PART I.—1840.

LETTER I.

Project for spending the Summer on the Banks of the Lake of Como.—Fine

Spring.—Stormy Weather.—Passage from Dover to Calais.—The

Diligence.—Paris.—Plan of our Route.

BRIGHTON, JUNE 13, 1840.

I am glad to say, that our frequent discussions of this spring have

terminated in a manner very agreeable to every one concerned in them. My

son and his two friends have decided on spending their summer vacation

on the shores of the lake of Como—there to study for the degree, which

they are to take next winter. They wish me to accompany them, and I

gladly consent.

Can it, indeed, be true, that I am about to revisit Italy? How many

years are gone since I quitted that country! There I left the mortal

remains of those beloved—my husband and my children, whose loss changed

my whole existence, substituting, for happy peace and the interchange of

deep-rooted affections, years of desolate solitude, and a hard struggle

with the world; which only now, as my son is growing up, is brightening

into a better day. The name of Italy has magic in its very syllables.

The hope of seeing it again recalls vividly to my memory that time, when

misfortune seemed an empty word, and my habitation on earth a secure

abode, which no evil could shake. Graves have opened in my path since

then; and, instead of the cheerful voices of the living, I have dwelt

among the early tombs of those I loved. Now a new generation has sprung

up; and, at the name of Italy, I grow young again in their enjoyments,

and gladly prepare to share them. You know, also, how grievously my

health has been shaken; a nervous illness interrupts my usual

occupations, and disturbs the ordinary tenor of my life. Travelling will

cure all: my busy, brooding thoughts will be scattered abroad; and, to

use a figure of speech, my mind will, amidst, novel and various scenes,

renew the outworn and tattered garments in which it has long been

clothed, and array itself in a vesture all gay in fresh and glossy hues,

when we are beyond the Alps.

I have been spending the last two months at Richmond. What a divine

spring we have had! during the month of April not a drop of rain

fell—the sun shone perpetually—the foliage, rich and bright, lent,

before its time, thick shadows to the woods. No place is more suited

than Richmond where to enjoy the smiles of so extraordinary a season. I

spent many hours of every day on the Thames—days as balmy as midsummer,

and animated with the young life which makes fine weather in spring more

delicious than that to be enjoyed in any other season of the year: then

the earth is an altar, from which fresh perfumes are for ever rising—not

the rank odours of the autumnal fall, but those attendant on the first

bursting of life, on the tendency of nature in springtide to multiply

and enjoy. I visited Hampton Court, and saw the Cartoons—those most

noble works of the Prince of Painters. All was delightful; and ten times

more so, that I was about to break a chain that had long held me—cross

the Channel—and wander far towards a country which memory painted as a

paradise.

We are to leave England at the conclusion of the Cambridge term, and

have agreed to rendezvous at Paris in the middle of June. Towards the

end of May I came here, intending at the appointed time to cross to

Dieppe. The weather, at first, continued delightful; but after a time a

change has come, and June is set in cold, misty, and stormy. A morbid

horror of my sea-voyage comes over me which I cannot control. On the day

on which we were to cross, I had an attack of illness which prevented my

going on board. It becomes a question whether we shall remain for the

next packet in the middle of next week, with the chance of a long,

tempestuous passage, or proceed along the coast to Dover. I prefer the

latter.

PARIS, JUNE 22.

We left Brighton for Hastings, and arrived on a fine evening; the sea

was calm and glorious beneath the setting sun. On our way we drove

through St. Leonard’s-on-Sea. Some years ago I had visited Hastings,

when a brig, drawn high and dry on the shore near William the

Conqueror’s stone, unlading building materials, was all that told of the

future existence of this new town. It has risen “like an exhalation,”

and seems particularly clean, bright, and cheerful.

The next day blew a fierce tempest; our drive to Dover was singularly

inclement and disagreeable. We arrived in the evening, very tired and

uncomfortable; a gale from the north-west raged, and the sea, wild and

drear, broke in vast surges on the shore; the following morning it

rained in torrents, as well as blew. The day after, however, the sun

shone bright, and the waves sparkled and danced beneath its early rays.

We were on the beach by seven, and reached the steamer in a small boat,

one of the annoyances attendant on embarking at Dover. We had a rough

passage—for some half way over the wind grew into a gale; I lay down on

deck, and by keeping very still, escaped sickness: in two hours and a

half we were on the French coast. Why we left Dover so early I cannot

tell, since the tide did not serve to admit us into Calais harbour for

an hour after our arrival—an hour of disagreeable tossing; at last,

happy sight, the fishing boats were seen coming out from the port,

giving token that there was water enough for us to enter. We landed. I

was quite well immediately, and laughed at my panic.

We went to Roberts’s Hotel, a very good one, and the charges moderate. I

made my first experiment at a _table d’hôte_, and disliked its noise and

numbers very much. We were to proceed to Paris by the _diligence_, a

disagreeable style of travelling, but the only one we could manage. We

have forgotten night-travelling in England—thanks to the railroads, to

which, whatever their faults may be, I feel eternally grateful; for many

a new scene have they enabled me to visit, and much of the honey of

delightful recollections have I, by their means, brought back to my

hive: a pleasant day it will be when there is one from Calais to Paris.

We left Calais at about ten in the forenoon. P. chose the _banquette_,

as young Englishmen are apt to do; it resembles, more than any other

part of this ponderous vehicle, the outside of a stage-coach. There were

some merry Irish students there also, who could not speak a word of

French: they leapt down from the top at every possible opportunity, so

to tease the _conducteur_, who, to his flock of travellers, acts as

shepherd and dog in one—gathering them together with the bark of, “_En

route, Messieurs!_” most authoritatively. I and my maid were in the

_intérieur_, with two Frenchwomen from England: one was a governess at a

school, coming for a holiday; she was young, and her eyes were

accustomed to the English style; she found fault with the _diligence_.

The elder one would not allow any fault; and, if there were any

deficiency, it was because things were not first-rate on this road. The

road to Bordeaux was the grand one: the _diligences_ there were Lord

Mayors’ carriages for splendour. The longest day has an end, and our

hours of penance came to a close. We arrived in Paris, and found

pleasant apartments taken for us at Hotel Chatham. Travelling by

_diligence_ had been an experiment for me. I was delighted to find that,

with all my nervous suffering, whenever my mind was intensely or

disagreeably occupied, I could bear the fatigues of a journey far better

than I had ever done. Several years before I had been a bad traveller;

and, even in a comfortable English travelling chariot, suffered great

fatigue, and even illness. When I returned from Italy I had tried the

_diligence_, and been knocked up, and obliged to abandon it after the

first night; yet then I enjoyed perfect health. Now I complained, and

with reason, of most painful sensations; yet the fatigue I endured

seemed to take away weariness instead of occasioning it. I felt light of

limb and in good spirits. On the shores of France I shook the dust of

accumulated cares from off me; I forgot disappointments, and banished

sorrow: weariness of body replaced beneficially weariness of soul—so

much heavier, so much harder to bear.

There is a cheerfulness in the aspect of Paris, that at once enlivens

the visitor. True, the want of _trottoirs_ is intolerable. From the

absence of drains, the state of the streets is filthy; the danger of

being run over by hack-cabs, which turn short round the corners, and

accelerate their pace on purpose so to do, is imminent. The gravel of

the Tuilleries and the Champs Elysées is not half so inviting as the

sward of Hyde Park; yet there is an air of cheerfulness and

lightsomeness about Paris, which seems to take the burthen from your

spirits, which _will_ weigh so heavily on the other side of the Channel.

Nor, perhaps, in any city in the world is there a scene more

_magnifique_—to use their own word in their own sense—than the view at

high noon or sunset from the terrace of the Tuilleries, near the river,

overlooking the Seine and its bridges; the Place de la Concorde, with

its wide asphaltic pavements, sparkling fountains, and fantastic

lanterns, looking on to the Barrière de l’Etoile one way, or down upon

the horse-chestnut avenues of the gardens on the other. There is gaiety,

animation, life; you cannot find the same in London. Why? One cause, of

course, is the smoke of the sea-coal fires; another results from the

absence of fountains. When will London have these ornaments, which could

be so readily constructed from our great supply of water? Truly in

France the water is all used ornamentally, and there is a sad deficiency

for utility; but the _coup-d’œil_ of a fountain is more pleasing than

the consciousness of a pipe underground—at least, to the passing

traveller.

We have spent a week agreeably in Paris, as we have several friends

here. Our two companions are arrived. We are seriously preparing to set

out on our travels. The lake of Como is our destination, and we have put

the general guidance of our route into the hands of one of the party. I

was a little startled when I was told that I was to reach Como _viâ_

Franckfort; this is something like going to the Line by the North Pole;

but I am assured that the journey will be the more delightful and novel.

I was shown our way on the map—Metz to Trèves; then down the

Moselle—unhacknied ground, or rather water—to Coblentz; up the Rhine to

Mayence; Franckfort, and the line south through Heidelberg, Baden-Baden,

Freyburg, Schaffhausen, Zurich, the Splugen, Chiavenna, to the lake of

Como. These are nearly all new scenes to me. The portion of the Rhine we

were to navigate I longed to revisit after an interval of many years. So

this route being agreed upon, we have taken our places in the

_diligence_ for Metz.

I feel a good deal of the gipsy coming upon me, now that I am leaving

Paris. I bid adieu to all acquaintance, and set out to wander in new

lands, surrounded by companions fresh to the world, unacquainted with

its sorrows, and who enjoy with zest every passing amusement. I myself,

apt to be too serious, but easily awakened to sympathy, forget the past

and the future, and am ready to be amused by all I see as much or even

more than they. Among acquaintance, in the every-day scenes of life,

want of means brings with it mortification, to embitter still more the

perpetual necessity of self-denial. In society you are weighed with

others according to your extrinsic possessions; your income, your

connexions, your position, make all the weight—you yourself are a mere

feather in the scale. But what are these to me now? My home is the

readiest means of conveyance I can command, or the inn at which I shall

remain at night—my only acquaintance the companions of my wanderings—the

single business of my life to enjoy the passing scene.

LETTER II.

Journey to Metz.—A Day spent at Metz.—Proceed to Trèves.—Enter

Prussia.—Trèves.—Voyage down the Moselle.—Slow Steamboat up the Rhine to

Mayence.—Railroad to Franckfort.

THURSDAY, 25TH JUNE.

We left Paris on the 25th of June, at six in the evening, and were

thirty-seven hours reaching Metz, a distance of about two hundred miles,

stopping only for half an hour at a time, and that only twice during the

one day we were on the road. I suffered excessive fatigue during the two

nights of this journey, partly on account of a cough I caught at Paris;

but my health was not in the slightest degree hurt. The weather was very

fine; the country we passed through was beautiful, abundant in corn and

vines, then in midsummer luxuriance. There was a portion of those dull

vast plains, so usual in France; but for the most part the country was

varied into hill and dale, arable and forest land. The season setting in

so genially in early spring, joined to the refreshing rains which have

since succeeded, have caused rich promise of abundance to appear

everywhere. I never remember feeling so intimately how bounteous a

mother is this fair earth, yielding such plenteous store of food to her

children, and this food in its growth so beautiful to look on. How full

of gratitude and love for the Creator does the beauty of the creation

make us! By a sort of slovenly reasoning, we tell ourselves that, since

we are born, sustenance is our due; but that all beyond—the beauty of

the world, and the sensations of transport it imparts, springs from the

immeasurable goodness of our Maker. True we were also created to

experience those emotions. God has not reduced our dwelling-place—as

Puritans would his—to a bare meeting-house; all there is radiant in

glorious colours; all imparts supreme felicity to the senses and the

heart. Next to the consciousness of right and honour, God has shown that

he loves best beauty and the sense of beauty, since he has endowed the

visible universe so richly with the one, and made the other so keen and

deep-seated an enjoyment in the hearts of his creatures.

We passed through Chalons-sur-Marne, Clermont, and Verdun. The

corn-fields, the vineyards clothing the uplands, the woods that varied

the landscape, and the meandering river that gave it light and life,

were all in their fairest summer dress. Plenty and peace brooded over a

happy land. From a traveller in a _diligence_ no more detailed

description of city, village, or scenery, can be expected. I will only

add, that this was by far the most agreeable part of France I had ever

traversed.

SATURDAY, 27TH.

We had been told at Paris that we should arrive at Metz in time for the

_diligence_ to Trèves. Out of England one does not expect exactness;

still it was provoking, as we wanted to get on, to find, when arriving

at seven in the morning, that the _diligence_ had started at six. We

needed rest, certainly; and so made up our minds to endure with

equanimity the necessity we were under of not fatiguing ourselves to

death from a principle of economy. The inn was tolerable, and the _table

d’hôte_ sufficiently good; and, best praise, quietly served. Metz is a

clean, pleasant town, a little dull or so; but from the gardens on the

ramparts we commanded a view of the hill-surrounded plain in which it is

built, with the Moselle flowing peaceably at our feet. We hired a boat,

and loitered several hours delightfully on the river; but being without

a boatman, found difficulty in discovering the main stream amidst a

labyrinth of canals and mill-dams. Afterwards, we walked in the public

gardens, which would have been pleasant, but for the foreign style of

gravel, which is not gravel, but shingle; smooth turf and a velvet sward

are never found out of England: they don’t know what grass means abroad,

except to feed horses and cows. The weather meanwhile was fine, the air

balmy; it was a day of agreeable idleness.

SUNDAY, 28TH.

At six in the morning we left Metz for Trèves, the distance fifty-five

miles, which occupied us fourteen hours. We had now entered the true

region of German expedition. The _diligence_ was a sort of

_char-à-banc_, with a heavy roof. We had the front seats; but the people

behind had ingress and egress only by passing ours, which was done by

raising the middle seat, in the style of the public boxes at our

theatres. The horses went well enough (I have an idea we only changed

them once, half way); but the peculiarity of German travelling consists

in its frequent and long stoppages. During each of these the people

behind got out, and refreshed themselves by eating and drinking. Another

inconvenience resulted from our stopping so often; our left-hand leader

went well enough when once off, but it was very difficult to persuade

him to move; and he was never urged by any but the gentlest means. Every

time we stopped he refused to set off; on which our driver got down to

pat and coax him, and feed him with slices of bread—horses eat a great

deal of bread in Germany. When he thought he had succeeded, he mounted

again; but the horse being still obstinate, he had to get down and renew

his caresses and bits of bread. Sometimes he repeated these manœuvres

half a dozen times before he succeeded. Once, just as the horse, after

showing himself particularly self-willed, had deigned to yield, a

passenger behind, a simple-looking bumpkin, started forward, exclaiming

in accents of distress— “_Oh, mon gâteau!_” He had bought a cake; but by

some accident had left it behind, and he entreated the driver to stop,

that he might recover it: this was too much; a full quarter of an hour’s

coaxing and much bread could not thus be wasted, all to be begun over

again.

The fields on the road-side were planted with cherry-trees, which, for

the purpose of distilling kirchen-wasser, abound all over Germany; the

fruit was ripe, and the heavily-laden branches hung over the road; our

outside passengers helped themselves plentifully, so that in a short

time we were pursued by a hue and cry of peasants. There is a heavy fine

for robbing cherry-trees; and these people wanted to be paid: fierce

objurgations passed, and a frequent use of the word _schwein_—the most

opprobrious name a German can give or receive. The peasants had the

worst and got nothing. We stopped nearly two hours at Thionville for

dinner. In the same room, at the other end of the same table, a civic

feast was prepared, delayed only by the non-arrival of the

_sous-préfet_: he came at last and was joyously welcomed. But here

German was the usual language; and we became worse than deaf, for we

heard but could not understand.

Thionville is pleasantly situated in the valley of the Moselle, close to

the river. It was the eve of some great feast in honour of the Virgin;

and all the girls around were erecting altars and triumphal arches, and

adorning them with waxen figures in full dress, and quantities of

flowers and ribbons. They were enjoying themselves greatly and very

proud of their handy-work.

Soon after leaving Thionville we arrived at the Prussian frontier; there

was but one passenger besides ourselves, and he only had any taxable

goods—sugar-plums from Nancy. Our luggage was taken down and some

portion of it slightly inspected; the necessary ceremony was soon over;

but two hours were loitered away, one knew not wherefore. The people

were civil and the day fine, so we did not feel inclined to be

discontented. The country after this grew more varied and pleasant, but

the villages deteriorated dismally. They were indescribably squalid. The

dung before the doors—the filth of the people—the wretched appearance of

the cottages, formed a painful contrast, which too often presents itself

to the traveller, between the repulsive dwellings of man and the

inviting aspect of free beautiful nature, all elegant in its forms,

delicious in its odours, and peaceful in its influence over the mind.

As we slowly proceeded, and were entering a village, a violent thunder

storm came on; the driver drew up the _diligence_ to the road-side, and

he and the _conducteur_, and all the outside passengers took shelter in

an inn, where they remained drinking beer while the storm lasted. After

we had proceeded thence about three miles, our fellow-passenger, who had

appeared a mild quiet German, and had been conversing good-humouredly

with us, discovered that he had been taken beyond his place of

destination, which was indeed the village where we had stopped during

the storm. This he considered the fault of the _conducteur_, and flew

into the most violent rage. We escaped the benefit of his angry language

since we did not understand him;—he and his portmanteau were left under

a tree, looking helpless enough; and we went on.

The disagreeable part of a slow style of travelling is, that although at

the outset we take it patiently, and may find it even amusing, yet, when

we are to reach a definite bourne, and the hours pass, and apparently we

are still as far off as ever, we become excessively weary. The country

was pretty, and after the shower, the evening wore a garb of sober gray

not unpleasing. But our fatigue increased rapidly; and mile after mile

we proceeded, not interspersed with the capricious and ludicrous

stoppages that had marked our outset, but in a sort of determined

jogtrot, that showed that the men and horses had lost the gay spirit

which had led them to play with their work, and were seriously set upon

finishing it with all the slow haste of which they were capable. We

arrived at Trèves at ten o’clock last night.

The inn (l’Hôtel de Trèves) is the best we have yet met with; the

civility and alacrity with which we are served is quite comforting,—as

well as the cleanliness of the house, and the ultimate moderation of the

charges. Our first care on arriving has been to arrange for descending

the Moselle. There is no steamer; one is promised for next year; but,

for the present, there is only a passage-boat twice a week, Thursday and

Saturday, and this is Monday. Upon inquiry, we learn that we can hire a

tolerably commodious boat, with three men to work her, at no extravagant

price. We have found also at the hotel two young Cantabs, friends of one

of our party, bent on the same voyage, on their way to a tour in

Switzerland. They have agreed to join us. By early rising and late

arriving, we might accomplish the descent in two days; we prefer a more

easy style of proceeding. We are to sleep two nights on shore, and

occupy the better part of three days going down the river.

Trèves, or, as the Germans call it, Trier, is a very interesting town,

as being one of the oldest in the northern part of Europe. It was a

metropolis, we are told, before the time of Julius Cæsar. After the

Roman Conquest, and during the decay of the empire, it was the centre of

northern civilisation. During the middle ages, and till the time of the

French Revolution of 1789, it flourished as the capital of an

archbishopric, such as existed in Germany, where the mitre was united

rather to the sword and sceptre, than to the crosier. It is now in a

state of decay, but venerable in its fall. The old Roman ruins give

token of that magnificent spirit which causes the steps of the masters

of the world to be made evident everywhere, through the solidity,

grandeur, and utility of their works.

My friends have been rambling about the town and are returned highly

delighted. I did not go, for I felt very much fatigued; I repent me

now—but it is too late.

JUNE 29TH.

We left Trèves soon after noon; our boat was rude enough, but tolerably

large. A queer-looking old man steered her, and the oars were held by

two young fellows, one with an aspect of intelligence and good humour,

the son of the old man; the other, belonging to a grade beneath him in

the human scale. Our luggage was piled aft, and we had an awning. Thus,

on a fine, but not hot, June day, we pushed off from Trèves; and, full

of curiosity and expectation of pleasure, dropped down the swift stream

between verdant banks that rose into hills—not striking in their

outline, but agreeable to the eye, while frequent villages, each with

its church and pointed spire, either nestled in the foldings of the

hills, or graced some promontory that formed a bend in this much-winding

river. Peace seemed to brood over and lull us—a deeper peace, as at

evening the green shadows of the mountains gathered on the quiet river;

and now and then a ruined castle crowned a height, and with that

peculiar impression of stately tranquillity which a time-honoured ruin

imparts, added the touch of romantic dignity, which otherwise had been

wanting, to the scene.

We arrived at Piesport at seven, and our boatmen counselled us to remain

here for the night. One of the gentlemen, who had joined us, had studied

German for this tour, and a very necessary accomplishment we found it.

Nothing can be more futile than the idea that French will carry a

traveller through Germany or Italy. At some of the best inns on the most

frequented routes, waiters are provided who can talk both French and

English; but, go ever so little off the high-road, or address a person

not especially put there for the benefit of your ignorance, and you are

instantly at fault; and wanderers, like ourselves, if they cannot speak

the language of the country, nine times out of ten, run every risk of

not obtaining the necessaries of life. We had been told on this

occasion, that one of our boatmen spoke French, but _oui_, and _non_,

and _bonjour_ was the extent of his vocabulary, and we could never make

him understand a word we said. We took great interest, therefore, in our

friend’s first experiment in German, and his success was a common

triumph. Piesport is a miserable village, with a miserable inn, and it

was matter of difficulty to procure beds for so large a party; the rooms

looked dirty and disconsolate—but there was no help; we ordered supper,

coffee and eggs, and, our great staple of consumption throughout

Germany, fried potatoes; and with the agreeable promise of the excellent

wine of the country, we hoped to restore our fatigues. While all this

was preparing, we walked up a hill and looked down on the windings of

the river, and the green hills that closed around to guard and shelter

it. We encountered a poor stray fire-fly on our road, flashing a pale

sickly light: how it came there who can tell? it looked lost and out of

place.

TUESDAY, 30TH.

We left Piesport at five in the morning; the mists gathered chill,

white, and dank around us. We met many barges towed up the stream by

horses up to their middles in the cold foggy river. The hills grew

higher and steeper—broken into precipice and peak—crowned by ruined

towers and castles. To a certain degree, it might be called a miniature

Rhine; yet it had a peculiar character of its own, more still, more

secluded than the nobler river. There were no country seats; no large

towns nor cities; but the villages, each with its spire, and overlooked

by a ruined tower on a neighbouring height, succeeded to each other

frequently. At eight o’clock we arrived at Berncastel; by the windings

of the river, it was fifteen miles to Trarbach; across the hills, it was

but three. Our boatmen advised us to cross the hill, as the boat thus

lightened would make speedier way; accordingly, with the morning before

us, we left the boat at Berncastel, and ordered breakfast. My companions

scrambled up a steep hill to a ruined castle that overhung the village.

We had a good breakfast, and then began our walk. The hill was very

steep; the day very warm; I never remember finding the crossing of a

mountain so fatiguing. The path was good, not broken into zigzags, but

for that reason steeper; and after the fatigue of the ascent, the

descent became absolutely painful. At length we reached Trarbach. It was

market-day, and the high-street was thronged. One plenteous article of

merchandise was cherries: we gave a few groschen, and in return bore off

many pounds; the woman who sold them seemed never tired of heaping up

our basket. The boat arrived soon after, and repose was delightful after

our laborious walk.

The finest scenery of the Moselle occurs after leaving Trarbach; but

words are vain; and in description there must ever be at once a

vagueness and a sameness that conveys no distinct ideas, unless it

should awaken the imagination: unless you can be placed beside us in our

rough-hewn boat, and glide down between the vine-covered hills, with

bare craggy heights towering above; now catching with glad curiosity the

first glimpse of a more beautiful bend of the river, a higher mountain

peak, a more romantic ruin; now looking back to gaze as long as possible

on some picturesque point of view, of which, as the boat floated down

but slightly assisted by the rowers, we lost sight for ever—unless you

can imagine and sympathise in the cheerful elasticity of the setting out

at morning, sharpened into hunger at noon, and the pleasure that

attended the rustic fare we could command, especially accompanied as it

was by bright pure Moselle wine; then, the quiet enjoyment of golden

evening, succeeded by still and gray twilight; and last, the lassitude,

the fatigue, which made us look eagerly out for the place where we were

to stop and repose:—there is a zest in all this, especially on a voyage

unhacknied by others, and therefore accompanied by a dash of uncertainty

and a great sense of novelty, which is lost in mere words:—you must do

your part, and feel and imagine, or all description proves tame and

useless.

We arrived at Kochheim at ten, and found a comfortable inn. In the

_salle-à-manger_ was a respectable-looking man, apparently some sort of

merchant;—he could talk English, and we entered into conversation with

him. I observed that it was sad to see the wretched villages and the

destitution of the inhabitants, and this in a land which yielded such

lucrative produce as Moselle wine, the sale of which must render the

landed proprietors rich, while the mere cultivators languished in

penury. The man replied, that it was not so—the villagers were well off,

having all they desired, all they wanted. During the French revolution,

he said, the nobles forfeited their estates, which were mostly bought up

by the peasants, and consequently these rich vineyards belonged to the

cultivators. It was true that the trade was carried on by wine

merchants, who made large profits; but the peasants might do better if

they chose. They were, however, cut off from the rest of the world; they

lived as their fathers had done before them; and had no ideas or wishes

beyond their present style of life. They had enough, and were content.

WEDNESDAY, JULY 1.

We left Kochheim at eight. The day grew warm; but a breeze sprung up,

which helped us on our way. The vine-clad hills still sheltered the

river; still villages with their spires occurred frequently; and still

the landscape was distinguished and ennobled by the ruins of feudal

towers and castles. At about four o’clock, we reached the mouth of the

Moselle as it joins the Rhine. Our boatman wished to land us on the bank

of the Moselle itself. We naturally desired to enter the Rhine and land

close to an hotel. They declared it was impossible,—the stream was too

swift. But they spoke to incredulous ears—some of my companions had

before this relieved the men in their work, being accustomed to pulling

at Cambridge. Two now took the oars: the old man continued to steer. The

rowers did not find the stream very difficult to stem, working as they

did with a will. The old boatman steered us near the banks, among the

numerous barges, apparently with some malice, to bring us into

difficulty. On one occasion, indeed, it appeared as if we should be

inevitably run down by a large barge, and my maid screamed and wanted to

jump overboard to save herself: a stroke of the oar saved us. We had not

far to go. We landed at the bridge, and betook ourselves to the Hôtel

Bellevue, close at hand.

The German hotels are all conducted with great order and regularity, and

are very clean, quiet, and good. The head-waiter is the responsible

person—he is paid for all the other servants; and the usual sum, a franc

a day for every master, is reasonable enough, as it includes every one;

and the traveller is not laid in wait for by sighing chambermaid or

imploring boots. The only fault is, that the eating is carried on in the

common room, where Germans smoke, and consider fresh air unhealthy. The

Bellevue is one of three first-rate hotels at Coblentz. The Géant,

however, is the largest, and enjoys the best reputation. There is a good

one, I believe, on the other side of the river.

THURSDAY, JULY 2.

This day was passed on board the steamer, going to Mayence. We embarked

at ten in the morning. Years had elapsed since I had passed down this

river, before steamers were in use—in an ungainly boat, managed in a

still more ungainly manner. Memory had painted the Rhine as a scene of

enchantment; and the reality came up to what I remembered. The inferior

beauty of the banks of the Moselle enhanced still more the prouder and

more romantic glories of the Rhine. The promontories stood in bolder

relief—the ruined castles and their ramparts were more extensive and

more majestic—the antique spires and Gothic abbeys spoke of a princely

clergy—and the extent of mouldering walls marked cities belonging to a

more powerful population. Each tower-crowned hill—each picturesque

ruin—each shadowy ravine and beetling precipice—was passed, and gazed

upon with eager curiosity and delight. The very names are the titles of

volumes of romance: all the spirits of Old Germany haunt the place. Even

the events of modern days have added an interesting tale:—When the

German soldiers, led by Blucher, and driving the proud fallen victor

before them, beheld the river honoured by them, so late occupied by the

enemy they hated, now open and free, the name of “The Rhine!” burst from

many thousand voices, accompanied by tears of ecstacy. Some day I should

like much to establish myself for a summer on the banks of this river,

and explore its recesses. As we glide by, we obtain but a cursory and

unsatisfactory survey. One longs to make a familiar friend of such

sublime scenery, and refer, in after years, to one’s intimate

acquaintance with it, as one of the most valued among the treasures of

recollection which time may have bestowed.

We were a large party in ourselves, and enjoyed our voyage greatly; but,

as evening came on, we left the more picturesque part of the river, and

grew weary as still we did not arrive. When it became dark, we saw,

looming up the river, a shadowy bark, with bright lanterns at its

mast-head. What boat was that? The steamer that had left Coblentz at

two—four hours later than ourselves. It neared—it passed us. “_Oui, ça

marche plus vite que nous_,” replied the phlegmatic German captain, to

our accents of surprise and discontent. _To go a-head_, never entered

his mind as desirable. One boat went quick, the other slow—that was all

the difference—their day’s work was the same. To us, however, the

difference involved, besides great unnecessary weariness, our comfort

for the night.

We did not arrive at Mayence till near midnight; and we were preceded by

our rival, which, together with another steamer, had reached the pier,

and disgorged their passengers. We had first to seize on porters, to

carry our luggage; which, for our large party, was multifarious; and

without the aid of our friend who spoke German, I know not how we should

have managed it. We went to the best inn: it was quite full. The

next—there appeared some hope; but it failed us. We were driven, at

last, to a very mediocre one; but, though we were Godsends to these

people, they were neither rude nor exorbitant: on the contrary, they

received us with a sort of cordiality; their accommodation was bad, but

they made up for it by civility. We were very tired, and very glad to go

to bed.

FRIDAY, JULY 3.

We left Mayence early. Our plan had been to go by the last train of the

previous night to Frankfort. Balked of this, we arranged to go by the

earliest of this morning. Here we separated from our chance companions;

as they stopped to view the lions at Mayence, and were destined for

Strasburg, with which city we meant to have nothing to do.

The railroad from Mayence to Frankfort is not a very good one; but the

carriages were comfortable, and the way short—twenty-one miles, which we

did in little more than an hour. We went (guide-directed by the

inestimable Murray) to the Hôtel de Russie—a most excellent one.

Frankfort looks a clean, airy, but dull town. We have walked about it a

good deal, but seen nothing worthy of remark. We missed, by stupidly not

making proper inquiries, viewing the Ariadne of Dannecker, which is held

in high estimation, as among the best modern sculpture. I am not well

all this time, and tormented by a cough that fatigues me greatly. We

have dined at the _table d’hôte_, which is thronged by English; and at

the hotel the waiters all speak English, and are cross if you speak

French, as they want to practise.

A bargain has been made this evening with a _voiturier_ to take us to

Schaffhausen for eleven napoleons. We were to stop a whole day at

Baden-Baden, and reach our destination on the seventh day after leaving

Frankfort.

LETTER III.

Darmstadt.—Heidelberg.—Carlsruhe.—Baden-Baden.

4TH JULY.

We set off from Frankfort, feeling as if we were making a fresh start,

and were about to traverse districts new and strange. The road we

pursued was perfectly flat, and presents an easy task for the

construction of the projected railway. To the right, a fertile plain

stretches for several miles to the Rhine; to the left, high hills hemmed

us in—by turns receding from, and advancing close to, the road. As usual

in this frontier part of Germany, the foldings of the uplands were

sprinkled by villages, with their spires; and the neighbouring heights

were crowned by ruined castles and towers, which ever add so much to the

interest of the scene. What lives did the ancient inhabitants of those

crumbling ruins lead! The occupation of the men was war; that of the

women, to hope, to fear, to pray, and to embroider. Very often, not

having enough of the first in the usual course of their existence, they

contrived a little more, which led to an extra quantity of the second

and third ingredients of their lives, and, in the end, to many a

grievous tragedy. Wayward human nature will rebel against mental sloth.

We must act, suffer, or enjoy; or the worst of all torments is ours—such

restless agony as old poets figured as befalling a living soul

imprisoned in the bark of a tree. We are not born to be cabbages. The

lady, waiting at home for her husband, either quaked for fear, or

relieved the tedium of protracted absence as she best might, too happy

if death or a dungeon were not the result. The young looked down from

the hills, and fancied that joy would meet them if ever they could

escape to countries beyond. Meanwhile, the peasant in the plain below

toiled, and had been far happier than his lord, but for the desolation

brought on him by the fierce wars, of which this region was perpetually

the theatre.

The peasant, at least, has gained by the change. Hard-worked, he

doubtless is; and, probably, poorly fed: but he is secure. We look round

for the mansions, which we expect should replace fortified castles, as

the abodes of the rich; but find none. It is strange; but, except in

Italy and England (and I am told, in parts of France, but in none I ever

traversed), the wealthy never seek to enjoy the delights which nature

affords; and country-houses, and parks, and gardens, are nowhere else to

be found.

We were somewhat annoyed, and much amused, at Darmstadt, where we

stopped for luncheon. The inn was good; but they were expecting the

Grand Duke of Baden: the whole of the private rooms were prepared for

him, and we were shut out from all, except the common eating-room—of

course, redolent of smoke. It was impossible not to laugh, however, at

the tokens every waiter gave that his head was turned by the expected

arrival—I use this expression literally, as well as figuratively; for,

as they unwillingly served us, still their heads were averted towards

the window, and frequently they rushed madly to gaze; and whatever

question we might ask, still their answer was—“The Grand Duke of Baden

is coming.”

Darmstadt looked, like most of the towns we traversed in this part of

Germany, clean and airy, with wide streets, and a large undecorated

building—the palace of the reigning prince; but all rather dull. The

road continued pleasant, and the mountainous district to our left became

more picturesque. Agreeable excursions might be made among the hills;

but we were bound right on, and could not indulge in extraneous rambles.

We turned in among the inclosing hills, as we approached Heidelberg. The

road lay on the right bank of the Neckar, and at every step the scenery

acquired new beauty. Heidelberg is on the left bank; to our right, that

is, as we advanced up the stream; and is situated on a sort of narrow

platform between the river and the hill on which the castle stands. The

town itself has a wholly different appearance from those we had recently

passed. It has an ancient, picturesque, inartificial look, more

consonant with our ideas of German romance. The best hotel was full; we

were transferred to the second, which was very tolerable. We went out to

walk by the river-side: the scene was tranquil and beautiful: the river

gave it life. The castellated hill crowned it with aristocratic dignity,

and the picturesque mountains around closed all in, giving an air of

repose, and yet of liberty; for mountains ever speak of the free step

and unshackled will of their inhabitants, and, at the same time, of

their limited desires and local attachments. Parties of students passed

down the streets; but all were quiet. There were numerous shops for

painted German pipes: these my companions visited, and made purchases.

SUNDAY, 5TH.

Before eight in the morning we were on the alert, that we might visit

the Castle before our departure. We walked up the hill: the way was not

long. The first aspect from the outer terraces, commanding a beautiful

view of the country around, and the ruined towers and walls of the

castle itself, all verdurous with ivy and other parasites, was

exceedingly pleasing. The woman, who showed us over the Castle, was,

without being pretty, very agreeable; with gentle, courteous, and yet

vivacious manners: she spoke English with a very pretty accent, and her

laugh was soft and joyous. It is always pleasant to meet, among the

uneducated classes, individuals with whom you lose all sense of

_caste_—who are instantly on a level with those deemed their superiors,

from mere force of engaging manners, intelligence, and apparent kindness

of heart. She took us to the ruins of the wing of the Castle built for

the Princess Elizabeth, daughter of our James I. She ought to have been

happy in so beautiful a place. From her castle windows, she looked on

her fertile and rich domains. Her habitation, whose situation was so

much favoured by nature, had been adorned by the hands of fond

affection; for her husband had not only built this wing for her comfort,

but, to welcome her on her arrival, had laid out a flower-garden in the

English style, the remains of which still bloom. But she wished to be a

queen; and, to gain the shadowy crown of Bohemia, she devoted the

beautiful Palatinate to desolation. Again, in Louis XIV.’s time, this

unfortunate province was laid waste by his orders, with a barbarity that

has cast an indelible stain on the reputation of that monarch, who was,

perhaps, the most heartless and destructive among modern kings. These

circumstances, and, in later times, an accidental fire, after which it

was never repaired, has reduced the castle to a mere ruin; but it is

thus one of the most beautiful, both in itself and for situation, in the

world. And now, on this summer day, we felt how happily we could spend

months at Heidelberg, to enjoy the pleasure of loitering, day after day,

beneath these weed-grown walls, and in the surrounding grounds. The

_façade_ of the Hall of Knights, which was built by an Italian

architect, charms the eye by its exquisite finish and perfect

proportions. We saw also, of course, the famous tun, and the wax figure

of the celebrated dwarf.

On we went from Heidelberg. Our route was altogether pleasant. The road

preserved the same characteristics. I should say, that this part of

Germany was peculiarly agreeable to the mere passing traveller. The

towns have the appearance of health, comfort, and cleanliness. The

manners of the people with whom we had to deal, was courteous and

pleasing: many of the women we thought pretty. The custom of smoking is

a drawback; but some annoyance is necessary, for the culture of

toleration and patience in a traveller.

Carlsruhe, where we slept on the night after leaving Heidelberg, has

spacious streets, and some good-looking public buildings. However, we

saw them only from the windows of the inn, for it rained hard all the

evening.

MONDAY, 6TH.

About noon, we turned off from the main road, and bending in among the

green hills, without ascending any, reached Baden-Baden, which lies

picturesquely yet snugly in the valley, on the banks of the Oes—a mere

mountain torrent, it is true, but the “sweet inland murmur” of such is

ever grateful to the ear. It looked a cheerful, and even a gay place;

yet I feel that I could steal away from the throng, and find solitude at

will on the mountain tops or amidst their woody ravines. A wish has come

over me to remain here: this sounds strangely, considering my yearning

after Italy. How seldom do human wishes flow smoothly towards their

object; for a while they may steal imperceptibly on, unstopped, though

often checked; winding round, or perseveringly surmounting impediments.

Or obstacles still more mighty present themselves, and then our wishes

gather power;—they swell, and dash down all impediments, and take an

impetuous course. But when all is smooth and free for their

accomplishment, then they shrink and are frightened, as (to make a grand

similitude) the Gauls did when the open gates and silent walls of Rome

offered no opposition to their entrance. We fear treachery on the part

of fate; and objections, overlooked in the hurry of desire, present

themselves during the peace of easy attainment. With regard to the

feelings that hold my wishes in check when I think of Italy,—these are

all founded on fear. Those I loved had died there—would it again prove

fatal, and do I only please my fancy to destroy my last hope? We are

bound for the lake of Como, a place of sad renown for wreck and danger;

and my son’s passion for the water is the inducement that leads him to

fix on it for his visit. What wonder that I, of all people, looking on

the peaceful valley of Baden-Baden, with its mountain torrent that would

not sail a paper boat, wistfully incline to stay here and be safe. But

that which forms, in this sort of back-current manner, its attraction to

me, renders it devoid of any to my companions: besides, study and

solitude is their aim.

We dined at the _table d’hôte_; and a most tiresome and even disgusting

mode of satisfying the appetite we found it. The company was

disagreeably numerous; the noise stunning; and the food, to our

un-Germanised tastes, very uninviting. We were amused, however, by our

neighbours—three persons—a German, his sister, and his affianced bride,

whom he is to marry to-morrow. She was pretty—he was ugly; but she saw

him with the eyes of love, and very much in love they were, which they

took no trouble to conceal, looking at each other as Adam and Eve might

have done when no other human creature existed to observe them.

Meanwhile, a number of little sins against the rules of well-bred

behaviour at a dinner-table gave a very ludicrous turn to their

overflowing sentiment.

In the evening we visited the _salon_, and looked in on the

gamblers—often a dangerous spectacle. The _Rouge-et-Noir_ table was

densely surrounded; and gold or silver was perpetually staked, but

never, as far as I could observe, to any great amount—four napoleons at

a time being the most I saw placed on a colour, and that but once or

twice—generally one gold piece or five francs. I believe serious play is

reserved for a later hour of the night. I saw no signs of despair; but

all looked serious,—some anxious. The floor was strewed with cards,

pricked for numbers. One man I stood near, calculated very carefully,

and generally won. Once, when he felt very sure, he staked four

napoleons and was successful. He stowed his gains in a purse, which

looked gradually but surely filling. The _Rouge-et-Noir_ table was open

all day; the roulette table, in another room, only in the evening—it was

thinly attended. The multiplication of your stake at this game, if you

are lucky, is attractive; but the chances are known to be so much in

favour of the bank, that people are shy of it. _Rouge-et-Noir_, they

say, is the fairest game of any; though, in that, the bank has

advantages, which, unless under very excessive failure of luck, secures

its being largely a gainer, and the players, of course in a mass,

certain losers: thus, the players, in fact, play against each other, and

the bank has a large premium on their stakes, which renders it for its

holders a lucrative investment of money.

TUESDAY, 7TH.

We spent this day at Baden-Baden. In the morning I took a bath; the

water was exceedingly refreshing and pleasant, but the bathing rooms and

baths themselves are small, without accommodation, altogether got up in

an inferior and dirty-looking style. We have rambled among the hills;

looked on the gamblers: the _Rouge-et-Noir_ went on all day. I now

betake myself to writing letters. There is to be a dance in the evening

and a concert; the place seemed quietly gay, and there are some

well-dressed people. I should think, with the aid of ponies to explore

the surrounding country, one might spend a few months here, pleasantly.

But the circumstance that always strikes me as strange is the manner in

which the visitors always seem tied to the spot where they roost, as if

they were fowls with a trellis before their feeding yard. It is true

that they visit the _lions_ of the place now and then; but, really, to

wander, and ramble, and discover new scenes does not form a portion of

their amusements; and yet this is the only real one to be found in such

a place.

LETTER IV.

Offenberg.—Ettenheim.—Freyberg.—The Höllenthal—The Black Forest.—Arrive

at Schaffhausen.

WEDNESDAY, 8TH.

We left Baden-Baden a little before seven. The scenery had exactly the

same character—level to the right, to which indeed was now added a view

of distant high mountains; on the left, wooded hills; often picturesque

with peak or precipice crowned by ruined castles. We dined at Offenberg,

at the inn, “La Fortune,”—a very excellent one—where we had a good

dinner; the host had lived in England, and now frequently exported wine

thither. He showed us a book containing the names of his English

customers, and took my companions into his cellars, to taste his

vintage. He was a jovial, good-humoured man.[2]

Before dinner at Offenberg, we had walked towards a ruin on the hills,

but had not time to reach it; it was picturesque, and continued long to

grace the landscape as we proceeded along the plain; for the peculiarity

of this route from Franckfort to Freyberg is, that you never ascend in

the least, though the hills, wild and romantic, are so near at hand. For

several miles from the Rhine, there is a plain flat as the Maremma of

Italy, and in that country might be as unhealthy.

I have not yet spoken of our carriage and _voiturier_. The former was

roomy and commodious enough, a sort of covered _calèche_; it could have

been thrown quite open but that the roof was encumbered by our luggage.

During all this time, the weather, though dry, was by no means hot: it

was, in fact, very agreeable weather for travelling. Our driver was

quiet, civil enough, and the horses went well; our want of German

prevented our knowing much about him. This evening we had expected to

reach Freyberg, but he stopped at a road-side inn of bad promise, and no

better execution. He could not be persuaded to go on; the evening was

fine, the hour early; it was very provoking. I forget the name of the

place; indeed, the inn was a solitary house: however, it was near

Ettenheim, whither we walked, and which looked a cheerful small town,

and has the sad celebrity of being the place at which the Duke d’Enghien

was seized, whose fate was one of three crimes which cast a dark stain

on Napoleon’s name. The others were—first, the miserable death of

Toussaint l’Ouverture; second, the execution of Hoffer. The sun set

cheerfully on a pleasant landscape; we returned to our dreary inn;—it

was the first bad accommodation we had encountered on our way.

THURSDAY, 9TH.

Proceeding along the same style of country, we arrived in the middle of

the day at Freyberg, where we dined. This was not one of the regular,

formal, white-looking, modern German towns; it was antique, irregular,

picturesque. We visited its Cathedral; it is celebrated for its great

beauty: it is Gothic, and the tower, and spire that surmounts it, are of

the most exquisite tracery and finish. We were accompanied by a _valet

de place_, who had lived in a nobleman’s family in England, and spoke

English tolerably. His claims were high to the knowledge of our

language; he had not only written an English description of the

Cathedral of Freyberg in prose, but an English poem descriptive of the

route we were about to pursue through the Höllenthal and Swartzwald,

_anglicè_ Valley of Hell, and Black Forest. The poem is in heroic

measure, rhymed, meant to be in the style of Pope’s didactic poems. It

is a curious specimen of the sort of mistakes a foreigner may make in a

language which he otherwise understands very tolerably: the accents on

the syllables are nearly all misplaced, and the words used with

erroneous significations; but, make allowance for these defects, and it

reads smoothly enough.

The name of the Black Forest alone awakens the imagination. I own I like

to give myself up to the ideas excited by antique names, and by the

associations that give it vitality. Through the Swartzwald poured the

multitudinous Germans on their way to Helvetia—and the Roman legions

penetrated its depths by dint of intense labour and perseverance. The

Black Forest of the middle ages is peopled by shadows, still more grim

and fearful: the charcoal burners were a race, savage, solitary, and to

be feared: and, till quite lately, the name conjured up robbers,

cut-throat inns, and the worst ills to which travellers are liable. We

were to reach this wide track of evil renown through the pass of the

Höllenthal, or Valley of Hell. The Germans know how to give the glory of

spirit-stirring names to their valleys and their forests, very different

from the Little Woman, or Muddy Creek, of America. The pass itself

perhaps deserved its title better in times gone by:—as we passed through

it on this calm and sunny summer evening, there was nothing frightful or

tremendous, but all that is verdant and lovely. The Höllenthal is indeed

a narrow ravine shut in by hills, not very high, but rocky and abrupt,

and clothed in the rich foliage of majestic trees. In parts the ravine

closes in so as to leave only room for the road between the precipice

and the mountain river, the Dreisam, which now steals murmuring between

its turf-clad banks, and now roars and dashes in a rocky bed. Jagged

pinnacles and bare crags overhang the road; around it are strewn

gigantic masses of fallen rock, but all are clothed with luxuriant

vegetation, and adorned by noble woods. We caught points of view to

charm a painter, and others almost beyond the reach of imitative art,

that might well entice the traveller to linger on his way. The pass

opened as we ascended it, and became wilder in its character. We

remained the night at the Stern, a tolerable inn, placed amidst abrupt

crags, a brawling torrent, and dark forest land.

FRIDAY, 10TH.

We ascended out of the Höllenthal into the wilder region of the

Swartzwald. The tract, so named, extends over several hundred miles; but

is no longer the dark, impervious forest of olden time. Nearly half of

it is cleared, and the clearings have become farms, and pretty villages

are scattered here and there in the open uplands. There is nothing

gloomy, nor what is commonly deemed romantic, in the scenery, but it is

peculiar. The clearings have been made in patches, and the road

alternates between cultivated fields, with a view of dark pines

stretching away in the distance; and, amidst these straight high trees

of the forest, where the axe of the woodcutter frequently breaks upon

the ear. On the highest part of this mountainous district is a tarn or

lake, named Titi-See, which our poet celebrates; and informs us, in a

note, that from this spot, on a fine morning, we might catch a glimpse

of the distant Alps, and see “the mountains unroll themselves in a

convulsive manner.” Our morning was cloudy, and we were balked of this

curious spectacle. We breakfasted at Lenzkirch, in great comfort; and

heard the while some fine German music played by a self-acting

instrument, for the manufacture of which this part of the country is

celebrated. We were told that the women of the Swartzwald were famous

for their beauty, so I wandered about the pleasant looking village in

search of pretty girls; for beauty, in the human form, is a divine gift,

and to see it is delightful: it increases our respect for our species,

and also our love—but I saw none. The peasantry, we are told, are a

hardworking, independent, manly race; but they are dirty in their

appearance, and by no means attractive.

We dined at Stuhlingen in a new-built inn, kept by a man of high

pretensions, and had the nastiest dinner, and the most uncomfortably

served, we had encountered in our travels. However, young lady’s fare of

good bread and butter is always to be found in Germany; and with that,

and our stock-dish of fried potatoes and German wine, we always did very

well. We have had a long day’s journey, and evening was advanced when we

descended on the valley of the Rhine, a blue mountain river, brawling

and foaming among rocks. We entered Schaffhausen at last; and the

horses, with much ado, ascended its steep streets. Here we bade adieu to

our _voiturier_, a quiet fellow, not over-sullen for a German of that

class, who performed his engagement very faithfully, and from whom we

parted without any regret; a little glad, indeed, as foolish human

beings always are when they get rid of a king Log; being prone, in the

hope of doing better, to forget that they may do worse.

LETTER V.

The Rhine.—Zurich.—Journey to Coire.—Via Mala.—The

Splugen.—Chiavenna.—Colico.—The Steamboat on the Lake of Como to

Cadenabbia.

CADENABBIA, ON THE LAKE OF COMO.

Our journey has reached its termination; but this letter will tell

nothing of our present prospects and intentions, for truly they are as

yet obscure and unformed: it will but conclude the history of our

journey.

The inn at Schaffhausen is large and good, without being first-rate. We

engaged a _voiturier_ to take us the next day to Zurich, and bargained

to visit the Falls of the Rhine on our way. We wished to reach them by

water, as the best approach; but Murray had by a misprint in his

Hand-book put seventeen francs instead of seventeen batz, as the price

asked for a boat; and as we, as you well know, are perforce economical

travellers, we demurred. This misapprehension being set right by the

very civil master of the hotel, we engaged a boat, and the carriage was

to meet us at the Falls. We embarked in a rough canoe; a man held an oar

at the stern, and a woman one at the prow. We sped speedily down the

rapid river, and at one point a little apprehension of danger, just

enough to make the heart beat, was excited. We approached the Falls, we

were hurrying towards the ledge of rocks; it seemed as if we must go

right on, when, by a dexterous use of the oars, we found ourselves with

one stroke in the calm water of a little cove; the moment was just

agreeably fearful; and at the crisis, an eagle had soared majestically

above our heads. It is always satisfactory to get a picturesque adjunct

or two to add interest when, with toil and time, one has reached a

picturesque spot.

The cottage built to let out the Falls as a show is the contrary of all

this; but it has some advantages. You see the sight from various points

of view, being first on a level with the upper portion of the river, and

by degrees, as you descend to other windows and balconies, reach the

level of the lower part. The falls of Terni is the finest cataract I

have seen: I believe it to be the grandest in Europe; but it is

altogether of a different character from the falls of the Rhine. The

waters of the Velino are contracted into a narrow channel, and fall in

one stream down a deep precipice. The falls of the Rhine are broken into

many, and are spread wide across the whole breadth of the river; their

descent is never so great, but they are varied by many rocks, which they

clothe fantastically with transparent waves, or airy spray.

What words can express—for indeed, for many ideas and emotions there are

no words—the feelings excited by the tumult, the uproar and matchless

beauty of a cataract, with its eternal, ever-changing veil of misty

spray? The knowledge of its ceaseless flow; there, before we were born;

there, to be after countless generations have passed away; the sense of

its power, that would dash us to atoms without altering the tenor of its

way, which gives a shiver to the frame even while we gaze in security

from its verge; the radiance of its colouring, the melody of its

thunder—can these words convey the impression which the mind receives,

while the eye and ear seem all too limited in their powers of

perception? No! for as painting cannot picture forth motion, so words

are incapable of expressing commotion in the soul. It stirs, like

passion, the very depths of our being; like love allied to ruin, yet

happy in possession, it fills the soul with mingled agitation and calm.

A portion of the cataract arches over the lowest platform, and the spray

fell thickly on us, as standing on it and looking up, we saw wave, and

rock, and cloud, and the clear heavens through its glittering

ever-moving veil. This was a new sight, exceeding anything I had ever

before seen; however, not to be wet through, I was obliged quickly to

tear myself away.

We crossed the river in a boat, and saw the Falls from the other

side—the spot best adapted to painting—and whence the views are

generally taken. The carriage met us here, and we rolled along towards

Zurich. At first our road was the same as that which we had taken to

arrive at Schaffhausen: “We are going back,” cried one; “this won’t

do—we must not go back to Höllenthal,” which might be taken as a pun, at

least we laughed at it as such. But we soon turned aside. We dined at a

pleasant country sort of inn; the scenery was varied and agreeable,

though without any approach to magnificence; our pace was very slow, and

we became very tired, but at last arrived at Zurich.

Some very good hotels had been lately built and opened at Zurich. I

believe the Hôtel des Bergues, at Geneva, is the model, as it is the

best of these Swiss hotels, where every thing is arranged with

cleanliness, order, and comfort, surpassing most English inns. To the

door of each room was affixed a tariff of prices, moderate for such good

hotel accommodation, though not cheap as lodgings for any length of

time; but the certainty of the prices, the fixed one franc a day, per

head, for attendance, the extreme cleanliness and order, makes them very

agreeable.[3]

We went to the Hôtel du Lac. From our balcony we looked out on the lake

of Zurich. This lake is not so extensive nor majestic as that of Geneva,

with its background of the highest Alps; nor as picturesque and sublime

as Lucerne, with its dark lofty precipices and verdant isles; but it is

a beautiful lake, with a view of high mountains not very distant, and

its immediate banks are well cultivated, and graced by many

country-houses. After dinner, I went out in a boat with P——, by

ourselves; he rowed in the style of the natives, pushing forward, and

crossing the oars as they were pulled back;—we crossed the lake, which

is not wide at this point, and returned again by moonlight.

We had become tired of our slow _voiturier_ style of proceeding, and

were seized by a desire to get on. So we took our places in the

_diligence_ for Coire, determined to arrive at the end of our journey as

soon as might be.

SUNDAY, 12TH.

The _diligence_ was neither clean nor comfortable; we ought to have gone

to the end of the lake by the steamboat. The carriage-road runs at a

very little distance from the water’s edge. Half way on the lake is the

longest bridge in the world. A bridge across a lake is less liable to be

carried away, I suppose, by storms and the swelling of the waters, than

over a river, but it ceases to be the picturesque spanning arch that

adds such beauty to a landscape; it becomes a mere long low pier. At the

end of the lake we took into the _diligence_ a number of passengers, who

had come so far by the steamboat. Our road lay through a valley

surrounded by immense mountains, which became higher, closer, and more

precipitous as we advanced through the plain at their foot. At one time

it seemed as if we must be quite shut in, and then, just as we reached

the very extremity of the valley, another lake opened on us—the lake of

Wallenstadt, so surrounded by precipitous mountains, that it had been

impossible to construct a road round it; but blessings on steam—a

traveller’s blessing, who loves to roam far and free, we embarked in a

steamboat, and in an hour arrived at the other end of the lake. The lake

of Wallenstadt, surrounded by its high precipitous mountains, is gloomy;

indeed, all the region we now travelled was marked by a vastness allied

to dreariness, rather than to the majesty of picturesque beauty. Leaving

the lake we proceeded along the valley of the Rhine; vast mountain

barriers arose on each side, and in the midst was a flat valley,

frequently overflowed, with the Rhine in the midst, struggling through a

marshy bed. There was something dreary in it; but if the traveller

approaches those mountains, and turns aside into their ravines, they

instantly disclose scenes graced by all the beauty of Alpine

magnificence. I much regretted not visiting the baths of Pfeflers, which

I heard to be particularly worth seeing, and only a few miles distant.

At about nine o’clock in the evening we arrived very much fatigued at

Coire. Before leaving the diligence-office we secured our places for the

following day to Chiavenna. To my great delight I found Italian spoken

here. French does not penetrate into these parts; English, if ever

found, is a mere exotic, nurtured in particular spots; German, we had

none; so now to be able to inquire, and learn, and arrange with

facility, was very agreeable. “You _do_ speak Italian!” exclaimed one of

my companions in accents of surprise and pleasure;—so many difficulties

in the future disappeared under this conviction. I certainly did speak

Italian: it had been strange if I did not; not that I could boast of any

extraordinary facility of conversation or elegance of diction, but mine

was a peculiarly useful Italian; from having lived long in the country,

all its household terms were familiar to me; and I remembered the time

when it was more natural to me to speak to common people in that

language than in my own. I now easily settled for our places; and we

repaired to the inn to supper and to bed—we were to set out early in the

morning.

MONDAY, 13TH.

At five in the morning we were in the yard of the diligence-office. We

were in high spirits—for that night we should sleep in Italy. The

_diligence_ was a very comfortable one; there were few other passengers,

and those were of a respectable class. We still continued along the

valley of the Rhine, and at length entered the pass of the Via Mala,

where we alighted to walk. It is here that the giant wall of the Alps

shuts out the Swiss from Italy. Before the Alp itself (the Splugen) is

reached, another huge mountain rises to divide the countries. A few

years ago, there was no path except across this mountain, which being

very exposed, and difficult even to danger, the Splugen was only

traversed by shepherds and travellers of the country on mules or on

foot. But now, a new and most marvellous road has been constructed—the

mountain in question is, to the extent of several miles, cleft from the

summit to the base, and a sheer precipice of 4000 feet rises on either

side. The Rhine, swift and strong, but in width a span, flows in the

narrow depth below. The road has been constructed on the face of the

precipice, now cut into the side, now perforated through the living rock

into galleries: it passes, at intervals, from one side of the ravine to

the other, and bridges of a single arch span the chasm. The precipices,

indeed, approach so near, in parts, that a fallen tree could not reach

the river below, but lay wedged in midway. It may be imagined how

singular and sublime this pass is, in its naked simplicity. After

proceeding about a mile, you look back and see the country you had left,

through the narrow opening of the gigantic crags, set like a painting in

this cloud-reaching frame. It is giddy work to look down over the

parapet that protects the road, and mark the arrowy rushing of the

imprisoned river. Midway in the pass, the precipices approach so near

that you might fancy that a strong man could leap across. This was the

region visited by storm, flood, and desolation in 1834. The Rhine had

risen several hundred feet, and, aided by the torrents from the

mountains, had torn up the road, swept away a bridge, and laid waste the

whole region. An English traveller, then on his road to Chiavenna,

relates that he traversed the chasm on a rotten uneven plank, and found

but few inches remaining of the road overhanging the river.[4] It was an

awful invasion of one element on another. The whole road to Chiavenna

was broken up, and the face of the mountain so changed that, when

reconstructed, the direction of the route was in many places entirely

altered. The region of these changes was pointed out to us; but no

discernible traces remained of where the road had been. All here was

devastation—the giant ruins of a primæval world; and the puny remnants

of man’s handiwork were utterly obliterated. Puny, however, as our

operations are, when Nature decrees by one effort that they should cease

to exist, while she reposes they may be regarded proudly, and

commodiously traversed by the ant-like insects that make it their path.

We dined at the village of Splugen. It was cold, and we had a fire. Here

we dropped all our fellow-travellers,—some were going over the St.

Bernardin,—and proceeded very comfortably alone. It was a dreary-looking

mountain that we had to cross, by zigzags, at first long, and

diminishing as we ascended; the day, too, was drear; and we were

immersed in a snow-storm towards the summit. Naked and sublime, the

mountain stretched out around; and dim mists, chilling blasts, and

driving snow added to its grandeur. We reached the dogana at the top;

and here our things were examined.

The custom-house officer was very civil—complained of his station, where

it always rained—at that moment it was raining—and, having caused the

lids of one or two trunks to be lifted, they were closed again, and the

ceremony was over. More time, however, was consumed in signing passports

and papers; and then we set off down hill, swiftly and merrily, with two

horses—the leaders being unharnessed and trotting down gravely after us,

without any one to lead or drive them.

All Italian travellers know what it is, after toiling up the bleak,

bare, northern, Swiss side of an Alp, to descend towards ever-vernal

Italy. The rhododendron, in thick bushes, in full bloom, first adorned

the mountain sides; then, pine forests; then, chesnut groves; the

mountain was cleft into woody ravines; the waterfalls scattered their

spray and their gracious melody; flowery and green, and clothed in

radiance, and gifted with plenty, Italy opened upon us. Thus,—and be not

shocked at the illustration, for it is all God’s creation,—after dreary

old age and the sickening pass of death, does the saint open his eyes on

Paradise. Chiavenna is situated in a fertile valley at the foot of the

Splugen—it is glowing in rich and sunny vegetation. The inn is good; but

the rooms were large and somewhat dreary. So near our bourne, low

spirits crept over some of us, I know not why. To me, indeed, there was

something even thrilling and affecting in the aspect of the commonest

objects around. Every traveller can tell you how each country bears a

distinctive mark in the mere setting out of the room of an inn, which

would enable a man who had visited it before, if, transported by magic,

he opened his eyes in the morning in a strange bed, to know to what

country he had been removed. Window-curtains, the very wash-hand stands,

they were all such as had been familiar to me in Italy long, long ago. I

had not seen them since those young and happy days. Strange and

indescribable emotions invaded me; recollections, long forgotten, arose

fresh and strong by mere force of association, produced by those objects

being presented to my eye, inspiring a mixture of pleasure and pain,

almost amounting to agony.

TUESDAY, 14TH.

This morning, we were to proceed to Colico, at the head of the lake of

Como, there to embark on board the steamer. We engaged a _voiture_,

which cost more than we had hoped or expected. We drove through a

desolate region,—huge, precipitous, bare Alps on either side,—in the

midst, a marshy plain. The road is good, but difficult to keep up. The

Adda flows into the lake, over a wide rock-strewn bed, broken into many

channels. It is a mountain torrent, perpetually swollen by rain and snow

into a cataract that breaks down all obstacles, and tears away the road.

We arrived at Colico two hours too early. The inn was uninviting: we did

not enter it. We tried to amuse ourselves by strolling about on the

shore of the lake. The air was bleak and cold; now and then it

threatened rain. At length, welcome signal of release, the steamer,

appeared; another hour had yet to pass while it crossed over to us, and

we were on board.

Our plan, formed from the experience of others, had been to take up our

quarters at Bellaggio—look at a map, and you will see the situation. The

Lake of Como is long, and, in proportion, narrow. About midway between

Colico and the town of Como, in its widest part, it is divided into two

lakes—one taking a more eastern course to Lecco; the other, to Como. On

the narrow, rocky promontory that divides these two branches, looking

towards the north, Bellaggio is situated. The steamer, however, did not

stop there, but on the opposite shore, Cadenabbia, which looked

southward, and commanded a view of Bellaggio and the mountains beyond,

surmounting Varenna. We were landed at the Grande Albergo di Cadenabbia.

A tall, slight, rather good-looking, fair-moustached master of the inn,

welcomed us with a flourish. And here we are.

Strange to say, there is discontent among us. The weather is dreary, the

lake tempest-tossed; and, stranger still, we are tired of mountains. I,

who think a flat country insupportable, yet wish for lower hills, and a

view of a wider expanse of sky: the eye longs for space. I remembered

once how the sense of sight had felt relieved when I exchanged the

narrow ravine, in which the Baths of Lucca are placed, for the view over

the plains of Lombardy, commanded from our villa among the Euganean

hills. But it was not this alone that made us sad and discontented. This

feeling frequently assails travellers when their journey has come to a

temporary close; and that close is not _home_. It will disappear

to-morrow. Meanwhile, to relieve my thoughts from painful impressions, I

have written this letter. And now, it is night; the sky is dark; the

waves still lash the shore. I pray that no ruin, arising from that fatal

element, may befal me here; and I say good-night to you—to myself—to the

world.—Farewell.

LETTER VI.

Albergo Grande della Cadenabbia.—The Brothers Brentani.—The view from

our windows.—The Madman.—Arrival of the boat.

CADENABBIA, JULY 17TH.

The morning after our arrival we began to consider where and how we

should live for the next two months. Two of my companions went by the

steamer to Como, for money; and I remained with the other, to arrange

our future plans. We at once decided not to remove to Bellaggio, but to

remain on this side of the Lake. One chief motive is, that the steamer

stops each day at Cadenabbia; and our communication with the world is,

therefore, regular and facile. We looked for lodgings in the

neighbouring village of Tremezzo, and found several, not bad, nor very

dear; though rather more so than we expected. But this was not our

difficulty. There were five of us, including my maid, to be provided

for. We must have food: we must have a cook. I knew that, in a strange

place, it requires at least a month, and even more, to get into its

ways, and to obviate a little the liabilities to being cheated. But we

are only going to stay six weeks or two months; and the annoyance

attendant on my initiation into housekeeping will scarcely be ended

before my acquired knowledge will have become useless. The host of the

inn declared we must have everything from his house, or, by steamboat,

from Como: he insinuated we should be better off at his hotel. At first,

we turned a deaf ear; then we listened; then we discussed: in brief, we

finally settled to remain at the Albergo Grande. We have one large

_salon_; four small bedrooms contiguous, for three of us and my maid,

and one up stairs: we are provided with breakfast, dinner, and tea; the

whole (rooms included) for seven francs a-head for the masters, four for

the servant. This was reasonable enough; and we agreed for a month, on

these terms. Thus I am delivered from all household cares; which

otherwise, in our position, might prove harassing enough.

These arrangements being quickly made, our manner of life has fallen at

once into a regular train. All the morning, our students are at work. I

have selected a nook of the _salon_, where I have established my

embroidery-frame, books, and desk. I mean to read a great deal of

Italian; as I have ever found it pleasant to embue oneself with the

language and literature of the country in which one is residing. Reading

much Italian, one learns almost to think in that language, and to

converse more freely. At twelve, the steamer arrives from Como; which is

the great event of our day. At two, we dine; but it is five, usually,

before the sun permits us to go out. During his visit to Como, P—— went

over to the neighbouring village of Caratte, where lives a boat-builder,

who studied his trade at Venice. All the boats of the country are

flat-bottomed. P—— has selected one with a keel, which he is now

impatiently expecting.

Descriptions with difficulty convey definite impressions, and any

picture or print of our part of the lake will better than my words

describe the scenery around us. The Albergo Grande della Cadenabbia is

built at the foot of mountains, close to the water. In front of the

house there is a good bridle-road, which extends to each extremity of

the lake. One door of the house opens on an avenue of acacias, which

skirts the water, and leads to the side-gate of the Villa Sommariva.

Continuing the road towards Como, we come to the villages of Tremezzo

and Bolvedro, with frequent villas interspersed, their terraced gardens

climbing the mountain’s side. In the opposite direction towards Colico,

we have the village of Cadenabbia itself, with a silk mill: but after

that, the road, until we reach the town of Menaggio, is more solitary.

In parts, the path runs close upon the lake, with only a sort of beach

intervening, sprinkled with fragments of rock and shadowed by

olive-trees. Menaggio is three miles distant; it is the largest town in

our vicinity, and properly our post-town, though our letters are usually

directed to Como, and a boatman fetches them and posts ours, three times

a week, with great fidelity.

High mountains rise behind, their lower terraces bearing olives, vines,

and Indian corn; midway clothed by chesnut woods; bare, rugged, sublime,

at their summits. The waters of the lake are spread before; the

villa-studded promontory of Bellaggio being immediately opposite, and

further off the shores of the other branch of the lake, with the town of

Varenna, sheltered by gigantic mountains. Highest among them is the

Resegone, so frequently mentioned by Manzoni in the Promessi Sposi, with

its summit jagged like a saw. Indeed, all these Alps are in shape more

abrupt and fantastic than any I ever saw.

I wish I could by my imperfect words bring before you not only the

grander features, but every minute peculiarity, every varying hue, of

this matchless scene. The progress of each day brings with it its

appropriate change. When I rise in the morning and look out, our own

side is bathed in sunshine, and we see the opposite mountains raising

their black masses in sharp relief against the eastern sky, while dark

shadows are flung by the abrupt precipices on the fair lake beneath.

This very scene glows in sunshine later in the day, till at evening the

shadows climb up, first darkening the banks, and slowly ascending till

they leave exposed the naked summits alone, which are long gladdened by

the golden radiance of the sinking sun, till the bright rays disappear,

and, cold and gray, the granite peaks stand pointing to the stars, which

one by one gather above.

Here then we are in peace, with a feeling of being settled for a year,

instead of two months. The inn is kept by the brothers Brentani, who

form a sort of patriarchal family. There is, in the first place, an old

mother, who evidently possesses great sway in the family, and a loud

voice, but with whom we have nothing to do, except to return her

salutation when we meet. The eldest brother, Giovanni, a tall stout man,

attends to the accounts. He is married. Peppina, his wife, is of good

parentage, but being left an orphan in childhood, lost her all through

the rascality of guardians during the troubled times of Napoleon’s wars

and downfall. She waits on us; she is hardworking, good-humoured, and

endowed with all the innate courtesy which forms, together with their

simplicity of manner, the charm of the Italians. Luigi, the next

brother, who welcomed us from the steamboat, is put forward to do the

honours, as the beau of the establishment. He has all the airs of one,

when each day he goes to receive guests from the steamer, with his

white, low-crowned hat, and velvet jacket, his slim figure, and light

mustachios; he waits on us also. Then there is Battista, who acts as

cook: Bernardo, who seems as a sort of under-waiter: and Paolo, or

Piccol, as he is usually called, to his great disdain, a handsome lad,

who runs about, and does everything: these are all brothers. There is a

woman besides, to clean rooms, and a scullion or two: all the family

work hard. Poor Battista says his only ambition is to get a good-night’s

sleep; he is up early and down late, has grown infinitely thin upon it.

Bernardo nourishes the ambition of going to England—the frequent resort

of the natives of the lake of Como—and try, as others of the villages

about had done, to make a fortune. My young companions are great pets in

the house. You can be on excellent terms with this class of people in

Italy without their ever forgetting themselves: there is no

intrusiveness, no improper familiarity, but perfect ease joined to

respect and ready service. For the rest, they of course are not

particularly addicted to truth, and may perhaps cheat if strongly

tempted, and, I dare say, their morals are not quite correct. But in all

their doings, as yet, they keep their compact with us faithfully, taking

extreme pains to serve us to our liking; far from having the slightest

cause of complaint, we have every reason to praise.

SUNDAY, 19TH.

We begin to feel settled, but to-day a strange and disagreeable incident

occurred. Peppina came in with wild looks, to say that a madman—an

Englishman—had arrived by the steamer, and was frightening everybody

with a pistol.

It seems that two gentlemen had landed from the steamer, and had

proceeded, as was the wont of visitors, to the Villa Sommariva, to look

over it. One was an Italian, the other an Englishman, who spoke Italian

perfectly. Suddenly, as they reached the gate of the Villa which opened

on the road, the Englishman said to the Italian, “Are you not afraid of

being set upon? Are you not afraid of being assassinated?” The other,

who had come from Milan with him, and was not otherwise acquainted, and

had no idea of his malady, replied, “No, why should he?” “Do you not

know that we are watched, and there is treachery everywhere about us?”

“No,” said the other, “and if there were, you have as much cause to be

frightened as I.” “But I am armed,” said the madman, “this is loaded,”

and he drew a pistol from his pocket, and still more excited by the

sight of the weapon, began to shriek “Tradimento! Tradimento! Alla Villa

Sommariva! Tradimento!” His companion, frightened enough, ran off and

alarmed the inn and village, and as Englishmen, my companions were

summoned to see if they could do anything with their countryman.

There he stood on the steps before the gate of the villa leading down to

the lake, shrieking “Tradimento;” he kept every one at bay with his

pistol, which was cocked, capped, and ready. Some people from across the

lake tried to land at the steps to visit the villa, but he soon made

them row away; the inhabitants around all flocked, hiding behind trees

and peeping from coverts. He was well content to talk or to be spoken to

in Italian or English, but no one must approach; and his position,

standing on a semicircular flight of steps leading down to the lake, was

sufficiently impregnable: it gave him the whole command of the road in

front, and no one could outflank, or come behind him. After three or

four hours, however, he grew less watchful. As the people talked to him,

he allowed them insensibly to approach nearer, till one fellow getting

behind, threw up his arm with the pistol, and then throwing his arms

round him, took him prisoner. His pistol was double-loaded. But with all

his madness he was aware, that if he had fired it, his power was at an

end; and this latent sanity saved, perhaps, a life.

He was brought to the hotel, and a dismal day my friends have passed

watching over him. Poor fellow! he is quite mad. He had given English

lessons at Milan for some years, and earned a sufficient livelihood. His

insanity has taken the turn of believing, that the Austrian police want

to poison him. He said he never went to the theatre but a police officer

was behind, who scattered a poisonous powder over him. He will not take

any food in consequence; neither touch bread nor water. My maid took him

a cup of tea made by herself, and, to her great indignation, he refused

it, as poisoned. He tried to escape several times. First, he made

friends with his countrymen; but when he found that they watched him, he

turned to the Italians, calling us, according to the phrase of the

country, “non Cristiani,” and begging them to save him. He had sixteen

napoleons with him. It seems that the doctor who attended him (he was

without relations or English friends) had advised him to go to England,

had put him into the _diligence_ for Como, introducing him to a Milanese

in the vehicle, without mentioning his malady, and thus he was delivered

over to the miserable wanderings of his mind. A doctor had been sent for

from Menaggio at the first moment; of course, he could do nothing. With

difficulty he was induced to go to bed; he was thoroughly persuaded he

should be murdered in the night, and his expostulations on the subject

were shocking and ghastly enough. The next morning, having taken an

aversion to all those with whom he had been friendly the preceding day,

he consented to go back to Milan, under the escort of a police officer.

I saw him as he got into the boat; he was a spare man, with an adust,

withered face and unquiet eye; but not otherwise remarkable. We heard

that at Como he selected a pear from the bottom of a basket in the

market place, and ate it; it was the first food that had passed his lips

since he left Milan, two days before.

TUESDAY, 21ST.

In our hotel are an English gentleman and lady, with whom the adventure

of the madman brought us acquainted. Mr. and Mrs. F—— had been spending

the last two years in Italy; they are passed middle life: he is a

scholar and a gentlemanly man; he has printed a volume of poetry, and

aims at connoisseurship in pictures. She appears one of those dear,

gentle, sensible, warm-hearted women, the salt of the earth. Her

acquaintance, alone as I am with my son, and his youthful friends,

promises to be a great resource to me.

This evening P——’s little boat has come; small, indeed, it is. In shape

it is something of a sea boat, and it has a keel, and a tiny sail; but

it is too small to convey a feeling of safety. I look at it and shudder.

I can bring no help, except constant watchfulness; and many an anxious

hour it will cause me to pass. Do not call me a grumbler. A tragedy has

darkened my life: I endeavour, in vain, to cast aside the fears which

are its offspring; they haunt me perpetually, and make too large and too

sad a portion of my daily life.

The arrival of the boat, you see, has dashed my spirits, so I break

off.—Adieu.

LETTER VII.

Excursions on the Lake.—Manzoni’s Ode of “Cinque Maggio.”

CADENABBIA, MONDAY, 27TH JULY.

Yester evening there was a thunder storm, and this morning the loftier

Alps to the north are covered with snow, a sign that we shall have a

boisterous wind from Colico until the snow disappears; this is the wind

that brings heavy waves, and renders the navigation of the lake

dangerous. P—— desired to sail; I walked round to the bay of Bolvedro,

and watched while he tacked in and out. I afterwards got into the boat

to return; but it seemed to me that the little craft must run into the

depths of the crested waves which met her. For the first time in my life

I took thorough fright, and insisted on our landing at the steps of the

villa Sommariva. The most dangerous thing we could do: for the waves

might dash us against them, and the lake is fathomless deep in that

spot; it is said who went down there, was never seen again. We landed,

however, in safety.

TUESDAY, 28TH.

The arrival of the steamer at noon is the event of our day. Several

times acquaintance have come by it, chance visitants to the lake of

Como. When we hear the bell, my companions leave their books to run down

to see the disembarkation: to-day I heard one of them exclaim, “Ah,

here’s D——!” This announced the arrival of a fellow-collegian, who

joined our party for two or three weeks, to the great satisfaction of

his friends.

SATURDAY, AUGUST 3.

The snow is gone from the mountain tops; warm, really warm weather has

commenced, and we begin to enjoy one of the most delicious pleasures of

life, _in its way_. The repose necessitated by heat during the day, the

revival in the evening, the enjoyment of the cooler hours, the

enchantment of the nights—to stroll beside or linger upon the divine

lake, to see the sun’s declining rays gild the mountain peaks, to watch

the stars gather bright over the craggy summits, to view the vast

shadows darken the waters, and hear the soft tinkling bells, put by the

fishermen to mark the spot where the nets are set, come with softened

sound across the water: this has been our lot each evening. Each

evening, too, at dusk, the girls from the silk mill close by, pass our

inn on their way from work to their own village; they sing as they go,

and look happy: some of them are very beautiful. They are all well

conducted, I am told, keeping sharp watch on one another. The unmarried

in Italy are usually of good conduct, while marriage is the prelude to a

fearful liberty.

MONDAY, 5TH.

We have crossed to Bellaggio several times, without visiting the villas

on that shore. To-day has been excessively hot; at five a breeze sprung

up: we crossed the lake, and, landing at the port of Bellaggio, went up

the hill to visit the villa Serbelloni.