might make an attempt to-morrow to ascend this remarkable mountain;
as it is, however, we must content ourselves with the simple view of
it. On our return we saw the clouds brewing, which in these parts is
a highly interesting sight. The fine weather we have hitherto enjoyed
has made us forget almost entirely that it is in November that we are;
besides too, as they foretold us in Berne, the autumn here is very
delightful. The short days, however, and the clouds which threaten
snow, warn us how late it is in the year. The strange drift which has
been agitating them this evening was singularly beautiful. As we came
back from the foot of the Gemmi, we saw light mists come up the ravine
from Inden, and move with great rapidity. They continually changed
their direction, going now forwards, now backwards, and at last, as
they ascended, they came so near to Leukerbad that we saw clearly that
we must double our steps if we would not before nightfall be enveloped
in the clouds. We reached our quarters, however, without accident, and
whilst I write this it is snowing in earnest. This is the first fall
of snow that we have yet had, and when we call to mind our warm ride
yesterday, from Martinach to Sion, beneath the vine-arbours, which were
still pretty thick with leaves, the change does appear sudden indeed. I
have been standing some time at the door, observing the character and
look of the clouds, which are beautiful beyond description. It is not
yet night, but at intervals the clouds veil the whole sky and make
it quite dark. They rise out of the deep ravines until they reach the
highest summits of the mountains; attracted by these they appear to
thicken, and being condensed by the cold they fall down in the shape
of snow. It gives you an inexpressible feeling of loneliness to find
yourself here at this height, as it were, in a sort of well, from which
you scarcely can suppose that there is even a footpath to get out by,
except down the precipice before you. The clouds which gather here
in this valley, at one time completely hiding the immense rocks, and
absorbing them in a waste impenetrable gloom, or at another letting a
part of them be seen like huge spectres, give to the people a cast of
melancholy. In the midst of such natural phenomena the people are full
of presentiments and forebodings. Clouds--a phenomenon remarkable to
every man from his youth up--are, in the plain countries, generally
looked upon at most as something foreign--something super-terrestrial.
People regard them as strangers, as birds of passage, which, hatched
under a different climate, visit this or that country for a moment or
two in passing--as splendid pieces of tapestry wherewith the gods part
off their pomp and splendour from human eyes. But here, where they are
hatched, man is inclosed in them from the very first, and the eternal
and intrinsic energy of his nature feels itself at every nerve moved to
forebode and to indulge in presentiments.
To the clouds, which, with us even produce these effects, we pay little
attention; moreover as they are not pushed so thickly and directly
before our eyes, their economy is the more difficult to observe. With
regard to all such phenomena one's only wish is to dwell on them for a
while, and to be able to tarry several days in the spots where they are
observable. If one is fond of such observations the desire becomes the
more vivid the more one reflects that every season of the year, every
hour of the day, and every change of weather produces new phenomena
which we little looked for. And as no man, not even the most ordinary
character, was ever a witness, even for once, of great and unusual
events, without their leaving behind in his soul some traces or other,
and making him feel himself also to be greater for this one little
shred of grandeur, so that he is never weary of telling the whole tale
of it over again, and has gained at any rate a little treasure for his
whole life; just so is it with the man who has seen and become familiar
with the grand phenomena of nature. He who manages to preserve these
impressions, and to combine them with other thoughts and emotions, has
assuredly a treasury of sweets wherewith to season the most tasteless
parts of life, and to give a pervading relish to the whole of existence.
I observe that in my notes I make very little mention of human beings.
Amid these grand objects of nature, they are but little worthy of
notice, especially where they do but come and go. I doubt not but
that on a longer stay we should meet with many worthy and interesting
people. One fact I think I have everywhere observed; the farther one
moves from the highroad and the busy marts of men, the more people are
shut in by the mountains, isolated and confined to the simplest wants
of life, the more they draw their maintenance from simple, humble, and
unchangeable pursuits: so much the better, the more obliging, the more
friendly, unselfish, and hospitable are they.
* * * * *
_Leukerbad, Nov._ 10, 1779.
We are getting ready by candle-light, in order to descend the mountain
again as soon as day breaks. I have had rather a restless night.
Scarcely had I got into bed before I felt as if I was attacked all
over with the nettle rash. I soon found, however, that it was a swarm
of crawling insects, who, ravenous of blood, had fallen upon the new
comer. These insects breed in great numbers in these wooden houses. The
night appeared to me extremely long, and I was heartily glad when in
the morning a light was brought in.
* * * * *
_Leuk., about 10 o'clock._
We have not much time to spare; however, before we set out, I will give
you an account of the remarkable breaking up of our company, which
has here taken place, and also of the cause of it. We set out from
Leukerbad with daybreak this morning, and had to make our way over the
meadows through the fresh and slippery snow. We soon came to Inden,
where, leaving above us on our right the precipitous road which we came
down yesterday, we descended to the meadow lands along the ravine
which now lay on our left. It is extremely wild and overgrown with
trees, but a very tolerable road runs down into it. Through the clefts
in the rock the water which comes down from Leukerbad has its outlets
into the Valais. High up on the side of the hill, which yesterday we
descended, we saw an aqueduct skilfully cut out of the rock, by which
a little stream is conducted from the mountain, then through a hollow
into a neighbouring village.
[Sidenote: Leuk.]
Next we had to ascend a steep height, from which we soon saw the
open country of Valais, with the dirty town of Valais lying beneath
us. These little towns are mostly stuck on the hill sides; the roofs
inelegantly covered with coarsely split planks, which within a year
become black and overgrown with moss; and when you enter them, you
are at once disgusted, for everything is dirty; want and hardship are
everywhere apparent among these highly privileged and free burghers.
We found here our friend, who brought the unfavourable report that it
was beginning to be injudicious to proceed further with the horses.
The stables were everywhere small and narrow, being built only for
mules or sumpter horses; oats too were rarely to be procured; indeed
he was told that higher up among the mountains there were none to be
had. Accordingly a council was held. Our friend with the horses was to
descend the Valais and go by Bee, Bevay, Lausanne, Freiburg, and Berne,
to Lucerne, while the Count and I pursued our course up the Valais, and
endeavoured to penetrate to Mount Gotthard, and then through the Canton
of Uri, and by the lake of the Forest Towns, likewise make for Lucerne.
In these parts you may anywhere procure mules, which are better suited
to these roads than horses, and to go on foot invariably proves the
most agreeable in the end. Our friend is gone, and our portmanteaus
packed on the back of a mule, and so we are now ready to set off and
make our way on foot to Brieg. The sky has a motley appearance, still I
hope that the good luck which has hitherto attended us, and attracted
us to this distant spot, will not abandon us at the very point where we
have the most need of it.
* * * * *
_Brieg, Nov._ 10, 1779. _Evening._
Of to-day's expedition I have little to tell you, unless you would like
to be entertained with a long circumstantial account of the weather.
About 11 o'clock we set off from Leuk., in company with a Suabian
butcher's boy, who had run away hither, and had found a place where he
served somewhat in the capacity of Hanswurst (Jack-Pudding), and with
our luggage packed on the back of a mule, which its master was driving
before him. Behind us, as far as the eye could reach, thick snow
clouds, which came driving up the lowlands, covered everything. It had
really a threatening aspect. Without expressing my fears I felt anxious
lest, even though right before us it looked as clear as it could do
in the land of Goshen, the clouds might nevertheless overtake us, and
here, perhaps in the territory of the Valais, shut in on both sides
by mountains, we might be covered with the clouds, and in one night
snowed up. Thus whispered alarm which got possession almost entirely of
one ear; at the other good courage was speaking in a confident tone,
and reproving me for want of faith, kept reminding me of the past, and
called my attention to the phenomena of the atmosphere before us. Our
road went continually on towards the fine weather. Up the Rhone all was
clear, and as a strong west wind kept driving the clouds behind us, it
was little likely that they would reach us.
The following was the cause of this. Into the valley of Valais there
are, as I have so often remarked already, many ravines running down
from the neighbouring mountain-chains, which fall into it like little
brooks into a great stream, as indeed all their waters flow off into
the Rhone. Out of each of these openings rushes a current of wind,
which has been forming in the inner valleys and nooks of the rocks.
When now the principal drift of the clouds up the valley reaches one
of these ravines, the current of the wind does not allow the clouds
to pass, but contends with them, and with the wind which is driving
them, and thus detains them, and disputes with them for whole hours the
passage up the valley. This conflict we often witnessed, and when we
believed we should surely be overtaken by the clouds, an obstacle of
this kind would again arise, and after we had gone a good league, we
found they had scarcely stirred from the spot.
[Sidenote: Brieg.]
Towards evening the sky was uncommonly beautiful. As we arrived at
Brieg, the clouds got there almost as soon as we did; however, as the
sun had set, and a driving east wind blew against them, they were
obliged to come to a halt, and formed a huge crescent from mountain to
mountain across the valley. The cold air had greatly condensed them,
and where their edge stood out against the blue sky, it presented to
the eye many beautiful, light, and elegant forms. It was quite clear
that they were heavy with snow; however, the fresh air seemed to us to
promise that much would not fall during the night.
Here we are in a very comfortable inn, and what greatly tends to make
us contented, we have found a roomy chamber with a stove in it, so that
we can sit by the fire-side and take counsel together as to our future
travels. Through Brieg runs the usual road to Italy over the Simplon;
should we, therefore, give up our plan of going over the Furca to Mont
S. Gothard, we shall go with hired horses and mules to Domo d'Ossula,
Margozro, pass up Lago Maggiore, and then to Bellinzona, and then on
to S. Gotthard, and over Airolo to the monastery of the Capuchins.
This road is passable all the winter through, and is good travelling
for horses; however, to our minds it is not very inviting, especially
as it was not in our original plan, and will not bring us to Lucerne
till five days after our friend. We wish rather to see the whole of the
Valais up to its extreme limit, whither we hope to come by to-morrow
evening, and, if fortune favours, we shall be sitting by about the
same time next day in Realp, in the canton of Uri, which is on Mont
Gotthard, and very near to its highest summit. If we then find it
impossible to cross the Furca, the road back to this spot will still be
open to us, and then we can take of necessity the route which of free
choice we are disinclined to.
You can well believe that I have here closely examined the people,
whether they believe that the passage over the Furca is open, for that
is the one idea with which I rise up, and lie down to sleep, and occupy
myself all day long. Hitherto our route may be compared to a march to
meet an enemy, and now it is as if we were approaching to the spot
where he has entrenched himself, and we must give him battle. Besides
our mule two horses are ordered to be ready by the evening.
* * * * *
_Munster, Nov._ 11, 1779. _Evening, 6 o'clock._
Again we have had a pleasant and prosperous day. This morning as we set
out early and in good time from Brieg our host, when we were already
on the road said, "If the mountain (so they call the Furca here,)
should prove too fearful, you can easily come back and take another
route." With our two horses and mule we soon came upon some pleasant
meadows, where the valley becomes so narrow that it is scarcely some
gun-shots wide. Here are some beautiful pasture lands, on which stand
large trees, while pieces of rock lie scattered about which have rolled
down from the neighbouring mountains. The valley gradually grows
narrower, and the traveller is forced to ascend along the side of the
mountain, having the while the Rhone below him in a rugged ravine on
his left. Above him, however, the land is beautifully spread out;
on the variously undulating hills are verdant and rich meadows and
pretty hamlets, which, with their dark-brown wooden houses, peep out
prettily from among the snow. We travelled a good deal on foot, and
we did so in turns to accommodate one another. For although riding is
safe enough, still it excites one's alarm to see another riding before
you along so narrow a track, and on so weak an animal, and just on
the brink of so rugged a precipice; and as too there are no cattle
to be seen on the meadows, (for the people here shut them all up in
sheds at this season,) such a region looks lonely, and the thought
that one is continually being hemmed in closer and closer by the vast
mountains, fills the imagination with sombre and disagreeable fancies,
enough to make you fall from your seat, if you are not very firm in the
saddle. Man is never perfectly master of himself. As he lives in utter
ignorance of the future, as indeed what the next moment may bring forth
is hidden from him, consequently, when anything unusual falls beneath
his notice, he has often to contend with involuntary sensations,
forebodings, and dream-like fancies, at which shortly afterwards
he may laugh outright, but which at the decisive moment are often
extremely oppressive.
[Sidenote: The legend of S. Alexis.]
In our noonday quarters we met with some amusement. We had taken up
our lodgings with a woman in whose house everything looked neat and
orderly. Her room, after the fashion of the country, was wainscotted,
the beds ornamented with carving; the cupboards, tables, and all the
other little repositories which were fastened against the walls or to
the corners, had pretty ornaments of turner's work or carving. From
the portraits which hung around the room, it was easy to see that
several members of the family had devoted themselves to the clerical
profession. We also observed a collection of bound books over the door,
which we took to be the endowment of one of these reverend personages.
We took down the Legends of the Saints, and read it while our meal
was preparing. On one occasion of our hostess entering the room, she
asked us if we had ever read the history of S. Alexis? We said no,
and took no further notice of her question, but went on reading the
chapter we each had begun. When, however, we had sat down to table,
she placed herself by our sides, and began again to talk of S. Alexis.
We asked her whether he was the patron saint of herself, or of her
family; which she denied, affirming at the same time, however, that
this saintly person had undergone so much for the love of God, that
his history always affected her more than any other's. When she saw
that we knew nothing about him, she began to narrate to us his history.
"S. Alexis," she said, "was the son of noble, rich, and God-fearing
parents in Rome, and in the practice of good works he delighted to
follow their example, for they did extraordinary good to the poor.
All this, however, did not appear enough to Alexis; but secretly in
his own heart he devoted himself entirely to God's service, and took
a vow to Christ of perpetual virginity. When, then, in the course of
time, his parents wished to marry him to a lovely and amiable maiden,
he did not oppose their will. When, however, the marriage ceremony was
concluded, instead of retiring to his bed in the nuptial chamber, he
went on board a vessel which he found ready to sail, and with it passed
over to Asia. Here he assumed the garb of a wretched mendicant, and
became thereby so thoroughly disguised that the servants of his father
who had been sent after him failed to recognise him. Here he posted
himself near the door of the principal church, invariably attending the
divine services, and supporting himself on the alms of the faithful.
After two or three years various miracles took place, betokening the
special favour of the Almighty. The bishop heard a voice in the church,
bidding him to summon into the sacred temple that man whose prayer was
most acceptable to God, and to keep him by his side while he celebrated
divine worship. As the bishop did not at once know who could be meant,
the voice went on to point out to him the beggar, whom, to the great
astonishment of the people, he immediately fetched into the church.
The saintly Alexis, embarrassed by having the attention of the people
directed towards himself, quietly and silently departed thence, also on
ship-board, intending to proceed still further in foreign lands. But by
a tempest and other circumstances he was compelled to land in Italy.
The saint seeing in all this the finger of God, was rejoiced to meet
with an opportunity of exercising self-denial in the highest degree.
He therefore set off direct for his native town, and placed himself
as a beggar at the door of his parents' house. With their usual pious
benevolence did they receive him, and commanded one of their servants
to furnish him with lodging in the castle and with all necessary
sustenance. This servant, annoyed at the trouble he was put to, and
displeased with his master's benevolence, assigned to this seeming
beggar a miserable hole under some stone steps, where he threw to him,
as to a dog, a sorry pittance of food. The saint instead of suffering
himself to be vexed thereat, first of all thanked God sincerely for
it in his heart, and not only bore with patient meekness all this
which he might easily have altered, but with incredible and superhuman
fortitude, endured to witness the lasting grief of his parents and
his wife for his absence. For he heard his much-loved parents and
his beautiful spouse invoke his name a hundred times a day, and pray
for his return, and he saw them wasting their days in sorrow for his
supposed absence." At this passage of her narrative our good hostess
could not refrain her tears, while her two daughters, who during the
story had crept close to her side, kept steadily looking up in their
mother's face. "But," she continued, "great was the reward which the
Almighty bestowed on his constancy, giving him, at his death, the
greatest possible proofs of his favour in the eyes of the faithful.
For after living several years in this state, daily frequenting the
service of God with the most fervent zeal, he at last fell sick,
without any particular heed being given to his condition by any one.
One morning shortly after this, while the pope was himself celebrating
high mass, in presence of the emperor and all the nobles, suddenly
all the bells in the whole city of Rome began to toll as if for the
passing knell of some distinguished personage. Whilst every one was
full of amazement, it was revealed to the pope that this marvel was
in honour of the death of the holiest person in the whole city, who
had but just died in the house of the noble Patrician.--The father
of Alexis being interrogated, thought at once of the beggar. He went
home and found him beneath the stairs quite dead. In his folded hands
the saintly man clutched a paper, which his old father sought in vain
to take from him. He returned to the church and told all this to the
emperor and the pope, who thereupon, with their courtiers and clergy,
set off to visit the corpse of the saint. When they reached the spot,
the holy father took it without difficulty out of the hands of the dead
man, and handed it to the emperor, who thereupon caused it to be read
aloud by his chancellor. The paper contained the history of the saint.
Then you should have seen the grief of his parents and wife, which now
became excessive, to think that they had had near to them a son and
husband so dear; for whom there was nothing too good that they would
not have done; and then too to know how ill he had been treated! They
fell upon his corpse and wept so bitterly that there was not one of the
bystanders who could refrain from tears. Moreover, among the multitude
of the people who gradually flocked to the spot, there were many sick,
who were brought to the body and by its touch were made whole."
[Sidenote: The legend of S. Alexis.]
Our fair story-teller affirmed over and over again, as she dried her
eyes, that she had never heard a more touching history, and I too
was seized with so great a desire to weep that I had the greatest
difficulty to hide and to suppress it. After dinner I looked out the
legend itself in Father Cochem, and found that the good dame had
dropped none of the purely human traits of the story, while she had
clean forgotten all the tasteless remarks of this writer.
We keep going continually to the window watching the weather; and are
at present very near offering a prayer to the winds and clouds. Long
evenings and universal stillness are the elements in which writing
thrives right merrily, and I am convinced that if, for a few months
only, I could contrive, or were obliged, to stay at a spot like this,
all my unfinished dramas would of necessity be completed one after
another.
We have already had several people before us, and questioned them with
regard to the pass over the Furca; but even here we have been unable
to gain any precise information, although the mountain is only two or
three leagues distant. We must, however, rest contented, and we shall
set out ourselves at break of day to reconnoitre, and see how destiny
will decide for us. However, in general, I may be disposed to take
things as they go, it would, I must confess, be highly annoying to me
if we should be forced to retrace our steps again. If we are fortunate
we shall be by to-morrow evening at Realp or S. Gotthard, and by noon
the next day among the Capuchins at the summit of the mountain. If
things go unfortunately we nave two roads open for a retreat. Back
through the whole of Valais, and by the well-known road over Berne to
Lucerne; or back to Brieg, and then by a wide detour to S. Gotthard.
I think in this short letter I have told you that three times. But in
fact it is a matter of great importance to us. The issue will decide
which was in the right, our courage, which gave us a confidence that we
must succeed, or the prudence of certain persons who were very earnest
in trying to dissuade us from attempting this route. This much, at any
rate, is certain, that both prudence and courage must own chance to be
over them both. And now that we have once more examined the weather,
and found the air to be cold, the sky bright, and without any signs of
a tendency to snow, we shall go calmly to bed.
* * * * *
_Munster, Nov._ 12, 1776. _Early. 6 o'clock._
We are quite ready, and all is packed up in order to set out from hence
with the break of day. We have before us two leagues to Oberwald, and
from there the usual reckoning makes six leagues to Realp. Our mule is
to follow us with the baggage as far as it is possible to take him.
* * * * *
_Realp, Nov._ 12, 1779. _Evening._
[Sidenote: The passage of the Furca.]