INNSPRUCK, _August 31, 1854_.
I am very weary, and still feel inclined to write to you. My brain is
tired, bewildered with the magnificent landscapes and panoramas on which
I have gazed for four days. I went from Bâle to Schaffhausen, where we
take the steamer for the Rhine journey. On both sides of the river rise
mountains that are enchanting, of far greater beauty than those, so
called, bordering the lower Rhine, between Mayence and Cologne, and so
much admired by the English. From the Rhine we entered Lake Constance
and landed at the town of the same name, where we ate some excellent
trout, and heard the zither played by Tyroleans. We then crossed the
Lake to Lindau, where a railway train awaited us, and from which we
enjoyed a magnificent view of the loveliest forests, lakes, and
mountains which the country can show. The railway carried us to Kempton,
and by that time we were spent with fatigue, as if we had been for hours
in a beautiful gallery of pictures. Instead of resting, however, we left
Kempton the same night, and reached Innspruck yesterday, a few minutes
before midnight. The country through which we travelled was even more
enchanting--no, not that, but more sublime--than that which we had just
visited. Our only annoyance was in settling our accounts and in changing
horses at every post-house. There were a dozen of these, at least,
between Kempton and Innspruck.
As an aid to recover my strength, I am eating delicious woodcock and
soups of extraordinary concoction, which one learns to enjoy with the
appetite that comes to him so many feet above the level of the sea. The
drawback to this journey is my ignorance of the manners and thoughts of
the people, and these things would interest me far more than all the
scenery. The women of the Tyrol, it seems to me, are treated as they
deserve. They are harnessed to carts, and succeed in drawing very heavy
loads. I considered them very homely, with enormous feet. The fine
ladies whom I met on the railway trains or steamboats are not much
better. They wear hats that are a desecration, and sky-blue half-shoes
with apple-green gloves. It is such characteristics as these that make
up what the natives call their _gemüth_, of which they are so vain.
After seeing the works of art which are the product of this country, it
seems to me that the quality thereof is fundamentally destitute in
imagination. At the same time, they pride themselves upon this very
quality, and in their attempt to prove their claim, fall into the most
pedantic extravagances. I have just been sight-seeing in the city.
Everything there is new, except the tomb of Maximilian. The site of this
is admirable. No Parisian costumes here! Everybody I meet is homely, and
ordinary in appearance.
One can turn in no direction without seeing a mountain, and what a
mountain! To-morrow we are to climb a glacier. The weather is superb,
and promises to continue so. In short, I am glad I came. I should like
to have you here with me, for I fancy you would find more to entertain
you in this place than you do among your sea-lions.
When shall you return to Paris? Write to me at Vienna, and do not lose
any time about it. Write a long, affectionate letter.
Wait; here is a flower from the Brenner.