Called at an office to see about getting front seats on diligence, for our trip to Chamouni to-morrow. F. speaking French the better, did the talking, but was assured we could have no front seats for the next day, and we were about coming to the conclusion that we should have to take back ones, much to our disappointment; but it is here as almost everywhere else, if you are willing to take ‘back seats’ you may never take front ones, and this time I was not willing. Remembering the potency of the silver key, I resorted to that as a forlorn hope, mixed in with my poor French, and succeeded in securing the desired places. On our way home, F. said she feared my earnestness and my not always grammatical French might place me in as bad a position as an American woman occupied, of whom she heard this story. She was rather proud of her somewhat limited knowledge of the French language, and fond of airing it. She went to secure places on a diligence for one of the Swiss mountain trips, and approaching the conductor, demanded—
‘Etes-vous les diligence?’
‘Non, Madame, pardon; Je suis le conducteur.’
Lady—somewhat angry at the correction—said excitedly, ‘C’est tout de même; Je prenderai deux places dans votre interieur?’
July 9th, 1888.—Never a pleasanter morning dawned for a ride on a diligence! Ours was a new one, painted in bright colors, and we had the two seats between the driver and conductor. Our six strong horses wore strings of bells about their necks, and we started off right merrily. The road from Geneva to Chamouni is as familiar to tourists as the way from the Oxford to Boston Common, but all do not see it alike, and you have not seen it at all, so I know you will enjoy hearing of it, told to you in my way. The road over which we rolled was simply perfect, and the panorama in front of and about us, magnificent. We went through the valley of the Arve, past well-cultivated farms, and little factories run by water turning the big wheels, past pretty chalets, nestled in green, stopping often to change horses and drivers, when the pretty Swiss children would gather about us and entreat us to buy their nosegays of wild flowers. There is something so pathetic in the faces of these little ones, that we could not find it in our hearts to disappoint them, so our decorations became as thick as those of a brigadier-general.
But soon we leave these rural scenes, and strike into scenery so grand that I fear it is beyond description. Imagine us going over the road, with the river tumbling, foaming, along by its edge, the mountains towering up on each side of us, some rocky, others covered with green pines, with a sheet of mosses, lichens, and mountain blossoms at their bases, and frequent cascades of water rushing down pell-mell from tremendous heights, forming vast clouds of vapor long before reaching the valley below, and sparkling in the rays of the sun like millions of diamonds. One long, narrow waterfall, fringed with green foliage, like orange leaves, well merited its name of ‘the bridal veil,’ so pure, lace-like, and fleecy did it look. ‘This will be a fine day to see Mt. Blanc,’ said our conductor, and soon the mountain chain, with every shape of peak, including Mt. Blanc, shot up like giant commanders above the regions of the clouds, in full view against the blue sky background, which blue was intensified by the snow-clad tips. After leaving the Baths of St. Gervais, a health resort approached through a beautiful avenue of trees, and where we dined, we find the road even better than at its beginning. These roads were built, and are taken care of, by the Government, and there is scarcely a stone or an uneven place on them. Every few miles we see crosses erected, some costly ones, but more of wood simply painted, with images of the Saviour or of some saint on the pedestals or in glass cases. Over the doors or windows of most of the houses are statues or pictures of saints, for we are in Catholic Switzerland now. Here too we are assailed by beggars, and from one house the whole family, including the grandparents, all ragged and dirty, besieged us for alms. What a blot is this upon beautiful Switzerland. On this road also we first saw victims of cretinism and goitre. We met one old beggar woman whose neck was so swollen that we could only see the upper part of her head protruding from the swollen mass of flesh beneath. We were told that the medical and scientific men of the country have for years endeavored to ascertain the cause and a cure for this loathsome disease, but have so far been unsuccessful. Many attribute it to the use of snow water, but I should be more willing to think the use of no water caused it, for dirtier, more repulsive-looking: mendicants I never beheld. At about seven P.M. we reached the little village of Chamouni, and alighted at our hotel without a feeling of fatigue, so comfortable and full of delight had been our trip.