Our path carried us through a wild, stony ravine, with great mountains on either side, and the inevitable river in the centre, rushing and foaming over the rocks. Then we went up and over a beautiful mountain path, commanding fine views of the distant mountains, with deep gorges below, then wound round the base of the Tête Noir Mountain and through the woods, and a tunnel, pierced through a rocky spur of the mountain, that jutted out upon the pass. We saw away across, from one point on our journey, the wild-looking road that was the route to the Pass of the Great St. Bernard, and at another, looked far down into the valley, where we could see the River Trient rushing and tumbling on its course. We soon came to a point, before commencing our descent, which commanded a view of the Rhone valley as far as Sion, spread out, seemingly, as flat as a carpet, with the river meandering through its entire length, the white chalets and brown roads looking rather hot in the blaze of the afternoon sunlight. The view of this valley—what little we saw of it—is far better at this distance than when one reaches its tumble-down towns and poor inhabitants.
We went down a pleasant descent, past orchards and farm-houses, till we reached Martigny, where we had supper, and were nearly devoured by mosquitos, so that at nine P. M. we were glad to take the railway train. How odd it seemed to be rattling over a railroad, in a comfortable railway carriage, after our mountain experiences! The train, at quarter past ten o'clock, landed us at Sion, where we took up our quarters at the Hotel de la Poste, an Italian inn, with an obsequious little French landlord, who was continually bowing, and rubbing his hands, as if washing them with invisible soap, and saying, "Oui, monsieur," to every question that was asked him, and withal looking so like the old French teacher of my boyhood's days, that it seemed as though it must be the old fellow, who had stopped growing old, and been transported here by some mysterious means.
The fifteen-mile mountain tramp I had made, and the day's journey, as a whole, caused the not very comfortable beds of the hotel to seem luxurious couches soon after arrival, and we therefore deferred interviews with Italian drivers, a crowd of whom were in attendance from Stressa, via the Simplon Road, and who were anxious to open negotiations, till the next morning, notwithstanding their assertions that they might be engaged and gone when we should come down to breakfast, and that we should, therefore, lose the magnificent opportunities they were offering.
We were fortunate in having the company of a gentleman who had frequently been over this route, and fully understood the modus operandi of making contracts with Italian post drivers, as will be seen. It seems that there are often drivers here at Sion who have driven parties from Stressa (via the Simplon) who desire to get a freight back, and with whom the tourist, if he understands matters, can make a very reasonable contract, as they prefer to take a party back at a low rate, rather than to wait long at an expense, or return with empty vehicles. If there be more than one (as in our case) of these waiting post drivers, there is likely to be a competition among them, which of course results to the tourist's advantage.
Therefore, after breakfast, instead of "having been engaged and gone," we found two or three anxious drivers, who jabbered with all their might about the merits of their respective vehicles and themselves, and were anxious to be engaged. The price mentioned as bon marché at first was four hundred francs for our whole party of seven for the three days' journey over the Simplon Pass to Lake Maggiore; and really, I thought it was, and had I been the negotiator for the party, should have closed; but not so he who acted for us—acted in more senses than one; for when this price was named, he gave the true French deprecatory shrug of the shoulders, filled his pipe, and sat down on the hotel portico to smoke. Ere long he was waited upon by driver number two, who represented that three hundred and fifty francs would induce him to take the party, "if monsieur would start to-day." Smoker only elevated his eyebrows, and thought if he "waited a few days there would be more carriages here."
In fifteen minutes the price was down to three hundred francs—no anxiety on the part of monsieur to close.
A smart young driver, whose team had been "eating their heads off" for three days, proposed two hundred and twenty francs, and to pay all expenses, except our own hotel bills; and monsieur concluded to accept him, putting the agreement, to prevent mistakes, in writing, which is necessary with the Italian drivers. The contract was duly signed.
"When would monsieur's party be ready?"
"In fifteen minutes;" and the calm, indifferent smoker, to the driver's surprise, became a lithe, elastic American, driving half a dozen servants nearly crazy by hurrying them down with the luggage, mustering the whole party with explanations of the necessity of starting at once, and helping the landlord's major-domo make out the bills, without giving any opportunity of getting in extras that we didn't have.
He shouted in Italian at the driver, who, with the stable-helpers, was putting in the horses, jabbered in French with the hotel servants, and in half an hour we were seated in the vehicle, with the luggage strapped on behind, and the old landlord and the waiters and porters bowing at the door, as we started, amid a volley of whip smacks, sounding like the firing of a bunch of Chinese crackers.