in the sunshine; the little villages perched like eagles’ nests on the cliffs, far, far above our heads; the deep rocky channels through which the torrents had madly broken a way, tearing through every obstacle till they reached the Rhone, and marking their course with devastation; the scene of direful ruin at Martigny; the cataracts gushing, bounding from the living rock and plunging into some unseen abyss below; even the shrubs and the fruit trees which in the wider parts of the valley bordered the road side; the vines, the rich scarlet barberries, the apples and pears which we might have gathered by extending our hands;—­all and each, when I recall them, will rise up a vivid picture before my own fancy;—­but never could be truly represented to the mind of another—­at least through the medium of words.

And yet, with all its wonders and beauties, this day’s journey has not enchanted me like Saturday’s.  The scenery then had a different species of beauty, a deeper interest—­when the dark blue sky was above our heads, and the transparent lake shone another heaven at our feet, and the recollection of great and glorious names, and visions of poetic fancy, and ideal forms more lovely than ever trod this earth, hovered around us:—­and then those thoughts which would intrude—­remembrances of the far-off absent, who are or have been loved, mingled with the whole, and shed an imaginary splendour or a tender interest, over scenes which required no extraneous powers to enhance their native loveliness.—­no charm borrowed from imagination to embellish the all-beautiful reality.

Duomo d’Ossola.—­What shall I say of the marvellous, the miraculous Simplon?  Nothing:  every body has said already every thing that can be said and exclaimed.

In our descent, as the valley widened, and the stern terrific features of the scene assumed a gentler character, we came to the beautiful village of Davedro, with its cottages and vineyards spread over a green slope, between the mountains and the torrent below.  This lovely nook struck me the more from its contrast with the region of snows, clouds, and barren rocks to which our eyes had been for several hours accustomed.  In such a spot as Davedro I fancied I should wish to live, could I in life assemble round me all that my craving heart and boundless spirit desire;—­or die, when life had exhausted all excitement, and the subdued and weary soul had learned to be content with repose:—­but not not till then.

We are now in Italy; but have not yet heard the soft sounds of the Italian language.  However, we read with great satisfaction the Italian denomination of our Inn, “La grande Alberga della Villa”—­called out “Cameriere!” instead of “Garcon!”—­plucked ripe grapes as they hung from the treillages above our heads—­gathered green figs from the trees, bursting and luscious—­panted with the intense heat—­intense and overpowering from its contrast with the cold of the Alpine regions we had just left—­and fancied we began to feel