Embark in the Winkelried.--Discussion with an Englishman.--The
Valais.--Free Trade.--The Drance.--Terrible
Inundation.--Liddes.--Mountain Scenery.--A Mountain
Basin.--Dead-houses.--Melancholy Spectacle.--Approach of
Night.--Desolate Region.--Convent of the Great St. Bernard.--Our
Reception there.--Unhealthiness of the Situation.--The
Superior.--Conversation during Supper.--Coal-mine on the
Mountain.--Night in the Convent.
Dear ----,
After spending a few more days in the same delightful and listless
enjoyments, my friend C---- came over from Lausanne, and we embarked in
the Winkelried, on the afternoon of the 25th September, as she hove-to
off our mole, on her way up the lake. We anchored off Villeneuve in less
than an hour, there being neither port, nor wharf, nor mole at that
place. In a few minutes we were in a three-horse conveyance, called a
diligence, and were trotting across the broad meadows of the Rhone
towards Bex, where we found one of our American families, the T----s, on
their way to Italy.
C---- and myself ate some excellent quails for supper in the public
room. An Englishman was taking the same repast, at another table, near
us, and he inquired for news, wishing particularly to know the state of
things about Antwerp. This led to a little conversation, when I observed
that, had the interests of France been consulted at the revolution of
1830, Belgium would have been received into the kingdom. Our Englishman
grunted at this, and asked me what Europe would have said to it. My
answer was, that when both parties were agreed, I did not see what
Europe had to do with the matter; and that, at all events, the right
Europe could have to interfere was founded in might; and such was the
state of south-western Germany, Italy, Savoy, Spain, and even England,
that I was of opinion Europe would have been glad enough to take things
quietly. At all events, a war would only have made the matter worse for
the allied monarchs. The other stared at me in amazement, muttered an
audible dissent, and, I make no doubt, set me down as a most disloyal
subject; for, while extending her empire, and spreading her commercial
system, (her Free Trade _à l'Anglaise!_) over every nook and corner of
the earth where she can get footing, nothing sounds more treasonable to
the ears of a loyal Englishman than to give the French possession of
Antwerp, or the Russians possession of Constantinople. So inveterate
become his national feelings on such subjects, that I am persuaded a
portion of his antipathy to the Americans arises from a disgust at
hearing notions that have been, as it were, bred in and in, through his
own moral system, contemned in a language that he deems his own peculiar
property. Men, in such circumstances, are rarely very philosophical or
very just.
We were off in a _char_ with the dawn. Of course you will understand
that we entered the Valais by its famous bridge, and passed St. Maurice,
and the water-fall _à la Teniers_; for you have already travelled along
this road with me. I saw no reason to change my opinion of the Valais,
which looked as chill and repulsive now as it did in 1828, though we
were so early on the road as to escape the horrible sight of the basking
_crétins_, most of whom were still housed. Nor can I tell you how far
these people have been elevated in the scale of men by an increasing
desire for riches.
At Martigny we breakfasted, while the innkeeper sent for a guide. The
canton has put these men under a rigid police, the prices being
regulated by law, and the certificate of the traveller becoming
important to them. This your advocate of the absurdity called Free Trade
will look upon as tyranny, it being more for the interest of human
intercourse than the traveller who arrives in a strange country should
be cheated by a hackney-coachman, or the driver of a cart, or stand
higgling an hour in the streets, than to violate an abstraction that can
do no one any good! If travelling will not take the minor points of free
tradeism out of a man, I hold him to be incorrigible. But such is
humanity! There cannot be even a general truth, that our infirmities do
not lead us to push it into falsehood, in particular practice. Men are
no more fitted to live under a system that should carry out the extreme
doctrines of this theory, than they are fitted to live without law; and
the legislator who should attempt the thing in practice, would soon find
himself in the condition of Don Quixote, after he had liberated the
galley-slaves from their fetters:--in other words, he would be cheated
the first moment circumstances compelled him to make a hard bargain with
a stranger. Were the canton of Valais to say, you _shall_ be a guide,
and such _shall_ be your pay, the imputation of tyranny might lie; by
saying, you _may_ be a guide, and such _must_ be your pay, it merely
legislates for an interest that calls for particular protection in a
particular way, to prevent abuses.
Our guide appeared with two mules harnessed to a _char à banc_, and we
proceeded. The fragment of a village which the traveller passes for
Martigny, on his way to Italy, is not the true hamlet of that name, but
a small collection of houses that has sprung up since the construction
of the Simplon road. The real place is a mile distant, and of a much
more rural and Swiss character. Driving through this hamlet, we took our
way along the winding bank of a torrent called the Drance, the
direction, at first, being south. The road was not bad, but the valley
had dwindled to a gorge, and, though broken and wild, was not
sufficiently so to be grand. After travelling a few miles, we reached a
point where our own route diverged from the course of the Drance, which
came in from the east, while we journeyed south. This Drance is the
stream that produced the terrible inundation a few years since. The
calamity was produced by an accumulation of ice higher in the gorges,
which formed a temporary lake. The canton made noble efforts to avert
the evil, and men were employed as miners, to cut a passage for the
water, through the ice, but their labour proved useless, although they
had made a channel, and the danger was greatly lessened. Before half the
water had escaped, however, the ice gave way, and let the remainder of
the lake down in a flood. The descent was terrific, sweeping before it
every thing that came in its way, and although so distant, and there was
so much space, the village of Martigny was deluged, and several of its
people lost their lives. The water rose to the height of several feet on
the plain of the great valley, before it could disgorge itself into the
Rhone.
The ascents now became more severe, though we occasionally made as sharp
descents. The road lay through a broken valley, the mountains retiring
from each other a little, and the wheel-track was very much like those
we saw in our own hilly country, some thirty years since, though less
obstructed by mud. At one o'clock we reached Liddes, a crowded, rude,
and dirty hamlet, where we made a frugal repast. Here we were compelled
to quit the _char_, and to saddle the mules. The guide also engaged
another man to accompany us with a horse, that carried provender for
himself, and for the two animals we had brought with us. We then
mounted, and proceeded.
On quitting Liddes, the road, or rather path, for it had dwindled to
that, led through a valley that had some low meadows; after which the
ascents became more decided, though the course had always been upward.
The vegetation gradually grew less and less, the tree diminishing to the
bush, and finally disappearing altogether, while the grasses became
coarse and wiry, or were entirely superseded by moss. We went through a
hamlet or two, composed of stones stained apparently with iron ore, and,
as the huts were covered with the same material, instead of lending the
landscape a more humanized air, they rather added to its appearance of
sterile dreariness. There were a few tolerably good bits of savage
mountain scenes, especially in a wooded glen or two by the wayside; but,
on the whole, I thought this the least striking of the Swiss mountains I
had ascended.
We entered a sort of mountain basin, that was bounded on one side by the
glacier of Mont Vélan; that which so beautifully bounds the view up the
Valais, as seen from Vévey. I was disappointed in finding an object
which, in the distance, was so white and shining, much disfigured and
tarnished by fragments of broken rock. Still the summit shone, in cold
and spotless lustre. There was herbage for a few goats here, and some
one had commenced the walls of a rude building that was intended for an
inn. No one was at work near it, a hut of stone, for the shelter of the
goatherds, being all that looked like a finished human habitation.
Winding our way across and out of this valley, we came to a turn in the
rocks, and beheld two more stone cabins, low and covered, so as to
resemble what in America are called root-houses. They stood a little
from the path, on the naked rock. Crossing to them, we dismounted and
looked into the first. It was empty, had a little straw, and was
intended for a refuge, in the event of storms. Thrusting my head into
the other, after the eye had got a little accustomed to the light, I saw
a grinning corpse seated against the remotest side. The body looked like
a mummy, but the clothes were still on it, and various shreds of
garments lay about the place. The remains of other bodies, that had
gradually shrunk into shapeless masses, were also dimly visible. Human
bones, too, were scattered around. It is scarcely necessary to add that
this was one of the dead-houses, or places in which the bodies of those
who perish on the mountain are deposited, to waste away, or to be
claimed, as others may or may not feel an interest in their remains.
Interment could only be effected by penetrating the rock, for there was
no longer any soil, and such is the purity of the atmosphere that
putrescence never occurs.
I asked the guide if he knew anything of the man, whose body still
retained some of the semblance of humanity. He told me he remembered him
well, having been at the convent in his company. It was a poor mason,
who had crossed the _col_, from Piémont, in quest of work; failing of
which, he had left Liddes, near nightfall, in order to enjoy the
unremitting hospitality of the monks on his return, about a fortnight
later. His body was found on the bare rock, quite near the refuge, on
the following day. The poor fellow had probably perished in the dark,
within a few yards of shelter, without knowing it. Hunger and cold,
aided, perhaps, by that refuge of the miserable, brandy, had destroyed
him. He had been dead now two years, and yet his remains preserved a
hideous resemblance to the living man.
Turning away from this melancholy spectacle, I looked about me with
renewed interest. The sun had set, and evening was casting its shadows
over the valley below, which might still be seen through the gorges of
our path. The air above, and the brown peaks that rose around us like
gloomy giants, were still visible in a mellow saddened light, and I
thought I had never witnessed a more poetical, or a more vivid picture
of the approach of night. Following the direction of the upward path, a
track that was visible only by the broken fragments of rock, and which
now ascended suddenly, an opening was seen between two dark granite
piles, through which the sky beyond still shone, lustrous and pearly.
This opening appeared to be but a span. It was the _col_, or the summit
of the path, and gazing at it, in that pure atmosphere, I supposed it
might be half a mile beyond and above us. The guide shook his head at
this conjecture, and told me it was still a weary league!
At this intelligence we hurried to bestride our mules, which by this
time were fagged, and as melancholy as the mountains. When we left the
refuge there were no traces of the sun on any of the peaks or glaciers.
A more sombre ascent cannot be imagined. Vegetation had absolutely
disappeared, and in its place lay scattered the fragments of the
ferruginous looking rocks. The hue of every object was gloomy as
desolation could make it, and the increasing obscurity served to deepen
the intense interest we felt. Although constantly and industriously
ascending towards the light, it receded faster than we could climb.
After half an hour of toil, it finally deserted us to the night. At this
moment the guide pointed to a mass that I had thought a fragment of the
living rock, and said it was the roof a building. It still appeared so
near, that I fancied we had arrived; but minute after minute went by,
and this too was gradually swallowed up in the gloom. At the end of
another quarter of an hour, we came to a place where the path, always
steep since quitting the refuge, actually began to ascend by a flight of
broad steps formed in the living rock, like that already mentioned on
the Righi, though less precipitous. My weary mule seemed at times, to be
tottering beneath my weight, or hanging in suspense, undecided, whether
or not to yield to the downward pressure. It was quite dark, and I
thought it best to trust to his instinct and his recollections. This
unpleasant struggle between animal force and the attraction of
gravitation, in which the part I played was merely to contribute to the
latter, lasted nearly a quarter of an hour longer, when the mules
appeared to be suddenly relieved. They moved more briskly for a minute,
and then stopped before a pile of rock, that a second look in the dark
enabled us to see was made of stone, thrown into the form of a large
rude edifice. This was the celebrated convent of the Great St. Bernard!
I bethought me of the Romans, of the marauders of the middle ages, of
the charity of a thousand years, and of Napoleon, as throwing a leg over
the crupper, my foot first touched the rock. Our approach had been
heard, for noises ascend far through such a medium, and we were met at
the door by a monk in a black gown, a queer Asiatic-looking cap, and a
movement that was as laical as that of a _garçon de café_. He hastily
enquired if there were any ladies, and I thought he appeared
disappointed when we told him no. He showed us very civilly, however,
into a room, that was warmed by a stove, and which already contained two
travellers, who had the air of decent tradesmen who were crossing the
mountain on business. A table was set for supper, and a lamp or two
threw a dim light around.
The little community soon assembled, the prior excepted, and the supper
was served. I had brought a letter for the _clavier_, a sort of caterer,
who is accustomed to wander through the vallies in quest of
contributions; and this appeared to be a good time for presenting it, as
our reception had an awkward coldness that was unpleasant. The letter
was read, but it made no apparent difference in the warmth of our
treatment then or afterwards. I presume the writer had unwittingly
thrown the chill, which the American name almost invariably carries with
it, over our reception.
By this time seven of the Augustines were in the room; four of whom were
canons, and three novices. The entire community is composed of about
thirty, who are professed, with a suitable number who are in their
noviciate; but only eight in all are habitually kept on the mountain,
the rest residing in a convent in the _bourg_, as the real village of
Martigny is called. It is said that the keen air of the _col_ affects
the lungs after a time, and that few can resist its influence for a long
continued period. You will remember that this building is the most
elevated permanent abode in Europe, if not in the Old World, standing at
a height of about 8,000 English feet above the sea.
As soon as the supper was served, the superior or prior entered. He had
a better air than most of his brethren, and was distinguished by a gold
chain and cross. The others saluted him by removing their caps; and
proceeding to the head of the table, he immediately commenced the usual
offices in Latin, the responses being audibly made by the monks and
novices. We were then invited to take our places at table, the seats of
honour being civilly left for the strangers. The meal was frugal,
without tea or coffee, and the wine none of the best. But one ought to
be too grateful for getting anything in such a place, to be too
fastidious.
During supper there was a free general conversation, and we were asked
for news, the movements in La Vendée being evidently a subject of great
interest with them. Our French fellow-traveller on the lake of Brientz
had been warm in his eulogiums on this community, and, coupling his
conversation with the present question, the suspicion that they were
connected by a tie of common feeling flashed upon me. A few remarks soon
confirmed this conjecture, and I found, as indeed was natural for men in
their situation, that these religious republicans[39] took a strong
interest in the success of the Carlists. Men may call themselves what
they will, live where they may, and assume what disguises artifice or
necessity may impose, political instincts, like love, or any other
strong passion, are sure to betray themselves to an experienced
observer. How many of our own republicans, of the purest water, have I
seen sighing for ribands and stars--ay, and men too who appear before
the nation as devoted to the institutions and the rights of the mass.
The Romish church is certain to be found in secret on the side of
despotic power, let its pretensions to liberty be what it may, its own
form of government possessing sympathies with that of political power
too strong to be effectually concealed. I will not take on myself to say
that the circumstance of our being Americans caused the fraternity to
manifest for us less warmth than common, but I will say that our Carlist
of the lake of Brientz eloquently described the warm welcome and earnest
hospitality of _les bons pères_, as he called them, in a way that was
entirely inapplicable to their manner towards us. In short, the only way
we could excite any warmth in them, was by blowing the anthracite coal,
of which we had heard they had discovered a mine on the mountain. This
was a subject of great interest, for you should know that, water
excepted, every necessary of life is to be transported, for leagues to
this place, up the path we came, on the backs of mules; and that about
8,000 persons cross the mountain annually; all, or nearly all, of whom
lodge, of necessity, at the convent. The elevation renders fires
constantly necessary for comfort, to say nothing of cooking; and a mine
of gold could scarcely be as valuable to such a community, as one of
coal. Luckily, C----, like a true Pennsylvanian, knew something about
anthracite, and by making a few suggestions, and promising further
intelligence, he finally succeeded in throwing one or two of the
community into a blaze.
[Footnote 39: Your common-place logicians argue from these sentiments
that distinctions are natural, and ought to be maintained. These
philosophers forget that human laws are intended to restrain the natural
propensities, and that this argument would be just as applicable to the
right of a strong man to knock down a weak one, and to take the bread
from his mouth, as it is to the institution of exclusive political
privileges.]
A little before nine, we were shown into a plain but comfortable room,
with two beds loaded with blankets, and were left to our slumbers.
Before we fell asleep, C---- and myself agreed, that, taking the convent
altogether, it was a _rum_ place, and that it required more imagination
than either of us possessed, to throw about it the poetry of monastic
seclusion, and the beautiful and simple hospitality of the patriarchs.