But the great attraction of this neighbourhood is the celebrated picture of Leonardo da Vinci in the refectory of the Convent of Maria della Grazia. After sustaining every injury from Italian monks, French soldiers, wet, and the appropriation of the building to secular purposes, this picture is now protected by the public sense of its excellence from further injury. And more remains of the original than from Goethe's dissertation I expected to see. The face of our Saviour appears to have suffered less than any other part. And the countenance has in it exquisite feeling; it is all sweetness and dignity.
Some of the Apostles have a somewhat caricature expression, which has been far better preserved in the several copies existing, as well as in the engraving of Raphael Morgen. There is a sort of mawkish sentimentality in the copies of St. John, which always offended me. There is less of it in the original. That and St. Andrew are the best preserved next to the face of Christ.
On the 5th of September the Wordsworths went back to the lake of Como, in order to gratify Miss Wordsworth, who wished to see every spot which her brother saw in his first journey,—a journey made when he was young.
We rejoined the Wordsworths at Baveno on the 8th. Then we crossed the Simplon, resting successively on the 9th at Domo d'Ossola, 10th Simplon, 11th Turtman, and the 12th and 13th at the baths of Leuk. From this place we walked up the Gemmi, by far the most wonderful of all the passes of Switzerland I had ever, or have now ever, crossed. The most striking part is a mountain wall 1600 feet in perpendicular height, and having up it a zigzag path broad enough to enable a horse to ascend. The road is hardly visible from below. A parapet in the more dangerous parts renders it safe. Here my journal mentions our seeing men employed in picking up bees in a torpid state from the cold. The bees had swarmed four days before. It does not mention what I well recollect, and Wordsworth has made the subject of a sonnet, the continued barking of a dog irritated by the echo of his own voice. In human life this is perpetually occurring. It is said that a dog has been known to contract an illness by the continued labour of barking at his own echo. In the present instance the barking lasted while we were on the spot.
I say nothing of Chamouni, where we slept two nights, the 15th and 16th; nor of the roads to it, but that the Tête Noire, by which we returned, is still more interesting than the Col de Balme, by which we went. Again at Martigny on the 17th. I should not have omitted to mention that, to add to the sadness produced by the Valais, Wordsworth remarked that there the Alps themselves were in a state of decay—crumbling to pieces. His is the line:—
The human soul craves something that endures.
On the 18th we were at Villeneuve, and on the 19th and 20th at Lausanne.