Down, Over Lofty Bridges, And Through Horrible
Ravines:
A little shifting speck in the vast desolation of ice and
snow, and monstrous granite rocks; down through the
Deep Gorge of
the Saltine, and deafened by the torrent plunging madly down, among
the riven blocks of rock, into the level country, far below.
Gradually down, by zig-zag roads, lying between an upward and a
downward precipice, into warmer weather, calmer air, and softer
scenery, until there lay before us, glittering like gold or silver
in the thaw and sunshine, the metal-covered, red, green, yellow,
domes and church-spires of a Swiss town.
The business of these recollections being with Italy, and my
business, consequently, being to scamper back thither as fast as
possible, I will not recall (though I am sorely tempted) how the
Swiss villages, clustered at the feet of Giant mountains, looked
like playthings; or how confusedly the houses were heaped and piled
together; or how there were very narrow streets to shut the howling
winds out in the winter-time; and broken bridges, which the
impetuous torrents, suddenly released in spring, had swept away.
Or how there were peasant women here, with great round fur caps:
looking, when they peeped out of casements and only their heads
were seen, like a population of Sword-bearers to the Lord Mayor of
London; or how the town of Vevey, lying on the smooth lake of
Geneva, was beautiful to see; or how the statue of Saint Peter in
the street at Fribourg, grasps the largest key that ever was
beheld; or how Fribourg is illustrious for its two suspension
bridges, and its grand cathedral organ.
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