Part 4

On the same evening, a second avalanche fell, and was fatal to the inhabitants of another house. The only living thing which survived was a little dog which had taken refuge in the cellar. As soon as the ruins of the house were removed, he jumped out of his hiding-place, barking at the workmen.

In this case was an instance of the hurricane produced by the agitation of the air by means of the descending cloud of powdery snow. Several cattle-houses, with the cattle, were torn from the ground and driven like chaff before the wind. There was also another instance of the wonderful power of the hurricane in the case of a barn full of hay, which was carried more than a quarter of a mile, and deposited on the opposite side of the river in its right position, with its contents uninjured!

It has sometimes happened that the snow has not fallen to a sufficient thickness to crush the houses, in which event the inmates have more chance of being saved, as the porous character of the powdered snow allows of sufficient air to sustain respiration. This was the case when, in 1749, the entire village of Tauetsch, in the Grisons, was one night overwhelmed by a powdery avalanche, which descended so noiselessly that the inhabitants were not aware of the calamity, and wondered in the morning why the day did not break. One hundred persons were covered in by the snow in their houses, sixty of whom were got out unhurt.

But perhaps the most remarkable instance of imprisonment in the snow of a descending avalanche occurred in the hamlet of Bergoletto, in the valley of the Upper Stura, at the foot of the Alps, near the fortress of Demonte, in Piedmont. Three persons survived an incarceration of five weeks. It was in the winter of 1755, when the falls of snow had been so very heavy that there was danger that its weight would break through the roofs of the houses. On the 19th of March, therefore, some of the people tried to avoid the danger by removing the snow from their house-tops. Among those so engaged were a man named Roccia, and his son, a lad of fifteen. The village clergyman was at this time leaving his house for his church, when he saw two avalanches descending. Calling to Roccia and his son, he returned speedily to his own dwelling. Father and son instantly fled towards the church. They had not run more than forty yards when the lad fell close behind his father, who, turning round to assist his son, was seized with horror on seeing that his own house and the houses of his neighbours were buried beneath an enormous pile of snow. His earthly all was swallowed up—his wife, his sister, his children, gone! The shock overcame him, and he fainted. His son soon recovered himself, and helped his father to the house of a friend; but he was five days before he was sufficiently restored to make any exertions in seeking his lost ones. Thirty houses were destroyed, and twenty-two persons were missing, among them the clergyman who gave the alarm. The snow lay over the village to a depth of more than forty feet, and extended its destruction some ninety yards in length by twenty broad.

The news of the disaster brought more than three hundred men from the neighbouring valleys. With iron rods, they sought to discover where the houses were; and then they commenced digging vigorously; but the depth of snow was so great (another heavy fall coming on) that they could make little or no progress, and were compelled to desist, after toiling for several days. No hope could they entertain of any one being preserved alive; and as the warm winds were expected to set in in less than a month, they resolved to wait until the mass should be partly melted.

On the 18th of April the men returned to their sad task. Roccia was among the most active of the workers. Though he had no hope that he should ever see any of his dear family alive, yet he laboured diligently, assisted by his son and a brother-in-law. After six days they advanced so far, that by breaking through two yards of ice they could touch the ground with a long pole. On the following day they were joined by another brother of his wife, who had been led to come and assist by a dream which he had, in which he saw his sister alive, begging of him to help her. Setting to work with new vigour, the four rescuers made their way into Roccia’s house—but it was silent and tenantless. Thinking that those they sought might have taken refuge in a stable which stood in a sheltered position some thirty yards from the house, they renewed their energies in that direction. After burrowing through the snow for some time, one of them thrust a pole through an opening. On withdrawing it, they heard a faint voice say: ‘Help, dear husband! help, dear brother!’ They now worked away with redoubled industry, and soon made a considerable opening, through which one of the brothers descended. The spot was totally dark, and he could see no one. ‘Any one here?’ he cried. His sister answered in trembling and broken accents: ‘It is I, dear brother. My sister-in-law and my daughter are alive too. I have always trusted in God that He would send me relief, and He has been graciously pleased to preserve me and deliver me.’

Her husband and other brother also descended; and there were joy and tears and thankfulness beyond expression.

The imprisoned women were too weak to move, and were shrunk almost to skeletons. With great tenderness they were removed to the house of a friend, where they were put to bed and nursed with care and affection. The daughter recovered soonest, and the unmarried woman was able to walk in a week or two; but Roccia’s wife, who had been in a more cramped position than the rest, was the last to regain the use of her limbs; and her eyes were ever afterwards affected with dimness, from being suddenly brought out of her prison into the light of day.

We give a description of their imprisonment from the lips of Roccia’s wife. When the dire calamity befell them, she was in the stable with her sister. They had gone there with some rye-flour gruel for one of the goats which, on the evening before, had brought forth two dead kids. Roccia’s daughter and a younger son were with the women, standing in a corner among the animals, waiting for the sound of the bell to go to church. In the stable were a donkey, six goats, and half-a-dozen fowls. Roccia’s wife was about to leave the stable to go to her own house. Scarcely had she reached the stable door, when she heard the warning voice of the minister. Looking up, she saw the descending avalanche, and heard a sound as of another at some little distance. She hurried back into the stable and told her sister and her children. In a few minutes the snow descended upon the building, crashing in the roof and part of the ceiling. To save themselves they got into the rack and manger, the latter being under the main posts of the building, and therefore able to bear the immense pressure. They occupied, however, a very uncomfortable posture, crouching against the wall in a space only a little more than a yard in breadth. They had escaped instant death, but the more painful and lingering death by famine seemed certainly to await them. They were oppressed with the thought of how they could subsist under such circumstances. The children did not lose heart; they said they had had breakfast, and could do very well until the next morning. The aunt had a few chestnuts in her pocket; and two each of these served for their supper, with snow-water as a beverage. In the bakehouse near the stable was the whole produce of yesterday’s baking. They made repeated attempts to force their way through the snow to the bakehouse, but all in vain. There was only one resource left, and that was the goat which had recently brought forth the two dead kids. This supply proved invaluable. On the second day they felt the pangs of hunger; they divided the remaining chestnuts among them, and also a quart of goat’s milk. The third day they made another effort to get to the bakehouse; but the weight of snow was too much for them, so they gave up all hopes of help from that direction. They were therefore shut up to the milk of the one goat.

To feed the goats was now one great object. Two of them were near the manger—the one already yielding milk; and the other, being with young, might be expected soon to do so, if they could only supply them with food. Over the manger where they lay was a hole into the hayloft; through this hole they pulled down the fodder into the rack; and when they could no longer reach it, the sagacious creatures climbed upon their shoulders and helped themselves.

At the end of the first week, the boy began to sink. He had complained of great pain in his stomach. His mother nursed him in her lap for a whole week, when he desired to lie his length in the manger. His hands and lips were cold, and his respiration feeble. His mother put a little milk to his lips, but he could not take it; and then with one tender cry, ‘O my father in the snow! O father, father!’ he expired.

Throughout the whole of their imprisonment they were in total darkness. For nearly three weeks the crowing of the cock enabled them to distinguish night from day; but at the end of this term chanticleer died, and his companions followed him one by one. They then literally took ‘no note of time.’ The donkey and the other goats were very restless for some time, but at length they fell a prey to hunger and exhaustion. The milk of the first goat gradually diminished; but the kidding of the second increased the supply, and as they killed the kid, though with great reluctance, the supply held out until the day of their deliverance. The poor goat became quite a solace to them, as it was so tame as to lick their hands and face. The poor creature was ever afterwards an object of great affection in the family.

We need only add one or two interesting facts. During their five weeks’ imprisonment they suffered little uneasiness from hunger after the first week. The effluvia from the dead animals were far more disagreeable, as also the vermin which infested the place, and the great coldness of the snow-water which trickled over them. The constrained position was also a source of great misery. During the whole of the time, Mrs Roccia had no sleep; but her daughter and her sister had intervals of repose equal to their nightly rest. Their deliverance was a matter of great thankfulness to all concerned; and many a winter’s evening was spent in relating around their humble hearth the sufferings, the mercies, and the deliverance of that eventful time.

A NIGHT IN AN INDIAN HILL-FORT.

Some short time ago, I being then an insignificant member of the Army Headquarters staff at Simla, the hill-capital of India, it became desirable to increase the number of hill-stations for the summer accommodation of British troops. It was thought that the Chor mountain, the most prominent peak of which is some sixty miles from Simla, would on its lower ridges afford suitable sites; and accordingly, a Committee of officers was formed for the purpose of reconnoitring and making a report. This Committee consisted of a well-known general, a major of Engineers, and myself, a humble sub. Somewhat trying work it was to get to the Chor, the road being of the most breakneck description, and the monsoon rains showing symptoms of bursting for our especial delectation. However, we trudged on manfully, climbed to the very topmost peak of the Chor, which by our aneroid we made over twelve thousand feet, and saw—nothing; for, by evil chance, one of the most magnificent views in Asia was barred to us by clouds which shut out everything except the first mile or two of the hog-backed ridges below us. Disappointed, we descended; and that night it was arranged we should separate and return to Simla by different routes, so as to make the President’s report as comprehensive as possible. In the execution of this idea, I found myself the next day at a place called Bhairogh, whence I proceeded—on foot, for we had been obliged to send our ponies back, owing to the state of the road—to a village called Tali. Here at first I thought of camping, as I had come some eleven miles up hill and down dale; but the place was so bare and I was so anxious to push on, being short of provisions, that I suddenly determined to double my march and make for a fort called Rajgarh, and described as being some twelve miles farther on. Unfortunately, I was dilatory in starting; the march, as usual, was longer than I had been led to suppose; the road was hilly, and it was not until about nine P.M. that I found myself peering through the darkness in the vicinity of my destined camp.

Camp, did I say? It was very soon evident that there was to be no camp for me that evening, and, what was still more objectionable, no supper. Slowly as I had walked, my servant with whom was all my money, and the coolies with my tent and kit, were miles behind. It was too late for such an unkempt ragamuffin as I undoubtedly was to disturb the garrison, so I shortly made up my mind to bivouac peacefully under a tree. Just outside the fort, however, and close to the spot I had marked out for my resting-place, two natives, by the light of a fire, were hammering some metal vessel with such animation as to wholly preclude the possibility of sleep. To these enthusiasts I explained that I was a sahib, and suggested they should postpone their operations till next morning. They, naturally enough perhaps, demurred; and I wrangled, and they continued their metallic fantasia until I could stand it no longer. Thinking, perhaps, I could persuade the local head-man to assist me in getting a night’s rest, I presented myself at the gate of the fort, a square walled inclosure of no strength, and demanded admittance. After much palavering with the sleepy sentry, I was let in past the outer wall, but not into the inner part; whereupon, I asked that the head-man should be sent for, and further clamoured for a chair. Seated upon this, and curiously scrutinised by a few promiscuous hill-folk, I waited for some five minutes, wondering why nobody came. At last a gate in the inner wall was thrown open, and out poured a procession, lit with torches, and headed by an evidently high-class native in flowing white robes. After the interchange of salaams, this individual, who subsequently turned out to be the tehsildar (administrator of a district), said to me with much humility: ‘Is your honour sent by the government to see if troops can be encamped on our hills?’

I admitted the soft impeachment; whereupon the tehsildar smiled benignly, and a succession of happy grunts and ‘It is _hes_,’ ran round the rest of the assembly, who had grouped themselves in an admiring circle round my chair.

‘Ah, your honour, we are made very happy by seeing you! The Deputy Commissioner of Simla wrote to our rajah to say that you and two other sahibs were coming; but we feared you had gone by another way.’

This was gratifying, but not to the purpose. I accordingly explained to my friend my situation, begged him to discourage the metal-workers, and asked that my servants when they arrived might be directed to my whereabouts. At this, consternation reigned on every side, and the tehsildar nearly fainted.

‘Your honour sleep under a tree!’ he gasped. ‘It is not to be thought of. I have given orders for a banquet to be prepared for your honour; and your sleeping-room is by this time ready. Will your honour be pleased to come and see it?’

I followed the obsequious tehsildar, and inspected my proposed sleeping apartment, a small room, with no outlet but the door, and literally stuffed with carpets, quilts, and pillows, evidently collected, hurriedly for the occasion. What pleased me most was the sight of a bed, which I at once ordered to be brought out into a sort of inner veranda, not wishing to be wholly suffocated. I then did justice to the ‘banquet’ as a man who had trudged some five-and-twenty miles over a difficult country might reasonably be expected to do. The surroundings were rather oppressive, and the civilities of my host and his companions rather overwhelming; but I was not in a mood to be critical, and it was with considerable self-satisfaction I eventually sought my couch, falling asleep almost simultaneously.

The next morning, I prepared to start on another march, and again I had an interview with the tehsildar and the rest of the garrison. I could not help noticing that though the man was perfectly polite and obliging, there was a change in his demeanour and in that of his following. No more was my every movement watched with eager curiosity, no more was my every mouthful accompanied by beaming smiles and grunts of satisfaction. This did not distress me greatly, but I thought it curious, and when I had said farewell and had fairly started on my journey, I asked my servant what it all meant.

The man smiled, and explained: ‘Deputy Commissioner Sahib he write to rajah this place and say: “Very great general and two other sahibs coming see your country. Government want put soldiers in your country when hot time comes. Good for you if government do this, because government pay you well, and country getting plenty rich.” Rajah he very pleased, and write to all his tehsildars and say: “When great general sahib comes, you make plenty show and big dinner.” Last night you come to fort, and it rather dark; tehsildar he not see very well, and he think you be very great general. This morning come, he see you not general, and he plenty sorry such big dinner make!’

WHAT GOES TO THE MAKING OF A SILK GOWN.

Visitors to the International Exhibition at Edinburgh who have watched with wonder and admiration the deft fingers of the silk-winder as she winds the delicate straw-coloured threads from the cocoon, may be interested to know something of the rise and progress of the manufacture of this, the most beautiful and costly of all our textile fabrics.

The spinning of silk was first discovered in China, and is supposed to have been practised there almost two thousand eight hundred years before the birth of Christ. A Chinese empress, See-ling, a native of India, is said to have discovered, probably by accident, that those wonderful cocoons which the silkworm prepares for its transformation might be pressed into the service of man in the same way as cotton and flax are. She unravelled the delicate fibres, and found them to be strong, though fine, and capable of being woven into a web. Prosecuting her researches, she learned how to breed and rear the worms so as to obtain an abundant supply of cocoons; and in this way initiated a new industry, which the empresses who succeeded her delighted to foster.

For a long time the weaving of silk was in the hands of the court ladies; then, by slow degrees, it passed from rank to rank, until it became the favourite occupation of all classes of women. It was introduced into Europe by way of Constantinople; and in 527 A.D., in the reign of Justinian, it had become so far common that garments of silk were the favourite wear of the Byzantine nobles. The origin and manufacture of this beautiful fabric seem, however, to have been very imperfectly understood, until two monks who had travelled through India and China astonished the emperor and his court by informing them that the shining silk garments which they admired so much owed their existence in the first place to the labours of a small worm. Justinian, like many crowned heads, was often in want of money, and it occurred to him, as he listened to the travellers’ wonderful tales, that if he could introduce the manufacture of this costly cloth into his dominions, it would be a sure and increasing source of revenue. Thus judging, he offered the two monks a large reward if they would procure for him a supply of the eggs of this wonderful creature. The monks undertook the commission; and after much difficulty, succeeded in procuring a few ounces of the eggs of the silkworm moth. This treasure, which they had not obtained without danger, they hid in two hollow canes which they used as staffs. One of these precious staffs was lost; but the other was safely presented to Justinian; and the supply of eggs so curiously procured laid the foundation of a flourishing silk-manufacture.

This, which was at first a close monopoly, guarded with the most jealous care, gradually became extended to other countries, as wave after wave of conquest swept over the Eastern Empire. One of these conquerors, Roger, king of Sicily, in 1140 transported a whole colony of silk-weavers, with a plentiful supply of eggs, from Constantinople to Palermo, where, for many centuries afterwards, a great manufacture of silk flourished. It was not until nearly a hundred years after the Sicilian king’s invasion of Constantinople that the enterprising citizens of Genoa and Venice succeeded in procuring a supply of the coveted eggs, and very soon made their countries famous for the manufacture of silk. In 1300, the velvets of Genoa were renowned throughout Europe; but there was always an attempt, more or less, to make the manufacture of silk a monopoly; and it was not until nearly two hundred years after the Italian cities had become famous centres of the silk industry, that the manufacture was introduced into France. When it did come, it was, as in the case of Roger of Sicily, in the train of a conqueror. Francis I., while pursuing his conquests in the north of Italy, became aware of the wealth and importance of this branch of industry, and succeeded, partly by bribery, partly by force, in planting colonies of silk-weavers in Lyons, Avignon, and Tours. In all these cities it flourished greatly in a short time, particularly in Lyons, which speedily became one of the centres of the silk-manufacture throughout Europe.