plished a great undertaking for science. Even science has its heroes and noble martyrs.
But how any body can desire—for no other purpose
than to be able to say, “I have done it”——but
enough on this subject.”
On the 4th of August, Louise and I set off, through
the Tete Noire, to Martigny, one of the most beautiful
journeys which any one can take on a summer's day.
Good roads, magnificent scenery, both behind and
before, and through the whole valley, bold forms of
wooded rocks, fresh rushing waters, the purest mountain
atmosphere;—I seemed to myself to be reading
one of Sir Walter Scott's Highland novels. The
moon rose above the beautiful chestnut woods as we
reached Martigny, in the Rhone valley, where we
found the air oppressively warm.
The following day, we took a little carriage, and proceeded to the Great St. Bernard. The road is good, but narrow, and the turns are everywhere so precipitous on the one side, that it is impossible to avoid feeling dizzy at the thought of being upset. And such misadventures do happen at times.
We are now in the Canton Valais. At one point of the road we met a procession of monks, together with men and women, who were murmuring prayers to the ringing of bells, dressed in white, and on their way to some shrine of the Virgin in the neighborhood, to pray for rain. The procession came from villages in the mountains where the drought was fearful, and harvests burned up in consequence.
As far as Cautine du Praz, the road is passable for
