Chapter III · FIRST JOURNEY IN EUROPE. 1838-1839. (continued 4)

Meyringen, 26th June.

I have accomplished a journey to-day, such as I think few pedestrians have ever surpassed, considering the difficulties of a great part of the way,—from Stanz to Engelberg, thirteen miles, then over a tremendous mountain, the Joch, 6890 feet high, among the snows and near the glaciers of the Titlis and the Wendenstock, and then by a long path, through the most sublime mountain gorge and valley of Engstlen, to Meyringen. The distance from Engelberg is reckoned at nine hours (they always reckon by hours here), which on ordinary routes would be thirty miles. I do not know how far it really is. I accomplished it between half past eleven A.M. and half past seven P.M., and am fatigued past all conception, completely done over, and my feet apparently spoiled. To-morrow, perhaps, I will tell you something about it.

Grindelwald, Thursday, half past five, 27th June.

I take the first leisure hour to resume my account. I find that I must have walked about thirty-four miles yesterday, making due allowance for the windings of the path. I commenced at five o’clock, reached Engelberg at nine, where I rested till half past eleven, and reached Meyringen, as I said before, at half past seven. The journey from Stanz is through a narrow but fertile valley inclosed by high and picturesque mountains for about seven miles, when the valley contracts, the mountains on each side rise to a great height into sharp and bare peaks, leaving barely room for the Aar to descend between. It forms, I may say, one continual cataract from Engelberg to this point. Before this pass is reached I had gone by some other mountains which were very remarkable; among them the Brisenstock, a ridge of rock like the upturned edge of a hatchet, some 6,000 feet high, and throwing up from one extremity a column of rock like a vast obelisk. The road, which is carried at considerable elevation along one side of this narrow valley, is not difficult, and exhibits the whole way the most sublime scenery. The Wallenstock rises on one side to the height of above 8,000 feet; and those on the other side are not less lofty. Presently the shining summit of the Titlis rises before you, surrounded by others scarcely less elevated. The Titlis is the highest of the Unterwalden Alps, 10,710 feet. You then arrive at a place where the Aar forms a series of cataracts in the bottom of the gorge, nearly a thousand feet below you; the opposite mountain exhibits an almost perpendicular wall of rock, nearly 6,000 feet high, and a little cataract formed by the melting snow above falls from the top to the bottom. Soon I entered the little valley of Engelberg, the most beautiful and picturesque I have seen, probably the finest in Switzerland; at least that of Meyringen and this of Grindelwald, where I am now writing, are not to be compared with it. I only wonder it is so little known. I think it not improbable that I am the first American that has visited it. It is far out of the ordinary routes, and though easily accessible with chars from Stanz, yet the three passes that lead out of it are excessively difficult footpaths. It is a green, sunshiny valley, having perhaps eighty acres of plain, but very rich pastures rise up the mountain-sides to some distance; it is entirely shut in by the high mountains that rise on every side; the Titlis rising abruptly on the south within a few yards of the village, and sending down its avalanches in the spring close to the houses. But the glaciers are so situated as to send their summer avalanches in the other direction, so that the hamlet is not in danger; the other mountains toward the south have the glaciers on their summits, but the peaks on the other sides present naked precipices. The Engelberg, from which the hamlet is named (angel-mountain) is a lofty mountain shaped like a slender cone, with the apex cut off obliquely. It rises almost within the valley, and presents a very curious appearance. The large convent stands just between the base of this mountain and the Titlis. Attached to it is a very large and fine church for such an out-of-the-world place. I stopped at the simple auberge of the Engel (angel); mine host could only speak or understand German and Italian, so that our communication took place mostly by signs and single words, I giving him the German names as far as I could of what I wished. I got a very comfortable lunch of cold roast meat; but I wanted some strawberries, and could not think of the German name, and had considerable difficulty. At length he seemed dubiously to comprehend what I wanted; he went out, and returned in a few moments with a fine dish of the article in question. Excellent cream is as common as need be; so I had a fine feast. I found that I was the first visitor here this season. I amused myself with looking over the travelers’ book (which you always find) and reading the remarks of former visitors. An Englishman the summer before had ascended the highest peak of the Titlis. I afterwards saw that this could readily be done, as my route led me close to the top of the main body of the mountain.

To get into the valley of the Aar it was necessary to cross the Joch, a mountain connected with the Titlis, and almost as high. The pass between the two mountains is almost 7,000 feet at the summit, is covered with snow, and is in immediate proximity with the glaciers of the Titlis. The ascent is exceedingly difficult; indeed, from all I can learn, it is much more difficult than any of the passes at all frequented by travelers. I took a guide to the summit and some distance beyond, as a stranger could never have found the way. My guide was an old man of sixty years. From a high ridge near the summit, which belonged rather to the Titlis, I had a magnificent view of the mountains to the north and the valley I had passed through, and on the other side, close to us, of a vast glacier; the streams emerging from it formed a small river, which we had some difficulty in crossing, and which emptied into a dark alpine lake just below. Here I gathered a few alpine plants, as souvenirs of the place. Another weary climb over the snow brought us to the top of the Joch, and here, where shelter was impossible, we were exposed to a shower, but our umbrellas protected us in part, and the view repaid for a little wetting. Descending a little, my guide showed me a lake almost surrounded with snow, fed by the glaciers; the outlet, the source of one branch of the Aar, was the stream which flowed down the valley I was to descend to Meyringen; the knapsack was again transferred to my shoulders and I was left to myself. As I entered the valley of Engstlen the scenery grew wonderfully fine. Tired as I was I enjoyed the whole journey extremely, though it took me four hours and a half of continual descent; yet I look back upon it with delight. The main stream formed a succession of beautiful cascades; the mountains on each side very high, and mostly perpendicular faces of rock, and down these a great multitude of cascades of all sizes fell, some of them springing 500 feet at a leap; others, falling from much greater height over the rocks, looked like long skeins of yarn, if you will pardon the simile, dangling in the air. It must be much like the valley of the Lauterbrunnen, according to the description; but I think the latter cannot excel it. I hope to know to-morrow. A shower drove me into a miserable châlet, the highest one inhabited at this season, where I found a young man, who dwelt there for the summer, with his herd of goats, and his brother, a young lad of fifteen, who had come up from Meyringen to bring him some food, etc., and was just about to return, I drank about a quart of milk fresh from the goat, and found it excellent. When it stopped raining the youngster and I started together; I transferred my knapsack to his shoulders, and a franc and a half to his pocket, to the great satisfaction of both parties. He proved a very useful little fellow, though I could not understand much of what he said; he showed me some waterfalls and curious things that I should otherwise have missed. With the true spirit of his nation, ever ready to improve an opportunity, he told me he had a brother who spoke French, who would be my guide for the next day. It rained most of the way, but I was compensated for the partial wetting by the views of the most beautiful waterfalls, which fell into the valley in great profusion from the high precipices on each side. I could sometimes see twenty at one view. After a long and weary descent we came at last near the bottom, where this valley, and two others almost at the same point, fell into the main valley of the Aar, and I could look at the same moment up four deep and wild mountain valleys. Then skirting along the side of the mountain, we soon descended to Meyringen, deep in the main valley of the Aar, with two fine cascades behind it, and another very fine one, the cascade of the Reichenbach, on the opposite side of the valley. Glad enough was I when we reached the door of the humble auberge, and great was the havoc I made with the eatables which the kind landlady provided in abundance and of excellent quality. I sat down on a sofa in my chamber to read a little, but fell asleep instantly; slept until eleven, then took my bed and slept until half past seven in the morning.

I can say, with Sancho Panza, “Blest be the man who first invented sleep.” In the evening, what with my great fatigue and blistered feet, I supposed I should be scarcely able to move the next day, and that traveling on foot would be impossible. But I awoke perfectly restored, my limbs supple and my feet much better than I had anticipated; my guide made his appearance while I was at breakfast; said that it would take three days to make the excursion over the Great Scheideck to Grindelwald, then over the Lesser to the Wengern Alp, to Lauterbrunnen, and back to Meyringen by Interlaken and the Lake of Brienz. I insisted that it should be done in two, with the aid of a char from Brienz, at the end of the second day. Leaving my knapsack here, and taking a few things in our pockets, we set out at half past nine; stopped on our way to see the falls of the Reichenbach, where the stream of the valley we were climbing makes the descent of 2,000 feet in a succession of leaps; the longest forms the celebrated falls,—very fine. Farther above numerous waterfalls are seen dangling from the perpendicular sides of the narrow valley; one, remarkably high and slender, is called the Seilbach (rope-fall). Ascended through beautiful mountain pastures, dotted with châlets; the peak of the Wetterhorn in full view directly before us, a sharp pyramid, one side dark rock, the other pure white snow. The body of the mountain was still hidden by the Wellhorn, the first of the chain of high Bernese Alps we were approaching (9,500 feet); then the Engelhörner (angel’s-peaks) and high up between these, we had a fine distant view of the most beautiful glacier in Switzerland, the Rosenlaui, celebrated above all others for the purity of its untarnished white surface, and the clear azure of its depths and caverns. Stopped at a little inn, which is occupied only through the summer; got an excellent little dinner at half past eleven, charges moderate; visited another waterfall, and then walked half an hour out of our way to the foot of the Rosenlaui glacier, which descends to only 4,200 feet above the level of the sea; found a party there, two gentlemen and lady, the latter carried in a chair; admired the pure white surface, entered a little way into one of the crevices, looked down into the deep azure chasms; returning, viewed the awful gorge through which the stream from the glaciers makes its way, at least 500 feet deep, and only four or five feet wide, the water rushing and boiling and roaring in the bottom like mad. Threw down a big stone, and heard it crashing against the sides and shattered to atoms. Continued up the Scheideck, close along the broad and vast perpendicular side of the Wetterhorn; finally reached the summit of the pass (6,040 feet), and enjoyed the magnificent view of the mountains down the valley of the Grindelwald. The Wetterhorn (peak of tempests) rises, one vast precipice of alpine limestone, its base extending from Grindelwald on the one side almost to Rosenlaui on the other, and so near us that it seemed easy for a strong man to throw a stone against it, though it is really more than a mile off; its summit is 11,450 feet above the sea; this precipice consequently forms a wall about 6,000 feet in height. Next to this is the Mettenberg (perhaps 10,000 feet); and next, the great Eiger (giant, 12,220 feet), presenting its long thin edge, like the blade of a hatchet turned up into the air; while back of the Mettenberg appears the pointed cone of the Schreckhorn (the peak of terror, 12,500 feet). The vast space between these peaks is filled by an immense glacier, here and there interrupted, which under various names extends from Rosenlaui and Grindelwald almost to the Grimsel, and to Brieg in the Valais. The increasing supply of ice and the refrigeration of such an immense quantity forces branches down the valleys far below the level of perpetual snow, particularly these at Grindelwald, the lowest known; the base of the lowermost being little more than 3,000 feet above sea-level. I descended rapidly, looked down upon the two glaciers just mentioned, reached the little hamlet of Grindelwald in the bottom of the valley, close at the feet of these vast mountains, and a little above the foot of the lower glacier, which is so close that it seems almost possible to throw a stone to it; but I believe it is a mile off; reached here at five o’clock (twenty-one miles), having walked very deliberately. It is now just at sunset; the day has been warm; but now it is very cold, and I am shivering too much to hold my pen; besides, it is time for supper, and I want another view of the mountains. Adieu....

Villeneuve, 4th July, 1839.... Being unexpectedly detained here for a few hours, almost at the close of my Swiss pilgrimage, I resume my pen, which I have had no time to use for some time past, and must bring up my journal in a hurried way to the present. Since I broke off I have seen more than half the wonders of Switzerland. I can only now tell you where I have been from day to day; but I shall have much to give you viva voce some of the evenings of the rapidly approaching autumn. Stayed at Grindelwald Thursday night (a week ago); watched the clouds striking against the Wetterhorn and the Eiger and rolling down its sides; terribly cold. Friday, 28th, rose at four; started at five, in fine walking trim, after paying an exorbitant bill for very indifferent fare; was very confident that the guide paid nothing, and therefore suspected a connivance between him and the aubergiste to put all on my shoulders,—one of the evils of a guide; they are worse than useless on all the usual routes, indeed anywhere, except in ascending very high mountains and crossing glaciers; felt a little inclined to punish my guide, and therefore set off at a swinging pace and took him up the Little Scheideck much more rapidly than he ever went before. I buttoned up my coat and pretended not to be making any effort at all, while the poor fellow stripped off first his coat, then his waistcoat, the perspiration running off his face; until finally he pronounced it impossible to keep near me, and lagged far behind. At length I took pity on him and walked slower, but we crossed the Scheideck and reached the Wengern Alp, a journey of four hours and a half, in a little less than three....

From the crest of the Little Scheideck (6,300 feet) I got my first near view of the remainder of the high Bernese Alps,—the Mönch (12,660 feet), the Jungfrau (12,670 feet) (I have been giving you the height all along in French feet, as they are put down in Keller; in English feet the numbers will be considerably higher), with the two white peaks, the Silberhörner (silver-peaks), which belong to it.

Still beyond, though not quite so lofty, were the Grosshorn, the Breithorn, etc. The point where I stood commanded nearly the whole view, from the Engelhörner, Wetterhorn, a glimpse of the Schreckhorn, the Mettenberg, Eiger, Mönch, and Jungfrau, as I stood just in the mid-distance; an unsurpassed view it is. As I descended the other side to the Wengern Alp I lost those more to the east, but came still nearer to the Jungfrau....

At the Jungfrau hotel, a mere châlet on the side of the Wengern Alp, we were close under that magnificent mountain, separated only by a narrow gorge, and elevated just enough to have the most perfect view from base to summit. We had heard the day previous the crash and roar of falling avalanches on the other side of the Wetterhorn, and I was very anxious to see one; before long I saw two, one of them a pretty good one, come tumbling and roaring down the Jungfrau. Soon a thick cloud came and enveloped these mountains, so that I departed earlier than I should have done; it threatened to rain; and we descended into the valley of Lauterbrunnen, which is very deep and narrow, and had on the way a fine view of the valley and the mountains and glaciers that close its upper extremity. Saw the celebrated fall of the Staubbach, and was disappointed in it....

Walked rapidly down the valley of Lauterbrunnen to the lake of Brienz, turning aside so as not to pass through Interlaken, which is a little British colony; took a boat to the opposite end of the lake (eight miles); had a heavy shower and much wind; saw the falls of Giessbach from the lake, seven very fine cascades one above the other. Landed at Brienz; took a char up to Meyringen again, looking at the beautiful waterfalls from each side of the valley, now very full from the rains. Arrived at my own lodgings at five o’clock, having accomplished in the twelve hours fifty miles, of which thirty-two were traveled on foot.

Saturday, 29th, rose in good condition, breakfasted, and parted with my thoroughly Swiss landlady at five o’clock; went up the vale of Hassli, one of the finest in Switzerland, for the Grimsel, perhaps the wildest and grandest pass across the Alps. It is a footpath, or at best a bridle-path. I set out alone, with my knapsack on my back. Ascended a considerable distance when the clouds sunk lower and it began to rain, though I had the satisfaction to see down the valley that the sun was shining at Meyringen. Passed the last little village (Guttannen), a lonely place; above, the scenery grew to the very height of gloomy grandeur: immense blackened granitic mountains, clothed at the base with black stunted firs, above all naked tremendous rocks and peaks; between, just room enough for the river to tumble along, forming here and there a cataract. The view was heightened much, I doubt not, by the clouds and storm, so entirely in character with the scenery. I never before enjoyed a lonely rainy walk so much.

At the height of about 4,500 feet, and in the midst of the very wildest and most lonely scenery, reached the falls of the Aar at Handek, the finest in Switzerland,—indeed the only sublime waterfall here; viewed it first from below, then from the rude bridge thrown across just a few feet above where it leaps into the awful gorge. The scenery and all is in character, and for savage grandeur I have seen nothing to compare with it. Stopped at the châlet near the only dwelling within some miles; waited a little for the rain to subside, and finding that even here a traveler’s first wants had been pretty well provided for, I made an early but most excellent dinner upon bread, butter, cheese, and honey, the last especially excellent. No signs of better weather; so started on, passing a spot where falling avalanches every winter and spring had swept over a vast space of rock and completely worn it smooth; was now above trees, with here and there a bit of scanty vegetation, but almost every step to the end was now on rock or snow, and I walked on to the hospice near the summit in the midst of a snowstorm, one and a half hours; knowing it could scarcely accumulate sufficiently to obstruct or obscure entirely the path until I could reach the place of shelter, I enjoyed it intensely, but had quite enough when, at one o’clock, I reached the hospice (twenty miles), near the summit of the pass, surrounded with unmelted snow, more than 6,000 English feet above the sea. It is as comfortable a place as can be expected in such a situation, now kept as a kind of inn during the summer, and in winter left in charge of a single servant, with a store of provisions to last him until spring. The winter before last it was crushed by an avalanche, but the man and his dog escaped, and reached Meyringen in safety. It is now repaired; the stone walls are extremely thick, the roof protected against the winds, as is usual here, by laying huge stones upon it. Laid aside part of my wet clothes, and lay down before the fire to dry the remainder; fell asleep; on waking had just begun to write, but when I had given the heading, in came three more travelers: two Germans, whom I had met before at Grindelwald, and a young Englishman; all thoroughly wet with the storm, which was now more violent. We all had to huddle about the fire, so there was an end of writing.

Awoke Sunday morning and found myself in mid-winter; very cold, snowing hard, and the wind howling frightfully around our humble but snug place of refuge. The other travelers determined to prosecute their journey, spite of the Sabbath or the storm, and to go by way of the glacier of the Rhone, the other side of the summit of the pass and about four miles distant. They sallied out with their guide and left me to myself, which was one advantage. But in three hours they returned, giving an alarming account of the difficulties and dangers of the way. When just abandoning the attempt they heard a cry for help, and succeeded in rescuing another party of three with their guide, who had lost their way in the thick mist and storm and were wandering about in the drifts, suffering extremely with the cold, and who, as well as their guide, had given up all hope of reaching the hospice unless their cries should perchance be heard and bring them aid. All returned to the hospice together, and no further attempts to leave it were made that day. When left alone I had the fire to myself, and was spending the time in as profitable a manner as possible, thinking a little, too, of the strangeness of passing the day in such an elevated position; so their return, with an accession to their company, though very desirable for them, was not so favorable to me. And then of all people in the world the Germans are the noisiest talkers; Frenchmen are nothing to them; the fire which dried their clothes and warmed their fingers loosened their tongues, and they kept up a continual gabble for the greater part of the day. Scarcely a winter passes that some persons are not lost in this pass during such storms. A gloomy lake on the summit of the mountain, into which the bodies are thrown for burial, receives the name of “The Lake of the Dead” (Todten-See).

Monday morning, still enveloped in the clouds, but the storm apparently over. Found it no use trying to make a visit to the Rhone glacier; the clouds were so thick we could scarcely hope to find it, and the recent snow so deep nothing could be seen. Was disappointed also by these same clouds in getting a view of the high Bernese Alps, particularly Finster-Aarhorn and the glaciers, from this side, but determined not to wait here longer; so set off at half past ten in company with a native of Valais, who was traveling towards home and served as guide; traveled through deep snow, climbed up to the summit of the pass, more than a thousand feet higher, where at first we were so completely enveloped in the clouds that we seemed actually to be traveling through them and on them; dug a specimen or two of Soldanella out of the snow to serve as souvenirs. At length the wind arose and now and then sent a hole in the clouds to give me some glimpses of the desolate yet grand scenery through which we were passing. Soon I got a view of the valley of the Rhone almost at its commencement, with the river flowing through like a mere rivulet; looked down upon Oberwald, the highest village in Valais, a collection of little châlets all huddled together as if to keep themselves warm,—as indeed they have need; got out of winter and snow and into the valley at the little village of Obergesteln, and walked, on the same day, through a quick succession of most retired little Swiss villages of the humblest sort, to Brieg, on the Simplon road, near the mountain of that name, which I reached at nine o’clock in the evening, making a journey of forty miles, a portion through the snow, in ten hours and a half. I would like to tell you much about the upper Valais, a region seldom visited by travelers, but have not time; people kind and simple; got nothing to eat on the way except hard and dry brown bread, that may have been baked ten days; passed the villages where avalanches had fallen in former years and crushed many people; the scenery much more picturesque than I expected, but was most interested in the people and their little villages; women mowing, reaping, and doing every sort of the hardest labor; all awfully afflicted with goitre, scarce a person wholly free from it; actually saw one woman with a goitre not quite as large as her own head certainly, but about the size of that of the child she held in her arms, apparently a year old; saw one cretin. Stopped a few moments at the principal auberge in the village of Viesch; found the priest with two of his parishioners playing a game of cards together. A stranger being a curiosity in that region, one person accosted me very politely, and took me up the valley a little way to see the glacier and mountains. Reached Brieg utterly worn out, but got a good supper and bed; this being just where the famous Simplon road commences the ascent of the mountains, there are many travelers and a good hotel, though dear.

Rose Tuesday morning at four o’clock; my feet and legs very stiff and sore; thought of going up the Simplon road into the mountains to see some of the galleries and bridges and get fine views, but the morning was cloudy and I did not like to lose the time; started off down the valley, but got on slowly and very painfully; however, walked as far as Lenk, I believe about twenty-four miles, and there hired a char, which took me on to Siou, the capital of the canton, about twenty-two miles further, where I slept.

Wednesday, rose at four, and feeling pretty stout, I started off at five on foot, and though certainly in very far from the best condition for walking, went on to Martigny to breakfast, which place I reached at half past ten, twenty-four miles according to the guide-book, but the latter part was very painful. From this place one may go to the Hospice of St. Bernard in ten hours. I would have been glad to have seen so famous a place, but as to scenery it is decidedly inferior to much I had already seen. One may go to Chamouni in nine hours, getting the superb view of Mont Blanc from the summit of Col de Balme on the way. Thinking it impossible to walk farther, I hired a mule, and a person with him, and went up to the top of Col de Balme (five hours), passing the vale and glacier of Trient. Reached the summit at four o’clock; enjoyed a fine view of Mont Blanc and its attendant peaks from top to bottom, or rather at top and bottom, for there was a belt of cloud about the middle,—a most superb and complete view, Mer de Glace and all.

Quite satisfied without going to Chamouni, so returned to Martigny at eight P.M.; another good day’s work, particularly as I walked both up and down the worst part of the road, being merciful to the beast. On my descent obtained a splendid view of the Bernese Alps. Much aroused at looking over the register at the hotel, where the travelers expressed their opinions of the different hotels on the road, praising some, and speaking of others in terms of great reprobation; good plan. I think if the proprietor of the hotel at Sion (a very dirty hotel) could read all that is written in his own book he would burn it.... Lay down and slept till midnight.

Thursday, took diligence at one o’clock A.M. for Villeneuve; saw the falls of the Sallanches by moonlight; arrived at Villeneuve at half past seven, just after the morning steamboat had left for Geneva; am confident we were delayed on purpose, to induce us to go on in the diligence instead of the next boat. For myself I did not mind waiting till one o’clock, that I might make myself look a little decent, though I had not the means here of improving my appearance much; as to my boots, and indeed all my habiliments, they were much in the condition of those of the Gibeonites when they made their visit to Joshua. Wrote a little, went out to take a look at the Castle of Chillon, which is near,—the building itself not remarkable, but the situation fine....

Took the steamboat in the afternoon; passed Vevay, Lausanne, etc., etc., and after traversing the whole length of this much-admired, most beautiful lake, arrived at Geneva, just at sunset; having accomplished my pedestrian tour (long to be remembered) in ten days (excluding the Sunday)....

Geneva, 19th July.

My mornings, between eleven and four, have been constantly and fully occupied at De Candolle’s. Earlier in the morning I have spent much time with Mr. Duby,[110] a botanist and clergyman,—one of the government pastors here, and it is said almost the only one who is a pious man. I have yet to pack up a box of my gatherings and to send to the roulage to be forwarded to New York. I have taken lodgings, for my short stay here, with the Wolff family, very pious and excellent people, who are pretty well known to many persons of the same class in New York. One of the daughters is the wife of Dr. Buck,[111] and I believe your dear mother is acquainted with her. After dinner I have sometimes made little excursions in the neighborhood; once or twice I have been accompanied by Madame Wolff and the two daughters. They are very fond of walking, and often make long excursions on foot. The two daughters walk as fast as I can, and in fact one of them nearly tired me down the other day, when we were hurrying in order to watch the effect of the setting sun on Mont Blanc. I have taken quite a fancy to this river, the Rhone. I made my acquaintance with it when it was but a babbling brook; I have trudged along with it for many a mile, until it grew to a headstrong stream, and became so turbulent and muddy that it was obliged to jump into the lake to wash itself clean, and when it leaves the lake it is as clear as crystal,—emerald, I should say, for it is about that color. A few months ago I saw the same river in its old age, just falling into the ocean. Walked back along the shore of the lake; reached the house just in time to join in the evening worship,—a sweet hymn was sung (in French), one of the young ladies leading with the piano and all joining with their voices, and hearts, too, I doubt not; and then the venerable old man read a chapter, which I could understand very well, and closed with a simple and fervent prayer. You cannot know yourself how pleasant it is, after being jolted about in the rude world for months, to get again with a pious family. The house is just without the town, surrounded with a large garden and fine trees and shrubbery, and all very pleasant. Some days after, we made another excursion to visit their pastor. He was not at home, so I missed him, but saw his pretty garden. On the two Sundays I have heard one of the pastors of the Evangelical Society preach in the morning, and the clergyman of the English chapel in the afternoon. I have also had the satisfaction of seeing Mr. Malan, who, when he called here the other day, was so good as to hold a long and edifying religions conversation with me. He is a very apostle in appearance, and in conversation. Indeed, I have been thrown here into the midst of religious society of a high tone and of great sweetness and simplicity. I hope I have received some benefit from it. As I leave here I shall lose all this and shall see nothing more like it until I get home again....

TO GEORGE P. PUTNAM.

Bâle, July 23d.

... I left on Saturday morning for Lausanne and Freiburg, where I heard the big organ on Sunday; came on in the night to Berne, and yesterday to this place over the Jura. I wished here to see Professor Meisner, but found out this morning, some hours after the steamboat had left, that he was absent on a journey. I was a great fool for not finding that out last night, in which case I should now have been below Strasburg,—and this evening at Mannheim. As it is, I can’t wait here till Thursday morning for the next boat, and shall leave this evening for Schaffhausen and Tübingen, and thence push on, the best way I can, for Dresden and Leipsic. I do not lose a moment of time. Do not be surprised if I drop in upon you about the 4th or 5th of September. I would like to sail for home the latter part of that month. In early winter we will hope to give you an entire volume of “Flora,” and see what you can do with it. I have blocked out, in my mind, scientific labor enough for several years to come, and several works some of which will be good in a publisher’s acceptance of the term; others, I dare say, not. As Murray’s fame is derived from Byron, so shall you be immortalized and known to all posterity as the publisher of the celebrated Dr. Gray!!!

We have not much time to lose, and on my arrival at London I shall be wonderfully busy. I hope you will have picked up a great quantity of books for me by that time. My future credit and comfort will very much depend upon my bringing home an immense quantity of books for my money.... When I was in England I could scarcely hold up my head as a Yankee should—what with our border wars and domestic quarrels. But now I feel greatly relieved. The recent “Birmingham affair” and several other things fortunately (?) give me “wherewith to answer them that are of the contrary part.” Let them shut their mouths now! You know my address at Berlin, or you may address poste restante if you will. I think I shall be there till about the 25th August. I shall stop a few days at Hamburg. I think I may say that I shall not go up to Rostock. You will perhaps be receiving some letters for me, which, now you know my movements, you will act according to discretion either in forwarding to me or in retaining.

I have bought scarcely any books since I left Paris. I have had some good ones given me.

Excuse this hurried epistle. I have precious little time, and I find I am growing more and more slovenly every day. Adieu.

Most truly yours, A. Gray.

TO GEORGE BENTHAM.

... Arrived at Geneva by way of Villeneuve and the Lake. De Candolle and Alphonse had returned only three days previous to my arrival. They received me very cordially, and I went through the herbarium as far as the “Prodromus” is prepared.

From Geneva I went to Lausanne and Freiburg; ... thence to Berne, where I made no stay; thence to Bâle, to Schaffhausen, to Tübingen, where I spent the morning with Mohl;[112] reached Stuttgart toward evening and Heidelberg the next morning. Frankfort in the evening; took the eilwagen the same night for Leipsic; saw Pöppig,[113] Schwägrichen,[114] etc.; railroad to Dresden; saw Reichenbach[115] for a few moments, as he went into the country the same day; visited the picture-gallery, which deserves to be called the richest out of Italy; returned to Leipsic; to Halle; passed a day or two with Schlechtendal;[116] saw the Carices in the herbarium of Schkuhr;[117] Potsdam, Sans-Souci, the marble palace, the beautiful statue of the late queen of Prussia by Rauch (the second and best one); and thence to Berlin, where I remained nearly a month; saw the botanists, etc.

TO WILLIAM J. HOOKER.

London, September 13.

My dear Friend,—The “penny postage system” not being yet in operation, I embrace an opportunity that offers to send you a line in Pamphlin’s parcels. I am again in London, you see; indeed I have been here about a week. But it is only to-day that I have had intelligence of your return to Scotland. I had some hopes that I should find you in London on my arrival, or that you would return here from Chatham, and that I should have the gratification of seeing you once more. I received your welcome letter of August 14th, at Berlin, for which I thank you much. I wish my friends at home were half as prompt correspondents. While on the Continent I have received precious few letters.

I have been much interested at Berlin, and worked hard. The herbarium of Willdenow is larger and in better condition than I supposed, and the general herbarium is very interesting and rich. Klotzsch[118] is very industrious, and has got the whole collection in much better order than most of the herbaria on the Continent. I am under great obligations to Dr. Klotzsch, who not only afforded me every facility at the Herbarium, but most cheerfully aided me in every possible way, and during a transient illness (for I was confined to my room for a week or so, and to my bed for a few days) he procured for me the best medical advice, and took a great deal of trouble on my account.

I lost some time by this, but fortunately I had nearly finished my work at the Herbarium, and afterwards I had a few days to finish, and to look at Kunth’s[119] herbarium, with which I was rather disappointed. Kunth was extremely polite and attentive to me. He is at work upon the third volume of his “Enumeratio,” but I fear it will not be very well done. I saw Ehrenberg[120] frequently, and Link[121] once or twice, but nearly all my time was spent at Schönberg, where the Botanic Garden and Herbarium are situated, which is nearly a half hour’s ride from the city. The garden is much the finest in Germany, and the government annually expends very large sums upon it. The building exclusively devoted to the herbarium is very commodious, though Klotzsch begins to complain that he has not sufficient room. It is so far from town that there are no loungers there, and one may study perfectly undisturbed. I brought a few things for you from Klotzsch and Link, which Pamphlin is to send to-morrow.

Having lost some time by illness I did not go to Rostock, a most out-of-the-world place, although I suppose I shall hereafter regret that I did not see Lamarck’s herbarium.

I spent several days at Hamburg, saw Lehmann, his herbarium, and the botanic garden; and took steamboat for London. Since my return I have been busily occupied in the city, completing some purchases for the Michigan University, and shall be mostly thus employed during the remainder of my stay....

19th September.—I saw Dr. Richardson the day before yesterday, who informed me that the Erebus was still lying at Chatham, and (what I was not aware of) that I could reach Chatham in three or four hours. So I arranged at once to go down and see Joseph before he started, but the next day I learned that the vessels had dropped down from that port.

I expect to sail in the Toronto from Portsmouth on the 1st October.... I have yet very much to do. Yesterday I dined with Dr. Lindley and visited the Garden. One wing of the conservatory is erected and nearly covered with glass. It is entirely glass and iron, about 130 feet long, and will be very fine.... Believe me, my very dear friend, most truly yours,

A. Gray.

New York, 5th November, 1839.

My dear Father,—Through the favors of a kind Providence, my journey is safely brought to a close. I am happy to inform you that I reached New York last evening in the ship Toronto, after a passage of thirty-five days. I left London on the last of September, and Portsmouth on the 1st ult. The steamship Great Western, which left on the 19th of last month, reached New York two days before us! Our voyage was a rather pleasant one, although we had nearly forty passengers. It was rather rough, but no very hard gales. I was sea-sick but a single day, and then but slightly. I have brought with me nearly the full amount of my purchases of books for the Michigan library, a large collection. I am waiting to hear from Detroit to know whether it will be necessary for me to go up there this fall. I hope I shall not be obliged to make this journey until spring. I shall not come up to see you until I hear from Michigan, when I can take Sauquoit in my way if it be necessary to go to Michigan. I am now busy in getting my boxes and parcels through the custom-house, which is a tedious business. I hope I shall be allowed to remain here during the winter, as I have a great deal to do here.

I find here a letter from my friend Dana, of the Exploring Expedition, dated Valparaiso. He seems not very well satisfied with his situation. I have not heard from any of you for a full year. Perhaps one of my sisters will favor me with a letter now that I am so near. Love to all.