CHAPTER XI.

Excursion to the Upper Valleys. The Col Julien. Alps and Alpine Productions. The Germanasca-Prali-Anecdote. Rodoretto. Massel. The Balsi-Maneglia. Perero. VillaSecca-Pramol.

July 13. WITH the intentions, which I have stated in the preceding Chapter, we set out on foot from Bobi, at five o'clock in the morning, on our way for the valley of San Martino, by the pass of the Col Julien, or Guiliano.

The journey was considered too fatiguing for Mrs. Gilly, and leaving her with the amiable family at San Margarita, my brother and I slept the preceding evening at the presbytery of M. Muston, and were joined at day-break by M. Bonjour, and a guide, named Melli, who had accompanied Messrs. Brockedon and Magrath in some of their exploratory visits to the passes of the Alps in this quarter 1.

1 I very much regret that Mr. Brockedon has not yet illustrated any part of this fine country, in the same style in which he has brought other Alpine regions into notice. The fidelity of his views, and the exact delineation of the country, in his

The ascent of the mountain commenced immediately from Bobi. Our route lay nearly due north, and as in the case of almost all tracks over the higher mountains, we followed the line of a torrent, which rises on the Col Julien, and falls into the Pelice. After passing through some small grass fields shaded with chesnut-trees, we pursued our way by an abrupt and steep path, towards Puy, or Poi. To our left, on the other side of the torrent, rose the conical and aspiring Mont Barrian, upon whose sides nature and man seem to have had a terrible conflict. But the latter has at length prevailed, and has built his habitation, and sown his corn on spots, where even the soil would be carried away by the elements, but for the walls and terraces which are erected at immense labour to protect them. Seen at a distance, the cabins, and the winding paths which lead to them, and the plots of land under cultivation, appeared to be upon the very edge of precipices, and the latter so small, as scarcely to be worth all the risk and toil by which they are rendered productive. Most probably we were deceived by the great space which lay between us and these objects. They were picturesque beyond all description.

But while we indulge our admiration at the sight of cliff-built cottages, and patches of grain

maps at the end of each number, render his work one of great utility to those who have occasion to consult it.

in situations, where none but animals of the chase have a natural claim to the ground, we cannot but condemn the policy, which has driven an industrious population to seek resting places in such wilds, instead of inviting them to descend into the plains, and to employ their enterprising spirit where it would have a more meet reward.

Almost every hundred yards, as we advanced, brought us to a change of scene. At one time the living rock was under our feet, and suspended over our heads. At the next moment a rood of

green

herbage or ripening wheat relieved the eye. Now a bare surface, and there a grange, with a group of huts. Thus it continued, a succession of verdure and aridity, until we had passed beyond Puy and Armagliere. At Puy, there is a small old church, whose roof abutted upon our path, and upon which we sat for a few minutes to take breath. From Armagliere we descended into a deep basin, or amphitheatre of rocks, at the bottom of which the torrent was rushing, even at this time of the year, with great rapidity, though with no vast body of water. Again we ascended. At a grange called Moulin de Pontet, we were shewn a precipice down which a mule tumbled, but without doing himself much injury. It was supposed that the load on his back saved his bones. Above us, to the left, were the heights of Mendron, of which Arnaud took possession, before his bold attack upon Sibaud. The steeps were here extremely

precipitous, but some of them were covered with herbage, and we looked with terror at a woman cutting grass, and at an old man leading his cow to feed, where we supposed it scarcely possible to plant the foot in safety.

At no great distance from Giauzarant, the torrent divided. We took the left hand branch, and in one of the most desolate parts we met a woman, who asked us if we knew the owner of a pen-knife, which she had found eight months ago. In answer to our enquiry, why she imagined that we might be able to say who had lost it, she said she had been told the knife was made in England, and belonged to an Englishman. Every stranger in these regions, whose appearance denotes him to be above the rank of a peasant, is supposed to be from England. When the stupendous rocks of Garnireugna, and those called Les Aiguillets de Julien came in sight, we fancied that we were on ground which might be defended, for some time at least, against any force that could be brought against it; and it was here that a body of Piemontese troops were posted to dispute the entrance of Arnaud's men into the valley of Luserna. But they were panic struck at the first charge of the patriots, who had rendered themselves so formidable at the bridge of Salabertrand, [see Acland's translation of Rentrée Glorieuse, pages 65-79,] and fled after firing a few volleys, which killed one Vaudois. The spot where he was buried,

under a rock at Les Paussets, was pointed out to us, as the grave of a hero.

Amidst the ever-varying scenery on this day's route, after toiling over the rough bed of the torrent, we came to a bank of rhododendrons, on which we reposed for a few minutes, and then pushed our way up an acclivity, which seemed to have no end. If the tales of our guide, and the anecdotes, which he had to tell in illustration of almost every striking feature of the mountain, had not been of some assistance, we should have repented of our hard day's work, before we had half completed it. We arrived at the châlets of Julien, after four hours walking, and there breakfasted; and although the interior of these summer huts are not at all inviting in point of cleanliness, we were glad to be under the shelter of their roofs, from the burning heat of the sun. The Alp of Julien is just under the Col of the same name, and is one of those rich pasturages, to which you find yourself transported, as I have observed in another place, as if by magic, after having apparently left all verdure far behind you. To these spots the cattle are driven, and remain with the owners and their families, for three or four months. I counted forty cows and ten sheep, and was told that many hundreds are fed on this and the neighbouring Alps, which lie on this side of the chain that divides Piemont from Dauphiné.

I have here used the word Alp in its proper