Friday, July 8.--Chamouni to Martigny, by Tête Noir. Mules _en
avant_. We set off in a _calèche_. After a two hours' ride we
came to "_those mules_." On, to the pass of Tête Noir, by paths
the most awful. As my mule trod within six inches of the verge, I
looked down into an abyss, so deep that tallest pines looked like
twigs; yet, on the opposite side of the pass, I looked up the steep
precipice to an equal height, where giant trees seemed white
fluttering fringe. A dizzy sight. We swept round an angle, entered a
dark tunnel blasted out through the solid rock, emerged, and saw
before us, on our right, the far-famed Tête Noir, a black ledge, on
whose face, so high is the opposite cliff, the sun never shines. A few
steps brought us to a hotel. William and I rolled down some
avalanches, by way of getting an appetite, while dinner was preparing.
[Illustration: _of the rearing head and neck of a bridled mule._]
After dinner we commenced descending towards Martigny,
alternately riding and walking. Here, while I was on foot, my mule
took it into his head to run away. I was never more surprised in my
life than to see that staid, solemn, meditative, melancholy beast
suddenly perk up both his long ears, thus, and hop about over the
steep paths like a goat. Not more surprised should I be to see some
venerable D. D. of Princeton leading off a dance in the Jardin
Mabille. We chased him here, and chased him there. We headed him, and
he headed us. We said, "Now I have you," and he said, "No, you don't!"
until the affair began to grow comically serious. "_Il se moque de
vous!_" said the guide. But, at that moment, I sprang and caught
him by the bridle, when, presto! down went his ears, shut went the
eyes, and over the entire gay brute spread a visible veil of
stolidity. And down he plodded, _slunging_, shambling, pivotting
round zigzag corners, as before, in a style which any one that ever
navigated such a craft down hill knows without further telling. After
that, I was sure that the old fellow kept up a "terrible thinking," in
spite of his stupid looks, and knew a vast deal more than he chose to
tell.
[Illustration: _of a mule's head lowered, with ears flattened._]
At length we opened on the Rhone valley; and at seven we reached Hotel
de la Tour, at Martigny. Here H. and S. managed to get up two flights
of stone stairs, and sank speechless and motionless upon their beds. I
must say they have exhibited spirit to-day, or, as Mr. C. used to say,
"pluck." After settling with our guides,--fine fellows, whom we hated
to lose,--I ordered supper, and sought new guides for our route to the
convent. Our only difficulty in reaching there, they say, is the
_snow_. The guides were uncertain whether mules could get through
so early in the season. Only to think! To-day, riding broilingly
through hay-fields--to-morrow, stuck in snow drifts!