AS DESPATCH-BEARER IN WAR-TIME -1855 481 



After staying a few weeks at the French capital, I left 

 for a short tour in Switzerland. The only occurrence on 

 this journey possibly worthy of note was at the hospice 

 of the Great St. Bernard. On a day early in September I 

 had walked over the Tete Noire with two long-legged 

 Englishmen, and had so tired myself that the next morn 

 ing I was too late to catch the diligence from Martigny; 

 so that, on awaking toward noon, there was nothing left 

 for me but to walk, and I started on that rather toilsome 

 journey alone. After plodding upward some miles along 

 the road toward the hospice, I was very weary indeed, but 

 felt that it would be dangerous to rest, since the banks of 

 snow on both sides of the road would be sure to give me 

 a deadly chill; and I therefore kept steadily on. Pres 

 ently I overtook a small party, apparently English, also 

 going up the pass; and, at some distance in advance of 

 them, alone, a large woman with a very striking and even 

 masculine face. I had certainly seen the face before, but 

 where I could not imagine. Arriving finally at the hos 

 pice, very tired, we were, after some waiting, invited out 

 to a good dinner by the two fathers deputed for the 

 purpose; and there, among the guests, I again saw the 

 lady, and was again puzzled to know where I had pre 

 viously seen her. As the dinner went on the two monks 

 gave accounts of life at the hospice, rescues from ava 

 lanches, and the like, and various questions were asked; 

 but the unknown lady sat perfectly still, uttering not a 

 word, until suddenly, just at the close of the dinner, she 

 put a question across the table to one of the fathers. It 

 came almost like a peal of thunder deep, strong, rolling 

 through the room, startling all of us, and fairly taking the 

 breath away from the good monk to whom it was ad 

 dressed ; but he presently rallied, and in a rather faltering 

 tone made answer. That was all. But on this I at once 

 recognized her : it was Fanny Kemble Butler, whom, years 

 before, I had heard interpreting Shakspere. 



Whether this episode had anything to do with it or not, 

 I soon found myself in rather a bad way. The fatigues of 



I.-31 



