The Democratic advocate. [volume] (Westminster, Md.) 1865-1972, 1885-11-21

The Monks of the HOspiee-The Many
! Difficulties of the Mountain Climb-The
ChapeI-The wOrId-FamOus Dogs.
/ Henry Rat1qIes an the Boston Globe.
it was o'clock in the morning when a
travelling friend and myself left the Hotel
Clere, at Martigny, to make the pass of the
Great ST Bernard. Our conveyance was
a long, narrow Alpine wagon, drawn by two
venerable-looking mules that had seen better
days, and the driver, who was also to act as
our guide, was an old mountain-climber,
whose father, as l afterward learned, was
the veritable person whom Napoleon Sc
lected to pioneer his route when he scaled
the Alps with his invincible army, to the
surprise of Ital y and the whole world.
The distance from Martigny to the Hospice,
where we were to remain over night, the
landlord of the hotel informed us was about
forty miles, part of which was a gradual
ascent, and the balance steep, rocky, zig
gag path that mule found it difficult to
climb. The journey up among the noun
tains was delightful; the scenery, ever
changing, was grand and magnificent. We
occasionally passed through little Swiss
villages, nestled between and under high,
overhanging mountains, and inhabited by
peasantry that showed every sign of the
utmost poverty and destitution. But after
seeing how little ground the peasants have
fit for cultivation, and the greater part of
that situated on the sides of mountains so
steep that goat could scarcely retain a
foothold, [ was not surprised at their pow
erty and hungry looks. Every little patch
of ground, wherever it could be utilized
among the rocks, on the brow of prec
ipice, or even from under an overhanging
glazier-was appropriated and cultivated
to its utmost extent in order to "keep the
wolf from the door," What would the
farmers of New England say, who find SO
much fault with their rocky land, as COM
pared with the deep, rich soil of the far
West, were they obliged to exchange homes
with those Swiss peasants and exc out
scanty subsistence on those almost barren
heights, where the winters SHOWS retain
their foothold for eight months of the year,
and where every hour they are in danger
of being engulfed by an avalanche Inone
place saw some men cutting grass on a
small patch of ground SO steep that, to me,
it was miracle how they could even catch
foothold. But few feet from them was
the brow of an abrupt precipice, which
overhung an Alpine torrent several hundred
feet below. A single misstep of either of
the workmen would have hurled him to
certain destruction. Imagine the New
England farmers filling their barns from
such hay fields as this
A SCARCITY OF GOOD DINNERS.
After drive of four hours we reach the
village of Liddes, where we stop to rest the
mules and to lunch at primitive little inn,
hardly fit to be a stable, called the Hotel
d Angleterre As we were about 5000
feet high, we could not expect sumptuous
repast; neither did we have one Some
boiled eggs. black bread and honey, and
half-bottle of Bernardine-a liqueur made
by the monks at the hospice above-was
all that the bill of fare consisted of, but for
this we were charged at least enough to
have paid for days board at one of the
best New York hotels. 1t was amusing to
see how calmly the fussy little landlord en-
dured the operation of seeing the total Of
the bill cut down to about half its original
amount Rubbing his hands all the while,
he smilingly remarked: "Arrangez lie
CONNIE vous voulez, messieurs." (Arrange
as you please, gentlemen.)
Three hours more travel bring us to st.
Pierre, another wretched Swiss hamlet,
where there are but six or eight miserable
looking little huts or houses, bRilt Of mud
and stone, and with wide projecting roofs.
At one of these which was used for an inn,
we endeavored to get substantial dinner,
as the worst and most tiresome part of the
journey was ahead of US. We were in
formed that fresh meat of any kind, not
even eggs, were to be had. So we had to
content ourselves with feasting upon more
black bread and honey, some scraps of an
unknown kind of cold meat, and bottle of
sour wine-the best the inn could give u.s.
About two miles beyond st. Pierre we
came to small one-story stone house called
the Canteea. the last habitation until we
reach the Hospice. This is as far as we
can go in our Alpine wagon, and the bal
ance of the distance to the home Of the
monks above has to be ON muleback. In
anticipation of this part of the journey, the
guide has wisely brought saddles with him,
and also two sacks of hay for the mules.
The Canteen has but one occupant, an old
woman, with a face wrinkled and brown as
piece of ancient parchment, who presses
us to partake of her black bread and sour
wine, but the memory of our recent dinner
at St. Pierre compels us to decline her
hospitality, for which she expected to be
richly paid The harnesses were soon ex-
changed for the saddles, and in few min
utes more the long-eared animals were
safely bearing us upon their backs to the
heights above.
EXCELSIOR.
We had now arrived at point so high
that the air had become intensely cold, and,
although it was but the LIST of August, the
ground was frozen as hard as if it had been
midwinteF. For the last several hours of
our journey we were in sight of mountain
peaks covered with saoy far ahead and
above us, and we were now ia theiF midst,
with a bitter, cold wind driving down
against us from the bleak, snow-coyered
II I