For the first time since I left you I am sitting in a room of my own
hiring, with a fire and a bed in it. And I am happy to say that I have
the best and fullest intentions of sleeping in the bed, having arrived
here at half-past four this afternoon, without any cessation of
travelling, night or day, since I parted from Mr. Bairr's cheap
firewood.
The Alps appeared in sight very soon after we left Milan--by eight or
nine o'clock in the morning; and the brave C. was so far wrong in his
calculations that we began the ascent of the Simplon that same night,
while you were travelling (as I would I were) towards the Peschiere.
Most favourable state of circumstances for journeying up that tremendous
pass! The brightest moon I ever saw, all night, and daybreak on the
summit. The glory of which, making great wastes of snow a rosy red,
exceeds all telling. We _sledged_ through the snow on the summit for two
hours or so. The weather was perfectly fair and bright, and there was
neither difficulty nor danger--except the danger that there always must
be, in such a place, of a horse stumbling on the brink of an
immeasurable precipice. In which case no piece of the unfortunate
traveller would be left large enough to tell his story in dumb show. You
may imagine something of the rugged grandeur of such a scene as this
great passage of these great mountains, and indeed Glencoe, well
sprinkled with snow, would be very like the ascent. But the top itself,
so wild, and bleak, and lonely, is a thing by itself, and not to be
likened to any other sight. The cold was piercing; the north wind high
and boisterous; and when it came driving in our faces, bringing a sharp
shower of little points of snow and piercing it into our very blood, it
really was, what it is often said to be, "cutting"--with a very sharp
edge too. There are houses of refuge here--bleak, solitary places--for
travellers overtaken by the snow to hurry to, as an escape from death;
and one great house, called the Hospital, kept by monks, where wayfarers
get supper and bed for nothing. We saw some coming out and pursuing
their journey. If all monks devoted themselves to such uses, I should
have little fault to find with them.
The cold in Switzerland, since, has been something quite indescribable.
My eyes are tingling to-night as one may suppose cymbals to tingle when
they have been lustily played. It is positive pain to me to write. The
great organ which I was to have had "pleasure in hearing" don't play on
a Sunday, at which the brave is inconsolable. But the town is
picturesque and quaint, and worth seeing. And this inn (with a German
bedstead in it about the size and shape of a baby's linen-basket) is
perfectly clean and comfortable. Butter is so cheap hereabouts that they
bring you a great mass like the squab of a sofa for tea. And of honey,
which is most delicious, they set before you a proportionate allowance.
We start to-morrow morning at six for Strasburg, and from that town, or
the next halting-place on the Rhine, I will report progress, if it be
only in half-a-dozen words.
I am anxious to hear that you reached Genoa quite comfortably, and shall
look forward with impatience to that letter which you are to indite with
so much care and pains next Monday. My best love to Georgy, and to
Charley, and Mamey, and Katey, and Wally, and Chickenstalker. I have
treated myself to a new travelling-cap to-night (my old one being too
thin), and it is rather a prodigious affair I flatter myself.
Swiss towns, and mountains, and the Lake of Geneva, and the famous
suspension bridge at this place, and a great many other objects (with a
very low thermometer conspicuous among them), are dancing up and down
me, strangely. But I am quite collected enough, notwithstanding, to have
still a very distinct idea that this hornpipe travelling is
uncomfortable, and that I would gladly start for my palazzo out of hand
without any previous rest, stupid as I am and much as I want it.
Ever, my dear love,
Affectionately yours.
P.S.--I hope the dancing lessons will be a success. Don't fail to let me
know.
[Sidenote: Mr. W. C. Macready.]
HOTEL BRISTOL, PARIS, _Thursday Night,
Nov. 28th, 1844, Half-past Ten._