Chapter XXIV: “celui-La Fait Le Crime a Qui Le Crime Sert.” (2)

It is not every one who will care to compete with these gentlemen in making lofty ascents; and it is not probable that they had any merely ambitious motives in undertaking to soar so high. Mr. Glaisher’s enthusiasm for and interest in science are perfectly genuine; and his results, which are of course only hinted at in these popular accounts which he gives of his excursions, are very valuable. It is not likely that any one else could have accomplished so much as he did. Still, though they were not led on by ambition, their achievement on the occasion just mentioned is one which must discourage others who may be; for it would be very difficult and dangerous to attempt to do purposely what they did only as it were accidentally, and which they would not have done had they known its peril. There are, it is true, some remarkable effects, such as the blackening of the sky (as well as of the hands of the aeronauts), which cannot be so well attained at lower altitudes; but still, substantially the same can be enjoyed at heights of four or five miles, and really the most beautiful ones are presented as soon as we rise above the clouds. The effect seems to us, judging from the illustrations, to be especially magical when the canopy (or carpet, as it may more properly be called from our new point of view) is complete, so as to reach to the horizon, and shut out all view or idea of the earth completely. Many of the pictures illustrate this well. One would seem to lose all sense of height or of being in a dangerous position; the quiet sea of clouds beneath can never seem very distant, owing to the impossibility of judging of the real dimensions of its rolling waves; and these waves seem, by their apparent solidity yet softness, almost to invite a fall. And one seems to be entirely in a new state of existence; the change is more complete than could be obtained by travelling to the other side of the globe; and yet it can be realized in the space of five or ten minutes on any ordinary cloudy day. There above, with the dark-blue sky overhead, with the glorious bright sun in it lighting up the masses of white vapor below, far from all the dust, noise, and confusion of the lower sphere, what an exhilaration must the aeronaut feel, if indeed his eye is not entirely employed on the divisions of his barometer and the pages of his note-book! The idea of such a vision is almost enough to make one’s enthusiasm for ballooning equal that of M. de Fonvielle, who, however, was willing to put up even with lower elevations; for he says that in his younger days he “was ready to be shut up in a sky-rocket, provided that its projectile power were carefully calculated, and that it were provided with a parachute”! If the sky-rocket could only be sent above the clouds--but, on the whole, one would probably be calmer, enjoy the view more thoroughly, and take in 761 its various features better, in the car of our present beautiful and majestic, though somewhat unmanageable, vehicle.

And yet in all respects the balloon is not unmanageable. Its rise and fall can be regulated with great exactness; and by means of the pretty invention of the guide-rope, due to the celebrated English aeronaut, Mr. Green, its final fall to the earth, if a violent wind is not blowing, can be made very easy. This rope hangs down three or four hundred feet below the car, and as it touches the ground, and then coils up upon it, the weight and the descending power of the balloon are continually and gradually lessened. And by parting with gas or ballast, the ascent and descent can always be most carefully adjusted; so much so, indeed, that one has to be somewhat careful. Once M. Tissandier, on making a second ascent with no more ascending power at his disposal, was obliged to regret that he had not gone without his breakfast; the least little alteration of weight affects the equilibrium so much that the loss of a chicken-bone which he thoughtlessly once threw out, he says, “certainly caused us to rise from twenty to thirty yards.” One can certainly rise or fall without much difficulty; the only danger is that too much gas may escape after the ballast is exhausted, or when there is only a small supply on hand, and that the descent may be too rapid. Mr. Glaisher twice at least came down so hard as to break nearly all his instruments; but once this was in a manner intentional, for the wind had been drifting him out toward the sea, and on discovering through an opening in the clouds that it was almost directly under him, he had only the alternative of coming down with a rush or being drowned. On another occasion, M. de Fonvielle descended with a party in the _Giant_ balloon in a rapid and inevitable manner, owing to the escape of gas; but records, besides the breaking of the instruments, only that “one of the travellers had his face covered with blood, another was wounded by a thermometer, and a third complained of a pain in his leg.” One curious danger there is, however, about even a quiet descent which is worth noticing. The last-named gentleman had just made a very successful excursion without an aeronaut; and, on coming down, his grapnel had caught in a tree near the edge of a forest. The sequel shall be in his own words:

“At this moment, I was deceived by an optical illusion which
might have had dangerous results, and I call the attention of my
readers to it in case they may ever be tempted to undertake the
management of an aerostat. Let them never get out of the car till
it is fairly landed upon the soil. Let them be perfectly sure
that no solution of continuity exists between the car and the
earth before they think of stepping out of it, for their eyes,
accustomed to the immense proportions of things above the clouds,
have lost their power of appreciating dimensions. Objects appear
so small on the earth’s surface during a descent that great trees
look like mere blades of grass. At this moment I believed we had
descended upon heath bushes, and we were at the top of the high
trees. I had actually got one leg out of the car, and was
preparing to leap down!”

If a strong wind is blowing, it is not so easy to descend. The horizontal motion of the balloon is beyond the control of gas or ballast. MM. de Fonvielle and Tissandier set out once in a high wind; they came down on a plain, were dragged across it, and over the tops of some trees, which broke and crashed as they passed; again they rushed over some ploughed ground, where they were finally rescued by 762 some peasants. What was their velocity during this remarkable trip? On consulting maps and watches, they found they had come forty-eight miles from Paris in thirty-five minutes, or the rate of eighty miles an hour; in the air, however, they probably travelled faster, and in the last five minutes of “dragging” not so fast.

But “dragging” is not the worst thing that can happen when there is a high wind. Let aeronauts beware how they attempt to anchor in such circumstances before coming tolerably near to the ground. The grapnel was once let out at the height of about sixty yards when they were skimming along with great velocity, and at first took no hold, but finally caught in the edge of a small pond. The wind, however, took revenge on the balloon, which now suddenly refused to obey its impulse:

“I was busily engaged,” says M. Tissandier, “in stowing away the
loose bottles, that might have injured us seriously in case of
bumping, when I heard a sharp cracking sound, and Duruof [their
pilot] immediately cried out, ‘_The balloon has burst!_’ It was
too true; the _Neptune’s_ side was torn open, and transformed
suddenly into a bundle of shreds, flattening down upon the
opposite half. Its appearance was now that of a disc surrounded
with a fringe. We came to the ground immediately. The shock was
awful. Duruof disappeared, I leaped into the hoop, which at that
instant fell upon me, together with the remains of the balloon
and all the contents of the car. All was darkness; I felt myself
rolled along the ground, and wondered if I had lost my sight, or
if we were buried in some hole or cavern. An instant of quiet
ensued, and then the loud voice of Duruof was heard exclaiming:
‘Now come from under there, you fellows!’ We hastened to obey the
voice of the commander, and found that the car had turned over
upon us, and shut us up like mice in a trap!”

What next? They had fallen from a height of about two hundred feet, and yet were not much bruised: but the very wind that had caused their disaster helped them out of it; in fact, their balloon was transformed into a kind of gigantic kite, and let them down pretty easily.

But let us get up above the clouds again. That is the place really to enjoy life. Once there, one hardly thinks about coming down or its difficulties; the earth is out of sight, and almost out of mind. We are sailing along, perhaps at a quicker rate than that of an express train; but the motion is as imperceptible as that immensely more rapid one of the magnificent planetary projectile on which we are whirling through space. For the clouds are moving with us, and, though they are breaking up and changing their forms, we cannot see that they move as a mass. Occasionally, through a break, we may see the earth, or be saluted from it, as M. Flammarion once was to his great surprise, by cries of “A balloon! a balloon!” when he was quite unaware of there being any hole through which the balloon could be seen. Sounds, by the way, will go up much better than they will come down; the reason of this is the lesser density of the air above. Of course we feel no wind, for the wind is taking us with it: so that even the cold at any ordinary height and at any season usual for ballooning is not troublesome. Sometimes, indeed, it is warmer aloft than below; on the occasion of the eighty-mile-per-hour voyage, just mentioned, the thermometer was actually at eighty-two degrees at the height of a little over half a mile, while below it stood at fifty-five. The balloon is as steady as the Rock of Gibraltar; M. Flammarion assures us that he once filled a tumbler with water till it was brimming over, so that not another drop could be added; but not a drop was spilled 763 by the movement of their vehicle, though it was travelling with the speed of a locomotive, and alternately rising and falling to the extent of several hundred yards.

His account of a journey from Paris into Prussia, made in a beautiful moonlight summer night, gives a most delightful idea of this most agreeable of all modes of travelling. They left Paris about two hours before sunset, and had a fine afternoon sail. The weather was cloudy, and rain came on at half-past nine; but what of that? One is quite superior to rain in a balloon, or, if not, may easily become so. They throw out a little ballast, and rise above the rain-cloud. The cloud soon breaks away, finding that it cannot embarrass their movements, and the country beneath becomes visible. They see a bright light in a house, and hear the sound of dance music played by an orchestra. It is a ball. They cross the frontier at Rocroi. The lines of its fortifications are dimly seen in the moonlight. No examination of passports or luggage for them. (On another excursion, however, we are told, when they were sailing along near the ground, two gendarmes rode up in hot haste, calling out, “_Vos passe-ports, messieurs!_” but were dismissed with a polite request to step up and verify them, accompanied by a shower of ballast.) The moon comes out brightly as they enter Belgium. They sail over the Meuse, and M. Flammarion greets enthusiastically the home of his youth:

“Beautiful river, I welcome thee! Near thy banks, on the old
mountain which overlooks thy fertile plain, I was born. Little
did I think, whilst playing some childish game within sound of
the murmur of thy ripple, that I should some day cross over thy
stream suspended to this light, aerial globe! Thy peaceful waters
flow towards the Rhine and the North Sea, into which they fall,
and are lost for ever. Thus is it with our own brief existence,
flowing towards the regions of cold and mystery, to vanish some
day in that unknown ocean into which we must all descend.”

Certainly, it is a pity that he takes such a gloomy view of life.

The pilot, M. Godard, rouses him from his reverie.

“See, _mon ami_, how beautiful this is! Do not dream of days gone
by. Are not those the lights of Namur, some six or eight leagues
distant? And see, there is Huy, and beyond it again Liège! Here
we are right over Belgium, and we may cross a corner of Holland,
perhaps, before we enter Prussia!”

The Belgian blast-furnaces soon light up the landscape beneath them, and the noises of the workshops, mingled with the deep sound of the river, rise to their ears.

The dawn begins to break. In fact, through the whole night a faint gleam of twilight has been seen in the north; but now it begins to take effect on the clouds and air around them. The light increases.

“Although the air above is more or less veiled by light mists, we
can distinguish the country before three o’clock as clearly as at
mid-day. Our course follows the edge of some considerable forests
situated on our right hand. These plains (are they plains?) have
a very different aspect from those on French territory. In place
of the regular patches of fields which lie upon the surface in
parallel lines, the country here is composed of fields of every
size and form, like the various provinces on a colored map; most
of which are surrounded by hedges as they are in England.”

They are wafted along into Prussia. On the right, Luxemburg and Trèves are visible; on the left, Holland, even to the shore of the North Sea.

“The Rhine flows along with its silver ripple in the distance.... 764
All nature is silent, save from time to time the timid chirping
of some little bird; when, suddenly, a vast golden streak of
light breaks forth from the east, and caresses the highest clouds
of the atmosphere, clothing them in rosy and golden tints.”

The illustration representing this sunrise is magnificent, as the sight must have been in the highest degree. What could be more inspiring than to be borne along amid the glorious clouds of morning toward the rising sun--the cheering influence of whose beams the balloon itself seems to feel, as, dried and expanded by their heat, it rises proudly into the sky--with the Rhine glistening before us, and the green plains and forests of Germany inviting us to continue our voyage?

They hear the sound of church-bells, and, soon after, that of cannon.

“From minute to minute the voice of this gracious apparatus of
civilization and progress growled among the clouds. It was the
artillery of Mülheim preparing itself for the next war.

“The ancient city of Cologne forms beneath us a regular
semicircle soldered to the left bank of the Rhine. Unless one
examined it attentively, it might be taken for a moderate-sized
snail sticking to the thin branch of a tree.”

Poor M. Flammarion thought he was going to enjoy his sail some time longer, perhaps all day. But his inexorable aeronaut thought differently. There was very little ballast and no breakfast; it was probable that the wind would rise, and that they would come to grief. His word was law; so the valve-rope was pulled, the French flag run up, and down they came at Solingen, near Düsseldorf, 330 miles from Paris, which distance had been accomplished in twelve hours and a half. The good-natured Germans rushed up to help them; the greatest difficulty was to prevent them from smoking near the balloon.

This journey is a fair example of what balloon travelling may be in skilful hands. Of course it has its disadvantages. The principal one is obvious; that you can only go just where the wind will take you; but there is an advantage corresponding to this in the quietness and steadiness of the motion, and it is not at all improbable that, with the rapid advances which are being made continually in the science of meteorology, the laws of winds will be ascertained sufficiently to enable the aeronaut to find one which will carry him in the general direction in which he wants to go, on most occasions, by choosing a proper elevation. Certainly this can often be done, as in the case of M. Tissandier’s trip from Calais over the German Ocean. A lower breeze brought them back to land. The difficulty remaining is that of changing our elevation. On the present system, this requires a loss of gas or ballast, which cannot be kept up indefinitely. An ingenious plan has been proposed by Gen. Meusnier--to have a double balloon, one outside the other: the inner one is filled with gas, the space between the two with air; into the outer one more air is forced by an air-pump when we wish to descend, and allowed to escape when we wish to rise. The compressed air is itself heavier than the air surrounding, and the compressed gas in the inner balloon is also less buoyant than before. This is applying the principle of the bladder of the fish to aerostatics. The _Giant_ was constructed on this plan, but it does not appear that the practicability of using it in this way was ever tested.

“Still, notwithstanding the great utility and advantages of the balloon pure and simple, we certainly shall never be able to lay out our 765 course with it with all the accuracy that could be desired, and it is probable that we shall never be able to bring it down precisely at the point we wish to reach. To accomplish this, we must have something that will go against the wind; we must have something which takes hold on the air; we must, in short, be able to fly. It should be noticed, however, that a flying machine, when invented, will not necessarily supersede the balloon; it will have its advantages, and the balloon will have its own; probably, for mere pleasure travelling, the latter will always be preferable, or certainly would be except for the inconveniences attending its landing, especially when the wind is high.

It may be said, perhaps, as above, “a flying machine, when invented”; for it really seems as if some practical invention of this kind must before long be realized. It can hardly be doubted that the bird must be the model, to some extent, of its construction; and it would seem to be worth while to take instantaneous photographs of birds in flight, in order to discover what really are the positions which the wing successively assumes. The photographs of this kind, of men walking, which have been taken, told us a great deal which we did not know before about a movement which seems so very familiar and easy. It seems probable, with regard to flying, as M. Flammarion intimates, that the impulse is a very sudden one, at least during a part of the stroke; so that the thin resisting medium has, as it were, a certain kind of solidity and firmness.

Various machines for flying have been made, and a tolerable success attained. One is lately reported in Philadelphia. There seems to be no impossibility in taking up enough force, at least by the aid of balloon power, to give a considerable velocity in a calm to our air-ship; but it may as yet be doubted whether it would be able to contend against the ordinary velocity which winds have even a short distance above the surface of the earth. In Mr. Glaisher’s ascents, the wind was blowing, on the average, four times as fast above as below. This could generally be avoided by keeping near the ground.

But after all, what aspiring man really longs for is not to have a flying machine to carry him, but to have his own wings, and some power strong enough to move them. With the motive powers known at present, this seems to be beyond our reach; but who knows? Heat and motion are now understood to be convertible, and perhaps the sun’s rays may yet be found powerful enough to raise us into the air. But then--look out for clouds. The sun melted the wings of Icarus; the shade would melt ours.

Flying may yet be realized; and it is well enough to look forward to what may be in store in the future; but let us also not undervalue what we already have. The beauty of the form of the balloon necessarily implies a certain perfection in it, as the majesty of a full-rigged line-of-battle ship clearly shows a perfection which no actual results gained by cheese-box Monitors can ever gainsay. Our present air-ship is a noble product of human genius, and its resources are by no means yet exhausted.

Even a captive balloon is not a bad affair, and may be used for travelling purposes, though it may seem a contradiction to say so. A “captive” is simply one which is fastened by a rope so that it cannot ascend above a certain height. If fastened to a fixed object, it serves only as a means to take people up for a view or to make 766 scientific observations: but if attached to a moving body, it is a very pleasant vehicle to ride in, or could easily be made so. Our French aeronauts were once pulled in this way through the streets of a town, and at another time were towed for some distance at the height of five hundred feet by a number of their excitable countrymen. But it must be acknowledged that on the whole a captive is not so pleasant to ride in as a free balloon. Besides the feeling of exultation accompanying a free ascent, it also has the advantage of being really a great deal more comfortable. The captive, being restrained by the rope, feels the full force of whatever wind there is, and is moreover apt to be tipped over considerably when the breeze is strong. Nevertheless, going up in one is a tolerably popular amusement when the opportunity is offered, though hardly enough so to make it profitable for the proprietors. This is one of the miserable difficulties about the pursuit of science, that experiments cost something, and often it is very troublesome to raise the necessary funds. Free ascensions have, however, been common enough for a good deal more to have been accomplished in the way of experiment and observation than has usually been the case, and Mr. Glaisher’s example deserves to be generally followed. The balloon itself may do a good deal towards the investigation of the laws of the atmospheric currents, the knowledge of which would be so useful for its own guidance, as well as in answering questions concerning storms and climate. Mr. Glaisher, on January 12, 1864, met with a warm current of air from the southwest, more than half a mile in depth; and he considers that this may, perhaps, be an aerial Gulf Stream, and increase the warming effect which that celebrated current no doubt produces on the western and northern coasts of Europe.

But we must not dwell longer on his scientific results, or those of his friends on the other side of the Channel. In fact, it is time that we should come down from the clouds, and occupy ourselves with the affairs of this base and grovelling lower world. We should like to do it gradually, but, as is the case with the balloon itself, our descent must needs be accompanied by something of a shock. It is with difficulty that we can persuade ourselves to quit, even in imagination, those magnificent regions so near to us and yet practically so far away; which all of us could see even now in ten minutes if our balloon was ready--would that it were!--and which, if the art of flying progresses with due rapidity, we may yet see some time before we die.

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THE LEPER OF THE CITY OF AOSTA. 767

BY THE COUNT XAVIER DE MAISTRE.

“_Le Lépreux de la cité d’Aosta_ est une larme, mais une larme qui coule toujours!”--LAMARTINE.

“Ah! little think the gay, licentious proud
Whom pleasure, power, and affluence surround:--
Ah! little think they, while they dance along,
How many pine!--how many drink the cup
Of baleful grief!--how many shake
With all the fiercer tortures of the mind!”--THOMSON.

The southern part of the city of Aosta is now nearly deserted, and appears to have been never very thickly peopled. Cultivated fields and meadows may be seen, hedged in on one side by the ancient bulwarks which the Romans raised as a wall, and on the other by garden fences. This solitary spot, however, affords wherewithal to interest the traveller. Near the gate of the city are the ruins of an old castle, in which, if popular tradition is to be relied on, Count René de Chalans, infuriated by jealousy, left his wife, the Princess Marie de Braganza, to die of hunger, in the fifteenth century. Hence the name of _Bramafan_, which signifies the _cry of hunger_, given to this castle by the people around. This tradition, which may be disputed, gives an interest to the ruins in the eyes of people of sensibility.

A hundred steps further on is a square tower, built of the marble that once covered the antique walls beside it. It is called the Hold of Terror, because it is commonly believed to be haunted. The ancient dames of Aosta can still remember seeing a tall woman robed in white, with a lamp in her hand, issue from the tower on dark nights.

About fifteen years ago, this tower was repaired by the order of the government, and surrounded by an enclosure, for the purpose of lodging a leper, through fear of contagion if left at large, and at the same time affording him every comfort his sad condition allowed. The Hospital of St. Maurice was ordered to supply his wants. It furnished him with some articles of furniture and the implements for cultivating a garden. Here he lived for a long time, left completely to himself, and never seeing any one, except the priest who came from time to time to administer the consolations of religion, and the man who, every week, brought him his provisions from the hospital.

During the war in the Alps in the year 1797, a soldier, who was in the city of Aosta, happened to pass by the leper’s garden. The gate was ajar, and he had the curiosity to enter. He saw a man in a simple garb, leaning against a tree, as if lost in profound meditation. At the sound of the officer’s steps, the recluse, without turning around or looking up, cried in a sad tone: “Who is there? and what do you wish?”

“Excuse a stranger,” replied the soldier, “whom the attractive appearance of your garden has induced to commit an indiscretion, but who by no means wishes to disturb you.” 768

“Do not come any nearer,” replied the inmate of the tower, motioning him back with his hand. “Come no nearer: you are in the presence of an unfortunate being afflicted with leprosy.”

“Whatever may be your misfortune,” replied the traveller, “I shall not go away. I have never shunned the unfortunate. But, if my presence annoys you, I am ready to withdraw.”

“You are welcome,” replied the leper, suddenly turning around. “Remain, if you have the courage after looking at me.”

The officer remained for some time motionless with astonishment at the frightful aspect of the unfortunate man so completely disfigured by leprosy.

“I willingly remain,” said he, “if you will accept the visit of a man led here by chance, but detained by a lively interest.”

“Interest!--I have never excited anything but pity.”

“I should be happy to offer you any consolation.”

“It is a great one to behold a human face and hear the sound of a human voice, for every one flies from me.”

“Allow me, then, to converse with you awhile and to visit your house.”

“Very willingly, if it can afford you any pleasure.” Saying which, the leper put on a large felt hat, the flattened brim of which covered his face. “Go to the south,” added he. “The few flowers I cultivate may please you. There are some rather rare. I have procured the seeds of every kind that grow among the Alps, and try to make them grow double and more beautiful by cultivation.”

“You have flowers which are indeed entirely new to me.”

“Look at this little rose-bush. It is a rose without thorns, which only grows on the higher Alps, but it is already losing its peculiarity, and putting forth thorns in proportion to its cultivation and growth.”

“It should be considered the emblem of ingratitude.”

“If any of these flowers please you, you can take them without any fear: you will incur no danger by gathering them. I sowed the seed. I take pleasure in watering them and looking at them, but I never touch them.”

“Why not?”

“I fear I might infect them, and should no longer dare give them to any one.”

“For whom do you raise them?”

“The people who bring me food from the hospital are not afraid to gather them. And sometimes children from the city stop before my garden-gate. I immediately ascend the tower, for fear of frightening or infecting them. They look up as they go away, and say with a smile: ‘Good-by, Leper,’ and that gives me a little pleasure.”

“You have succeeded in collecting quite a variety of plants; and you have vines yonder, and several kinds of fruit-trees.”

“The trees are still young. I set them out myself, as well as that grape-vine, which I have trained to the top of the old wall, you see: it is thick enough for me to walk on, and is my favorite resort.--Go up on these stones. I am the architect of this staircase. Hold on to the wall.”

“A charming nook! the very place for a hermit to meditate in!”

“It suits me, too. I can see the country around, the laborers in the fields, and all that is going on in the meadow, and no one can see me.” 769

“It is a delightfully quiet and secluded place. You are in the city, and yet might fancy yourself in a desert.”

“Forests and cliffs are not the only resorts of the solitary. The unfortunate are alone everywhere.”

“What succession of events brought you to this retreat? Are you a native of this country?”

“I was born on the sea-coast in the principality of Oneglia, and have only lived here fifteen years. As to my history, it is only one long succession of calamities.”

“Have you always lived alone?”

“I lost my parents in my infancy, and do not remember them. I had one sister who died two years ago. I never had a friend.”

“Poor man!”

“It was the will of God.”

“What is your name, pray?”

“Ah! my name is a terrible one! I call myself _The Leper_! No one in the wide world knows the name I derived from my family, or that which I received on the day of my baptism. I am _The Leper_, and this is the only title I have to human kindness. May it remain for ever unknown who I am!”

“Did the sister you lost live with you?”

“She remained five years with me in my present habitation. As unfortunate as I, she participated in my sorrows, and I endeavored to alleviate hers.”

“How do you employ yourself in such utter solitude?”

“The details of my lonely life would only be very monotonous to a man of the world who seeks happiness in the activity of social life.”

“Ah! you little know the world--it has never made me happy. I am often solitary from choice, and there may be more similarity in our ideas than you suppose. And yet, I acknowledge, perpetual solitude frightens me. I can hardly conceive it endurable.”

“‘The cell continually dwelt in groweth sweet,’ says _The Following of Christ_. I am beginning to realize the truth of these consoling words. Loneliness is also relieved by labor. A laborious man is never absolutely unhappy, as I know by experience. During the pleasant season, the cultivation of my flowers and vegetables is a sufficient occupation. In the winter I make baskets and mats. I try to make my clothes. I daily prepare my own food from the supplies brought me from the hospital, and prayer fills up the vacant hours. Thus the year passes, and, when gone, it seems short.”

“I should think it would seem a century.”

“Affliction and sorrow make the hours appear long, but the years always fly with the same rapidity. Besides, there is one enjoyment left in the lowest depths of misfortune which but few can understand, and may seem strange to you--that of living and breathing. In warm weather, I pass whole days motionless on the ramparts, enjoying the air and the beauties of nature: my thoughts are vague and fluctuating; sadness dwells in my heart without oppressing it; my eyes wander around the country, and linger on the rocks that surround us; all these objects are so imprinted on my memory that they form, as it were, a part of myself: each site is a friend I greet with pleasure every day.”

“I have often experienced something of this kind. When trouble depresses me, and I do not find in the hearts of others what my own craves, the aspect of nature and inanimate objects consoles me. I become attached to the very rocks and trees, and it seems to me that 770 all created things are friends whom God has given me.”

“You encourage me to explain, in my turn, what passes within me. I have a genuine affection for the objects that are, so to speak, my daily companions, and every night, before going to my tower, I come here to take leave of the glaciers of Ruitorts, the dense woods of Mont St. Bernard, and the fantastic peaks that overlook the valley of the Rhine. Though the power of God is as evident in the creation of an ant as in that of the whole universe, the grand spectacle of yonder mountains fills me with greater awe. I cannot look at those lofty elevations, covered with eternal glaciers, without being filled with solemn wonder. But in the vast landscape spread out before me, I have favorite views to which I turn with special pleasure. Among these is the hermitage you see yonder on the top of Mount Charvensod. Alone in the woods, near a deserted pasture, it catches the last rays of the setting sun. Though I have never been there, I feel a peculiar pleasure in looking at it. When the daylight is fading away, seated in my garden, I turn my eyes toward that lonely hermitage, to seek rest for my imagination. I have learned to look upon it as a kind of property. It seems as if I had some confused reminiscence of once living there in happier days which I cannot fully recall. I love especially to gaze at the distant mountains, which look like a cloud on the horizon. Distance, like the future, inspires me with hope. My overburdened heart imagines there may be a far-off land where, at some future time, I may at length taste the happiness for which I sigh, and which a secret instinct is constantly assuring me is possible.”

“With such an ardent soul as yours, you must have passed through many struggles in resigning yourself to your lot, instead of yielding to despair.”

“I should deceive you in allowing you to think I have always been resigned to my lot. I have not attained that self-abnegation to which some anchorites have arrived. The entire sacrifice of all human affection has not yet been accomplished. My life has been one continual combat, and the powerful influences of religion itself are not always able to repress the flights of my imagination. It often draws me, in spite of myself, into a whirlpool of vain desires, which tend toward a world I have no knowledge of, but strange visions of which are ever present to torment me.”

“If you could read my soul and learn my opinion of the world, all your desires and your regrets would instantly vanish.”

“Books have vainly taught me the perversity of mankind, and the misfortunes inseparable from humanity: my heart refuses to believe them. I am continually representing to myself circles of sincere and virtuous friends; suitable marriages full of the happiness resulting from health, youth, and fortune. I imagine them wandering together through groves greener and fresher than the trees above me, with a sun more dazzling than that which brightens my world, and their lot seems worthy of envy in proportion to the misery of mine. At the beginning of spring, when the wind from Piedmont blows through our valley, I feel its vivifying warmth penetrating me, and a thrill passes over me in spite of myself. I have an inexplicable desire, and a confused notion of a boundless happiness that I am capable of enjoying, but which is denied me. Then I fly from my cell, and wander in the fields, that I may breathe more freely. I avoid the very sight of the men whom 771 my heart longs to embrace, and from the top of the hill, concealed among the bushes like a wild beast, I gaze towards the city of Aosta. With envious eyes I see afar off its happy inhabitants, to whom I am scarcely known. I stretch forth my hands towards them, and, with groans, ask for my share of happiness. In my agony--shall I acknowledge it?--I have sometimes thrown my arms around the trees of the forest, imploring Almighty God to infuse life into them that I may have a friend! But the trees make no response, their coldness repels me, they have nothing in common with my throbbing heart, which is aflame. Overcome by fatigue, weary of life, I drag myself back again to my asylum, I lay my torments before God, and prayer restores somewhat of calmness to my soul.”

“So, poor, unfortunate man, you suffer at once all the ills of soul and body?”

“The latter are not the most severe!”

“Then you are sometimes freed from them?”

“Every month they increase and diminish with the moon. I generally suffer most at its first appearance. My disease then abates and seems to change its symptoms: my skin grows dry and white, and I feel nearly well. But my malady would be endurable but for the terrible wakefulness it produces.”

“What! does even sleep abandon you?”

“Ah! sir, the sleepless, sleepless nights! You have no idea how long and sad they are when I cannot get a moment’s sleep, and my mind dwells on my frightful situation--with no hope for the future. No! no one could realize it. My restlessness increases as the night advances, and, when nearly at an end, my nervousness is almost unendurable: my mind is confused. I experience an extraordinary sensation that never comes over me but at such sad moments. Sometimes it seems as if an irresistible power was drawing me down into a bottomless gulf: sometimes I see black clouds before my eyes, but while I am examining them they cross each other with the quickness of lightning, they grow larger as they approach, and then look like mountains ready to overwhelm me with their weight. At other times, I behold clouds issuing from the earth beneath me like swelling waves, which rise one above the other and threaten to engulf me; and, when I wish to rise in order to throw off these sensations, I feel chained down by some invisible force that renders me powerless. You will perhaps think these are dreams; but you are mistaken. I am really awake. I see all this again and again, and with a sensation of horror that surpasses all my other sufferings.”

“It is possible you are feverish during these long, sleepless nights, and this, perhaps, causes a kind of delirium.”

“You think this may be the result of fever? Ah! I wish it might be true. Until now I have feared these visions were symptoms of madness, and I acknowledge this greatly worried me. Would to God they were the effects of fever!”

“Your case inspires me with a lively interest. I acknowledge that I had never imagined anything like your situation. I suppose, however, it was less sad when your sister was living.”

“God alone knows what a loss her death was to me. But are you not afraid to come so near me? Sit down there on that rock, and I will conceal myself beneath the vines, so we can talk without seeing each 772 other.”

“Why so? No, you shall not leave me. Come nearer.” In saying these words the traveller involuntarily put out his hand to take the Leper’s, but the latter hastily withdrew his.

“Imprudent man! You were going to take hold of my hand!”

“Well, I would have pressed it heartily.”

“It would have been the first time such a happiness was granted me: my hand was never pressed by any one.”

“What! Have you never formed any ties, except the sister of whom you have spoken--never been loved by any of your own condition?”

“Happily for the human race, there is not another in my condition on the earth.”

“You make me shudder.”

“Pardon me, compassionate stranger! You know the unhappy love to speak of their misfortunes.”

“Go on, go on: you interest me. You said your sister lived with you, and aided you in bearing your sufferings.”

“She was the only tie that bound me to the rest of mankind! It pleased God to break it, and thus leave me isolated and alone in the midst of the world. Her soul was ripe for the heaven where she now is, and her example sustained me under the discouragement which has often overwhelmed me since her death. But we did not live in that delightful intimacy which I so often imagine, and which should bind together the unfortunate. The nature of our disease deprived us of this consolation. When we came together to pray, we avoided looking at one another, for fear the sad spectacle might disturb our meditations: our souls alone were united before God. After prayer, my sister generally retired to her cell or beneath the nut-trees at the end of the garden, and we lived almost constantly apart.”

“But why did you impose so cruel a restraint upon yourselves?”

“When my sister was attacked with the contagious disease to which all our family were victims, and came to share my asylum, we had never seen one another. Her fright was extreme when she beheld me for the first time. The fear of afflicting her, and still more of increasing her malady by approaching her, made me resolve on this sad kind of a life. The leprosy had only attacked her breast, and I had still some hopes of her being cured. You see the remains of a neglected trellis: it was then covered with a hop-vine that I trained with care, and divided the garden into two parts. On each side of this, I made a little path where we could walk and converse together without seeing or coming too near each other.”

“It would almost seem as if heaven wished to embitter the sad pleasures it still left you.”

“But at least I was not then alone. My sister’s presence gave some cheerfulness to my asylum. I could hear the sounds of her steps. When I returned, at dawn, to pray beneath these trees, the door of the tower would softly open, and my sister’s voice would imperceptibly mingle with mine. In the evening, when I watered my garden, she sometimes walked here at sunset, in the same place where we now are, and I could see her shadow pass and repass over my flowers. Even when I did not see her, there were everywhere traces of her presence. Sometimes it was only a withered flower in the path, or some branch of a shrub she had dropped, but now I am alone, there is neither movement 773 nor life around me, and the path that led to her favorite grove is already overgrown with grass. Without appearing to observe me, she was constantly studying what could afford me pleasure. When I returned to my chamber, I was sometimes surprised to find vases of fresh flowers, or some fine fruit she had taken care of herself. I did not dare render her similar services, and had even begged her never to enter my chamber, but who can place a limit to a sister’s affection? One incident alone will give you an idea of her love for me. I was walking rapidly up and down my cell one night, tormented with fearful sufferings. In the middle of the night, as I was sitting down a moment to rest, I heard a slight noise at the door. I approached--listened--imagine my astonishment! it was my sister who was praying on the outside of my door. She had heard my groans. She was afraid of annoying me, but wished to be at hand if I needed any assistance. I heard her repeating the _Miserere_ in a low tone. I knelt down by the door, and, without interrupting her, mentally followed her words. My eyes were full of tears: who would not have been touched by so much affection? When her prayer was ended, I said in a low tone: ‘Good-night, sister, good-night: go to bed, I feel a little better. May God bless and reward you for your piety!’ She retired in silence, and her prayer was surely answered, for I at last enjoyed several hours of quiet sleep.”

“How sad must have been the first days after your beloved sister’s death!”

“I remained for a long time in a kind of stupor that deprived me of the faculty of realizing the extent of my misfortune. When at length I came to myself, and was able to comprehend my situation, my reason almost left me. It was a season doubly sad for me, for it recalls the greatest of my misfortunes, and the crime that came near resulting from it.”

“Crime! I cannot believe you capable of one.”

“It is only too true, and, in giving you an account of that period of my life, I feel too sensibly I shall fall in your estimation; but I do not wish to appear better than I am, and perhaps you will pity while condemning me. The idea of voluntarily leaving this world had already occurred to me in several fits of melancholy, but the fear of God had hitherto made me repel the thought. The simplest circumstance, and apparently the least calculated to trouble me, came near causing my eternal loss. I had just experienced a new affliction. A little dog had been given us some years previous. My sister was fond of him, and after her death the poor animal was, I acknowledge, a real comfort to me. We were, I suppose, indebted to his ugliness for his making our house his refuge. He had been rejected by everybody else, but was a treasure in the asylum of a leper. In gratitude to God for the favor of such a friend, my sister called him _Miracle_, and his name--such a contrast to his ugliness--and his constant friskiness often dispelled our sorrows. In spite of my care, he sometimes got out, and it never occurred to me it might injure any one. But some of the inhabitants of the town became alarmed, thinking he might bring among them the germ of my disease. They sent a complaint to the commander, who ordered the dog to be killed immediately. Some soldiers followed by several civilians came here at once to execute this cruel order. They put a cord around his neck in my presence, and dragged him away. 774 I could not help looking at him once more as he was going out of the gate; his eyes were turned towards me, as if to beg the assistance which it was not in my power to give. They wished to drown him in the Doire, but the crowd waiting on the outside stoned him to death. I heard his cries, and took refuge in my tower more dead than alive; my trembling knees refused to support me; I threw myself on my bed in a state impossible to describe. My grief made me regard the just though severe order only as a cruelty as atrocious as it was needless, and, though I am now ashamed of the feeling that then excited me, I cannot yet think of it with coolness. I passed the whole day in the greatest agitation. I had been deprived of the only living thing I had, and this new blow reopened all the wounds of my heart.

“Such was my condition when, that same day, towards sunset, I came here, and seated myself on the very rock where you are now sitting. I had been meditating awhile on my sad lot, when I saw a newly-married couple appear yonder, near the two birches at the end of the hedge. They came along the foot-path through the meadow, and passed by me. The sweet peace that an assured happiness confers was imprinted on their handsome faces. They were walking slowly arm-in-arm. All at once they stopped; the young woman leaned her head upon her husband’s breast, who clasped her in his arms with joy. Shall I confess it? Envy for the first time penetrated my heart. Such a picture of happiness had never struck me before. I followed them with my eyes to the end of the meadow. They were nearly hidden by the trees when I heard a joyful cry. It came from the united families who were coming to meet them. Old men, women, and children surrounded them. I heard a confused murmur of joy. I saw among the trees the bright colors of their dresses, and the whole group seemed enveloped in a cloud of happiness. I could not endure the sight: the torments of hell seized hold of my heart. I turned away my eyes, and fled to my cell. O God! how frightfully lonely and gloomy it seemed. ‘It is here, then,’ I said to myself--‘I am to live for ever here. After dragging out a wretched existence, I must await the long-delayed end of my life! The Almighty has diffused happiness, and in torrents, among all living creatures, and I--I alone!--am without support, without friends, without a companion.--What a terrible destiny!’

“Full of these sad thoughts, I forgot there is one Being who is the Comforter. I was beside myself. ‘Why,’ I said to myself, ‘was I permitted to behold the light? Why has Nature been so cruel a step-mother to me?’ Like a disinherited child, I saw before me the rich patrimony of the human race, of my share of which heaven had defrauded me. ‘No, no,’ I cried in my fury, ‘there is no happiness for thee on earth. Cease, then, to live, poor wretch! Thou hast disgraced the earth long enough with thy presence: would it might swallow thee up and leave no trace of thy miserable existence!’ My fury continuing to increase, a mad desire to destroy myself took possession of my mind. I resolved at last to set fire to my dwelling, and allow myself to be burned up in it with everything else that might recall my memory. Excited and enraged, I went forth into the fields. I wandered for some time in the darkness around my dwelling. I gave vent to my overburdened heart in involuntary shrieks, and frightened myself in the 775 silence of the night. I reentered full of rage, crying: ‘Woe to thee, Leper! Woe to thee!’ And, as if everything conspired for my destruction, I heard the echo from the ruins of the Château de Bramafan repeating distinctly: ‘Woe to thee!’ I stopped, seized with horror, at the door of the tower, and a faint echo from the mountains repeated a long time after, ‘Woe to thee!’