Sublime Desolation.--A Morning Walk.--The Col.--A Lake.--Site of a Roman
Temple.--Enter Italy.--Dreary Monotony.--Return to the
Convent--Tasteless Character of the Building.--Its Origin and
Purposes.--The Dead-house.--Dogs of St. Bernard.--The Chapel.--Desaix
interred here.--Fare of St. Bernard, and Deportment of the Monks.--Leave
the Convent.--Our Guide's Notion of the Americans.--Passage of Napoleon
across the Great St. Bernard.--Similar Passages in former
times.--Transport of Artillery up the Precipices.--Napoleon's perilous
Accident.--Return to Vévey.
Dear ----,
The next morning we arose betimes, and on thrusting my head out of a
window, I thought, by the keen air, that we had been suddenly
transferred to Siberia. There is no month without frost at this great
elevation, and as we had now reached the 27th September, the season was
essentially beginning to change. Hurrying our clothes on, and our beards
off, we went into the air to look about us.
Monks, convent, and historical recollections were, at first, all
forgotten, at the sight of the sublime desolation that reigned around.
The _col_ is a narrow ravine, between lofty peaks, which happens to
extend entirely across this point of the Upper Alps, thus forming a
passage several thousand feet lower than would otherwise be obtained.
The convent stands within a few yards of the northern verge of the
precipice, and precisely at the spot where the lowest cavity is formed,
the rocks beginning to rise, in its front and in its rear, at very short
distances from the buildings. A little south of it, the mountains recede
sufficiently to admit the bed of a small, dark, wintry-looking sheet of
water, which is oval in form, and may cover fifty or sixty acres. This
lake nearly fills the whole of the level part of the _col_, being
bounded north by the site of the convent, east by the mountain, west by
the path, for which there is barely room between the water and the
rising rocks, and south by the same path, which is sheltered on its
other side by a sort of low wall of fragments, piled some twenty or
thirty feet high. Beyond these fragments, or isolated rocks, was
evidently a valley of large dimensions.
We walked in the direction of this valley, descending gradually from the
door of the convent, some thirty feet to the level of the lake. This we
skirted by the regular path, rock smoothed by the hoof of horse and foot
of man, until we came near the last curve of the oval formation. Here
was the site of a temple erected by the Romans in honour of Jupiter of
the Snows, this passage of the Alps having been frequented from the most
remote antiquity. We looked at the spot with blind reverence, for the
remains might pass for these of a salad-bed of the monks, of which there
was one enshrined among the rocks hard by, and which was about as large,
and, I fancy, about as productive, as those that are sometimes seen on
the quarter-galleries of ships. At this point we entered Italy!
Passing from the frontier, we still followed the margin of the lake,
until we reached a spot where its waters trickled, by a low passage,
southward. The path took the same direction, pierced the barrier of low
rocks, and came out on the verge of the southern declivity, which was
still more precipitous than that on the other side. For a short distance
the path ran _en corniche_ along the margin of the descent, until it
reached the remotest point of what might be called the _col_, whose
southern edge is irregular, and then it plunged, by the most practicable
descent which could be found, towards its Italian destination. When at
this precise point our distance from the convent may have been half a
mile, which, of course, is the breadth of the _col_. We could see more
than half a league down the brown gulf below, but no sign of vegetation
was visible. Above, around, beneath, wherever the eye rested--the void
of the heavens, the distant peaks of snow, the lake, the convent and its
accessories excepted--was dark, frowning rock, of the colour of iron
rust. As all the buildings, even to the roofs, were composed of this
material, they produced little to relieve the dreary monotony.
The view from the _col_ is in admirable keeping with its desolation. One
is cut off completely from the lower world, and, beyond its own
immediate scene, nothing is visible but the impending arch of heaven,
and heaving mountain tops. The water did little to change this character
of general and savage desolation, for it has the chill and wintry air of
all the little mountain reservoirs that are so common in the Alps. If
anything, it rather added to the intensity of the feeling to which the
other parts of the scenery gave rise.
Returning from our walk, the convent and its long existence, the nature
of the institution, its present situation, and all that poetical feeling
could do for both, were permitted to resume their influence; but, alas!
the monks were common-place, their movements and utterance wanted the
calm dignity of age and chastened habits, the building had too much of
the machinery, smell, and smoke of the kitchen; and, altogether, we
thought that the celebrated convent of St. Bernard was more picturesque
on paper than in fact. Even the buildings were utterly tasteless,
resembling a _barnish_-looking manufactory, and would be quite
abominable, but for the delightfully dreary appearance of their
material.
It is a misfortune that vice so often has the best of it in outward
appearance. Although a little disposed to question the particular
instance of taste, in substance, I am of the opinion of that religionist
who was for setting his hymns to popular airs, in order "that the devil
might not monopolize all the good music," and, under this impression, I
think it a thousand pities that a little better keeping between
appearances and substance did not exist on the Great St. Bernard.
The convent is said to have been established by a certain Bernard de
Menthon, an Augustine of Aoste, in 962, who was afterwards canonized for
his holiness. In that remote age the institution must have been
eminently useful, for posting and Macadamized roads across the Alps were
not thought of. It even does much good now, as nine-tenths who stop here
are peasants that pay nothing for their entertainment. At particular
seasons, and on certain occasions, they cross in great numbers, my guide
assuring me he had slept at the convent when there were eight hundred
guests; a story, by the way, that one of the monks confirmed. Some fair
or festival, however, led to this extraordinary migration. Formerly the
convent was rich, and able to bear the charges of entertaining so many
guests; but since the Revolution it has lost most of its property, and
has but a small fixed income. It is authorized, however, to make
periodical _quêtes_ in the surrounding country, and obtains a good deal
in that way. All who can pay, moreover, leave behind them donations of
greater or less amount, and by that means the charity is still
maintained.
As many perish annually on the mountain, and none are interred, another
dead-house stands quite near the convent for the reception of the
bodies. It is open to the air, and contained forty or fifty corpses in
every stage of decay apart from putrescency, and was a most revolting
spectacle. When the flesh disappears entirely, the bones are cast into a
small enclosure near by, in which skulls, thigh-bones, and ribs were
lying in a sort of waltz-like confusion.
Soon after our return from the walk into Italy, a novice opened a little
door in the outer wall of the convent, and the famous dogs of St.
Bernard rushed forth like so many rampant tigers, and most famous
fellows they certainly were. Their play was like that of elephants, and
one of them rushing past me, so near as to brush my clothes, gave me to
understand that a blow from him might be serious. There were five of
them in all, long-legged, powerful mastiffs, with short hair, long
bushy tails, and of a yellowish hue. I have seen very similar animals
in America. They are trained to keep the paths, can carry cordials and
nourishment around their necks, and frequently find bodies in the snow
by the scent. But their instinct and services have been greatly
exaggerated, the latter principally consisting in showing the traveller
the way, by following the paths themselves. Were one belated in winter
on this pass, I can readily conceive that a dog of this force that knew
him, and was attached to him, would be invaluable. Some pretend that the
ancient stock is lost, and that their successors show the want of blood
of all usurpers.
We were now shown into a room where there was a small collection of
minerals, and of Roman remains found about the ruins of the temple. At
seven we received a cup of coffee and some bread and butter, after which
the prior entered, and invited us to look at the chapel, which is of
moderate dimensions, and of plain ornaments. There is a box attached to
a column, with _tronc pour les pauvres_, and as all the poor in this
mountain are those who enjoy the hospitality of the convent, the hint
was understood. We dropped a few francs into the hole, while the prior
was looking earnestly the other way, and it then struck us we were at
liberty to depart. The body of Desaix lies in this chapel, and there is
a small tablet in it, erected to his memory.
It would be churlish and unreasonable to complain of the fare, in a spot
where food is to be had with so much difficulty; and, on that head, I
shall merely say, in order that you may understand the fact, that we
found the table of St. Bernard very indifferent. As to the deportment of
the monks, certainly, so far as we were concerned, it had none of that
warmth and hospitality that travellers have celebrated; but, on the
contrary, it struck us both as cold and constrained, strongly reminding
me, in particular, of the frigidity of the ordinary American manner.[40]
This might be discipline; it might be the consequence of habitual and
incessant demands on their attentions and services; it might be
accidental; or it might be prejudice against the country from which we
came, that was all the stronger for the present excited state of Europe.
[Footnote 40: The peculiar coldness of our manners, which are too apt to
pass suddenly from the repulsive to the familiar, has often been
commented on, but can only be appreciated by those who have been
accustomed to a different. Two or three days after the return of the
writer from his journey in Europe (which had lasted nearly eight years),
a public dinner was given, in New York, to a distinguished naval
officer, and he was invited to attend it, _as a guest_. Here he met a
crowd, one half of whom he knew personally. Without a single exception,
those of his acquaintances who did speak to him (two-thirds did not),
addressed him as if they had seen him the week before, and so cold and
constrained did every man's manner seem, that he had great difficulty in
persuading himself there was not something wrong. He could not believe,
however, that he was especially invited to be neglected, and he tried to
revive his old impressions; but the chill was so thorough, that he found
it impossible to sit out the dinner.]
Our mules were ready, and we left the _col_ immediately after breakfast.
A ridge in the rock, just before the convent, is the dividing line for
the flow of the waters. Here a little snow still lay; and there were
patches of snow, also, on the northern face of the declivity, the
remains of the past winter.
We chose to walk the first league, which brought us to the refuge. The
previous day, the guide had given us a great deal of gossip; and, among
other things, be mentioned having been up to the convent lately, with a
family of Americans, whom he described as a people of peculiar
appearance, and _peculiar odour_. By questioning him a little, we
discovered that he had been up with a party of coloured people from St.
Domingo. His head was a perfect Babel as it respected America, which was
not a hemisphere, but one country, one government, and one people. To
this we were accustomed, however; and, finding that we passed for
English, we trotted the honest fellow a good deal on the subject of his
nasal sufferings from travelling in such company. On the descent we knew
that we should encounter the party left at Bex, and our companion was
properly prepared for the interview. Soon after quitting the refuge, the
meeting took place, to the astonishment of the guide, who gravely
affirmed, after we had parted, that there must be two sorts of
Americans, as these we had just left did not at all resemble those he
had conducted to the convent. May this little incident prove an entering
wedge to some new ideas in the Valais, on the subject of the "twelve
millions!"
The population of this canton, more particularly the women, were much
more good-looking on the mountain than in the valley. We saw no
_crétins_ after leaving Martigny; and soft lineaments, and clear
complexions, were quite common in the other sex.
You will probably wish to know something of the celebrated passage of
Napoleon, and of its difficulties. As far as the ascent was concerned,
the latter has been greatly exaggerated. Armies have frequently passed
the Great St. Bernard. Aulus Coecinna led his barbarians across in 69;
the Lombards crossed in 547; several armies in the time of Charlemagne,
or about the year 1000; and in the wars of Charles le Téméraire, as well
as at other periods, armies made use of this pass. Near the year 900, a
strong body of Turkish corsairs crossed from Italy, and seized the pass
of St. Maurice. Thus history is full of events to suggest the idea of
crossing.
Nor is this all. From the time the French entered Switzerland in 1796,
troops occupied, manoeuvred, and even _fought_ on this mountain. The
Austrians having succeeded in turning the summit, contended an entire
day with their enemies, who remained masters of the field, or rather
rock. Ebel estimates the number of the hostile troops who were on this
pass, between the years 1798 and 1801, 150,000, including the army of
Napoleon, which was 30,000 strong.
These facts of themselves, and I presume they cannot be contested, give
a totally different colouring, from that which is commonly entertained,
to the conception of the enterprise of the First Consul, so far as the
difficulties of the ascent were concerned. If the little community can
transport stores for 8,000 souls to the convent, there could be no great
difficulty in one, who had all France at his disposal, in throwing an
army across the pass. When we quitted Martigny, I began to study the
difficulties of the route, and though the road as far as Liddes has
probably been improved a little within thirty years, taking its worst
parts, I have often travelled, in my boyhood, during the early
settlement of our country, in a heavy, high, old-fashioned coach over
roads that were quite as bad, and, in some places, over roads that were
actually more dangerous, than any part of this, _as far as Liddes_. Even
a good deal of the road after quitting Liddes is not worse than that we
formerly travelled, but wheels are nearly useless for the last league or
two. As we rode along this path, C---- asked me in what manner I would
transport artillery up such an ascent. Without the least reflection I
answered, by making sledges of the larches, which is an expedient that I
think would suggest instantly itself to nineteen men in twenty. I have
since understood from the Duc de ----, who was an aide of Napoleon, on
the occasion of the passage, that it was precisely the expedient
adopted. Several thousand Swiss peasants were employed in drawing the
logs, thus loaded, up the precipices. I do not think it absolutely
impracticable to take up guns limbered, but the other plan would be much
the easiest, as well as the safest. In short, I make no doubt, so far as
mere toil and physical difficulties are concerned, that a hundred
marches have been made through the swamps and forests of America, in
every one of which, mile for mile, greater natural obstacles have been
overcome than those on this celebrated passage. The French, it will be
remembered, were unresisted, and had possession of the _col_, a garrison
having occupied the convent for more than a year.
The great merit of the First Consul was in the surprise, the military
manner in which the march was effected, and the brilliant success of his
subsequent movements. Had he been defeated, I fancy few would have
thought so much of the simple passage of the mountain, unless to
reproach him for placing the rocks between himself and a retreat. As he
_was not_ defeated, the _audace_ of the experiment, a great military
quality sometimes, enters, also, quite properly into the estimate of his
glory.
The guide pointed to a place where, according to his account of the
matter, the horse of the First Consul stumbled and pitched him over a
precipice, the attendants catching him by his great-coat, assisted by a
few bushes. This may be true, for the man affirmed he had heard it from
the guide who was near Napoleon at the time, and a mis-step of a horse
might very well produce such a fall. The precipice was both steep and
high, and had the First Consul gone down it, it is not probable he would
ever have gone up the St. Bernard.
At Liddes we re-entered the _char_ and trotted down to Martigny in good
time. Here we got another conveyance, and pushed down the valley,
through St. Maurice, across the bridge, and out of the gate of the
canton, again, reaching Bex a little after dark.
The next morning we were off early for Villeneuve, in order to reach the
boat. This was handsomely effected, and heaving-to abreast of Vévey, we
succeeded in eating our breakfast at "Mon Repos."