The descent to the plains of Italy is even more
precipitous and dangerous than the ascent from the green pastures
of France. No vegetation adorns these dismal and storm-swept cliffs
of granite and of ice. Even the pinion of the eagle fails in its
rarified air, and the chamois ventures not to climb its steep and
slippery crags. No human beings are ever to be seen on these bleak
summits, except the few shivering travelers, who tarry for an hour
to receive the hospitality of the convent, and the hooded monks,
wrapped in thick and coarse garments, which their staves and their
dogs, groping through the storms of sleet and snow. Even the wood
which burns with frugal faintness on the hearths, is borne, in
painful burdens, up the mountain sides, upon the shoulders of the
monks.
Such was the barrier which Napoleon intended to surmount, that
he might fall upon the rear of the Austrians, who were battering
down the walls of Genoa, where Massena was besieged, and who were
thundering, flushed with victory, at the very gates of Nice. Over
this wild mountain pass, where the mule could with difficulty
tread, and where no wheel had ever rolled, or by any possibility
could roll, Napoleon contemplated transporting an army of sixty
thousand men, with ponderous artillery and tons of cannon balls,
and baggage, and all the bulky munitions of war.
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