Bellinzona about nine in the morning, and over a road much impaired by the rain as far as Giornico. Here the road became so bad, that the horses did little else than walk, the alternative being a stand-still. At last, at Faido, a man opened the door, and, with a perfectly uninterested air, gave us some, we did not know what, information, and then joined a group of silent staring idlers like himself. We paid no attention for some time, till it struck us they were long in changing horses. We then learned that the road towards Airolo was utterly broken up and carried away; and if the rain ceased, and the torrents consented to shrink au plus vite, the road could not be restored in much less than a month. After long consultations—we were seven: an Italian of Genoa, in bright blue trousers; an Uri grazier, about seven feet high; P, myself, two other passengers, and the mail-guard—the two nameless travellers and myself were for sleeping where we were, and off in the morning. The guard said he must be off if he could get a guide. There was found to be a track, avoiding the Dazio Grande, over the mountains; but only one guide could be found who had ever gone the road, and he only once, in the great floods of 1834.
“Well, after dining, we started off. I was lame, but P promised he would stick by me; it still rained boa-constrictors, its constant practice of an
