Thus We Went, Climbing On Our Rugged Way,
Higher And Higher All Night, Without A Moment's Weariness:
Lost in
the contemplation of the black rocks, the tremendous heights and
depths, the fields of smooth snow lying, in the clefts and hollows,
and the fierce torrents thundering headlong down the deep abyss.
Towards daybreak, we came among the snow, where a keen wind was
blowing fiercely. Having, with some trouble, awakened the inmates
of a wooden house in this solitude: round which the wind was
howling dismally, catching up the snow in wreaths and hurling it
away: we got some breakfast in a room built of rough timbers, but
well warmed by a stove, and well contrived (as it had need to be)
for keeping out the bitter storms. A sledge being then made ready,
and four horses harnessed to it, we went, ploughing, through the
snow. Still upward, but now in the cold light of morning, and with
the great white desert on which we travelled, plain and clear.
We were well upon the summit of the mountain: and had before us
the rude cross of wood, denoting its greatest altitude above the
sea: when the light of the rising sun, struck, all at once, upon
the waste of snow, and turned it a deep red. The lonely grandeur
of the scene was then at its height.
As we went sledging on, there came out of the Hospice founded by
Napoleon, a group of Peasant travellers, with staves and knapsacks,
who had rested there last night: attended by a Monk or two, their
hospitable entertainers, trudging slowly forward with them, for
company's sake. It was pleasant to give them good morning, and
pretty, looking back a long way after them, to see them looking
back at us, and hesitating presently, when one of our horses
stumbled and fell, whether or no they should return and help us.
But he was soon up again, with the assistance of a rough waggoner
whose team had stuck fast there too; and when we had helped him out
of his difficulty, in return, we left him slowly ploughing towards
them, and went slowly and swiftly forward, on the brink of a steep
precipice, among the mountain pines.
Taking to our wheels again, soon afterwards, we began rapidly to
descend; passing under everlasting glaciers, by means of arched
galleries, hung with clusters of dripping icicles; under and over
foaming waterfalls; near places of refuge, and galleries of shelter
against sudden danger; through caverns over whose arched roofs the
avalanches slide, in spring, and bury themselves in the unknown
gulf beneath. 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.
Or how, between that town and Bale, the road meandered among
thriving villages of wooden cottages, with overhanging thatched
roofs, and low protruding windows, glazed with small round panes of
glass like crown-pieces; or how, in every little Swiss homestead,
with its cart or waggon carefully stowed away beside the house, its
little garden, stock of poultry, and groups of red-cheeked
children, there was an air of comfort, very new and very pleasant
after Italy; or how the dresses of the women changed again, and
there were no more sword-bearers to be seen; and fair white
stomachers, and great black, fan-shaped, gauzy-looking caps,
prevailed instead.
Or how the country by the Jura mountains, sprinkled with snow, and
lighted by the moon, and musical with falling water, was
delightful; or how, below the windows of the great hotel of the
Three Kings at Bale, the swollen Rhine ran fast and green; or how,
at Strasbourg, it was quite as fast but not as green: and was said
to be foggy lower down: and, at that late time of the year, was a
far less certain means of progress, than the highway road to Paris.
Or how Strasbourg itself, in its magnificent old Gothic Cathedral,
and its ancient houses with their peaked roofs and gables, made a
little gallery of quaint and interesting views; or how a crowd was
gathered inside the cathedral at noon, to see the famous mechanical
clock in motion, striking twelve. How, when it struck twelve, a
whole army of puppets went through many ingenious evolutions; and,
among them, a huge puppet-cock, perched on the top, crowed twelve
times, loud and clear. Or how it was wonderful to see this cock at
great pains to clap its wings, and strain its throat; but obviously
having no connection whatever with its own voice; which was deep
within the clock, a long way down.
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