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 



