PASS OF THE SIMPLON, GORGE OF GONDO.

5

The top of the Simplon is a dreary field of snow and ice, girded round with drearier rocks. The hospice is large and comfortable, and does credit to its founder, Bonaparte; and the Prior is a fat, very handsome, and good-natured man. I had a reg ular romp with one of the San Bernard dogs, who would run and leap on me like a tiger, barking furiously as he came, but harmless as a kitten in his frolics. To amuse us, the Prior let out four of them from their confinement. No sooner did they find themselves free, than they dashed down the steps of the hospice, and bounding into the snow, made the top of the Simplon ring again with their furious barkings. After we had wandered over the building awhile, and made enquiries respecting lost travellers in winter, the good Prior set before us some bread and a bottle of wine, from which we refreshed ourselves and prepared to depart. We had scarcely begun to descend towards the Vallais, when I discovered, straight down through the gorge, a little village with its roofs and church spire, looking like a miniature town there at the end and bottom of the abyss. Confident there was no place between the top of the Simplon and Brieg, lying nearly twenty miles distant at the base, and thinking this could not be that town, sunk there apparently within rifle-shot of where I stood, I enquired of the vetturino what it was. "Brieg," he replied. "Brieg?"

I exclaimed: "why that is six hours' drive from here, and I can almost throw a stone in that place." "You will find it far enough bofore we get there," he replied, and with that we trotted on. Backwards and forwards, now running along the edge of a gulf deep into the mountains and under overhanging glaciers, till it grew narrow enough to let a bridge be thrown across; and now shooting out on to some projecting point that looked down on shuddering depths, the road wound like a snake in its difficult passage among the rocks. Houses of refuge occur at short intervals to succour the storm-caught traveller; and over the road, as it cuts the breast of some steep hill that shows an unbroken sheet of snow, up-up, till the summit seems lost in the heavens, are thrown arches on which the avalanches may slide down into the gulf below. Over some of these arches torrents were now roaring from the melting mass above Calm glaciers on high, and angry torrents below; white snow-fields covering thousands of

acres on distant mountain-tops, and wrecks of avalanches, crushed at the base of the precipice on which you stand; fill the mind with a succession of feelings that can never be recalled or expressed. It seems as if nature tried to overwhelm the awestruck and humbled man in her presence, by crowding scene after scene of awful magnificence upon him.

We stopped at Brieg all night in a most contemptible inn. It was some fête day or other of the thousand and one Catholic saints, and the streets were strewed with evergreens, while nearly every second man had a sprig in his hat. The streets were filled with peasantry sauntering lazily about in the evening air, and I leaned from my window and watched them as supper was cooking. There a group went loitering about singing some careless song I could not understand, while nearer by were two peasants, a young man and maiden, with their arms around each other's waists, strolling silently along in the increasing twilight.

At Brieg you enter on the Vallais and follow the Rhone on its tranquil course for Lake Leman. Its waters were yet turbid from their long struggle in the mountains, and flowed heavily through the valley. Along this we trotted all day, and stopped at night at Sion. If Mount Sion in Jerusalem is not a better place than this, the Arabs are welcome to it. The falls of Tourtemagne, which you pass on the road, are very beautiful, from the curve and swing of the descending water, caused by the peculiar shape of the rocks: and those of Sallenche grand and striking. The long single leap of the torrent is 120 feet, and as you stand under it, the descending water has the appearance of the falling fragments of a rocket after it has burst. The spray

that boils from its feet rises like a cloud, and drifting down the fields, passes like a fog over the road.

FORCLAZ AND COL DE BALM.

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II.

PASSES OF THE FORCLAZ AND COL DE BALM.

FROM Martigny, where we arrived at noon from Sion, a mule path leads over the Forclaz, from which one can look back on the whole valley of the Rhone, one of the most picturesque views in Switzerland. After following a while the route of Bonaparte's army, on its march from Martigny across the San Bernard, we turned off to the right, and began to ascend the Forclaz. Here I first tested the world-renowned qualities of the mule, amid the Alpine passes; and I must say I did not find the one I was on so very trustworthy. Passing along the brink of a precipice, I thought he went unnecessarily near the edge; but concluding he knew his own business best, I let him take his own way. Suddenly his hinder foot slipped over-he fell back, struggled a moment, while a cry of alarm burst from my companions behindrallied, and passed on demurely as ever. For a few moments

it was a question of considerable doubt whether I was to have a roll with my mule some hundred feet into the torrent below, with the fair prospect of a broken neck and a mangled carcase, or cross the Forclaz. I learned one lesson by it, however, never to surrender my own judgment again, not even to a mule. We at length descended into the very small hamlet of Trient, nestled down among the pines. After refreshing ourselves after a most primitive fashion; with some plain white pine boards, nailed together something after the manner of a workman's bench for a table, I told our guide I must cross the Col de Balm. He replied it was impossible. "No one," said he, "has crossed it this year except the mountaineer and hunter. The path by which travellers always cross it is utterly impassable; not even a chamois hunter could

follow it; besides, it rained last night, which has made the snow so soft, one would sink in leg-deep at every step, and I cannot attempt it." This was a damper, for I had thought more of making this pass than any other in the Alps. Still, I was fully resolved to do it, if it was in the reach of possibility, because from its summit was said to be one of the finest views in the world. So walking around the hamlet, I accosted a hardy-looking Swiss, and asked him if he could guide me over the Col de Balm. He replied that the ordinary route was impassable, being entirely blocked with snow; but that there was a gorge reaching nearly to the top of the pass, now half filled with the wrecks of avalanches, which he thought might be travelled. At least, said he, I am willing to try, and if we cannot succeed, we can return. I took him at his word, and returning, told my friends that I was going to cross the Col de Balm, but that I was unwilling to take the responsibility of urging them to accompany me, for I was convinced the passage would be one of great fatigue, if not of danger. I then called the guide, and bade him meet me with the mules about fifteen miles ahead, at Argentiere. He looked at me a moment, shook his head, and turned away, saying, “ Je vous conseille de ne pas aller." "Je vous conseille de ne pas aller." I hesitated a moment, for my guide book said, Always obey your guide," and farther on stated, that on this very pass a young German lost his life by refusing to obey his. I did not want to be rash, or expose myself unnecessarily to danger, but one of the finest views in the world was worth an effort; so stripping off my coat and vest, I bade my fearful guide good-bye, and taking a pole in my hand for a cane, started off. My friends concluded to follow. Immediately on leaving the valley we entered on the debris of avalanches, which fortunately bore us. It was a steady pull, hour after hour, mile after mile, up this pathless mass of snow, that seemed to go like the roof of a house, at an unbroken angle of forty-five degrees, up and up, till the eye wearied with the prospect. My friends gave out the first hour, while I, though the weakest of the party, seemed to gain strength the higher I ascended. The cold rare atmosphere acted like a powerful stimulant on my sensitive nervous system, rendering me for the time insensible to fatigue. I soon distanced my friends, while

my guide kept cautioning me to keep the centre of the gorge, so that I could flee either to one side or the other should an avalanche see fit to come down just at the time I saw fit to pass. I pressed on, and soon lost sight of every living thing. The silent snowfields and lofty peaks were around me, and the deep blue heavens bending brightly over all. I thought I was near the top, when suddenly there rose right in my very face a cone covered with snow of virgin purity. I had ascended beyond the reach of avalanches, and stood on snow that lay as it had fallen. I confess I was for a moment discouraged and lonely. Near as this smooth, trackless height appeared, a broad inclined plain of soft snow was to be traversed before I could reach it. I sat down in the yielding mass and hallooed to the guide. I could hear the faint reply, far, far down the breast of the mountain, and at length caught a glimpse of his form bent almost double, and toiling like a black insect up the, white acclivity. I telegraphed to him to know if I was to climb that smooth peak. He answered yes, and that I must keep to the right. I must confess I could see no particular choice in sides, but pressed on. The clean drifts hung along its acclivities just as the wintry storm had left them, and every step sunk me in mid-leg deep. This was too much: I could not ascend the face of that peak of snow, direct; it was too steep; and I was compelled to go backwards and forwards in a zigzag direction to make any progress. At length, exhausted and panting, I fell on my face, and pressed my hot cheek to the cold snow. I felt as if I never could take another step; my breath came difficult and thick, from the straining efforts I was compelled to put forth at every step, while the perspiration streamed in torrents from my face and body. But a cold shiver just then passing through my frame, admonished me I had already lain too long; so whipping up my flagging spirits, I pushed on. A black spot at length appeared in the wide waste of snow. It was the deserted house of refuge, and I hailed it with joy, for I knew I was at the top. But, oh! as I approached the thing, dreary enough at best, and found it empty, the door broken down by the fierce storm, and the deserted room filled with snow-drifts, my heart died within me, and I gave a double shiver. I crept to the windward side of the dismal concern to shield myself from the freezing blast,