Part 7

_Friday._--The whole morning in making arrangements about mules; at last the Commandant gave an order, and we have obtained some. The price they ask is exorbitant, 70 louis for our carriages, both of which are very light--one at least is. I have stolen some of the Baron’s specimens of minerals; my conscience smites me almost for the plunder. At six in the evening we set off for St. Remy. My journey there was not pleasant as to my _monture_, for my own saddle was broken, and I was, after shifting from pack saddles, etc., obliged to submit to be chucked upon a sack of wheat on a _bête-de-somme_. The muleteer considered me as a bale of goods entrusted to his care to convey without damage, and so far thought of me, but not the least as to my ease or comfort. As much as I could see of the scenery by daylight very beautiful. La Cluse very pretty, but we did not reach St. Remy till twelve o’clock, all tired and cold, and such an inn! But it did shelter us from the bleak wind, and that was a point gained.

We set off at half-past five o’clock to cross the famous mountain of St. Bernard. It has only been used by travellers since the Mont Cenis has been shut up by the neighbourhood of the French. I went in a _chaise à porteurs_. Our carriages were dismounted and placed by piecemeal on mules. We began ascending from St. Remy. The mountains are from their base bare and without much vegetation, the road so embarrassed with snow that I thought it impracticable for the mules to bring the carriage. Just above St. Remy there is a forest of larches, which the inhabitants preserve with the most religious care, as their own safety is interested in its preservation, for it protects them from the avalanches or _chûte des neiges_, so fatal in these countries. The path is very narrow and rugged; here and there immense blocks of granite intercept the passage, difficult to be clambered over, but no precipices to terrify and make the head giddy. Little torrents running down like cascades, the snow in many places very soft, yielding readily to the pressure of the men’s feet.

In about three hours from St. Remy I reached the Convent. The plain on which it stands is about two acres in extent; a black-looking lake adjoining it was frozen. Eternal snows surround this peaceful, melancholy dwelling, but the warmest charity issues from the bosom of its inmates. Distress is claim enough to rouse them to every action of spirited humanity. On a rock close to the lake stood a temple to Jupiter, dedicated, some say, by Hannibal in his passage across the mountain. Numbers of _ex-voto_ are found here, a proof that it was considered as a perilous pass by the ancients. It is the highest habitation in the old world. It is 1246 toises[71] above the level of the sea. A strong sense of active benevolence can alone induce men to abandon the charms of the habitable world for this _triste séjour_. The _clavandier_ or steward of the Convent offered us every refreshment. I accepted willingly some strong wine, and wrapped myself in eiderdown for a couple of hours. The fine dogs known for their sagacity in seeking the bewildered traveller lost under a mass of snow were not at home; they were ranging over the mountain.

[Sidenote: MT. ST. BERNARD]

I turned my back on Italy with regret. The men carried me backwards down the mountain. The snow on this side very deep, and they waded through it with great labour; they often fell, but I was neither hurt nor frightened. My intrepidity is more owing to an indifference about life than to natural courage. I have nothing to love, so life is not to me invaluable. Half-way we stopped to look at the melancholy receptacle for the bodies of those who perish on the mountains. There is only one body; it has been exposed for a year, but the rarefaction of the air was such that the putrefaction has not commenced. It was shrivelled, but the features were perfectly distinguishable. The sun set. We reached St. Pierre, a small village dependent on the monastery we had just quitted. I lodged in the house of a _curé_ at Liddès, where I slept, who had formerly been a monk in the upper region, but growing infirm he was rewarded with half-freezing. He said he lived a happier life among the community than in solitude. The small house he has is pretty and fantastically covered with some creeping plant over the walls. Early in the morning I was awakened by the melody of the birds and the fragrance of the plants; the sun shone into my bed by 5 o’clock.

On the 14th, early in the morning, I set off. The carriages were put upon the wheels, but the baggage was conveyed on mules. The roads exceed anything I ever beheld in point of danger. A narrow _corniche_ without a _garde-fou_, upon the brink of a precipice of many hundred feet; in some places I am sure the fall would have been 1500 perpendicular feet.

The Drance gushes with the violence and noise of a torrent in the valley. Orsières is the first village; the houses are made of wood with immense high _treillages_ to dry beans upon them. The next village was Sembrancher; about half a mile on this side of it the view is delicious--I was quite enraptured. We got close to the Drance, whose roar whitened its waters. We crossed it frequently; one of the bridges was very old and weak; they persuaded me to get out and walk over it. The valley is evidently opened by violence, as the angles of the mountains on each side correspond exactly. The sublimity of the scenery among these mountains inspires one with a notion of the grandeur of our world, but this thought is still dissipated on a starlight night, for then we behold what a speck we are in the creation--a twinkling orb like them.

We dined at Martigny, the capital of the Valois, a dirty town abounding in loathsome objects, _crétins_ and bugs. The much celebrated cascade of the Pisse Vache was in full beauty, but even so it is much inferior to Tivoli and Terni. The Rhône is very fine and the adjacent country beautiful; we crossed it over an old Roman Bridge at St. Maurice. Just on this side of the bridge the Berne bear announced our arrival into its territory.

Upon my coming into Bex I met Prince Hatzfeldt and my tiresome Scotch lover, Mr. Douglas. We supped together at the inn, where I had a pretty terrace to walk upon out of my bedroom.

Early in the morning, Tuesday, 16th, I set off in a _char-a-bande_ [_sic_] to see the _salines_ of Bex. My _compagnon de voyage_ was, as usual, ill-disposed and sulky, and spared me the torment of his company. I went into a subterranean gallery perforated for 3000 feet under the mountain; the smell of the lamps made me sick, and I was obliged to return without seeing the cylinder which is the film (?) of rock salt. The salt springs are fully impregnated with the saline matter.

[Sidenote: LOST FRIENDS]

Left Bex at one o’clock. Dined at Vevey. Hodges came out to meet us; he brought me a packet of letters. My father continues ill, but less dangerously so than by my former letters. The last time I was in Vevey the Guiches dined with us in a pavilion belonging to the Count St. Leger. Ludlow’s[72] house is on the skirts of the town; the little rampart round it formerly planted with swivels is still to be seen. He lived in perpetual dread of being taken by the Royalist party; he was often fired at. I felt melancholy at the sight of Lausanne now, deserted by all the cheerful band who had assisted in making me pass cheerfully some of the pleasantest hours of my uncomfortable life. Gibbon’s house is abandoned; he is in England. Poor Ly. Sheffield’s apartment will never again contain her; she is no more. Mde. de Juigné is again no more. All my friends are living in obscure poverty, or have fallen in the field of battle. The English here are the Cholmondeleys, the old Duchess of Ancaster, Ld. Morpeth, his friend who travels with him, and various other English, and the son of an Irish bishop.

The events in Paris are still disgusting and bloody. Biron[73] is impeached; the charge is having conducted the war with _insouciance_. Those who know him say his disposition is to do everything so, but he is humane and gentlemanlike. He preserved all Lady Rivers’ goods, etc., when he entered Nice. Lord Beauchamp, now Lord Yarmouth,[74] is at Frankfort upon some political mission; hopes are entertained that it is to adjust a general Congress for the termination of these horrid scenes. Ld. Porchester is made an earl, as a reward for deserting Mr. Fox, whose party is breaking up apace; some quit him from opinion, but most for the loaves and fishes which are promised to them for their desertion. Mr. Fox’s debts are to be paid by a subscription among his friends; he is to have an annuity of 3000_l._ per annum. As he is not popular, people think it a mean transaction, but formerly it was proposed as an honourable one. Ld. Cholmondeley tells me that party runs very high in England, disgustingly so.

I have heard that my dear children are well; Lady Shelley has written me a satisfactory account of them. I went to Mde. Cerjat’s. She is very unhappy about her sons; one is besieging Valenciennes. From her gardens we saw across the lake to Evian, where the detested tricolor flag is flying on the tree of liberty; we heard the drums distinctly.

_18th, Thursday._--A small dinner at home, Hodges, etc. In the evening I went to the poor Duchess’s, who has not, I fear, many weeks to languish. Lord Morpeth[75] is clever, very handsome, and very captivating. I see the Cholmondeleys[76] are trying to catch him for Miss L.; he appears indisposed to the project. He is evidently _le mieux possible_ with Mde. A. If I were addicted to coquetry I believe I could easily become her rival, but I never possessed a particle of the vanity necessary to such a character, nor is there anything in my eyes flattering in such proceedings. A pretty young woman is always sure of as many lovers as she chooses, but to _me_ there would be more humiliation than glory in such a train.

[Sidenote: MARAT’S DEATH]

I dined at the Cholmondeleys; went to Casanova’s ball, and amused myself the few days I passed at Lausanne. Marat has been assassinated by a young woman of the name of Charlotte Corday. She obtained admittance whilst he was in the bath and pleaded for some of the deputies, who are in prison; she approached him, drew a poniard, and stabbed him to the heart. She was immediately seized, and the Convention are employed in devising new tortures for her. This death will occasion some change in their measures, as Marat was an intrepid villain who had attached a party to himself.

The news from Valenciennes is dreadful: in an escalade attempted by the allies 6000 men perished.[77]

La Fayette is still at Magdebourg.[78] His confinement seems both hard and unjust. The following lines are written by Lord Camelford:--

D’un fanatisme aveugle oser braver la ménace, De ses vils oppresseurs oser punir l’audace, Oser aimer son Roi, vouloir briser ses fers, Protéger l’innocence, et dompter les pervers; Au noirceur de l’intrigue opposer le courage, La constance à la mort, le mépris à l’outrage. _Favras_, ce sont là des crimes aujourd’hui, Le supplice est pour toi, et le laurier pour lui! Pour ce pâle tribun, le tyran et l’esclave, Le chef et le jouet du parti qui le brave. Conspirateur hardi, timide pour le bien, Étouffant les remords qui germent dans son sein. Ce _Cromwell_ sans talents, ce Brutus de la Foire, Qui par ses crimes au moins se consigne à l’histoire, Qui sait fouler aux pieds les autels et les lois, Ensanglanter le trône et le lit de ses Rois; Par de lâches complots accabler l’innocence. Ce sont là de nos jours les vertus de la France.

Poor La Fayette, it overdoes his errors. I believe he was compelled to go beyond his wishes, for as Dr. Johnson somewhere says, ‘However faction finds a man, it seldom leaves him honest.’

Dumouriez[79] went to England; immediately upon his arrival he informed Ld. Grenville, and begged to know whether he might be permitted to remain. Ld. G. told him he applied to the wrong person, as Mr. Dundas was the proper one to address, but he would venture to assure him permission would _not_ be granted, and implied the sooner he went the better.

I was extremely irritated to find a few miles from Lausanne that Mr. Douglas had followed me. I knew that a timely check might rid me of his company for the journey. I therefore stopped the carriage, spoke to him with cold civility, and gave him a message to Ly. C., as I would not allow him to suppose I could imagine that he meant to join me in travelling. He looked embarrassed, took the rebuff, and returned back.

The Convention have satisfied themselves with ye guillotine for Charlotte Corday. She behaved with the utmost intrepidity to the last sad scene. Women have appeared at the Bar of the Convention begging their infants might take the name of Marat, adding that they renounced any other _évangile_ than his works, all creeds but the Constitution! Great reports of the success of the Royalist army; it is said to be within sixteen leagues of Paris, but I confess, for one, that I am incredulous, as the stories about it vary so much. Nantes was in counter-revolution for thirty-six hours; Lyons is hostile to the Convention, but the inhabitants are arrant Republicans. I believe General Ferraris will defeat my wish of seeing the siege of Valenciennes, as he will take it before I get thither.

[Sidenote: STATE OF FRANCE]

Slept at Avenches. There is a curious mosaic pavement, a vestige of it belonging to the Romans. Ld. Northampton[80] has lived here for fifteen years. The old town stood a mile further eastward. Some inscriptions besides the tesselated pavement still remain, but the corroding effect of time, and the still more destructive hand of man, have left little to prove its former splendour.

_24th July._--Set off at half-past seven o’clock. Just before we entered the town of Morat we passed the chapel which contains the bones of the Burgundians who fell on this spot in 1476; which finally closed the long contests between the Swiss and the Duke of Burgundy. The awful sight of these remains at once raises melancholy and pleasing thoughts, for here were doomed to fall by the folly of a tyrant several thousands of our species, and here also the courage arising from a true spirit of liberty secured the independence of this country.

Charles the Bold was defeated at Grandson and at Morat. At this place he lost the famous diamond, known since by the name of the Sancy diamond. It was found on the field of battle by a Swiss soldier, who sold it to a priest for a florin, who sold it again for half a crown. It then fell into the hands of Antony, King of Portugal, and from him the Baron of Sancy obtained it. This diamond afterwards served as a pledge for a sum of money lent by the Swiss to Henry III. of France.[81]

We came here (Berne) at about two o’clock. This is the neatest, dullest, coldest town I ever knew. I am sitting in a south room on the 24th of July, and I protest I am half frozen. This is the capital of the canton, and is a far more magnificent city than might be expected in a territory whose extent does not exceed much an English county. It is situated on a hill, round which the Aar winds its course, and protects the town from sudden surprise: it might easily be destroyed by a bombardment from the surrounding hills that command it. The streets are wide, clean, and well paved. The houses, like those in dear, dear Italy, built on arcades, an admirable convenience for the foot passengers in the rains of winter or the heats of summer. I think it must fill the mind of a true John Bull with envy to see the town of a province like this, or a small capital like Turin, surrounded with public walks, extensive avenues, and magnificent approaches, whilst their own metropolis can be approached only by shabby, narrow turnpike roads. Ld. and Ly. Robert Fitzgerald live in the faubourgs; I shall call upon them, and then pay my respects to the _bears_. I suffer pain from the intense cold.

Leaving Berne at 9 o’clock on Thursday, July 25, the travellers took the road to Hindelbank. Of the country Lady Webster records:--

The soil continues the same; hills covered with firs and forest trees, rich pasture, clean farming. As wood is more plentiful than stone, houses are principally built of it; the projecting roofs are useful for barns and outhouses, but for habitations of human creatures they must be unwholesome by excluding the rays of the sun, and confining the smoke of the wood fires. Every step that approaches me to England lowers my spirits. Oh! how I abhor the thoughts of living in that country. No friends, few relations!

[Sidenote: THE SWISS CHARACTER]

We slept at a little village the name of which I cannot write. Set off at an early hour. The small Swiss inns are delightful, so convenient, so well furnished with excellent provisions. The people are _passively_ civil, which is all one requires; they have neither the cold neglect of a French inn, the indifference and clamour of an Italian one, or the insupportable officiousness of an English one. The Swiss have more _junketing_ parties than any other people. Arrive at any hour, day or night, and one finds the inns crammed and the people stuffing their bellies.

We dined at Lutzburgh;[82] at the top of an isolated hill there is an old castle, which commands the town. This route is better calculated to please the farmer and the quiet landscape painter than the mineralogist or poet. The country is flat and rich, and the scenes are pleasing and tranquil: not a study for the pencil of a Salvator. About a mile from Lutzburgh we entered the canton of Lucerne. The line of demarcation between the Catholic and Protestant canton is more strongly marked by the manners and habitations of the peasants, than by any fictitious boundary prescribed by law. Poverty, dirt, and misery are the visible attendants of the former, a manifest and glaring contrast to the characteristics of the latter, where wealth, cleanliness and ease abounds. The politician must explain the causes of this melancholy difference between the adjoining countries.

The road led past Mellingen to Baden, where they passed the night. ‘M. Barthelémy, formerly Secretary to the Embassy in London and now Minister from France to the Swiss Cantons, resides at this melancholy place.’

On July 27th they crossed the Rhine at Kaiserstuhl and went on to Laufen.

_Sunday, 28th._--Schaffhausen is a melancholy, _triste_ town. The tinkling of the bells of the church close to my room and the abominable psalmody distracted my ears and shattered my nerves. I got up many hours sooner than I intended, as _rest_ was unattainable. I like rather the bells of convents; there is something cheerful in Catholicism, but these dull Protestants make religion frightful in their way of following it. The nasal melody of these devout Schaffhauseners, who are at this moment screaming themselves hoarse to chant the praises of God, would have met with little mercy if the heathen mythology were in force, as Apollo would have dispatched their discordant souls to the regions below. We went to the proper place to see the famous cataracts; they are tremendous, the noise is more powerful than artillery could make, I believe. I think the fall is about 100 feet. The river does not recover its stillness for some time after the _chute_ ruffles its waters.

[Sidenote: RIVAL STREAMS]

_Monday, 29th._--Set off at 5 o’clock, and bid adieu to the clean cottages and bold, craggy mountains of Switzerland. We were advised against the Basle road, as it approaches so very near the French frontier that we might unwillingly have seen some skirmishes. Here the dwellings of the inhabitants resemble those of Lincolnshire, mud walls, and the inhabitants as filthy as the ground they tread on. The circle of Swabia is reckoned to be a fertile and well-cultivated country and its population proves that its peasantry are well fed. The hills are well covered with fir and oak, the remains of the old Hercynian Forest that once overspread this part of Germany from the Danube to the Rhine. The wild boar and the wolf are the only savage animals that inhabit these regions. The clearing of the forest has very much influenced the climate of Italy; Kirwan thinks by its destruction Lombardy is become warmer. We crossed a ridge of sand hills; on the top of them I observed the rills of water to run in different directions, forming small rivulets to the north and south sides. These continue their course from their original direction. A lively imagination might fancy their lamentations at the impossibility of their ever meeting again in their native country. ‘I go,’ says the northern drop, ‘to join the slow-flowing Danube, and quench the thirst of the heavy-paced, mechanical German, the proud, independent, but crushed Hungarian, and the lazy, ignorant, slavish Turk. In my way I shall wash the walls of Vienna, Presburg, and Belgrade, and then in company with the waters of Poland and of Russia will try to live in harmony with the waters of the Euxine Sea.’ ‘And I,’ says the merry southern drop, ‘will rush on to the rapid Rhine, wash the coast of the brave and hardy Swiss, will then avoid the once cheerful Frenchmen, and frisk down to the North Sea,’ and, if he is of my mind, will avoid the chalky coast of England.

Arrived at midnight at Pallingen; I slept in a billiard room, a _meuble_ neither ornamental, comfortable, nor useful.