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Before one o'clock we reached the entrance of the Kiöllefjord, which in the pre-diluvial times must have been a tremendous mountain gorge, like that of Gondo, on the Italian side of the Simplon. Its mouth is about half a mile in breadth, and its depth is not more than a mile and a half.
Treading the road built by Napoleon, I was enveloped in the gloom of the wondrous Gondo Schlucht, to come out into a broad valley, a green amphitheatre, above which a company of white, mountain gods sat grouped to watch a cloud-fight. If I had not been heart-broken by the cruelty of Helen Blantock, I should have been almost minded to thank her for sending me here.
This is the only spot between Breglio and Tende which would be adapted for a drawing; but the scenery, nevertheless, is of the most stupendous and extraordinary nature I ever witnessed, exceeding, on the whole, the defile of Gondo and Iselle in the route of the Simplon, and more decided, though less varied in its features, than that justly admired spot.
Willoughby and Ethel. Third, the Dowager and her maid. Fourth, the three other maids. Fifth, the luggage. After these five sleds, containing our party, came another with the foreign gentleman. Each of these sleds had a driver to itself. In this order the party went, until at length they came to the Gorge of Gondo.
Emerging from this cave, and coming again into the moonlight, and across a dizzy bridge, it crept and twisted upward, through the Gorge of Gondo, savage and grand beyond description, with smooth-fronted precipices, rising up on either hand, and almost meeting overhead.
And he was a draw; I was working for J. C. Hobart Shows then, and there was nothing on the lot to top him." Ed paused, rubbing at his chin reflectively. "Then the crowds started to fall off," he said. "Just like with you, Charley. And nobody knew why. Gondo was doing the same act no change there. So the change had to be some place else." "Same with me," Charley said. "Sure," Ed said.
On the Italian side, looking east, there was a certain wild lifting of the clouds, above the lower course of the stream descending from the Gondo ravine; upon the distant meadows and mountain slopes that marked the opening of the Tosa valley, storm-lights came and went, like phantom deer chased by the storm-clouds; beside him the swollen river thundered past, seeking a thirsty Italy; and behind, over the famous Gondo cleft, lay darkness, and a pelting tumult of rain.
You never saw the like, kid." Charley shook his head. "O.K.," he said. "But what does this have to do with " "Well," Ed cut in, "that was years ago; I was a youngster, pretty well just setting out. And Gondo drew crowds big crowds. Lifting a wagonload of people on his back that was one of his tricks. I think Sandow himself used to do it, but he had nothing on Gondo; the guy had style. Class.
My son, a slip of a person in knickerbockers, walked over the Simplon as though Alps were only made to be climbed by boys of eleven; and the Defile of Gondo, Domo d'Ossola, and beautiful Maggiore they were all new and heavenly to each member of the party.
A bad dinner at Simplon would have been an affliction at any other time; but with the Valley of Gondo for dessert, no one cared for other food. Following the wild stream that had worn its way between the immense cliffs, they drove rapidly down towards Italy, feeling that this was a fit gateway to the promised land.
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