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ant goal through h●is own unaided efforts, a satisfaction which t●he traveler by steam cannot expe

rie▓nce. The highway over the Sim●plon, constructed by Napoleon in 1805, i●s still, in spite of the encroachment of railwa▓ys, a well-traveled route, though not by pede▓strians.The good people of Brieg burst forth ●in wailing sym

pathy when I divulged my● plan of crossing on foot.Traffic betwe▓en the village and Domo d’O●ssola in Piedmont has for gen●erations been monopolized by a lin

e of ▓stage-coaches.There was more than ▓the exhilaration of such a tramp, however, to aw●ake

n my rev

Porttitor posuere

olt against this ▓time-honored means of transportation, ▓for the fare on one of these primitive bone-sha●kers ranged from forty to fifty fr▓ancs. With a va

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grant’s lunch in my knapsac●k I left Brieg at dawn, for th▓e first tramontane hamlet was thirty miles dista▓nt.Before the sun rose, the morning sta?/p>

駁e rattled by and the jeering of its dr●ivers cheered me on.The highway show●ed nowhere a really steep grade, t●hough it mounted seven thousand feet in t●wenty-three kilometers.With every turn of th▓e route the panorama grew

.Three hours up, Brie●g still peeped out through the ▓slender Tannenbume, far below,▓ yet almost 41directly beneath; and the vis▓ta extended far d

own the winding valley of ●the Rhne, back to the sentinel ●rocks of Sion and beyond.Across the chasm s▓turdy mountaineers scrambled from rock to ●bo

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