The Sun-Dial of Isella.
Our young traveller—we have no means of ascertaining his name, or who he was, possibly the author of "Views Afoot"—had safely crossed the last torrent, which, the bridge having been swept away a few days previous, was even now not altogether free from danger. He had passed the boundary of the Valais, and, in fact, stood upon the soil of Italy. To be sure, he did not at once behold the deep blue of the sky, nor breathe the mild atmosphere, nor witness the exuberance of foliage and of flower, which belong under an Italian sun. Nevertheless, the presence of the luxuriant chestnut, the softer green of the grass, and the frequent appearance of the vine itself, proved to our pedestrian, as he entered the little village of Isella, that he was fast bidding adieu to the desolate majesty of the mountain, and would soon enjoy a prospect of the loveliness of the plain.
There was nothing inviting about the place which the youth had reached, save its romantic situation. At the present time it was filled with travellers in great variety, who had been detained by the over-flowing of the "gallery" beyond, which rendered an advance impossible. The sole house of entertainment was a miserable and dirty inn, now literally without provisions, if we may except a quantity of onions and some fat bacon. It could, of course, afford no accommodation for the hourly increasing additions to the company. The only building of decent appearance was the custom-house; for Isella, being the frontier town and on the Simplon route, the number of travellers was large at certain seasons, and at this spot every species of luggage underwent a close examination. Finding he could obtain nothing
