Beyond the Devil’s Bridge, the mountains which nearly touched before, interlock into each other, and a tunnel three hundred and seventy-five feet long leads through the rock into the vale of Urseren, surrounded by the Upper Alps.  The little town of Andermatt lies in the middle of this valley, which with the peaks around is covered with short, yellowish-brown grass.  We met near Amstegg a little Italian boy walking home, from Germany, quite alone and without money, for we saw him give his last kreutzer to a blind beggar along the road.  We therefore took him with us, as he was afraid to cross the St. Gothard alone.

After refreshing ourselves at Andermatt, we started, five in number, including a German student, for the St. Gothard.  Behind the village of Hospiz, which stands at the bottom of the valley leading to Realp and the Furca pass, the way commences, winding backwards and forwards, higher and higher, through a valley covered with rocks, with the mighty summits of the Alps around, untenanted save by the chamois and mountain eagle.  Not a tree was to be seen.  The sides of the mountains were covered with loose rocks waiting for the next torrent to wash them down, and the tops were robed in eternal snow.  A thick cloud rolled down over us as we went on, following the diminishing brooks to their snowy source in the peak of St. Gothard.  We cut off the bends of the road by footpaths up the rocks, which we ascended in single file, one of the Americans going ahead and little Pietro with his staff and bundle bringing up the rear.  The rarefied air we breathed, seven thousand feet above the sea, was like exhilarating gas.  We felt no fatigue, but ran and shouted and threw snowballs, in the middle of August!

After three hours’ walk we reached the two clear and silent lakes which send their waters to the Adriatic and the North Sea.  Here, as we looked down the Italian side, the sky became clear; we saw the top of St. Gothard many thousand feet above, and stretching to the south, the summits of the mountains which guard the vales of the Ticino and the Adda.  The former monastery has been turned into an inn; there is, however, a kind of church attached, attended by a single monk.  It was so cold that although late, we determined to descend to the first village.  The Italian side is very steep, and the road, called the Via Trimola, is like a thread dropped down and constantly doubling back upon itself.  The deep chasms were filled with snow, although exposed to the full force of the sun, and for a long distance there was scarcely a sign of vegetation.

We thought as we went down, that every step was bringing us nearer to a sunnier land—­that the glories of Italy, which had so long lain in the airy background of the future, would soon spread themselves before us in their real or imagined beauty.  Reaching at dusk the last height above the vale of the Ticino, we saw the little village of Airolo with its musical name, lying in a hollow of the mountains.  A few minutes of leaping, sliding and rolling, took us down the grassy declivity, and we found we had descended from the top in an hour and a half, although the distance by the road is nine miles!  I need not say how glad we were to relieve our trembling knees and exhausted limbs.