I sought an occasion and got Ferdinand to take a swim in the

LETTERS FROM SWITZERLAND,

AND

TRAVELS IN ITALY.

By

JOHANN WOLFGANG VON GOETHE

TRANSLATED BY

THE REV. A. J. W. MORRISON, M.A.

Originally published as part of

THE

AUTO-BIOGRAPHY OF GOETHE.

TRUTH AND POETRY: FROM MY OWN LIFE.

VOLUME II.

LONDON: GEORGE BELL & SONS, YORK STREET,

COVENT GARDEN.

1881.

Also available at Project Gutenberg: the complete Autobiography

of Goethe (Books I to XX), with 24 illustrations by Eugène

Delacroix, Lovis Corinth, T. Johannot,... added especially for

this ebook: https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/52654.

Frontispiece: Johann Wolfgang von Goethe par Eugène Delacroix (Source:

Faust, tragédie de M. de Goethe, traduite en français par M. Albert

Stapfer. C. Motte (Paris) 1828, Gallica Bnf.)

CONTENTS.

LETTERS FROM SWITZERLAND

TRAVELS IN ITALY

LETTERS FROM SWITZERLAND.

When, a few years ago, the copies of the following letters were first

made known to us, it was asserted that they had been found among

Werther's papers, and it was pretended that before his acquaintance

with Charlotte, he had been in Switzerland. We have never seen the

originals: however we would not on any account anticipate the judgment

and feelings of our readers; for whatever may be their true history, it

is impossible to read them without sympathy.

PART THE FIRST.

How do all my descriptions disgust me, when I read them over. Nothing

but your advice, your command, your injunction could have induced me

to attempt anything of the kind. How many descriptions, too, of these

scenes had I not read before I saw them. Did these, then, afford me

an image of them,--or at best but a mere vague notion? In vain did

my imagination attempt to bring the objects before it; in vain did

my mind try to think upon them. Here I now stand contemplating these

wonders, and what are my feelings in the midst of them? I can think

of nothing--I can feel nothing,--and how willingly would I both think

and feel. The glorious scene before me excites my soul to its inmost

depths, and impels me to be doing; and yet what can I do--what do

I? I set myself down and scribble and describe!--Away with you, ye

descriptions--delude my friend--make him believe that I am doing

something--that he sees and reads something.

* * * * *

Were, then, these Switzers free? Free, these opulent burghers in their

little pent-up towns--free, those poor devils on their rocks and crags?

What is it that man cannot be made to believe, especially when he

cherishes in his heart the memory of some old tale of marvel? Once,

forsooth, they did break a tyrant's yoke, and might for the moment

fancy themselves free; but out of the carcase of the single oppressor

the good sun, by a strange new birth, has hatched a swarm of petty

tyrants. And so now they are ever telling that old tale of marvel: one

hears it till one is sick of it. They formerly made themselves free,

and have ever since remained free! and now they sit behind their walls,

hugging themselves with their customs and laws--their philandering and

philistering. And there, too, on the rocks, it is surely fine to talk

of liberty, when for six months of the year they, like the marmot, are

bound hand and foot by the snow.

* * * * *

Alas! how wretched must any work of man look, in the midst of this

great and glorious Nature, but especially such sorry, poverty-stricken

works as these black and dirty little towns--such mean heaps of stones

and rubbish! Large rubble and other stones on the roofs too, that the

miserable thatch may not be carried off from the top of them,--and

then the filth, the dung, and the gaping idiots! When here you meet

with man and the wretched work of his hands, you are glad to fly away

immediately from both.

* * * * *

That there are in man very many intellectual capacities which in this

life he is unable to develope, which therefore point to a better

future, and to a more harmonious state of existence: on this point we

are both agreed. But further than this I cannot give up that other

fancy of mine, even though on account of it you may again call me, as

you have so often done already, a mere enthusiast. For my part, I do

think that man feels conscious also of corporeal qualities, of whose

mature expansion he can have no hope in this life. This most assuredly

is the case with "_flying._" How strongly at one time used the clouds,

as they drove along the blue sky, to tempt me to travel with them to

foreign lands! and now in what danger do I stand, lest they should

carry me away with them from the mountain peak as they sweep violently

by. What desire do I not feel to throw myself into the boundless

regions of the air--to poise over the terrific abyss, or to alight on

some otherwise inaccessible rock. With what a longing do I draw deeper

and deeper breath, when, in the dark blue depth below, the eagle soars

over rocks and forests, or in company, and in sweet concord with his

mate, wheels in wide circles round the eyrie to which he has entrusted

his young. Must I then never do more than creep up to the summits? Must

I always go on clinging to the highest rocks, as well as to the lowest

plain; and when I have at last, with much toil, reached the desired

eminence, must I still anxiously grasp at every holding place, shudder

at the thought of return, and tremble at the chance of a fall.

* * * * *

[Sidenote: Fancies and feelings.]

With what wonderful properties are we not born,--what vague aspirations

rise within us! How rarely do imagination and our bodily powers work

in opposition! Peculiarities of my early boyhood again recur. While I

am walking, and have a long road before me, my arms go dangling by my

side, I often make a grasp, as if I would seize a javelin, and hurl it

I know not at whom, or what; and then I fancy an arrow is shot at me

which pierces me to the heart; I strike my hand upon my breast, and

feel an inexpressible sweetness; and then after this I soon revert to

my natural state. Whence comes this strange phenomenon,--what is the

meaning of it? and why does it invariably recur under the same figures,

in the same bodily movement, and with the same sensation?

* * * * *

I am repeatedly told that the people who have met me on my journey are

little satisfied with me. I can readily believe it, for neither has

any one of them contributed to my satisfaction. I cannot tell how it

comes to pass, that society oppresses me; that the forms of politeness

are disagreeable to me--that what people talk about does not interest

me,--that all that they show to me is either quite indifferent, or

else produces quite an opposite impression to what they expect. When

I am shown a drawing or painting of any beautiful spot, immediately a

feeling of disquiet arises within me which is utterly inexpressible.

My toes within my shoes begin to bend, as if they would clutch the

ground-a cramp-like motion runs through my fingers. I bite my lips,

and I hasten to leave the company I am in, and throw myself down

in the presence of the majesty of nature on the first seat however

inconvenient. I try to take in the scene before me with my eye--to

seize all its beauties, and on the spot I love to cover a whole

sheet with scratches, which represent nothing exactly, but which,

nevertheless, possess an infinite value in my eyes, as serving to

remind me of the happy moment, whose bliss even this bungling exercise

could not mar. What means, then, this strange effort to pass from art

to nature, and then back again from nature to art: If it gives promise

of an artist, why is steadiness wanting to me? If it calls me to

enjoyment, wherefore, then, am I not able to seize it? I lately had a

present of a basket of fruit. I was in raptures at the sight of it as

of something heavenly,--such riches, such abundance, such variety and

yet such affinity! I could not persuade myself to pluck off a single

berry--I could not bring myself to take a single peach or a fig. Most

assuredly this gratification of the eye and the inner sense is the

highest and most worthy of man; in all probability it is the design

of Nature, when the hungry and thirsty believe that she has exhausted

herself in marvels merely for the gratification of their palate.

Ferdinand came and found me in the midst of these meditations: he did

me justice, and then said, smiling, but with a deep sigh, "Yes, we are

not worthy to consume these glorious products of Nature; truly it were

a pity. Permit me to make a present of them to my beloved?" How glad

was I to see the basket carried off! How did I love Ferdinand--how did

I thank him for the feeling he had excited in me--for the prospect he

gave me? Aye, we ought to acquaint ourselves with the beautiful; we

ought to contemplate it with rapture, and attempt to raise ourselves

up to its height. And in order to gain strength for that, we must keep

ourselves thoroughly unselfish--we must not make it our own, but rather

seek to communicate it: indeed, to make a sacrifice of it to those who

are dear and precious to us.

* * * * *

How sedulously are we shaped and moulded in our youth--how constantly

are we then called on to lay aside now this, now that bad feeling!

But what, in fact, are our so-called bad feelings but so many organs

by means of which man is to help himself in life. How is not the poor

child worried, in whom but a little spark of vanity is discovered! and

yet what a poor miserable creature is the man who has no vanity at all.

I will now tell you what has led me to make all these reflections.

The day before yesterday we were joined by a young fellow, who was

most disagreeable to me and to Ferdinand. His weak points were so

prominent, his emptiness so manifest, and his care for his outward

appearance so obvious, that we looked down upon him as far inferior to

ourselves, yet everywhere he was better received than we were. Among

other of his follies, he wore a waist-coat of red satin, which round

the neck was so cut as to look like the ribbon of some order or other.

We could not restrain our jokes at this piece of absurdity, but he let

them all pass, for he drew a good profit from it, and perhaps secretly

laughed at us. For host and hostess, coachman, waiter and chambermaid,

and indeed not a few of our fellow-travellers, were taken in by this

seeming ornament, and showed him greater politeness than ourselves. Not

only was he always first waited upon, but, to our great humiliation,

we saw that all the pretty girls in the inns bestowed all their stolen

glances upon him; and then, when it came to the reckoning, which his

eminence and distinction had enhanced, we had to pay our full shares.

Who, then, was the fool in the game?--not he, assuredly.

* * * * *

[Sidenote: Conventional education.]

There is something pretty and instructive about the symbols and maxims

which one here sees on all the stoves. Here you have the drawing of one

of these symbols which particularly caught my fancy. A horse tethered

by his hind foot to a stake is grazing round it as far as his tether

will permit; beneath is written, "Allow me to take my allotted portion

of food." This, too, will be the case with me, when I come home, and,

like the horse in the mill, shall have to work away at your pleasure,

and in return, like the horse here on the stove, shall receive a

nicely-measured dole for my support. Yes, I am coming back, and what

awaits me was certainly well worth all the trouble of climbing up these

mountain heights, of wandering through these valleys, and seeing this

blue sky--of discovering that there is a nature which exists by an

eternal voiceless necessity, which has no wants, no feelings, and is

divine, whilst we, whether in the country or in the towns, have alike

to toil hard to gain a miserable subsistence, and at the same time

struggle to subject everything to our lawless caprice, and call it

liberty!

* * * * *

Aye, I have ascended the _Furca_--the summit of S. Gotthard. These

sublime, incomparable scenes of nature, will ever stand before my

eye. Aye, I have read the Roman history, in order to gain from the

comparison a distinct and vivid feeling what a thoroughly miserable

being I am.

* * * * *

Never has it been so clear to me as during these last few days, that I

too could be happy on moderate means--could be quite as happy as any

one else, if only I knew a trade--an exciting one, indeed, but yet

one which had no consequences for the morrow, which required nothing

but industry and attention at the time, without calling for either

foresight or retrospection. Every mechanic seems to me the happiest of

mortals: all that he has to do is already settled for him, what he can

do is fixed and known. He has not to rack his brains over the task that

is set him; he works away without thinking, without exertion or haste,

but still with diligence and pleasure in his work, like a bird building

its nest, or a bee constructing its cells. He is but a degree above the

beasts, and yet he is a perfect man. How do I envy the potter at his

wheel, or the joiner behind his bench!

* * * * *

Tilling the soil is not to my liking--this first and most necessary of

man's occupations is disagreeable to me. In it man does but ape nature,

who scatters her seeds everywhere, whereas man would choose that a

particular field should produce none but one particular fruit. But

things do not go on exactly so--the weeds spring up luxuriantly--the

cold and wet injures the crop, or the hail cuts it off entirely. The

poor husbandman anxiously waits throughout the year to see how the

cards will decide the game with the clouds, and determine whether he

shall win or lose his stakes. Such a doubtful ambiguous condition may

be right suitable to man, in his present ignorance, while he knows not

whence he came, nor whither he is going. It may then be tolerable to

man to resign all his labours to chance; and thus the parson, at any

rate, has an opportunity, when things look thoroughly bad, to remind

him of Providence, and to connect the sins of his flock with the

incidents of nature.

* * * * *

[Sidenote: An Adventure.]

So then I have nothing to joke Ferdinand about! I too have met with a

pleasant adventure. Adventure! why do I use the silly word? There is

nothing of adventure in a gentle attraction which draws man to man.

Our social life, our false relations, those are adventures, these are

monstrosities and yet they come before us as well-known and as nearly

akin to us, as Uncle and Aunt.

We had been introduced to Herr Tüdou, and we found ourselves very happy

among this family--rich, open-hearted, good-natured, lively people,

who in the society of their children, in comfort and without care,

enjoy the good which each day brings with it--their property and their

glorious neighbourhood. We young folks were not required, as is too

often the ease, in so many formal households, to sacrifice ourselves

at the card-table, in order to humour the old. On the contrary, the

old people, father, mother, and aunts, gathered round us, when for

our own amusement, we got up some little games, in which chance, and

thought, and wit, had their counteracting influence. Eleonora--for

I must now at last mention her name--the second daughter--her image

will for ever be present to my mind--a slim slight-frame, delicately

chiselled features, a bright eye--a palish complexion, which in young

girls of her age is rather pleasing than disagreeable, as being a

sign of no very incurable a malady--on the whole, her appearance was

extremely agreeable. She seemed cheerful and lively and every one felt

at his ease with her. Soon--indeed I may venture to say at once,--at

once, on the very first evening she made me her companion; she sat by

my side, and if the game separated us a moment, she soon contrived

to find her old place again. I was gay and cheerful--my journey, the

beautiful weather, the country--all had contributed to produce in

me an immoderate cheerfulness--aye, I might almost venture to say,

a state of excitement. I derived it from everything and imparted it

to everything; even Ferdinand seemed to forget his fair one. We had

almost exhausted ourselves in varying our amusements when we at last

thought of the "Game of Matrimony." The names of the ladies and of the

gentlemen were thrown separately into two hats, and then the pairs were

drawn out one by one. On each couple, as determined by the lot, one of

the company whose turn it might happen to be, had to write a little

poem. Every one of the party, father, mother, and aunts, were obliged

to put their names in the hats; we cast in besides the names of our

acquaintances, and to enlarge the number of candidates for matrimony,

we threw in those of all the well-known characters of the literary

and of the political world. We commenced playing, and the first pairs

that were drawn were highly distinguished personages. It was not every

one, however, who was ready at once with his verses. _She_, Ferdinand

and myself, and one of the aunts who wrote very pretty verses in

French--we soon divided among ourselves the office of secretary. The

conceits were mostly good and the verses tolerable. Her's especially,

had a touch of nature about them which distinguished them from all

others; without being really clever they had a happy turn; they were

playful without being bitter, and shewed good will towards every one.

The father laughed heartily, and his face was lit up with joy when

his daughter's verses were declared to be the best after mine. Our

unqualified approbation highly delighted him,--we praised as men praise

unexpected merit--as we praise an author who has bribed us. At last

out came my lot, and chance had taken honourable care of me. It was no

less a personage than the Empress of all the Russias, who was drawn

to be my partner for life. The company laughed heartily at the match,

and Eleonora maintained that the whole company must try their best to

do honour to so eminent a consort. All began to try: a few pens were

bitten to pieces; she was ready first, but wished to read last; the

mother and the aunt could make nothing of the subject, and although the

father was rather matter-of-fact, Ferdinand somewhat humorous, and the

aunts rather reserved, still, through all you could see friendship and

good-will. At last it came to her turn; she drew a deep breath, her

ease and cheerfulness left her; she did not read but rather lisped it

out--and laid it before me to read it to the rest. I was astonished,

amazed. Thus does the bud of love open in beauty and modesty! I felt as

if a whole spring had showered upon me all its flowers at once! Every

one was silent, Ferdinand lost not his presence of mind. "Beautiful,"

he exclaimed, "very beautiful! he deserves the poem as little as an

Empire." "If, only we have rightly understood it," said the father; the

rest requested I would read it once more. My eyes had hitherto been

fixed on the precious words, a shudder ran through me from head to

foot, Ferdinand who saw my perplexity, took the paper up and read it.

She scarcely allowed him to finish before she drew out the lots for

another pair. The play was not kept up long after this and refreshments

were brought in.

* * * * *

Shall I or shall I not? Is it right of me to hide in silence any thing

from him to whom I tell so much--nay, all? Shall I keep back from

you a great matter, when I yet weary you with so many trifles which

assuredly no one would ever read but you who have taken so wonderful a

liking for me? or shall I keep back anything from you because it might

perhaps give you a false, not to say an ill opinion of me? No--you know

me better than I even know myself. If I should do anything which you

do not believe possible I could do, you will amend it; if I should do

anything deserving of censure, you will not spare me,--you will lead me

and guide me whenever my peculiarities entice me off the right road.

[Sidenote: Art and nature.]

My joy, my rapture at works of art when they are true, when they are

immediate and speaking expressions of Nature afford the greatest

delight to every collector, to every dilettante. Those indeed who

call themselves connoisseurs are not always of my opinion; but I care

nothing for their connoisseurship when I am happy. Does not living

nature vividly impress itself on my sense of vision? Do not its images

remain fixed in my brain? Do not they there grow in beauty, delighting

to compare themselves in turn with the images of art which the mind of

others has also embellished and beautified? I confess to you that my

fondness for nature arises from the fact of my always seeing her so

beautiful, so lovely, so brilliant, so ravishing, that the similation

of the artist, even his imperfect imitation transports me almost as

much, as if it were a perfect type. It is only such works of art,

however, as bespeak genius and feeling that have any charms for me.

Those cold imitations which confine themselves to the narrow circle

of a certain meagre mannerism, of mere painstaking diligence, are to

me utterly intolerable. You see, therefore, that my delight and taste

cannot well be riveted by a work of art, unless it imitates such

objects of nature as are well known to me, so that I am able to test

the imitation by my own experience of the originals. Landscape, with

all that lives and moves therein--flowers and fruit-trees. Gothic

churches,--a portrait taken directly from Nature, all this I can

recognize, feel, and if you like, judge of. Honest W---- amused himself

with this trait of my character, and in such a way that I could not

be offended, often made merry with it at my expense. He sees much

further in this matter, than I do, and I shall always prefer that

people should laugh at me while they instruct, than that they should

praise me without benefitting me. He had noticed what things I was

most immediately pleased with, and after a short acquaintance did not

hesitate to avow that in the objects that so transported me there might

be much that was truly estimable, and which time alone would enable me

to distinguish.

But I turn from this subject and must now, however circuitously, come

to the matter which, though reluctantly, I cannot but confide to you.

I can see you in your room, in your little garden, where, over a pipe

of tobacco, you will probably break the seal and read this letter.

Can your thoughts follow me into this free and motley world? Will

the circumstances and true state of the case become clear to your

imagination? And will you be as indulgent towards your absent friend as

I have often found you when present?

[Sidenote: Studies of the nude.]

When my artistic friend became better acquainted with me, and judged

me worthy of being gradually introduced to better pieces of art,

he one day, not without a most mysterious look, took me to a case,

which, being opened, displayed a Danæ, of the size of life, receiving

in her bosom the golden shower. I was amazed at the splendour of the

limbs--the magnificence of the posture and arrangement--the intense

tenderness and the intellectuality of the sensual subject; and yet I

did but stand before it in silent contemplation. It did not excite in

me _that_ rapture, _that_ delight, _that_ inexpressible pleasure. My

friend, who went on descanting upon the merits of the picture, was too

full of his own enthusiasm to notice my coldness, and was delighted

with the opportunity this painting afforded him of pointing out the

distinctive excellences of the Italian School.

But the sight of this picture has not made me happy--it has made me

uneasy. How! said I to myself--in what a strange case do we civilized

men find ourselves with our many conventional restraints! A mossy

rock, a waterfall rivets my eye so long that I can tell everything

about it--its heights, its cavities, its lights and shades, its hues,

its blending tints and reflections--all is distinctly present to my

mind; and whenever I please, comes vividly before me, in a most happy

imitation. But of that masterpiece of Nature, the human frame--of the

order and symmetry of the limbs, of all this I have but a very general

notion--which in fact is no notion at all. My imagination presents

to me anything but a vivid image of this glorious structure, and

when art presents an imitation of it, to my eye it awakens in me no

sensation and I am unable to judge of the merits of the picture. No, I

will remain no longer in this state of stupidity. I will stamp on my

mind the shape of man, as well as that of a cluster of grapes or of a

peach-tree.

I sought an occasion and got Ferdinand to take a swim in the lake.

What a glorious shape has my friend; how duly proportioned are all

his limbs: what fulness of form; what splendour of youth! What a gain

to have enriched my imagination with this perfect model of manhood!

Now I can people the woods, the meadow, and the hills, with similar

fine forms! I can see him as Adonis chasing the boar, or as Narcissus

contemplating himself in the mirror of the spring.

But alas! my imagination cannot furnish, as yet, a Venus, who holds

him from the chace, a Venus who bewails his death, or a beautiful Echo

casting one sad look more on the cold corpse of the youth before she

vanishes for ever! I have therefore resolved, cost what it will, to see

a female form in the state that I have seen my friend.

When, therefore, we reached Geneva, I made arrangements in the

character of an artist to complete my studies of the nude figure, and

to-morrow evening my wish is to be gratified.

* * * * *

I cannot avoid going to-day with Ferdinand to a grand party. It will

form an excellent foil to the studies of this evening. Well enough do

I know those formal parties where the old women require you to play at

cards with them, and the young ones to ogle with them; where you must

listen to the learned, pay respect to the parson, and give way to the

noble, where the numerous lights show you scarcely one tolerable form,

and that one hidden and buried beneath some barbarous load of frippery.

I shall have to speak French, too,--a foreign tongue--the use of which

always makes a man appear silly, whatever he may think of himself,

since the best he can express in it is nothing but common place, and

the most obvious of remarks, and that, too, only with stammering and

hesitating lips. For what is it that distinguishes the blockhead from

the really clever man but the peculiar quickness and vividness with

which the latter discerns the nicer shades and proprieties of all

that come before him, and expresses himself thereon with facility;

whereas the former, (just as we all do with a foreign language,) is

forced on every occasion to have recourse to some ready found and

conversational phrase or other? To-day I will calmly put up with the

sorry entertainment, in expectation of the rare scene of nature which

awaits me in the evening.

* * * * *

My adventure is over. It has fully equalled my expectation--nay,

surpassed it; and yet I know not whether to congratulate, or to blame

myself on account of it.

PART THE SECOND.

_Munster, October 3_, 1797.

From Basle you will receive a packet containing an account of my

travels up to that point, for we are now continuing in good earnest

our tours through Switzerland. On our route to Biel we rode up the

beautiful valley of the Birsch, and at last reached the pass which

leads to this place.

[Sidenote: The valley of the Birsch.]

Among the ridges of the broad and lofty range of mountains the little

stream of the Birsch found of old a channel for itself. Necessity soon

after may have driven men to clamber wearily and painfully through its

gorges. The Romans in their time enlarged the track, and now you may

travel through it with perfect ease. The stream, dashing over crags and

rocks, and the road run side by side, and except at a few points, these

make up the whole breadth of the pass which is hemmed in by rocks, the

top of which is easily reached by the eye. Behind them the mountain

chain rose with a slight inclination; the summits, however, were veiled

by a mist.

Here walls of rock rise precipitously one above another; there immense

strata run obliquely down to the river and the road-here again broad

masses lie piled one over another, while close beside stands a line of

sharp-pointed crags. Wide clefts run yawning upwards, and blocks, of

the size of a wall, have detached themselves from the rest of the stony

mass. Some fragments of the rock have rolled to the bottom; others are

still suspended, and by their position alarm you, as also likely at any

moment to come toppling down.

Now round, now pointed, now overgrown, now bare are the tops of these

rocks among and high above which some single bald summit boldly towers,

while along the perpendicular cliffs and among the hollows below, the

weather has worn many a deep and winding cranny.

The passage through this defile raised in me a grand but calm emotion.

The sublime produces a beautiful calmness in the soul which entirely

possessed by it, feels as great as it ever can feel. How glorious

is such a pure feeling, when it rises to the very highest, without

overflowing. My eye and my soul were both able to take in the objects

before me, and as I was pre-occupied by nothing, and had no false

tastes to counteract their impression, they had on me their full

and natural effect. When we compare such a feeling with that we are

sensible of, when we laboriously harass ourselves with some trifle, and

strain every nerve to gain as much as possible for it, and as it were,

to patch it out, striving to furnish joy and aliment to the mind from

its own creation; we then feel sensibly what a poor expedient, after

all, the latter is.

A young man, whom we have had for our companion from Basle, said his

feelings were very far from what they were on his first visit, and

gave all the honour to novelty. I however would say, when we see

such objects as these for the first time, the unaccustomed soul has

to expand itself, and this gives rise to a sort of painful joy--an

overflowing of emotion which agitates the mind, and draws from us the

most delicious tears. By this operation the soul, without knowing it,

becomes greater in itself, and is of course not capable of ever feeling

again such a sensation, and man thinks in consequence that he has lost

something, whereas in fact he has gained. What he loses in delight he

gains in inward riches. If only destiny had bidden me to dwell in the

midst of some grand scenery, then would I every morning have imbibed

greatness from its grandeur, as from a lonely valley I would extract

patience and repose.

After reaching the end of the gorge I alighted, and went back alone

through a part of the valley. I thus called forth another profound

feeling--one by which the attentive mind may expand its joys to a high

degree. One guesses in the dark about the origin and existence of these

singular forms. It may have happened, when and how it may,--these

masses must, according to the laws of gravity and affinity, have been

formed grandly and simply by aggregation. Whatever revolutions may

subsequently have upheaved, rent and divided them, the latter were only

partial convulsions, and even the idea of such mighty commotions gives

one a deep feeling of the eternal stability of the masses. Time, too,

bound by the everlasting law, has had here greater, here less, effect

upon them.

Internally their colour appears to be yellowish. The air, however, and

the weather has changed the surface into a bluish-grey, so that the

original colour is only visible here and there in streaks and in the

fresh cracks. The stone itself slowly crumbles beneath the influence of

the weather, becoming rounded at the edges, as the softer flakes wear

away. In this manner have been formed hollows and cavities gracefully

shelving off, which when they have sharp slanting and pointed edges,

present a singular appearance.

Vegetation maintains its rights on every ledge, on every flat surface,

for in every fissure the pines strike root, and the mosses and plants

spread themselves over the rocks. One feels deeply convinced that here

there is nothing accidental; that here there is working an eternal law

which, however slowly, yet surely governs the universe,--that there is

nothing here from the hand of man but the convenient road, by means of

which this singular region is traversed.

* * * * *

_Geneva, October_ 27, 1779.

[Sidenote: La Vallée de Joux.]

The great mountain-range which, running from Basle to Geneva, divides

Switzerland from France, is, as you are aware, named the Jura. Its

principal heights run by Lausanne, and reach as far as Rolle and

Nyon. In the midst of this summit ridge Nature has cut out--I might

almost say washed out--a remarkable valley, for on the tops of all

these limestone rocks the operation of the primal waters is manifest.

It is called La Vallée de Joux, which means the Valley of the Rock,

since Joux in the local dialect signifies a rock. Before I proceed

with the further description of our journey, I will give you a brief

geographical account of its situation. Lengthwise it stretches like

the mountain range itself almost directly from south to north, and is

locked in on the one side by Sept Moncels, and on the other by Dent de

Vaulion, which, after the Dole, is the highest peak of the Jura. Its

length, according to the statement of the neighbourhood, is nine short

leagues, but according to our rough reckoning as we rode through it,

six good leagues. The mountainous ridge which bounds it lengthwise on

the north, and is also visible from the flat lands, is called the Black

Mountain (Le Noir Mont). Towards the west the Risou rises gradually,

and slopes away towards Franche Comté. France and Berne divide the

valley pretty evenly between them; the former claiming the upper and

inferior half, and the latter possessing the lower and better portion,

which is properly called La Vallée du Lac de Joux. Quite at the upper

part of the valley, and at the foot of Sept Moncels, lies the Lac des

Rousses, which has no single visible origin, but gathers its waters

from the numerous springs which here gush out of the soil, and from the

little brooks which run into the lake from all sides. Out of it flows

the Orbe, which after running through the whole of the French, and a

great portion of the Bernese territory, forms lower down, and towards

the Dent de Vaulion, the Lac de Joux, which falls on one side into a

smaller lake, the waters of which have some subterraneous outlet. The

breadth of the valley varies; above, near the Lac des Rousses it is

nearly half a league, then it closes in to expand again presently, and

to reach its greatest breath, which is nearly a league and a-half. So

much to enable you better to understand what follows; while you read

it, however, I would beg you now and then to cast a glance upon your

map, although, so far as concerns this country, I have found them all

to be incorrect.

_October 24th._ In company with a captain and an upper ranger of

the forests in these parts, we rode first of all up Mont, a little

scattered village, which much more correctly might be called a line

of husbandmen's and vinedressers' cottages. The weather was extremely

clear; when we turned to look behind us, we had a view of the Lake

of Geneva, the mountains of Savoy and Valais, and could just catch

Lausanne, and also, through a light mist, the country round Geneva,

Mont Blanc, which towers above all the mountains of Faucigni, stood

out more and more distinctly. It was a brilliant sunset, and the

view was so grand, that no human eye was equal to it. The moon rose

almost at the full, as we got continually higher. Through large pine

forests we continued to ascend the Jura, and saw the lake in a mist,

and in it the reflection of the moon. It became lighter and lighter.

The road is a well-made causeway, though it was laid down merely for

the sake of facilitating the transport of the timber to the plains

below. We had been ascending for full three leagues before the road

began gently to descend. We thought we saw below us a vast lake, for

a thick mist filled the whole valley which we overlooked. Presently

we came nearer to the mist, and observed a white bow which the moon

formed in it, and were soon entirely enveloped in the fog. The company

of the captain procured us lodgings in a house where strangers were

not usually entertained. In its internal arrangement it differed in

nothing from usual buildings of the same kind, except that the great

room in the centre was at once the kitchen, the ante-room, and general

gathering-place of the family, and from it you entered at once into the

sleeping-rooms, which were either on the same floor with it, or had to

be approached by steps. On the one side was the fire, which was burning

on the ground on some stone slabs, while a chimney, built durably and

neatly of planks, received and carried off the smoke. In the corner

were the doors of the oven; all the rest of the floor was of wood, with

the exception of a small piece near the window around the sink, which

was paved. Moreover, all around, and over head on the beams a multitude

of domestic articles and utensils were arranged in beautiful order, and

all kept nice and clean.

_October 26th._--This morning the weather was cold but clear, the

meadows covered with hoar frost, and here and there light clouds were

floating in the air. We could pretty nearly survey the whole of the

lower valley, our house being situated at the foot of the eastern side

of Noir Mont. About eight we set off, and in order to enjoy the sun

fully, proceeded on the western side. The part of the valley we now

traversed was divided into meadows, which, towards the lake were rather

swampy. The inhabitants either dwell in detached houses built by the

side of their farms, or else have gathered closer together in little

villages, which bear simple names derived from their several sites. The

first of those that we passed through was called "Le Sentier." We saw

at a distance the Dent de Vaulion peeping out over a mist which rested

on the lake. The valley grew broader, but our road now lay behind a

ridge of rock which shut out our view of the lake, and then through

another village called "Le Lieu." The mist arose, and fell off highly

variegated by the sun. Close hereto is a small lake, which apparently

has neither inlet nor outlet of its waters. The weather cleared up

completely as we came to the foot of Dent de Vaulion, and reached the

northern extremity of the great lake, which, as it turns westward,

empties itself into a smaller by a dam beneath the bridge. The village

just above is called "Le Pont." The situation of the smaller lake is

what you may easily conceive, as being in a peculiar little valley

which may be called pretty. At the western extremity there is a

singular mill, built in a ravine of the rock which the smaller lake

used formerly to fill. At present it is dammed out of the mill which is

erected in the hollow below. The water is conveyed by sluices to the

wheel, from which it falls into crannies of the rock, and being sucked

in by them, does not show itself again till it reaches Valorbe, which

is a full league off, where it again bears the name of the Orbe. These

outlets (_entonnoirs_) require to be kept clear, otherwise the water

would rise and again fill the ravine, and overflow the mill as it has

often done already. We saw the people hard at work removing the worn

pieces of the lime-stone and replacing them by others.

[Sidenote: Dent de Vaulion.]

We rode back again over the bridge towards "Le Pont," and took a guide

for the Dent du Vaulion. In ascending it we now had the great Lake

directly behind us. To the east its boundary is the Noir Mont, behind

which the bald peak of the Dole rises up; to the west it is shut in by

the mountain ridge, which on the side of the lake is perfectly bare.

The sun felt hot: it was between eleven and twelve o'clock. By degrees

we gained a sight of the whole valley, and were able to discern in the

distance the "Lac des Rousses," and then stretching to our feet the

district we had just ridden through and the road which remained for

our return. During the ascent my guide discoursed of the whole range

of the country and the lordships which, he said, it was possible to

distinguish from the peak. In the midst of such talk we reached the

summit. But a very different spectacle was prepared for us. Under a

bright and clear sky nothing was visible but the high mountain chain,

all the lower regions were covered with a white sea of cloudy mist,

which stretched from Geneva northwards, along the horizon and glittered

brilliantly in the sunshine. Out of it, rose to the east, the whole

line of snow and ice-capt mountains acknowledging no distinction of

names of either the Princes or Peoples, who fancied they were owners

of them, and owning subjection only to one Lord, and to the glance of

the Sun which was tinging them with a beautiful red. Mont Blanc, right

opposite to us, seemed the highest, next to it were the ice-crowned

summits of Valais and Oberland, and lastly, came the lower mountains

of the Canton of Berne. Towards the west, the sea of mist which was

unconfined to one spot; on the left, in the remotest distance, appeared

the mountains of Solothurn; somewhat nearer those of Neufchatel, and

right before us some of the lower heights of the Jura. Just below,

lay some of the masses of the Vaulion, to which belongs the Dent,

(tooth) which takes from it its name. To the west, Franche-Comté,

with its flat, outstretched and wood-covered hills, shut in the whole

horizon; in the distance, towards the north-west, one single mass

stood out distinct from all the rest. Straight before us, however,

was a beautiful object. This was the peak which gives this summit the

name of a tooth. It descends precipitously, or rather with a slight

curve, inwards, and in the bottom it is succeeded by a small valley

of pine-trees, with beautiful grassy patches here and there, while

right beyond it lies the valley of the Orbe (Val-orbe), where you see

this stream coming out of the rock, and can trace, in thought, its

route backwards to the smaller lake. The little town of Valorbe, also

lies in this valley. Most reluctantly we quitted the spot. A delay of

a few hours longer, (for the mist generally disperses in about that

time), would have enabled us to distinguish the low lands with the

lake--but in order that our enjoyment should be perfect, we must always

have something behind still to be wished. As we descended we had the

whole valley lying perfectly distinct before us. At Le Pont we again

mounted our horses, and rode to the east side of the lake, and passed

through l'Abbaye de Joux, which at present is a village, but once

was a settlement of monks, to whom the whole valley belonged. Towards

four, we reached our auberge and found our meal ready, of which we were

assured by our hostess that at twelve o'clock it would have been good

eating, and which, overdone as it was, tasted excellently.

[Sidenote: The Dole.]

Let me now add a few particulars just as they were told me. As I

mentioned just now, the valley belonged formerly to the monks, who

having divided it again to feudatories, were with the rest ejected at

the Reformation. At present it belongs to the Canton of Berne, and

the mountains around are the timber-stores of the Pays de Vaud. Most

of the timber is private property, and is cut up under supervision,

and then carried down into the plains. The planks are also made here

into deal utensils of all kinds, and pails, tubs, and similar articles

manufactured.

The people are civil and well disposed. Besides their trade in wood,

they also breed cattle. Their beasts are of a small size. The cheese

they make is excellent. They are very industrious, and a clod of

earth is with them a great treasure. We saw one man with a horse and

car, carefully collecting the earth which had been thrown up out of a

ditch, and carrying it to some hollow places in the same field. They

lay the stones carefully together, and make little heaps of them.

There are here many stone-polishers, who work for the Genevese and

other tradesmen, and this business furnishes occupation for many women

and children. The houses are neat but durable, the form and internal

arrangements being determined by the locality and the wants of the

inmates. Before every house there is a running stream, and everywhere

you see signs of industry, activity, and wealth. But above all things

is the highest praise due to the excellent roads, which, in this remote

region, as also in all the other cantons, are kept up by that of Berne.

A causeway is carried all round the valley, not unnecessarily broad,

but in excellent repair, so that the inhabitants can pursue their

avocations without inconvenience, and with their small horses and light

carts pass easily along. The air is very pure and salubrious.

[Sidenote: View from the Dole.]