Edward L. Pierce, Memoir and letters of Charles Sumner: volume 2

[123] postilion winds his horn, and the heavy portals are swung open, it seems like a vision of romance. Nor is it less exciting in earlier evening, when the shops and streets are bright with light, and people throng the streets, to dash along. All the next day we rode, and the next night, stopping one half-hour only for dinner. We passed through Padua, Verona, Brescia, Bergamo; and at nine o'clock on the morning after the second night, entered Milan. This is a great place for encountering friends, it is such a thoroughfare. I had just entered the room which contains Leonardo's ‘Last Supper,’—a painting truly divine,—when I heard a voice, ‘There is Sumner!’ I turned, and saw Sir Charles Vaughan. He is on his way to Rome. A friend here, who is travelling alone, à laBeckford, in his own carriage, urged me to take a place with him to Munich,—a distance of nearly five hundred miles. This luxury of travel, faring richly and easily, I at once declined,— ‘Dashed down yon cup of Samian wine,’— wishing to lose no opportunity of seeing the people and talking the language; and at once inscribed myself again for the malle-posteby the passage of the Stelvio to Innsbruck. Started Sunday morning at eleven o'clock, and arrived at Innsbruck Wednesday morning at ten; sleeping out of the carriage but three and a half hours during those three days and three nights. The pass over the Alps is magnificent, dwarfing infinitely any thing I have ever seen among the mountains of New Hampshire or Vermont. It is the highest road in Europe, being eight thousand nine hundred feet above the level of the sea, in the region of perpetual snow, and amidst flashing glaciers. We stopped for a little sleep at twelve o'clock at night, at Santa Maria, a thousand feet below the summit. It was the sixth of October: we had left the plains of Italy warm with sunshine; here was sharp winter. The house was provided with double windows; my bed had warm clothing, to which I added my heavy cloak;¹ and yet I was bitter cold, and before daylight was glad to stir my blood by ascending on foot. The sun was just gilding the highest snow-peaks when we reached the summit, and crossed the boundary-line of Italy. The villages of the Tyrol were beautiful. There was a fair Tyrolese who invited me, through an interpreter, to waltz while some wandering Hungarians played. After one day at Innsbruck, left for Munich,—a day and a night. In the malle-postefound a very pleasant Englishman, quite a linguist, an ancient friend of Cleveland. At the table d'hotehere encountered our Mrs.——, of Boston. She is toute Francaisein her dress and manners, and affects continental ways and usages, particularly in her coiffure.She speaks French with great facility and even grace, though I have heard her trip on her genders. She appears at the table d'hotein the dress of a dinner-party, making a great contrast with the simple costume of the English here. Disraeli and his wife (whom he has taken with five thousand pounds a year) were here. Mrs.——said to Disraeli (the conversation had grown out of ‘Vivian Grey’): ‘There is a great deal written in the garrets of London.’ Putting his hand on his heart, Disraeli said: ‘I assure you, “Vivian Grey” was not written in a garret.’