If He Had Been
Imprisoned In A St. Nicholas Private Dwelling, Where The
Fertilizer Prevails, And The Goat Sleeps With
The guest,
and the chickens roost on him and the cow comes in and
bothers him when he wants to
Muse, it would have been
another matter altogether; but he surely could not have
had a very cheerless time of it in that pretty dungeon.
It has romantic window-slits that let in generous bars
of light, and it has tall, noble columns, carved apparently
from the living rock; and what is more, they are written
all over with thousands of names; some of them - like
Byron's and Victor Hugo's - of the first celebrity.
Why didn't he amuse himself reading these names? Then
there are the couriers and tourists - swarms of them every
day - what was to hinder him from having a good time
with them? I think Bonnivard's sufferings have been overrated.
Next, we took the train and went to Martigny, on the way
to Mont Blanc. Next morning we started, about eight
o'clock, on foot. We had plenty of company, in the way
of wagon-loads and mule-loads of tourists - and dust.
This scattering procession of travelers was perhaps a
mile long. The road was uphill - interminable uphill - and
tolerably steep. The weather was blisteringly hot,
and the man or woman who had to sit on a creeping mule,
or in a crawling wagon, and broil in the beating sun,
was an object to be pitied. We could dodge among the bushes,
and have the relief of shade, but those people could not.
They paid for a conveyance, and to get their money's worth
they rode.
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