The next day I had another fine walk over the Wengern Alp to Grindelwald. The mountain tops were partially veiled in clouds, but there was no uniform covering of mist, and the Silberhorn rose beautifully above me in unsullied whiteness. Grindelwald is as different as possible from Lauterbrunnen. On the north side, the hills rise in steep slopes, thickly set with cottages, and divided into meadows by hedges mixed with trees, to a considerable height, before the wild and craggy Alps begin. The term Alp in Switzerland indicates a mountain pasture, as distinguished from a snowy mountain: the highest summits are consequently never called Alps. Some of our travellers mention this as a corruption of the word, but it has, I think, never been proved that it was not its primitive signification. The Blumlis (flowerless) Alp is agreed on all hands to be a tract covered with perpetual snow, though tradition says it was once the best pasture in Switzerland: it is not however agreed where this Blumlis Alp was placed. Some give the name to a range of glaciers above Lauterbrunnenthal, while others apply it to parts of those above Kanderthal, because, they say, there is a more extensive tract very little above the snow line, which renders the tradition more reasonable. The name of Blumlis Alp in Keller’s map is given to a point 11,370 feet above the sea, which never could have been Alp at all. For my part, if I may not reject the story altogether as a fable, I should incline to adopt the first opinion, because it has nothing but tradition to support it; while there seems a reason for the invention of the second; and it is very possible that some small spot above Lauterbrunnen, now covered with ice, may once have been pasture. The lower glaciers are said to be all on the increase, yet with one exception, (that of Bosson) they all bear evident marks of having been at some period much larger than they are at present, and similar changes may occur in the upper ones without supposing any constant increase of snow and ice.
I have made a great digression from the description of Grindelwald, to which I will now return. On the south side of the valley, three enormous crags rise immediately into the region of perpetual snow; the Wetterhorn, which is 11,720 feet high, the Mettenburg somewhat less, and the Eiger 12,240. Grindelwald is 3,182 feet above the sea. It is not perhaps quite the summit of these rocks that is visible, and there are some hundred feet of slope at the bottom; the rest is almost perpendicular cliff, at least what appears such to the eye, whose height indeed you may estimate, but whose effect you will find it difficult to imagine. Between these three vast mountains are two glaciers, at one of which I spent the morning in attempting to imitate its forms and colouring, in company with two very agreeable young Englishmen, whom I met at Grindelwald. On the 20th I returned down the valley to Zwey Lütchinen, and thence to Unterseen. The walk was delightful, but that from Unterseen to Grindelwald would have been still finer; for in that case I should have had the three great mountains successively before me: first the Wetterhorn and the mountain behind it, the Hinter gletscher horn, over the woods and rocks of the valley; then the Mettenburg, and then the Eiger; and after some interval the same objects in the opposite order, with the accompaniments entirely changed. About a mile from Unterseen is the castle of Unspunnen, which makes some figure in Swiss history; and near this, a spot whence one has the finest imaginable view over both lakes. Each appeared enchanting; the lake of Thun more varied, but with the surrounding objects in shade, as I was looking towards the sun; the lake of Brientz, with its cliffs and woods in light, more uniformly wild and savage. From Unterseen I walked to Müllinen. What a country to ramble in! Wherever one goes, some new object, some new mode of beauty delights us; but language has little of the variety of nature; and the perpetual recurrence of lakes and streams, rocks and mountains, woods and cultivation, and snow and ice, fatigues, instead of exciting the attention. I made a diversion to the top of the Niesen, 7,310 feet in height: snow still lingered on the summit, but only in patches. I expected a fine view of the Simmenthal and Kanderthal, but clouds obstructed the prospect. In the other direction, Bern and the Jura were distinguishable at intervals, through openings in the thick bed of clouds which lay before me. The next morning I proceeded up Kanderthal. The clouds hung low upon the mountains, but now and then exposed the waste of snow above me, and I saw enough to persuade me that Kanderthal was well worth a visit, even after Lauterbrunnen and Grindelwald; and that its style of beauty, or of sublimity, is quite different from that of those vallies. On the 25th I passed the Gemmi: the ascent is steep, but not otherwise bad, and at the top is a public house, where I procured some hot milk. The scenery is wild and dreary in the extreme, and the natural melancholy of the place was heightened by the gloom of the weather. The Dauben See is a shallow and muddy pool at the top. I met there a solitary Englishman, who was taking a wrong track; my guide set him right. He observed to me that there was something very sublime in crossing the Alps alone in a snow storm, which in fact was then coming on very heavily. I regretted afterwards that he had been set in the right path, for there only wanted to complete the sublime, that he should lose his way; and there would have been no danger, since meeting with the lake would have shewn him his error. The flakes of snow soon hid him from my sight, and I shortly after arrived at the descent: but what a descent! It is impossible I can give you any idea of it. It would be easier to make a road up the most inaccessible part of the wildest mountain in England, than up the Gemmi. The inn-keeper at Lausanne told me that the Gemmi was passable all the year; and in fact the couriers do pass it at all seasons, but it is extremely dangerous, and accidents frequently occur. Last year there were six avalanches, and three couriers lost their lives. These avalanches fill the road with snow, and the couriers are obliged in some places to creep upon ledges of rock, half supporting themselves on the snow; and sometimes to trust themselves entirely to the snow over a precipice of six or eight hundred feet. It does not appear that these accidents arise from negligence or ignorance; but the men advance with full sense of their danger, and using every possible precaution to avoid it. The road is cut out of the face of the precipice, and in some instances completely into the rock. At this time of year there is no danger; yet I would not advise a person to undertake the descent, whose head is apt to be giddy. After reaching the bottom I looked back, and began to wonder where the path could be, or how it had been possible to descend such a horrible precipice.
The company had nearly left the baths of Lötsch, and had I been a few days later, I should have found the inn deserted, except by a single individual, who is left to take care of the house, and to give shelter to any stray wanderer. During the proper season, the invalids begin to resort to the bath about five o’clock in the morning, and remain there four or five hours, usually taking their breakfast while sitting in the warm water. At eleven they dine, and afterwards return again to sit in the bath. At six they sup, and go to bed at eight. How should you like this regimen?
Next morning I walked down to Leuk, or Lötsch, where I breakfasted, and hired a char à banc, which took me to Brigg. The Vallais is a fine valley, much narrower here than I had imagined from my view of it from above Martigny: the mountains which bound it are steep slopes, the bottom appears flat, and altogether, it wants variety; yet it offers some beautiful scenes, especially at the openings of the little vallies. The inhabitants are esteemed to be lazy, dirty, and goitrous, and by far the most licentious in Switzerland, but rather improving of late years. Till the road over the Simplon was made, it was one of the most unfrequented parts of the country, and it may serve as an encouragement to those who fear that good roads and freer intercourse with their neighbours, will spoil the sobriety and simplicity of the Swiss character.
On Friday morning I set off to cross this famous pass. A thick dark bed of clouds covered the opposite mountains, and against them was reflected the finest rainbow I ever saw. The middle colours were repeated seven times. The road is excellent, as good as any about London, but not so wide; and here and there the rubbish fallen down from above, has contracted it perhaps to fifteen or eighteen feet, but this is a mere guess; I did not measure it. It is certainly a most noble work, but the scenery of the ascent is not picturesque. It winds up sloping hills covered with wood, and runs round the little vallies, hardly ever making a zig-zag upon the face of the hill. The village of Simplon is about two leagues beyond the summit. The republic of the Vallais is repairing the road, and there is no indication of any intention to abandon it, nor do the inhabitants seem to entertain the least idea that such a design could be entertained.
I slept at the village of Simplon, where I was told that it is always cold, and certainly I found it so. The people were cleaner and honester, and spoke better French than I had met with the preceding days in the Vallais. Next morning I resumed my walk towards Italy: the descent on this side is highly romantic, but after winding among savage rocks and subterranean passages, and looking against mountains crowned with snow, I was delighted to come out of the confined pass at Dovedro, and find myself in a fertile valley full of corn-fields, vineyards, and villages. In one part of this day’s walk, I observed a quantity of snow which had fallen the preceding winter, and being afterwards thickly covered with earth, was sprinkled with vegetation. After this opening the valley again contracts into another wild and rocky pass, though not with the frowning horrors of the preceding: this leads into the comparatively open Val Ocella, one league along which brought me to Duomo d’Ossola.
I have now left Switzerland, but I will not begin another subject without a few general observations. The country churches are generally small and poor buildings, each with a square tower at the west end, which terminates in a high gable. They are, I believe, always of stone; the cottages always of wood. These latter are generally elevated on a stone basement of six or eight feet in height. There are two stories below the roof, and one in it. The wood-work is not painted all over, and sometimes not at all; but there are frequently broad horizontal bands ornamented with painting, as well as with carving. The roofs span the long way of the building, and project five or six feet all round; they are consequently immensely large; and they are covered with shingles, or with slates. On one side, or often on both, is a gallery under the shelter of the roof, and the whole of this covered way forms an admirable place for drying flax, and sometimes corn: the flax, by the bye, is dressed without steeping.
I did not find any building at Duomo d’Ossola to excite much attention. There is a Via Crucis, that is, an ascent leading to a church or convent, on which is a series of chapels, representing the circumstances of our Saviour’s passion. Each chapel is here a small room filled with figures, carved in wood and painted: as much light is admitted as will shew them distinctly, and two or three holes are left, with gratings of wire, through which one may peep to see the imagery. These things are very common in Italy, but not all on so expensive a scale: the chapels are generally much smaller, like watch-boxes, and are adorned only with a painting exhibited in the same manner: sometimes they are mere arched recesses, to protect the series of pictures. This history is not confined to the facts related in the scriptures, but is heightened by tradition or invention. It is regularly a part of the story, not only that our Saviour himself carried the cross, nearly if not quite all the way, but that he fell down under it three times; and the circumstance is improved, if we may use the methodist expression in speaking of Roman Catholic superstition, by the inscriptions placed underneath. Little stations of this sort are also frequent by the road-sides, with a saint painted at the bottom of the niche.
From the top of the hill of the Via Crucis at Duomo d’Ossola, there is a fine view of the flat circular valley, at the edge of which stands the town. A considerable portion of this plain is covered by the enormous beds of gravel and sand brought down by the mountain torrents. In other places it appears rich and fertile, and the meadows are as green as in England.
The churches in this part of Italy have very high slender towers, covered with a depressed pyramidal roof of red tiles, or sometimes with a little cupola; they are almost always white, and form a very striking and characteristic feature in the landscape.