No 93. Saturday, Nov. 12, 1709.
Dear Sir,
I BELIEVE this is the first letter that was ever sent you from the middle region, where I am at this present writing. Not to keep you in suspence, it comes to you from the top of the highest mountain in Switzerland, where I am now shivering among the eter∣nal frosts and snows. I can scarce forbear dating it in December, though they call it the first of August at the bottom of the mountain. I assure you, I can hardly keep my ink from freezing in the middle of the dog∣days. I am here entertained with the prettiest variety of snow-prospects that you can imagine, and have seve∣ral pits of it before me that are very near as old as the mountain itself; for in this country, it is as lasting as marble. I am now upon a spot of it, which they tell me fell about the reign of Charlemain or king Pepin. The inhabitants of the country are as great curiosities as the country itself: they generally hire themselves out in their youth, and if they are musquet-proof till about fifty, they bring home the money they have got, and the limbs they have left, to pass the rest of their time among their native mountains. One of the gentlemen of the place, who is come off with the loss of an eye only, told me by way of boast, that there were now seven wooden legs in his family: and that for these four generations, there had not been one in his line that car∣ried a whole body with him to the grave. I believe you will think the stile of this letter a little extraordi∣nary; but the Rehearsal will tell you, that people in clouds must not be confined to speak sense; and I hope