically through the air; below us is heard the distant Alpine horn, or the shepherd's melodious pipe, its notes commingling with the tinkling of numerous sheep bells. Higher and higher we rise, from the very roots of the mountains, the picture varying in beauty at every turn; now the dizzy precipices below, now the craggy heights above. At

last we reach the little village of Simplon, situated about six thousand feet above the level of the sea! We have already crossed the highest point, marked by a cross, and loitered a few minutes at the Hospice. We are now commencing, through "a black and craggy rending asunder of the granite Alps," our descent into Italy; "a foaming torrent cutting summersaults below at every step, and straight up, above the gloomy precipices, the lowering clouds of heaven." Marvellous are the winding tunnels which commence after passing the famous Gorge of Gondo, said to be "the wildest and grandest in the Alps." These gigantic tunnels are hewn out of a solid mass of rock, which seemed to impede the further progress of the road, and which took eighteen months to excavate―100 men, in gangs of eight, working in turns day and night. As we emerge from the tunnels a scene of stupendous majesty meets our eyes. Hissing and roaring, the boiling waters of the Frassinone dash over the rocks above into the tremendous gorge below. On either side rise rocks more than 2,000 feet in height, the whole forming a picture of almost terrific sublimity. More cascades, more fearful ravines, more lofty crags, and we are in Gondo, the last Swiss village. Soon we reach Isella, the frontier town of Switzerland and Italy. Crevola, with its rock-gallery, gorge, and bridge, passed, we find ourselves in a completely new country. To quote Bædeker's excellent guide-book, the region here is very striking. "The country has a thoroughly Italian aspect; the balmy air, the trellised vines, the waving fields of Indian corn, the rustling of the quick-eyed lizard, the loud chirping of the crickets, the glittering villages, the graceful campanili,-all tell of that fair land, which, kissed by the breath of heaven, seems coloured by its skies.' "Now the scenery softens," says another writer; "the Val d'Ossola expands, a charming relief and contrast to past

horrors. Luxuriant verdure, plants, vines, insect voices, mellowing tints, the very air 'breathing of the sweet south,' yes, this is Italy indeed!" There is little to detain us at Domo d'Ossola. We are too impatient to reach Arona. More and more delightful becomes the journey. Nothing can exceed its highly picturesque character, especially as we approach Fariolo. After passing numerous granite quarries, and the famous quarry "out of which man's skill has disinterred the whole of Milan cathedral," a perfect maze of vineyards, olive groves, corn fields, and chesnut plantations, arrests our gaze. Here, too, the beautiful Lago Maggiore suddenly bursts into view, heightening inconceivably the rich glories of the landscape. In the distance is seen Isola Madre, one of the numerous charming islands which stud the lake. Reaching Baveno, we proceed over a road, almost wholly supported by granite pillars, by the side of the famous lake, and passing numerous villas and gardens, find our conveyance rattling at full speed through the sunny streets of Arona, where we make a halt in our long and interesting journey down south.

III. FROM LUCERNE OVER THE ST. GOTHARD.

(For account of journey from Lucerne to Altdorf, see p. 71-76.)

At Flüelen we exchange the steamboat for the diligence, and commence the journey towards the St. Gothard, a route which has been characterised as "solemnly beautiful." Between Fluelen and Andermatt the botanist will find much to occupy his attention. At Altorf, or Altdorf, a colossal statue of Tell marks the spot asserted as being where the Swiss hero unflinchingly aimed at the apple unfeelingly placed

on the head of his youthful son by order of the detested Gessler. We can almost imagine we perceive the sturdy patriot, his features pale with emotion, but his lip unquivering, his hand steady as a rock, preparing for the fatal shot. How well Sheridan Knowles has pictured the scene in his famous drama! Hearken to Tell:

"Keep silence, every one!

And stir not for my child's sake! And let me have
Your prayers-your prayers—and be my witnesses,
That if his life's in peril from my hand,

'Tis only for the chance of saving it!

Now, friends, for mercy's sake, keep motionless
And silent."

Who glories not in the noble deeds of Tell? A little further on we pass Burglen, the birthplace and home of Tell; then, crossing the Schachenbach, in the waters of which the hero perished while struggling to save a child, and, skirting the meadow forming the popular meeting-place of the canton, we reach Klus. Silenen, Amsteg, and several minor places follow in rapid succession, the road rising as we proceed, and the scenery everywhere being of the most romantic description imaginable. After leaving Amsteg, the road crosses the Reuss, which here dashes madly along, foaming and leaping over its rocky bed. We have now fairly commenced the ascent of the St. Gothard, which is not, as many suppose, a single peak or eminence, but a mountainous group, presenting many peculiar features. The region now being traversed by us has occupied a prominent position in modern continental history. In the valley of the Reuss and its surrounding neighbourhood several of the deadliest struggles occasioned by the outbreak of war between France, Germany, and Russia, in 1799, took place; the French, after their defeat of the Russian general, occupying the