Cambridge Pieces | Page 8

huge hunch of bread, get a
miserable wash, compared with which the spittoons of the Diners de
Paris were luxurious, and return in time to proceed to St. Rambert,
whence the railroad branches off to Grenoble. It is very beautiful
between Lyons and St. Rambert. The mulberry trees show the silkworm
to be a denizen of the country, while the fields are dazzlingly brilliant
with poppies and salvias; on the other side of the Rhone rise high
cloud-capped hills, but towards the Alps we strain our eyes in vain.
At St. Rambert the railroad to Grenoble branches off at right angles to
the main line, it was then only complete as far as Rives, now it is
continued the whole way to Grenoble; by which the reader will save
some two or three hours, but miss a beautiful ride from Rives to
Grenoble by the road. The valley bears the name of Gresivaudan. It is
very rich and luxuriant, the vineyards are more Italian, the fig trees
larger than we have yet seen them, patches of snow whiten the higher
hills, and we feel that we are at last indeed among the outskirts of the
Alps themselves. I am told that we should have stayed at Voreppe, seen
the Grande Chartreuse (for which see Murray), and then gone on to
Grenoble, but we were pressed for time and could not do everything. At
Grenoble we arrived about two o'clock, washed comfortably at last and
then dined; during dinner a caleche was preparing to drive us on to
Bourg d'Oisans, a place some six or seven and thirty miles farther on,
and by thirty minutes past three we find ourselves reclining easily
within it, and digesting dinner with the assistance of a little packet, for
which we paid one-and-fourpence at the well-known shop of Mr.
Bacon, Market- square, Cambridge. It is very charming. The air is
sweet, warm, and sunny, there has been bad weather for some days here,
but it is clearing up; the clouds are lifting themselves hour by hour, we
are evidently going to have a pleasant spell of fine weather. The
caleche jolts a little, and the horse is decidedly shabby, both qua horse
and qua harness, but our moustaches are growing, and our general
appearance is in keeping. The wine was very pleasant at Grenoble, and

we have a pound of ripe cherries between us; so, on the whole, we
would not change with his Royal Highness Prince Albert or all the
Royal Family, and jolt on through the long straight poplar avenue that
colonnades the road above the level swamp and beneath the hills, and
turning a sharp angle enter Vizille, a wretched place, only memorable
because from this point we begin definitely, though slowly, to enter the
hills and ascend by the side of the Romanche through the valley, which
that river either made or found--who knows or cares? But we do know
very well that we are driving up a very exquisitely beautiful valley, that
the Romanche takes longer leaps from rock to rock than she did, that
the hills have closed in upon us, that we see more snow each time the
valley opens, that the villages get scantier, and that at last a great giant
iceberg walls up the way in front, and we feast our eyes on the
long-desired sight till after that the setting sun has tinged it purple (a
sure sign of a fine day), its ghastly pallor shows us that the night is
upon us. It is cold, and we are not sorry at half-past nine to find
ourselves at Bourg d'Oisans, where there is a very fair inn kept by one
Martin; we get a comfortable supper of eggs and go to bed fairly tired.
This we must remind the reader is Thursday night, on Tuesday morning
we left London, spent one day in Paris, and are now sleeping among
the Alps, sharpish work, but very satisfactory, and a prelude to better
things by and by. The next day we made rather a mistake, instead of
going straight on to Briancon we went up a valley towards Mont
Pelvoux (a mountain nearly 14,000 feet high), intending to cross a high
pass above La Berarde down to Briancon, but when we got to St.
Christophe we were told the pass would not be open till August, so
returned and slept a second night at Bourg d'Oisans. The valley,
however, was all that could be desired, mingled sun and shadow,
tumbling river, rich wood, and mountain pastures, precipices all around,
and snow-clad summits continually unfolding themselves; Murray is
right in calling the valley above Venosc a scene of savage sterility. At
Venosc, in the poorest of hostelries was a tuneless cracked old
instrument, half piano, half harpsichord--how it ever