"Italia! O Italia! thou who hast The fatal gift of beauty which became A funeral dower of present woes and past, To shed thy blood and drink the tears of thy distress." 1 But how vain are all the sad songs which are sung, and all the wails of sorrows which are uttered, over the fallen, disgraced land of the emperors and the popes! Italy has chosen her own lot, and followed her own destiny. Her degradation is self-imposed, and her suf ferings are of her own making. She has voluntarily relinquished her claim to the improvements of science, and the benefits of the word of God, and stands out an example of mistaken zeal, blinded enthusiasm, and unmitigated cruelty. 1 1 Byron. MM * XXXV. THE ALPS-PASS OF THE SIMPLON. Ir was a beautiful day when we jolted out of Milan. The sun was just gilding the turrets and pinnacles of the magnificent cathedral as we turned our backs upon fair Italia. Soon all the beautiful buildings and the works of human art were left behind, and an unabridged edition of nature was before us. The lower Alps were soon reached, and in the hazy atmosphere presented an ever-varying appearance, now rough and rugged, and then the smoothly-rounded cone; now bare and desolate, and anon crowned with verdure and covered with foliage. And soon the higher Alps were gained, all misty and dim, and having on the everlasting nightcap of snow and ice. We crossed the Toccia on a swing boat ferry, and rode along the shores of Lake Maggiore, within sight of the picturesque Island of Isola Bella, which rises from the bosom of the dark wave like a star shining through a night cloud. The road all along was delightful and pleasant. Formed for the march of armies, it was broad, smooth, level, and destitute of ruts and gullies. It winds around the base of the mountains, whose sides are covered with vines and foliage of various kinds, from out of which peep now and then the cottage of the peasant, the church tower, and the humble unostentatious village, and whose summits are concealed by the ever-shifting clouds. A whole day was passed in the diligence, during which we amused ourselves as best we could, discussing questions of politics, morals, and religion; gazing with admiration upon the magnificent scenery through which we rode; and often wandering back to the less poetic clime from which we had journeyed, but which had a greener and fresher place in our remembrance than any land we had seen, or any city whose hospi tality we had shared. We arrived at the foot of the Simplon, and entered the grand pass, just at nightfall, and, until nine the next morning, continued to ascend over the splendid road which the genius of Napoleon built amid those frowning hights, and over which his armies passed in midwinter, now overwhelmed by the avalanche, and anon emerging from the danger, to pour themselves upon the smiling fields below. The scenery was wild and awful. On one side of us towered the high peaks, from which swept down the cold, icy wind; on the other side were deep ravines and terrible precipices, which yawned, as if eager to devour an army. Now we passed the refuge houses; the convent, at the gate of which stood a large St. Bernard dog ready for duty; beautiful cascades leaping down from cliff to cliff; piles of snow in midsummer; and many a huge rock projecting overhead, and ready to fall upon the head of the traveler. Yet higher up we go, until the cross, which marks the turning-point, standing in its loneliness, is seen, a truthful emblem, suggesting holy thoughts to the traveler in his dreary march. The most terrible moment spent in crossing the Simplon is that which is required to penetrate the gorge of Gondo, a magnificent gallery, cut five hundred and ninety-six feet through the hard rock, down over which the water tumbles with ceaseless roar. The first thought which rushes through the mind, while in this splendid passage, is of the greatness of God. The Christian hears his voice in the roar of the waterfall, and sees his form in the silent grandeur of the hights above and the caverns below. The next thought will pay a voluntary tribute to the mighty genius of the conquering hero, at whose command this road was built. An ordinary man never would have made the attempt; the stupendous idea of cutting out, not a little footpath, but a broad road, over which regiments of artillery might march Napoleon alone could originate. Whatever we may think of his moral character, and however much we may denounce his unconquerable ambition, we can but admire his lofty genius and determined energy. His mind was fitted for conquests; and his soul rose above the difficulties which nature placed in his way. those broad roads across the Simplon, the Splugen, and St. Bernard, and in the improvements which he made at Rome, Naples, and in Spain, we have an idea of the sublime plan — sublime, though murderous-on which he acted. Though accustomed to the confusion of battle and the din of war, his taste for the true and beautiful may be gathered from projected improvements, which were abandoned in consequence of his fall, in Italy, Germany, and also in his own beloved France. The beauties of Wilhelmshohe, and the adornment of many a fancy spot, may be traced to the designs of the conqueror. In All that night we continued to climb, the impressions of awe becoming deeper every moment. There is every thing in that wild scene to make one forget the narrow occupations of earth, and lift up his soul to God. The stupendous hights; the yawning caverns; the everlastling roar of the descending torrents; the dark night and the dawning morning; the hospice of the monks; the exposure to the descending ava lanche; the galleries hewn out of solid rock, dripping with water and hung with icicles; the wet, misty clouds which now sweep down upon us, and anon roll back, and leave us in moonlight and starlight, all increase the interest and awfulness of the ascent. The cold was intense, though not greater than we expected. The snow was lying in drifts on the sides of the mountains; and above us, in the gorges, shone the glaciers. In one single night, we had passed from the summer of Italy to the cold, ceaseless winter scenes of the hoary Alps. The green, vine-clad fields were exchanged for long, deep drifts of snow which never melt, and glaciers which never cease to shine. It was the morning of the holy Sabbath when we reached the cross which tells where the ascent ends and the descent begins, and denotes the altitude of the pass. It was good thus to be in the midst of nature's works on such a day. There were no regiments of soldiers, no chanting choirs, no robed priests, but God was there in that awful solitude; and as I paused at that cross, the sacred emblem of the believer's faith, the sublime words of Bowring ran though my mind and trembled on my lips: "In the cross of Christ I glory, Towering e'er the works of time; Gathers round its head sublime." Down we rolled, rattling along, now holding on to the side of the rickety diligence, anon bursting forth with exclamations of surprise at the grand and awful scenes around us. The passage of the Alps is not attended, in summer, with any particular danger; but |