[Illustration: _London, Published by I, Murray, 1819._ SCENE on the SIMPLON.]
The parish church of Trasqueras is an object of high astonishment; we passed it, not without adding our individual tribute of wonder. It is built upon the topmost verge of a barren mountain, at a frightful height. Apparently no human power could have conveyed thither the materials for its erection; we could only reconcile the existence of the fact, by supposing that there must have been a quarry upon the spot. The priest who does duty there, and the congregation whose zeal leads them to scale the dreadful precipice to attend public worship, are in some danger, I should think, of being canonized for martyrs! But to speak more seriously, there is something infinitely impressive in the idea of a little band of humble and obscure mortals thus meeting together to worship the Creator in such a spot of wild and solitary sublimity. These scenes most certainly tend to elevate the imagination, and to fill the heart, with strong feelings of devotional adoration and awful respect. It is not _only_ "those who go down to the great waters," who see "the wonders of the Lord!" We remarked a cottage here, in the style of the most romantic hermitage, close to a raving flood, in the frightful strait of Yselle. The living rock formed its roof, and the sides were of flat uncemented stones; a rude door of pine wood shut in its inhabitants, for inhabited it certainly must have been, as a little pile of faggots for winter firing evidently evinced. Gold dust is sometimes found in the beds of the surrounding torrents. There is no end to the varieties of the Simplon: we sometimes crossed from one mountain to another; then dived into the dark entrails of the rocks; now wound along narrow valleys at their feet, and at last rose (by a gentle ascent) to the proud summit of the loftiest glaciers, far above the rolling clouds. In some places our eye rested with delight upon the rich green of the chestnut and beech, in others all vegetation seemed wholly to cease. The rhododendron (_note_ P.) flourishes here in perfection; it grows where few other shrubs or plants are able to exist, braves the severity of the keenest blasts of winter, and affords firing to those cottagers who cannot easily procure other wood. Its blossoms are of a lovely pink, and from this circumstance it is called the "rose of the Alps." These regions are subject to perpetual avalanches; the top of every stone post that marked the boundary of our road, at about three yards distance one from the other, was in many places knocked off, by the continual falling of masses from the rocks above, and now and then, the whole of the posts had given way, as well as large fir-trees, which commonly grow out of the shelving sides of the precipices. Just at the entrance of one of the grand galleries, we crossed over a stone bridge, hanging in mid air above a tremendous gulf; the river Doveria boiling far below, fed by a cataract from the heights, near the source of which we passed: so near, indeed, that its foaming spray seemed almost to dash against the glass of our carriage windows. Bonaparte had established here (as well as upon Mont Cenis), a sort of _tavernettes_, or houses of relief for wayworn or distressed travellers. A few military now occasionally inhabit them, and the appropriate word _refuge_ is frequently inscribed over the doors. (_Note_ Q.) A piece of writing paper inserted in the cleft of a stick, by the road-side, here attracted our attention. We examined it, and found written thereon, _Viva Napoleone_! Our postillions appeared delighted, and exclaimed in a half-checked voice, _bravo_, _bravo_! Candidly speaking, one must be indeed fastidious not to be forcibly struck with the various noble works of that wonderful man. At all events we could not be surprised at his still existing popularity in the north of Italy, a part of the world where he has really done great good, and far less harm than any where else; and in so short a space of time also--so young a man--from so obscure an origin! It will not do to indulge in reflections upon what might have been, or I could not refrain, I am afraid, from wishing that (for the sake of the arts and sciences) he had known how to set bounds to his ambition. This passage of the Simplon alone is sufficient to immortalize his name, and as long as the mountains themselves exist, so must the memory of Bonaparte. It is quite the eighth wonder of the world. If he _is_ a fiend, he is not less than