FELIX.

Charney, August 6th, 1831.

My dear Sisters,

You have, I know, read Ritter's "Afrika" from beginning to end, but

still I do not think you know where Charney is situated, so fetch

out Keller's old travelling map, that you may be able to accompany

me on my wanderings. Trace with your finger a line from Vevay to

Clarens, and thence to the Dent de Jaman; this line represents a

footpath; and where your finger has been my legs also went this

morning--for it is now only half-past seven, and I am still

fasting. I mean to breakfast here, and am writing to you in a neat

wooden room, waiting till the milk is made warm for me; without, I

have a view of the bright blue lake; and so I now begin my journal,

and mean to continue it as I best can during my pedestrian tour.

_After breakfast._--Heavens! here is a pretty business. My landlady

has just told me with a long face, that there is not a creature in

the village to show me the way across the Dent, or to carry my

knapsack, except a young girl; the men being all at work. I usually

set off every morning very early and quite alone, with my bundle on

my shoulders, because I find the guides from the inns both too

expensive and too tiresome; a couple of hours later I hire the

first honest-looking lad I see, and so I travel famously on foot. I

need not say how enchanting the lake and the road hither were; you

must recall for yourself all the beauties you once enjoyed there.

The footpath is in continued shade, under walnut-trees and up

hill,--past villas and castles,--along the lake which glitters

through the foliage; villages everywhere, and brooks and streams

rushing along from every nook, in every village; then the neat

tidy houses,--it is all quite too charming, and you feel so fresh

and so free. Here comes the girl with her steeple hat. I can tell

you she is vastly pretty into the bargain, and her name is Pauline;

she has just packed my things into her wicker basket. Adieu!

Evening, Chateau d'Oex, candle-light.

I have had the most delightful journey. What would I not give to

procure you such a day! But then you must first become two youths

and be able to climb actively, and drink milk when the opportunity

offered, and treat with contempt the intense heat, the many rocks

in the way, the innumerable holes in the path, and the still larger

holes in your boots, and I fear you are rather too dainty for this;

but it was most lovely! I shall never forget my journey with

Pauline; she is one of the nicest girls I ever met, so pretty and

healthy-looking, and naturally intelligent; she told me anecdotes

about her village, and I in return told her about Italy; but I know

who was the most amused.

The previous Sunday, all the young people of _distinction_ in her

village had gone to a place far across the mountain, to dance there

in the afternoon. They set off shortly after midnight, arrived

while it was still dark, lighted a large fire and made coffee.

Towards morning the men had running and wrestling matches before

the ladies, (we passed a broken hedge testifying to the truth of

this;) then they danced, and were at home again by Sunday evening,

and early on Monday morning they all resumed their labours in the

vineyards. By Heavens, I felt a strong inclination to become a

Vaudois peasant, while I was listening to Pauline, when from above

she pointed out to me the villages where they dance when the

cherries are ripe, and others where they dance when the cows go to

pasture in the meadows and give milk. To-morrow they are to dance

in St. Gingolph; they row across the lake, and any one who can

play, takes his instrument with him; but Pauline is not to be of

the party, because her mother will not allow it, from dread of the

wide lake, and many other girls also do not go for the same reason,

as they all cling together.

She then asked my leave to say good-day to a cousin of hers, and

ran down to a neat cottage in the meadow; soon the two girls came

out together and sat on a bench and chattered; on the Col de Jaman

above, I saw her relations busily mowing, and herding the cows.

What cries and shouts ensued! Then those above began to _jodel_, on

which they all laughed. I did not understand one syllable of their

_patois_, except the beginning, which was, Adieu Pierrot! All these

sounds were taken up by a merry mad echo, that shouted and laughed

and _jodelled_ too. Towards noon we arrived at Alliere. When I had

rested for a time, I once more shouldered my knapsack, for a fat

old man provoked me by offering to carry it for me; then Pauline

and I shook hands, and we took leave of each other. I descended

into the meadows, and if you do not care about Pauline, or if I

have bored you with her, it is not my fault, but that of the mode

in which I have described her; nothing could be more pleasant in

reality, and so was my further journey. I came to a cherry-orchard,

where the people were gathering the fruit, so I lay down on the

grass and ate cherries for a time along with them. I took my

mid-day rest at Latine, in a clean wooden house. The carpenter who

built it gave me his company to some roast lamb, and pointed out to

me with pride every table, and press, and chair.

At length I arrived here, at night, through dazzling green meadows,

interspersed with houses, surrounded by fir-trees and rivulets: the

church here stands on a velvet green eminence; more houses in the

distance, and still further away, huts and rocks; and in a ravine,

patches of snow still lying on the plain. It is one of those

idyllic spots such as we have seen together in Wattwyl, but the

village smaller and the mountains more green and lofty. I must

conclude however to-day by a high eulogy on the Canton de Vaud. Of

all the countries I know this is the most beautiful, and it is the

spot where I should most like to live when I become really old. The

people are so contented, and look so well, and the country also.

Coming from Italy it is quite touching to see the honesty that

still exists in the world,--happy faces, a total absence of

beggars, or saucy officials: in short, there is the most complete

contrast between the two nations. I thank God for having created so

much that is beautiful; and may it be His gracious will to permit

us all, whether in Berlin, England, or in the Chateau d'Oex, to

enjoy a happy evening and a tranquil night!

Boltigen, August 7th, evening.

The lightning and thunder are terrific outside, and torrents of

rain besides; in the mountains you first learn respect for weather.

I have not gone further, for it would have been such a pity to

traverse the lovely Simmen valley under an umbrella. It was grey

morning, but delightfully cool for walking in the forenoon. The

valley at Saanen, and the whole road, is incredibly fresh and gay.

I am never weary of looking at the verdure. I do believe that if

during a long life I were always gazing at undulating verdant

meadows, dotted over with reddish-brown houses, I should always

experience the same pleasure in looking at them. The road winds the

whole way through meadows of this kind, and past running streams.

At noon I dined at Zweisimmen, in one of those enormous Bernese

houses, where everything glitters with neatness and cleanliness,

and where even the smallest detail is carefully attended to. I

there dispatched my knapsack by the diligence to Interlaken, and am

now about to walk as a regular pedestrian through the country; a

shirt in my pocket, a brush and comb, and my sketch-book, this is

all I require; but I am very tired. May the weather be fine

to-morrow!

Wimmis, the 8th.

A pretty affair! the weather is three times as bad as ever. I must

give up my plan of going to Interlaken to-day, as there is no

possibility of getting on. For the last few hours the water has

been pouring straight down, as if the clouds above had been fairly

squeezed out; the roads are as soft as feather-beds; only

occasional shreds of the mountains are to be seen, and even these

but rarely. I almost thought sometimes that I was in the Margravate

of Brandenburg, and the Simmen valley looked perfectly flat. I was

obliged to button my waistcoat tight over my sketch-book, for very

soon my umbrella was of no use whatever, and so I arrived here to

dinner about one o'clock. I had my breakfast in the following

place. [_Vide_ page 234.]

Weissenburg, August 8th.

I sketched this on the spot with a pen, so do not laugh at the bold

stream. I passed the night very uncomfortably at Boltigen. There

was no room in the inn, owing to a fair, so I was obliged to lodge

in an adjacent house, where there were swarms of vermin quite as

bad as in Italy, a creaking house clock, striking hoarsely every

hour, and a baby that screeched the whole night. I really could not

help for a time noticing the child's cries, for it screamed in

every possible key, expressive of every possible emotion; first

angry, then furious, then whining, and when it could screech no

longer, it grunted in a deep bass. Let no one tell me that we must

wish to return to the days of our childhood, because children are

so happy. I am convinced that such a little mortal as this, flies

into a rage just as we do, and has also his sleepless nights, and

his passions, and so forth.

[Illustration]

This philosophical view occurred to me this morning, while I was

sketching Weissenburg, and so I wished to communicate it to you on

the spot; but I took up the 'Constitutionnel,' in which I read

that Casimir Perier wishes to resign, and many other things that

furnish matter for reflection; among others a most remarkable

article on the cholera, which I should like to transcribe, for it

is so extraordinary. The existence of this disease is totally and

absolutely denied; only one person had it in Dantzic,--a Jew,--and

he got well. Then followed a number of "Hegelisms" in French, and

the election of the deputies--oh world!--As soon as I had finished

reading the paper, I was obliged to set off again in the rain

through the meadows. No such enchanting country as this is to be

seen, even in a dream; in the worst weather, the little churches,

and the numerous houses, and shrubs, and rills are still truly

lovely. The verdure to-day was quite in its element. Dinner has

been long over, and it is still pouring. I intend to go no further

than Spiez this evening. I regret much that I can neither see this

place, which seems beautifully situated, nor Spiez, which I know

from Roesel's sketches. This is, in fact, the climax of the whole

Simmen valley, and thence the old song says:--

[Music: Hin-term Nie-sen, vorn am Nie-sen, sind die be-sten

Al-pen im Sie-be-thal, Sie-be-thal,

Sie-be-thal, Sie-be-thal, Sie-be-thal.]

I sang this the whole day while walking along. The Siebethal,

however, showed no gratitude for the compliment, and the rain

continued unremittingly.

Wyler, evening.

They could not take me in at Spiez, for there is no inn there where

you can lodge, so I was obliged to return here. I very much admired

the situation of Spiez; it is built on a rock, which projects into

the lake, with numbers of turrets, and gables, and peaks. There I

saw a manor-house, with an orangery; a sulky-looking nobleman with

two sporting dogs at his heels; a little church, and terraces with

bright flowers. It was all very lovely. To-morrow I shall see it

from the other side, if the weather permits. To-day it has rained

for three hours consecutively, and I was well soaked on the way

here. The mountain streams are superb in such weather, for they

leap and rage furiously. I crossed one of these demons, the Kander,

which seemed to have taken leave of its senses, leaping and

blustering, and foaming; the water looked quite brown, and

scattered its yellow spray in all directions. A black peak of the

mountains was here and there visible through the rain-laden clouds,

which hung deeper into the valley than I ever before saw them. Yet

the day was most enjoyable.

Wyler, the 9th, morning.

To-day the weather is worse than ever. It has rained the whole

night through, and this morning too it is pouring. I have however

intimated that I shall not set out in such weather, and if it

continues I shall write to you again to-night from Wyler. In the

meantime I have an opportunity of making acquaintance with my Swiss

host. They are very primitive. I could not get on my shoes, because

they had shrunk, owing to the rain. The landlady asked if I wished

to have a shoe-horn; and as I said I did, she brought me a

tablespoon; but it answered the purpose. And moreover they are

eager politicians. Over my bed hangs a horrible distorted face,

under which is written. "Brinz Baniadofsgi." If he had not a kind

of Polish costume, it would be difficult to discover whether it is

intended for a man or a woman, for neither the portrait itself nor

the inscription throw much light on the subject.

Evening, at Untersee.

All jesting is turned into sad earnest, which in these days may

easily be the case. The storm has raged furiously, and caused great

damage and devastation; the people here say that they remember no

more violent storm and rain for many years; and the hurricane

rushes on with such incredible rapidity. This morning early the

weather was merely wet and disagreeable, and yet this afternoon all

the bridges are swept away, and every passage blocked up for the

moment. There has been a landslip at the Lake of Brienz, and

everything is in an uproar.

I have just heard here that war has been proclaimed in Europe; so

the world certainly bears a wild, bleak aspect at this time, and I

ought to feel thankful, that at all events for the present I have a

warm room here, and a comfortable roof over my head. The rain

ceased for a time early this morning, and I thought that the clouds

were fairly exhausted; so I left Wyler, but soon found that the

roads were sadly cut up; but worse was to come; the rain began

again gently, but came down so violently about nine o'clock, and in

such sudden squalls, that it was evident something strange was

brewing. I crept into a half built hut, where a great mass of

fodder was lying, and nestled comfortably among the fragrant hay. A

soldier of the Canton, who was on his way to Thun, also crept in

from the other side, and in the course of an hour, as the weather

did not improve, we went on our different paths.

I was obliged to take shelter again under a roof at Leisengen, and

waited there a long time; but as my luggage was at Interlaken, a

distance of only two hours from thence, I thought that I would set

the weather at defiance; so about one o'clock I set out for

Interlaken. There was literally nothing to be seen but the grey

surface of the lake,--no mountains, and seldom even the outlines of

the opposite shore. The little springs, which as you may remember

often run along by the footpaths, had swollen into streams,

through which I was obliged to wade; and where the road was hilly,

the waters accumulated in the hollows and formed a pool, so I was

forced to jump over dripping hedges, into marshy meadows; the small

blocks of wood--by means of which brooks are crossed here--lay deep

under the water; at one moment I found myself between two of these

brooks, which had run into each other, and for a considerable time

I was obliged to walk against the current, above my ankles in

water. All the streams are black, or chocolate-brown, looking like

earth flowing along. Torrents poured down from above; the wind

shook down the water from the dripping walnut-trees; the waterfalls

which tumble into the lake thundered frightfully from both shores.

You could trace the course of the brown muddy streaks, rushing

along through the pure waters of the lake, which, in the midst of

all this uproar, remained perfectly tranquil, its surface scarcely

ruffled, quietly receiving all the blustering streams that poured

into its bosom.

A man now came up, who had taken off his shoes and stockings, and

turned up his trowsers. This made me feel rather nervous. Presently

I met two women, who said that I could not go through the village,

for all the bridges were gone. I asked how far it was to

Interlaken. "A good hour," they said. I could not make up my mind

to turn back, so I went on towards the village, where the people

shouted to me from the windows, that I could come no further,

because the waters were rushing down so impetuously from the

mountains; and certainly there was a fine commotion in the middle

of the village. The muddy stream had swept everything along with

it, eddying round the houses, and running along the meadows and

footpaths, and finally thundering down into the lake. Luckily there

was a little boat there, in which I was ferried across to Neuhaus,

though this expedition in an open boat, in torrents of rain, was

far from pleasant. My condition, when I arrived at Neuhaus, was

miserable enough; I looked as if I wore long black boots over my

light-coloured trowsers, my shoes and stockings quite up to my

knees, dark brown; then came the original white, then a soaked blue

paletot; even my sketch-book, that I had buttoned under my

waistcoat, was wet through.

I arrived in this plight at Interlaken, where I was very ill

received, for the people there either could not or would not find

room for me, and so I was forced to return to Untersee, where I am

famously lodged, and most comfortable. Singularly enough, I had

been all along anticipating with such pleasure revisiting the inn

at Interlaken, of which I had so many reminiscences, and I drove up

in my little Neuhaus carriage to the Nuss-Baum Platz, and saw the

well-known glass gallery; the pretty landlady, too, came to the

door, but somewhat aged and altered. Neither the dreadful storms,

nor the various discomforts I had endured, annoyed me half so much

as not being able to remain at Interlaken, consequently for the

first time since I left Vevay I was out of humour for half an hour,

and obliged to

[Music]

sing Beethoven's adagio in A flat major, three or four times over,

before I could recover my equanimity. I learned here, for the first

time, the damage the storm had already done, and may yet do, for

the rain is still incessant.

_Half-past Nine o'clock at Night._--The bridge at Zweiluetschenen is

carried away; the _vetturini_ from Brienz, and Grindelwald, will

not encounter the risk of driving home, from the fear of some rock

falling on their heads. The water here has risen to within a foot

and a half of the Aar bridge; the gloom of the sky I cannot

describe. I mean to wait here patiently; besides, I do not require

the aid of localities, to enable me to summon up my reminiscences.

They have given me a room where there is a piano; it indeed bears

the date of the year 1794, and somewhat resembles in tone the

little old "Silbermann" in my room at home, so I took a fancy to it

at the very first chord I struck, and it also recalls you to my

mind. This piano has outlived many things, and probably never

dreamt that I was likely to compose by its aid, as I was not born

till 1809, now fully two-and-twenty years ago; in the meantime, the

piano, though seven-and-thirty years old, has plenty of good

material in it yet.

I have some new "Lieder" in hand, dear sisters. You have not seen

my favourite one in E major "Auf der Reise,"--it is very

sentimental. I am now composing one which will not, I fear, be very

good; but it will, at all events, please us three, for it is at

least well intended. The words are Goethe's, but I don't say what

they are; it is very daring in me to compose for this poetry, and

the words are by no means suitable for music, but I thought them so

divinely beautiful, that I could not resist singing them to myself.

Enough for to-day; so good night, dear ones.

August 10th.

The weather this morning is clear and bright, and the storm has

passed away; would that all storms ended as quickly, and were as

soon allayed! I have passed a glorious day, sketching, composing,

and inhaling fresh air. In the afternoon I went on horseback to

Interlaken, for no man can go there on foot at this moment. The

whole road is flooded, so that even on horseback I got very wet. In

this place, too, every street is inundated and impassable. How

beautiful Interlaken is! How humble and insignificant we feel when

we see how splendid the good Lord has made this world; and nowhere

can you see it in greater magnificence than here. I sketched for my

father one of the walnut-trees he so much admires, and for the same

reason I mean to send him a faithful drawing of one of the Bernese

houses. Various parties of ladies and gentlemen, and children,

drove past and stared at me; I thought to myself that they were now

enjoying the same luxury I formerly did, and would fain have called

out to them not to forget this! Towards evening, the snowy

mountains were glowing in the clearest outlines and in the

loveliest hues.

When I came back. I asked for some music paper, and they referred

me to their Pastor, and he to the Forest-ranger, whose daughter

gave me two pretty neat sheets. The "Lied" which I alluded to

yesterday is now finished; I cannot help after all telling you what

it is--but you must not laugh at me--it is actually,--but don't

think I am seized with hydrophobia--a sonnet, "Die Liebende

schreibt."[21] I am afraid its merit is not great; I think it was

more inwardly felt than outwardly well expressed; still there are

some good passages in it, and to-morrow I am going to set to music

a little poem of Uhland's; a couple of pieces for the piano are

also in progress. I can unfortunately form no judgment of my new

compositions; I cannot tell whether they are good or bad; and this

arises from the circumstance that all the people to whom I have

played anything for the last twelve months, forthwith glibly

declared it to be wonderfully beautiful, and that will never do. I

really wish that some one would let me have a little rational blame

once more, or what would be still more agreeable, a little

_rational_ praise, and then I should find it less indispensable to

act the censor towards myself, and to be so distrustful of my own

powers. Nevertheless, I must go on writing in the meantime.

[21] In the "Liederheft," Opus 15 of his posthumous works.

When I was at the Forest-ranger's, I heard that the whole country

was devastated, and the most sad intelligence comes from all sides.

All the bridges in the Hasli valley are entirely swept away, and

also many houses and cottages. A man came here to-day from

Lauterbrunnen, and he was up to his shoulders in water; the high

road is ruined, and what sounded most dismal of all to me, a

quantity of furniture and household things were seen floating down

the Kander, coming no one knows whence. Happily the waters are

beginning to subside, but the damage they have done cannot so

easily be repaired. My travelling plans have also been considerably

disturbed by these inundations, for, if there be any risk, I shall

certainly not go into the mountains.

The 11th.

So I now close the first part of my journal, and send it off to

you. To-morrow I shall begin a new one, for I intend then to go to

Lauterbrunnen. The road is practicable for pedestrians, and not an

idea of any danger; travellers from thence have come here to-day,

but for carriages, the road will not be passable during the

remainder of the year. I purpose, therefore, proceeding across the

Lesser Scheideck to Grindelwald, and by the Great Scheideck to

Meiringen; by Furka and Grimsel to Altorf, and so on to Lucerne;

storms, rain, and everything else permitting,--which means, if God

will. This morning early, I was on the Harder, and saw the

mountains in the utmost splendour. I never remember the Jungfrau so

clear and so glowing as both yesterday evening and at early dawn

to-day. I rode back to Interlaken, where I finished my sketch of

the walnut-tree. After that I composed for a time, and wrote three

waltzes for the Forest-ranger's daughter on the remaining

music-paper she had given me, politely presenting them to her

myself. I have just returned from a watery expedition to an

inundated reading-room, as I wished to see how the Poles are

getting on--unluckily there is no reference to them in the papers.

I must now occupy myself till the evening in packing, but I am most

reluctant to leave this room, where I am so comfortable, and shall

sadly miss my little piano. I intend to sketch the view from this

window with my pen on the back of my letter, and also to write out

my second "Lied," and then Untersee will soon also belong to my

reminiscences. "Ach! wie schnell!" I quote myself, which is not

over-modest, but these lines recur to me but too often when the

days are shortening, the leaves of the travelling map turned over,

and first Weimar, then Munich, and lastly Vienna, are all things of

the past year. Well! here you have my window! [_Vide_ page 246.]

_An hour later._--My plans are altered, and I stay here till the

day after to-morrow. The people say that by that time the roads

will be considerably better, and there is plenty here both to see

and to sketch. The Aar has not risen to such a height for seventy

years. To-day people were stationed on the bridge, with poles and

hooks, watching to catch any fragments of the broken-down bridges.

It did look so strange to see a black object come swimming along

in the distance from the hills, which was at last recognized to be

a piece of balustrade, or a cross-beam, or something of the sort,

when all the people made a rush at it, and tried to fish it up with

their hooks, and at length succeeded in dragging the monster out of

the water. But enough of water,--that is, of my journal. It is now

evening, and dark. I am writing by candle-light, and should he so

glad if I could knock at your door, and take my seat beside you at

the round table. It is the old story over again. Wherever it is

bright and cheerful, and I am well and happy, I most keenly feel

your absence, and most long to be with you again. Who knows,

however, whether we may not come here together in future years, and

then think of this day, as we now do of former ones? But as none

can tell whether this may ever come to pass, I shall meditate no

longer on the subject, but write out my "Lied," take another peep

of the mountains, wish you all happiness and good fortune, and thus

close my journal.

[Illustration]

Lauterbrunnen, August 13th, 1831.

I have just returned from an expedition on foot to the Schmadri

Bach, and the Breithorn. All that you can by possibility conceive

as to the grandeur and imposing forms of the mountains here, must

fall far short of the reality of nature. That Goethe could write

nothing in Switzerland but a few weak poems, and still weaker

letters, is to me as incomprehensible as many other things in this

world. The road here is again in a lamentable state; where, six

days ago, there was the most beautiful highway, there is now only a

desolate mass of rocks; numbers of huge blocks lying about, and

heaps of rubbish and sand. No trace whatever of human hands to be

seen. The waters, indeed, have entirely subsided, but they are

still in a troubled state, for from time to time you can hear the

stones tossed about, and the waterfalls also in the midst of their

white foam, roll down black stones into the valley.

My guide pointed out to me a pretty new house, standing in the

midst of a wild turbulent stream; he said that it belonged to his

brother-in-law and formerly stood in a beautiful meadow, which had

been very profitable; the man was obliged to leave the house during

the night; the meadow has disappeared for ever, and masses of

pebbles and stones have usurped its place. "He never was rich, but

now he is poor," said he, in concluding his sad story. The

strangest thing is, that in the very centre of this frightful

devastation,--the Luetschine having overflowed the whole extent

of the valley--among the marshy meadows, and masses of rocks,

where there is no longer even a trace of a road, stands a

_char-a-banc_--and is likely to stand for some time to come. It

chanced that the people in it wished to drive through at the very

time of the hurricane; then came the inundation, so they were

forced to leave the carriage and everything else to fate, thus the

_char-a-banc_ is still standing waiting there. It was a very

frightful sight when we reached the spot, where the whole valley,

with its roads and embankments, is a perfect rocky sea; and my

guide, who went first, kept whispering to himself, "'sisch

furchtbar!" The torrent had carried into the middle of the stream

some large trunks of trees, which are standing aloft; for at the

same moment some huge fragments of rocks having been flung against

them, the bare trees were closely wedged in betwixt them, and they

now stand nearly perpendicular in the bed of the river.

I should never come to an end were I to try to tell you all the

various forms of havoc which I saw between this place and

Untersee. Still the beauty of the valley made a stronger impression

on me than I can describe. It is much to be regretted, that when

you were in this country, you went no further than Staubbach; for

it is from there that the valley of Lauterbrunnen really begins.

The Schwarzer Moench, and all the other snowy mountains in the

background, become more mighty and grand, and on every side bright

foaming cascades tumble into the valley. You gradually approach the

mountains covered with snow, and the glaciers in the background,

through pine woods, and oaks, and maple-trees. The moist meadows,

too, were covered with a profusion of brilliant flowers--snakewort,

the wild scabious, campanulas, and many others. The Luetschine had

accumulated masses of stones at the sides, having swept along

fragments of rocks, as my guide said, "bigger than a stove," then

the carved brown wooden houses, and the hedges; it is all beautiful

beyond measure! Unfortunately we could not get to the Schmadri

Bach, as bridges, paths, and fords, were all gone; but it was a

walk I can never forget.

I also tried to sketch the Moench; but what can you hope to do with

a small pencil? Hegel indeed says, "that every single human thought

is more sublime than the whole of Nature;" but in this place I

consider that too presumptuous; the axiom sounds indeed very fine,

but is a confounded paradox nevertheless. I am quite contented, in

the meantime, to adhere to Nature, which is the safest of the two.

You know the situation of the inn here, and if you cannot recall

it, refer to my former Swiss drawing book, where you will find it

sketched, badly enough, and where I put in a footpath in front,

from imagination, which made me laugh heartily to-day, when I

thought of it. I am at this moment looking out of the same window,

and gazing at the dark mountains, for it is late in the evening,

that is, a quarter to eight o'clock, and I have an idea, which is

"more sublime than the whole of Nature"--I mean to go to bed; so

good night, dear ones.

The 14th, ten o'clock in the forenoon.

From the dairy hut on the Wengern Alp, in heavenly weather, I send

you my greetings.

Grindelwald, evening.

I could not write more to you early this morning; I was most

reluctant to leave the Jungfrau. What a day this has been for me!

Ever since we were here together I have wished to see the Lesser

Scheideck once more. So I woke early to-day, with some misgivings,

for so much might intervene--bad weather, clouds, rain, fogs--but

none of these occurred. It was a day as if made on purpose for me

to cross the Wengern Alp. The sky was flecked with white clouds,

floating far above the highest snowy peaks; no mists below on any

of the mountains, and all their pinnacles glittering brightly in

the morning air; every undulation, and the face of every hill,

clear and distinct. Why should I even attempt to portray it? You

have already seen the Wengern Alp, but at that time we had bad

weather, whereas to-day the whole mountain range was in holiday

attire. Nothing was wanting; from thundering avalanches, to its

being Sunday, and people dressed in their best going to church,

just as it was then.

The hills had only dwelt in my memory as gigantic peaks, for their

great altitude had entirely absorbed me. To-day I was struck with

amazement at the immense extent of their base, their solid,

spacious masses, and the connection of all these huge piles, which

seem to lean towards each other, and to reach out their hands to

one another. In addition to this you must imagine every glacier,

and snowy plateau, and point of rock, dazzlingly lighted up and

glittering. Then the far summits of distant mountain ranges

stretching hither, as if surveying the others. I do believe that

such are the thoughts of the Almighty. Those who do not yet know

Him, may here see Him, and the nature He created, visibly

displayed. Then the fresh, bracing air, which refreshes you when

weary, and cools you when it is warm,--and so many springs! I must

at some future time write you a separate treatise on springs, but I

have not time for it to-day, as I have something particular to tell

you.

Now you will say, I suppose, he came down the mountain again, and

is going to inform us once more how beautiful Switzerland is. Not

at all. When I arrived at the herdsman's hut, I was told that in a

meadow far up the Alps, there was to be a great fete this very

day, and I saw people at intervals climbing the mountain. I was not

at all fatigued; an Alpine fete is not to be seen every day; the

weather said, _yes_; the guide was willing. "Let us go to

Intramen," said I. The old herdsman went first, so we were obliged

to climb very vigorously; for Intramen is more than a thousand feet

higher than the Lesser Scheideck. The herdsman was a ruthless

fellow, for he ran on before us like a cat; he soon took pity on my

guide, and relieved him of my cloak and knapsack, but even with

them he continued to push forward so eagerly that we really could

not keep up with him. The path was frightfully steep; he extolled

it, however, saying that there was a much nearer, but much steeper

track: he was about sixty years of age, and when my youthful guide

and I with difficulty surmounted a hill, we invariably saw him

descending the next one. We walked on for two hours in the most

fatiguing path I ever encountered; first a steep ascent, then down

again into a hollow, over heaps of crumbling stones, and brooks and

ditches, across two meadows covered with snow, in the most profound

solitude, without a footpath, or the most remote trace of the hand

of man; occasionally we could still hear the avalanches from the

Jungfrau; otherwise all was still, and not a tree to be seen.

When this silence and solitude had continued for some time, and we

had clambered to the top of a grassy acclivity, we suddenly came in

sight of a vast number of people standing in a circle, laughing,

speaking, and shouting. They were all in gay dresses, and had

flowers in their hats; there were a great many girls, some tables

with casks of wine, and all around deep solemn silence, and

tremendous mountains. It was singular that while I was in the act

of climbing, I thought of nothing but rocks and stones, and the

snow and the track; but the moment I saw human beings, all the rest

was forgotten, and I only thought of men, and their sports, and the

merry fete. It was really a fine sight. The scene was in a spacious

green meadow far above the clouds; opposite were the snowy

mountains in all their prodigious altitude, more especially the

dome of the great Eiger, the Schreckhorn, and the Wetterhoerner, and

all the others as far as the Bluemli's Alp; the Lauterbrunnen valley

lay far beneath us in the misty depths, quite small, as well as our

road of yesterday, with all the little cataracts like threads, the

houses like dots, and the trees like grass. Far in the background

the Lake of Thun occasionally glanced out of the mist.

The crowd now began wrestling, and singing, and drinking, and

laughing; all healthy, strong men. I was much amused by the

wrestling, which I had never before seen. The girls served the men

with _Kirschwasser_ and _Schnapps_; the flasks passed from hand to

hand, and I drank with them, and gave three little children some

cakes, which made them quite happy; a very tipsy old peasant sang

me some songs; then they all sang; then the guide favoured us with

a modern song; and then little boys fought. _Everything_ pleased

me on the Alps, and I remained lying there till towards evening,

and made myself quite at home. We descended rapidly into the

meadows below, and soon descried the familiar inn, and its windows

glittering in the evening sun; a fresh breeze from the glaciers

began to blow; this soon cooled us. It is now getting late, and

from time to time avalanches are heard,--so thus has my Sunday been

spent.--A fete-day indeed!

On the Faulhorn, August 15th.

I am shivering with cold! Outside thick snow is falling, and the

wind raging and blustering. We are eight thousand feet above the

level of the sea, and a long tract of snow to traverse, but here I

am! Nothing can be seen; all day the weather has been dreadful.

When I remember how fine it was yesterday, while I earnestly wish

that it may be as fine to-morrow, it reminds me of life, for we are

always hovering between the past and the future. Our excursion of

yesterday seems as far past and remote, as if I knew it only from

old memories, and had scarcely been present myself; for to-day when

during five mortal hours we were struggling on, against rain and

fog, sticking in the mud, and seeing nothing round us but grey

vapours, I could scarcely realize that it ever was or ever will be

again fine weather, or that I ever lay idly stretched on this wet

marshy grass. Besides, everything here wears such a wintry aspect;

heated stoves, thick snow, cloaks, freezing, shivering people. I am

at this moment in the highest inn in Europe; and just as in St.

Peter's, you look down on every church, and on the Simplon, upon

every road, so from hence I look down on all other inns; but not

_morally_, for this is little more than a few wooden planks. Never

mind. I am now going to bed, and I will no longer watch my own

breath. Good night! "Tom's a cold."

Hospital, August 18th.

I have not been able to open my journal for two or three days, as

when night came I had no longer time for anything, but to dry

myself and my clothes at the fire, to warm myself, to sigh over the

weather, like the stove behind which I took refuge, and to sleep a

good deal; besides, I did not wish to try your patience, by my

everlasting repetitions of how deep I had sunk in the mud, and how

incessantly it rained, and so forth. During the last few days in

reality I went through the most beautiful country, and yet saw

nothing but thick fogs, and water in the sky, and from the sky, and

on the earth. I passed places that I had long wished to visit,

without being able to enjoy them; what also damped my writing mood,

was being obliged to battle with the weather, and if it continues

the same, I shall only write occasionally, for really I should have

nothing to say, but "a grey sky--rain and fog." I have been on the

Faulhorn, the Great Scheideck, on Grimsel Spital, and to-day I

crossed Grimsel and Furka, and the principal objects I have seen

were the points of my shabby umbrella, and I had not even a glimpse

of the huge mountains. At one moment, to-day, the Finsteraarhorn

came to light, but it looked as savage as if it wished to devour

us; and yet if we were a single half-hour without rain, it was

truly beautiful. A journey on foot through this country, even in

the most unfavourable weather, is the most enchanting thing you can

possibly imagine; if the sky were bright, I think the excess of

pleasure would be quite overpowering; I must not therefore complain

too much of the weather, for I have had my full share of enjoyment.

During the last few days I felt like Tantalus. When I was on the

Scheideck, a glimpse of the lower part of the Wetterhorn was

sometimes visible through the clouds, and it seemed beyond measure

magnificent and sublime; but I only saw the base. On the Faulhorn,

I could not distinguish objects fifty paces off, although I stayed

there till ten o'clock in the morning. We went down to the

Scheideck in a heavy snow-storm, by a very wet and difficult path,

which the incessant rain had made worse than usual. We arrived at

Grimsel Spital in rain and storm. To-day I wished to have ascended

the Sidelhorn, but was obliged to give it up on account of the fog.

The Mayenwand was shrouded in grey clouds, and we had only a single

peep of the Finsteraarhorn, when we were on the Furka. We also

arrived here in a torrent of rain and water everywhere, but all

this does not signify. My guide is a capital fellow: if it rains,

he sings and _jodels_; if it is fine, so much the better; and

though I failed in seeing some of the finest objects, still I saw a

great deal that was interesting.

On this occasion I have formed a particular friendship for the

glaciers; they are indeed, the most marvellous monsters in the

world. How strangely they are all tumbled about; here, a row of

jagged points, there, toppling crags, and above, towers and

bastions, while on every side, crevices and ravines are visible,

all of the most wondrous pure ice, that rejects all soil of earth,

casting up again on the surface the stones, sand, and gravel, flung

down by the mountains. Then the superb colouring, when the sun

shines on them, and their mysterious advance--they sometimes move

on a foot and a half in a single day, so that the people in the

village are in the greatest anxiety and alarm, when the glacier

arrives so quietly, and yet with such irresistible force, for it

shivers rocks and stones when they lie in the way--then the ominous

crashing and thundering, and the rushing of so many springs near

and round. They are splendid miracles. I was in the Rosenlaui

glacier, which forms a kind of cave, that you can creep through; it

looks as if built of emeralds, only more transparent. Above,

around, on all sides, you can see rivulets running between the

clear ice. In the centre of this narrow passage, the ice has left a

large round window, through which you look down on the valley, and

issue forth again under an arch of ice, and high above, black peaks

rear their heads, from which masses of ice roll down in the boldest

undulations. The glacier of the Rhone is the most imposing that I

have seen, and the sun burst forth on it as we passed early this

morning. This is a suggestive sight, and you get a casual glimpse

of the rocky peak of a mountain, a plateau covered with snow,

cataracts, and bridges spanning them, and masses of crumbling

stones and rocks; in short, even if you see little in Switzerland,

it is at all events more than is to be seen in any other country.

I have been drawing very busily, and think I have made some

progress. I even tried to sketch the Jungfrau; it will at least

serve as a reminiscence, and I can enjoy the thought that these

strokes were actually made on the spot itself. I see people rushing

through Switzerland, and declaring that they find nothing to admire

there, or anywhere else (except themselves); not the least affected

nor roused, remaining cold and prosaic, even in presence of the

mountains; when I meet such people I should like to give them a

good drubbing. Two Englishmen and an English lady are at this

moment sitting beside me near the stove; they are as wooden as

sticks. We have been travelling the same road for a couple of days,

and I declare the people have never uttered a syllable except of

abuse, that there were no fireplaces either on the Grimsel, or

here; but that there are _mountains_ here, is a fact to which they

never allude; their whole journey is occupied in scolding their

guide, who laughs at them, in quarrelling with the innkeepers, and

in yawning in each others' faces. They think everything

commonplace, because they are themselves commonplace, therefore

they are not happier in Switzerland than they would be in Bernau.

I maintain that happiness is relative; another would thank God that

he could see all this, and so I will be that other!

Fluelen, August 19th.

A day made for a journey; fine, and enjoyable, and bracing. When we

wished to start this morning at six o'clock, there was such a storm

of sleet and snow that we were obliged to wait till nine o'clock,

when the sun came forth, the clouds dispersed, and we had

delightful bright weather as far as this place; but now sombre

clouds, heavy with rain, have collected over the lake, so that no

doubt to-morrow the old troubles will break loose again. But how

glorious this day has been, so clear and sunny--we had the most

charming journey! You know the St. Gothard Road in all its beauty;

you lose much by coming down from above, instead of ascending from

this point, for the grand surprise of the Urner Loch is entirely

lost, and the new road which has been made, with all the grandeur,

as well as convenience, of the Simplon, impairs the effect of the

Devil's Bridge: inasmuch as close beside it a new arch, much bolder

and larger, has been constructed, which makes the old bridge look

quite insignificant, but the ancient crumbling walls look much more

romantic and picturesque. Though the view of Andermatt is thus

lost, and the new Devil's Bridge far from being poetical, still you

go merrily downhill all day, on a delightfully smooth road, flying

rapidly past the various localities, and instead of being sprinkled

by the foam of the waterfall on the old bridge as formerly, and

endangered by the wind, you now pass along far above the stream,

between two ranges of solid parapets.

We came past Goeschenen and Wasen and presently appeared the huge

firs and beech-trees close to Amsteg; then the charming valley of

Altorf, with its cottages, meadows, and woods, its rocks and snowy

mountains. We rested at Altorf in a Capuchin Convent, situated on a

height; and finally, here I am on the banks of the Vierwaldstadt

Lake. To-morrow I purpose crossing the lake to Lucerne, where I

hope to find letters from you. I shall then also get rid of a party

of young people from Berlin, who have been pursuing almost the same

route with me, meeting me at every turn, and boring me terribly;

the patriotism of a lieutenant, a dyer, and a young carpenter,--all

three bent on destroying France,--was peculiarly distasteful to me.

Sarnen, the 20th.

I crossed the Vierwaldstadt Lake early this morning, in a continued

pour of rain, and found your welcome letter of the 5th in Lucerne.

As it contained nothing but good tidings, I immediately arranged a

tour of three days to Unterwalden and the Bruenig. I intend to call

again at Lucerne for your next letter, and then I am off to the

West, and out of Switzerland. I shall take leave of it with deep

regret. The country is beautiful beyond all conception; and though

the weather is again odious,--rain and storms the whole day, and

all through the night,--yet the Tellen Platte, the Gruetli, Brunnen

and Schwytz, and the dazzling green of the meadows this evening in

Unterwalden, are too lovely ever to be forgotten. The hue of this

green is most unique, refreshing the eye and the whole being. I

shall certainly attend to your kind precautionary injunctions, dear

Mother, but you need be under no apprehensions about me. I am by no

means careless with regard to my health, and have not, for a long

time, felt so well as during my pedestrian excursions in

Switzerland. If eating, and drinking, and sleeping, and music in

one's head, can make a man healthy, then, God be praised, I may

well call myself so; for my guide and I vie with each other in

eating and drinking, and not less so unluckily in singing. In

sleeping alone I surpass him; and though I sometimes disturb him by

my trumpet or oboe tones, he in turn cuts short my morning sleep.

Please God, therefore, we shall have a happy meeting. Before that

time arrives, however, many a page of my journal must yet travel to

you; but even this interval will quickly pass, just as everything

quickly passes, except indeed what is best of all!--so let us be

true and loving to each other.