"Here flies from us sorrow, here vanishes pain,
Here bloom in our hearts joy and freshness again.
Who can assure us, and how can we know,
That heaven is fairer than this scene below?"
In pages of such doggerel one finds comical enough things; but exported,
they may lose their native flavor, so I will not give too many of them.
By making rather a long excursion from here you can visit the birthplace
of Angelica Kauffman. We didn't go, but we felt very proud to think we
could if we wished, having lately read "Miss Angel."
There is a place in this neighborhood the name of which I refuse to
divulge, because, if I should tell it and disclose its attractions, the
next steamer from America would certainly bring over too many people to
occupy it, and so ruin it. I shall keep it for myself. But I will
describe it, and awaken as much longing and unrest and dissatisfaction
with American prices as I can. It isn't exactly a village, but it is
near a village. It has shady lanes that wind about between hedges;
houses that are placed as if with the express purpose of talking with
one another,--only three or four houses, with superb old trees hanging
over them. There is the nicest, brightest of _Fraus_,--who owns this bit
of land, the houses and the hedges and trees close by the water's edge,
a boat, a bath-house, and a great dog,--a happy, prosperous widow, with
a daughter to help in household matters, and to go briskly to market to
the neighboring town. So happy is she, one thinks involuntarily her
_Mann_ was perhaps aggressive, and that to be free from his presence may
be to her a blessing from Heaven. She lives in a house where the ceiling
is so low one must stoop going through the doors. The windows and doors
are all open. The tables and chairs are scoured snowy white. She brings
you milk in tall glasses,--it is cream, pure and simple. And then she
takes you into the house close by, with great airy chambers, and broad
low casements, under which the water ripples softly, and she tells you,
without apparently knowing herself, one of the wonders of the age,--that
she will rent her four rooms in this detached house for forty guldens a
month, and serve four persons from her own dwelling with fruit, meat,
cream, the best the land affords; and forty guldens are about twenty
dollars, gold. (This must not mislead the unwary. There are places
enough here where you can spend quite as much as you do at home.) We did
not quite faint, but we were very deeply moved. We did not even tell the
good woman that her terms were not exorbitant, crafty, worldly creatures
that we were. Here was one spot unspoiled by the madding crowd. We were
not the ones to bring pomps, and vanities, and high prices to it. So we
choked down our amazement, and hypocritically remarked it was all very
pleasant, and we thought perhaps we might return. Return! Of course we
shall return! When all things else fail, and ducats are painfully few,
then will we flee to this friendly abode, and live in a big room on the
lovely lake, so near, indeed, that we can almost fish from our windows;
have a boat to row, a bath-house at our service; quarts, gallons of
cream; and the Swiss mountains before our eyes morning, noon, and night;
and all for five dollars a month. I am telling the truth, but I do not
expect to be believed. I am tempted to write its name,--its pretty,
friendly, suggestive little name,--but I will not. It ends in LE, it
sounds like a caress, so much will I say; perhaps so much is indiscreet.
Don't waste your time looking for it. You will never find it. We only
happened to drift there. It really is not worth your while to search for
it. It is quite secluded, quite out of the way, a sleepy-hollow that I
am sure _you_ would find dull.
There are many green, sweet nooks, many pretty villages, many cleanly
little cottages, many smiling, broad-browed, clear-eyed women, on the
shores of the Lake of Constance; but our woman, our cottage, our cream,
our mountains, our _treasure_, you will never, never find.