PART I.—1840.

LETTER I. Project for spending the Summer on the Banks of the Lake of Como.—Fine Spring.—Stormy Weather.—Passage from Dover to Calais.—The Diligence.—Paris.—Plan of our Route.

Brighton, June 13, 1840.

I am glad to say, that our frequent discussions of this spring have terminated in a manner very agreeable to every one concerned in them. My son and his two friends have decided on spending their summer vacation on the shores of the lake of Como—there to study for the degree, which they are to take next winter. They wish me to accompany them, and I gladly consent.

Can it, indeed, be true, that I am about to revisit Italy? How many years are gone since I quitted that country! There I left the mortal remains of 2those beloved—my husband and my children, whose loss changed my whole existence, substituting, for happy peace and the interchange of deep-rooted affections, years of desolate solitude, and a hard struggle with the world; which only now, as my son is growing up, is brightening into a better day. The name of Italy has magic in its very syllables. The hope of seeing it again recalls vividly to my memory that time, when misfortune seemed an empty word, and my habitation on earth a secure abode, which no evil could shake. Graves have opened in my path since then; and, instead of the cheerful voices of the living, I have dwelt among the early tombs of those I loved. Now a new generation has sprung up; and, at the name of Italy, I grow young again in their enjoyments, and gladly prepare to share them. You know, also, how grievously my health has been shaken; a nervous illness interrupts my usual occupations, and disturbs the ordinary tenor of my life. Travelling will cure all: my busy, brooding thoughts will be scattered abroad; and, to use a figure of speech, my mind will, amidst, novel and various scenes, renew the outworn and tattered garments in which it has long been clothed, and array itself in a vesture all gay in fresh and glossy hues, when we are beyond the Alps.

I have been spending the last two months at 3Richmond. What a divine spring we have had! during the month of April not a drop of rain fell—the sun shone perpetually—the foliage, rich and bright, lent, before its time, thick shadows to the woods. No place is more suited than Richmond where to enjoy the smiles of so extraordinary a season. I spent many hours of every day on the Thames—days as balmy as midsummer, and animated with the young life which makes fine weather in spring more delicious than that to be enjoyed in any other season of the year: then the earth is an altar, from which fresh perfumes are for ever rising—not the rank odours of the autumnal fall, but those attendant on the first bursting of life, on the tendency of nature in springtide to multiply and enjoy. I visited Hampton Court, and saw the Cartoons—those most noble works of the Prince of Painters. All was delightful; and ten times more so, that I was about to break a chain that had long held me—cross the Channel—and wander far towards a country which memory painted as a paradise.

We are to leave England at the conclusion of the Cambridge term, and have agreed to rendezvous at Paris in the middle of June. Towards the end of May I came here, intending at the appointed time to cross to Dieppe. The weather, at first, continued delightful; but after a time a change has 4come, and June is set in cold, misty, and stormy. A morbid horror of my sea-voyage comes over me which I cannot control. On the day on which we were to cross, I had an attack of illness which prevented my going on board. It becomes a question whether we shall remain for the next packet in the middle of next week, with the chance of a long, tempestuous passage, or proceed along the coast to Dover. I prefer the latter.

Paris, June 22.

We left Brighton for Hastings, and arrived on a fine evening; the sea was calm and glorious beneath the setting sun. On our way we drove through St. Leonard’s-on-Sea. Some years ago I had visited Hastings, when a brig, drawn high and dry on the shore near William the Conqueror’s stone, unlading building materials, was all that told of the future existence of this new town. It has risen “like an exhalation,” and seems particularly clean, bright, and cheerful.

The next day blew a fierce tempest; our drive to Dover was singularly inclement and disagreeable. We arrived in the evening, very tired and uncomfortable; a gale from the north-west raged, and the sea, wild and drear, broke in vast surges on the shore; the following morning it rained in torrents, 5as well as blew. The day after, however, the sun shone bright, and the waves sparkled and danced beneath its early rays. We were on the beach by seven, and reached the steamer in a small boat, one of the annoyances attendant on embarking at Dover. We had a rough passage—for some half way over the wind grew into a gale; I lay down on deck, and by keeping very still, escaped sickness: in two hours and a half we were on the French coast. Why we left Dover so early I cannot tell, since the tide did not serve to admit us into Calais harbour for an hour after our arrival—an hour of disagreeable tossing; at last, happy sight, the fishing boats were seen coming out from the port, giving token that there was water enough for us to enter. We landed. I was quite well immediately, and laughed at my panic.

We went to Roberts’s Hotel, a very good one, and the charges moderate. I made my first experiment at a table d’hôte, and disliked its noise and numbers very much. We were to proceed to Paris by the diligence, a disagreeable style of travelling, but the only one we could manage. We have forgotten night-travelling in England—thanks to the railroads, to which, whatever their faults may be, I feel eternally grateful; for many a new scene have they enabled me to visit, and much of the honey of delightful recollections have I, by their means, 6brought back to my hive: a pleasant day it will be when there is one from Calais to Paris. We left Calais at about ten in the forenoon. P. chose the banquette, as young Englishmen are apt to do; it resembles, more than any other part of this ponderous vehicle, the outside of a stage-coach. There were some merry Irish students there also, who could not speak a word of French: they leapt down from the top at every possible opportunity, so to tease the conducteur, who, to his flock of travellers, acts as shepherd and dog in one—gathering them together with the bark of, “En route, Messieurs!” most authoritatively. I and my maid were in the intérieur, with two Frenchwomen from England: one was a governess at a school, coming for a holiday; she was young, and her eyes were accustomed to the English style; she found fault with the diligence. The elder one would not allow any fault; and, if there were any deficiency, it was because things were not first-rate on this road. The road to Bordeaux was the grand one: the diligences there were Lord Mayors’ carriages for splendour. The longest day has an end, and our hours of penance came to a close. We arrived in Paris, and found pleasant apartments taken for us at Hotel Chatham. Travelling by diligence had been an experiment for me. I was delighted to find that, with all my 7nervous suffering, whenever my mind was intensely or disagreeably occupied, I could bear the fatigues of a journey far better than I had ever done. Several years before I had been a bad traveller; and, even in a comfortable English travelling chariot, suffered great fatigue, and even illness. When I returned from Italy I had tried the diligence, and been knocked up, and obliged to abandon it after the first night; yet then I enjoyed perfect health. Now I complained, and with reason, of most painful sensations; yet the fatigue I endured seemed to take away weariness instead of occasioning it. I felt light of limb and in good spirits. On the shores of France I shook the dust of accumulated cares from off me; I forgot disappointments, and banished sorrow: weariness of body replaced beneficially weariness of soul—so much heavier, so much harder to bear.

There is a cheerfulness in the aspect of Paris, that at once enlivens the visitor. True, the want of trottoirs is intolerable. From the absence of drains, the state of the streets is filthy; the danger of being run over by hack-cabs, which turn short round the corners, and accelerate their pace on purpose so to do, is imminent. The gravel of the Tuilleries and the Champs Elysées is not half so inviting as the sward of Hyde Park; yet there is an air of cheerfulness 8and lightsomeness about Paris, which seems to take the burthen from your spirits, which will weigh so heavily on the other side of the Channel. Nor, perhaps, in any city in the world is there a scene more magnifique—to use their own word in their own sense—than the view at high noon or sunset from the terrace of the Tuilleries, near the river, overlooking the Seine and its bridges; the Place de la Concorde, with its wide asphaltic pavements, sparkling fountains, and fantastic lanterns, looking on to the Barrière de l’Etoile one way, or down upon the horse-chestnut avenues of the gardens on the other. There is gaiety, animation, life; you cannot find the same in London. Why? One cause, of course, is the smoke of the sea-coal fires; another results from the absence of fountains. When will London have these ornaments, which could be so readily constructed from our great supply of water? Truly in France the water is all used ornamentally, and there is a sad deficiency for utility; but the coup-d’œil of a fountain is more pleasing than the consciousness of a pipe underground—at least, to the passing traveller.

We have spent a week agreeably in Paris, as we have several friends here. Our two companions are arrived. We are seriously preparing to set out on our travels. The lake of Como is our destination, 9and we have put the general guidance of our route into the hands of one of the party. I was a little startled when I was told that I was to reach Como viâ Franckfort; this is something like going to the Line by the North Pole; but I am assured that the journey will be the more delightful and novel. I was shown our way on the map—Metz to Trèves; then down the Moselle—unhacknied ground, or rather water—to Coblentz; up the Rhine to Mayence; Franckfort, and the line south through Heidelberg, Baden-Baden, Freyburg, Schaffhausen, Zurich, the Splugen, Chiavenna, to the lake of Como. These are nearly all new scenes to me. The portion of the Rhine we were to navigate I longed to revisit after an interval of many years. So this route being agreed upon, we have taken our places in the diligence for Metz.

I feel a good deal of the gipsy coming upon me, now that I am leaving Paris. I bid adieu to all acquaintance, and set out to wander in new lands, surrounded by companions fresh to the world, unacquainted with its sorrows, and who enjoy with zest every passing amusement. I myself, apt to be too serious, but easily awakened to sympathy, forget the past and the future, and am ready to be amused by all I see as much or even more than they. Among acquaintance, in the every-day scenes of life, want 10of means brings with it mortification, to embitter still more the perpetual necessity of self-denial. In society you are weighed with others according to your extrinsic possessions; your income, your connexions, your position, make all the weight—you yourself are a mere feather in the scale. But what are these to me now? My home is the readiest means of conveyance I can command, or the inn at which I shall remain at night—my only acquaintance the companions of my wanderings—the single business of my life to enjoy the passing scene.

11

LETTER II. Journey to Metz.—A Day spent at Metz.—Proceed to Trèves.—Enter Prussia.—Trèves.—Voyage down the Moselle.—Slow Steamboat up the Rhine to Mayence.—Railroad to Franckfort.

Thursday, 25th June.

We left Paris on the 25th of June, at six in the evening, and were thirty-seven hours reaching Metz, a distance of about two hundred miles, stopping only for half an hour at a time, and that only twice during the one day we were on the road. I suffered excessive fatigue during the two nights of this journey, partly on account of a cough I caught at Paris; but my health was not in the slightest degree hurt. The weather was very fine; the country we passed through was beautiful, abundant in corn and vines, then in midsummer luxuriance. There was a portion of those dull vast plains, so usual in France; but for the most part the country was varied into hill and dale, arable and forest land. The season setting in so genially in early spring, joined to the refreshing rains which have since succeeded, have caused rich promise of abundance to 12appear everywhere. I never remember feeling so intimately how bounteous a mother is this fair earth, yielding such plenteous store of food to her children, and this food in its growth so beautiful to look on. How full of gratitude and love for the Creator does the beauty of the creation make us! By a sort of slovenly reasoning, we tell ourselves that, since we are born, sustenance is our due; but that all beyond—the beauty of the world, and the sensations of transport it imparts, springs from the immeasurable goodness of our Maker. True we were also created to experience those emotions. God has not reduced our dwelling-place—as Puritans would his—to a bare meeting-house; all there is radiant in glorious colours; all imparts supreme felicity to the senses and the heart. Next to the consciousness of right and honour, God has shown that he loves best beauty and the sense of beauty, since he has endowed the visible universe so richly with the one, and made the other so keen and deep-seated an enjoyment in the hearts of his creatures.

We passed through Chalons-sur-Marne, Clermont, and Verdun. The corn-fields, the vineyards clothing the uplands, the woods that varied the landscape, and the meandering river that gave it light and life, were all in their fairest summer dress. Plenty and peace brooded over a happy land. From a traveller 13in a diligence no more detailed description of city, village, or scenery, can be expected. I will only add, that this was by far the most agreeable part of France I had ever traversed.

Saturday, 27th.

We had been told at Paris that we should arrive at Metz in time for the diligence to Trèves. Out of England one does not expect exactness; still it was provoking, as we wanted to get on, to find, when arriving at seven in the morning, that the diligence had started at six. We needed rest, certainly; and so made up our minds to endure with equanimity the necessity we were under of not fatiguing ourselves to death from a principle of economy. The inn was tolerable, and the table d’hôte sufficiently good; and, best praise, quietly served. Metz is a clean, pleasant town, a little dull or so; but from the gardens on the ramparts we commanded a view of the hill-surrounded plain in which it is built, with the Moselle flowing peaceably at our feet. We hired a boat, and loitered several hours delightfully on the river; but being without a boatman, found difficulty in discovering the main stream amidst a labyrinth of canals and mill-dams. Afterwards, we walked in the public gardens, which would have been pleasant, but for the foreign style 14of gravel, which is not gravel, but shingle; smooth turf and a velvet sward are never found out of England: they don’t know what grass means abroad, except to feed horses and cows. The weather meanwhile was fine, the air balmy; it was a day of agreeable idleness.

Sunday, 28th.

At six in the morning we left Metz for Trèves, the distance fifty-five miles, which occupied us fourteen hours. We had now entered the true region of German expedition. The diligence was a sort of char-à-banc, with a heavy roof. We had the front seats; but the people behind had ingress and egress only by passing ours, which was done by raising the middle seat, in the style of the public boxes at our theatres. The horses went well enough (I have an idea we only changed them once, half way); but the peculiarity of German travelling consists in its frequent and long stoppages. During each of these the people behind got out, and refreshed themselves by eating and drinking. Another inconvenience resulted from our stopping so often; our left-hand leader went well enough when once off, but it was very difficult to persuade him to move; and he was never urged by any but the gentlest means. Every time we stopped he refused to set 15off; on which our driver got down to pat and coax him, and feed him with slices of bread—horses eat a great deal of bread in Germany. When he thought he had succeeded, he mounted again; but the horse being still obstinate, he had to get down and renew his caresses and bits of bread. Sometimes he repeated these manœuvres half a dozen times before he succeeded. Once, just as the horse, after showing himself particularly self-willed, had deigned to yield, a passenger behind, a simple-looking bumpkin, started forward, exclaiming in accents of distress— “Oh, mon gâteau!” He had bought a cake; but by some accident had left it behind, and he entreated the driver to stop, that he might recover it: this was too much; a full quarter of an hour’s coaxing and much bread could not thus be wasted, all to be begun over again.

The fields on the road-side were planted with cherry-trees, which, for the purpose of distilling kirchen-wasser, abound all over Germany; the fruit was ripe, and the heavily-laden branches hung over the road; our outside passengers helped themselves plentifully, so that in a short time we were pursued by a hue and cry of peasants. There is a heavy fine for robbing cherry-trees; and these people wanted to be paid: fierce objurgations passed, and a frequent use of the word schwein—the most opprobrious 16name a German can give or receive. The peasants had the worst and got nothing. We stopped nearly two hours at Thionville for dinner. In the same room, at the other end of the same table, a civic feast was prepared, delayed only by the non-arrival of the sous-préfet: he came at last and was joyously welcomed. But here German was the usual language; and we became worse than deaf, for we heard but could not understand.

Thionville is pleasantly situated in the valley of the Moselle, close to the river. It was the eve of some great feast in honour of the Virgin; and all the girls around were erecting altars and triumphal arches, and adorning them with waxen figures in full dress, and quantities of flowers and ribbons. They were enjoying themselves greatly and very proud of their handy-work.

Soon after leaving Thionville we arrived at the Prussian frontier; there was but one passenger besides ourselves, and he only had any taxable goods—sugar-plums from Nancy. Our luggage was taken down and some portion of it slightly inspected; the necessary ceremony was soon over; but two hours were loitered away, one knew not wherefore. The people were civil and the day fine, so we did not feel inclined to be discontented. The country after this grew more varied and pleasant, but the villages 17deteriorated dismally. They were indescribably squalid. The dung before the doors—the filth of the people—the wretched appearance of the cottages, formed a painful contrast, which too often presents itself to the traveller, between the repulsive dwellings of man and the inviting aspect of free beautiful nature, all elegant in its forms, delicious in its odours, and peaceful in its influence over the mind.

As we slowly proceeded, and were entering a village, a violent thunder storm came on; the driver drew up the diligence to the road-side, and he and the conducteur, and all the outside passengers took shelter in an inn, where they remained drinking beer while the storm lasted. After we had proceeded thence about three miles, our fellow-passenger, who had appeared a mild quiet German, and had been conversing good-humouredly with us, discovered that he had been taken beyond his place of destination, which was indeed the village where we had stopped during the storm. This he considered the fault of the conducteur, and flew into the most violent rage. We escaped the benefit of his angry language since we did not understand him;—he and his portmanteau were left under a tree, looking helpless enough; and we went on.

The disagreeable part of a slow style of travelling is, that although at the outset we take it patiently, 18and may find it even amusing, yet, when we are to reach a definite bourne, and the hours pass, and apparently we are still as far off as ever, we become excessively weary. The country was pretty, and after the shower, the evening wore a garb of sober gray not unpleasing. But our fatigue increased rapidly; and mile after mile we proceeded, not interspersed with the capricious and ludicrous stoppages that had marked our outset, but in a sort of determined jogtrot, that showed that the men and horses had lost the gay spirit which had led them to play with their work, and were seriously set upon finishing it with all the slow haste of which they were capable. We arrived at Trèves at ten o’clock last night.

The inn (l’Hôtel de Trèves) is the best we have yet met with; the civility and alacrity with which we are served is quite comforting,—as well as the cleanliness of the house, and the ultimate moderation of the charges. Our first care on arriving has been to arrange for descending the Moselle. There is no steamer; one is promised for next year; but, for the present, there is only a passage-boat twice a week, Thursday and Saturday, and this is Monday. Upon inquiry, we learn that we can hire a tolerably commodious boat, with three men to work her, at no extravagant price. We have found also at the hotel two young Cantabs, friends of one of our party, bent 19on the same voyage, on their way to a tour in Switzerland. They have agreed to join us. By early rising and late arriving, we might accomplish the descent in two days; we prefer a more easy style of proceeding. We are to sleep two nights on shore, and occupy the better part of three days going down the river.

Trèves, or, as the Germans call it, Trier, is a very interesting town, as being one of the oldest in the northern part of Europe. It was a metropolis, we are told, before the time of Julius Cæsar. After the Roman Conquest, and during the decay of the empire, it was the centre of northern civilisation. During the middle ages, and till the time of the French Revolution of 1789, it flourished as the capital of an archbishopric, such as existed in Germany, where the mitre was united rather to the sword and sceptre, than to the crosier. It is now in a state of decay, but venerable in its fall. The old Roman ruins give token of that magnificent spirit which causes the steps of the masters of the world to be made evident everywhere, through the solidity, grandeur, and utility of their works.

My friends have been rambling about the town and are returned highly delighted. I did not go, for I felt very much fatigued; I repent me now—but it is too late.

20June 29th.

We left Trèves soon after noon; our boat was rude enough, but tolerably large. A queer-looking old man steered her, and the oars were held by two young fellows, one with an aspect of intelligence and good humour, the son of the old man; the other, belonging to a grade beneath him in the human scale. Our luggage was piled aft, and we had an awning. Thus, on a fine, but not hot, June day, we pushed off from Trèves; and, full of curiosity and expectation of pleasure, dropped down the swift stream between verdant banks that rose into hills—not striking in their outline, but agreeable to the eye, while frequent villages, each with its church and pointed spire, either nestled in the foldings of the hills, or graced some promontory that formed a bend in this much-winding river. Peace seemed to brood over and lull us—a deeper peace, as at evening the green shadows of the mountains gathered on the quiet river; and now and then a ruined castle crowned a height, and with that peculiar impression of stately tranquillity which a time-honoured ruin imparts, added the touch of romantic dignity, which otherwise had been wanting, to the scene.

We arrived at Piesport at seven, and our boatmen counselled us to remain here for the night. One of the gentlemen, who had joined us, had studied 21German for this tour, and a very necessary accomplishment we found it. Nothing can be more futile than the idea that French will carry a traveller through Germany or Italy. At some of the best inns on the most frequented routes, waiters are provided who can talk both French and English; but, go ever so little off the high-road, or address a person not especially put there for the benefit of your ignorance, and you are instantly at fault; and wanderers, like ourselves, if they cannot speak the language of the country, nine times out of ten, run every risk of not obtaining the necessaries of life. We had been told on this occasion, that one of our boatmen spoke French, but oui, and non, and bonjour was the extent of his vocabulary, and we could never make him understand a word we said. We took great interest, therefore, in our friend’s first experiment in German, and his success was a common triumph. Piesport is a miserable village, with a miserable inn, and it was matter of difficulty to procure beds for so large a party; the rooms looked dirty and disconsolate—but there was no help; we ordered supper, coffee and eggs, and, our great staple of consumption throughout Germany, fried potatoes; and with the agreeable promise of the excellent wine of the country, we hoped to restore our fatigues. While all this was preparing, we walked up a hill and 22looked down on the windings of the river, and the green hills that closed around to guard and shelter it. We encountered a poor stray fire-fly on our road, flashing a pale sickly light: how it came there who can tell? it looked lost and out of place.

Tuesday, 30th.

We left Piesport at five in the morning; the mists gathered chill, white, and dank around us. We met many barges towed up the stream by horses up to their middles in the cold foggy river. The hills grew higher and steeper—broken into precipice and peak—crowned by ruined towers and castles. To a certain degree, it might be called a miniature Rhine; yet it had a peculiar character of its own, more still, more secluded than the nobler river. There were no country seats; no large towns nor cities; but the villages, each with its spire, and overlooked by a ruined tower on a neighbouring height, succeeded to each other frequently. At eight o’clock we arrived at Berncastel; by the windings of the river, it was fifteen miles to Trarbach; across the hills, it was but three. Our boatmen advised us to cross the hill, as the boat thus lightened would make speedier way; accordingly, with the morning before us, we left the boat at Berncastel, and ordered breakfast. My companions scrambled up a steep hill to a ruined 23castle that overhung the village. We had a good breakfast, and then began our walk. The hill was very steep; the day very warm; I never remember finding the crossing of a mountain so fatiguing. The path was good, not broken into zigzags, but for that reason steeper; and after the fatigue of the ascent, the descent became absolutely painful. At length we reached Trarbach. It was market-day, and the high-street was thronged. One plenteous article of merchandise was cherries: we gave a few groschen, and in return bore off many pounds; the woman who sold them seemed never tired of heaping up our basket. The boat arrived soon after, and repose was delightful after our laborious walk.

The finest scenery of the Moselle occurs after leaving Trarbach; but words are vain; and in description there must ever be at once a vagueness and a sameness that conveys no distinct ideas, unless it should awaken the imagination: unless you can be placed beside us in our rough-hewn boat, and glide down between the vine-covered hills, with bare craggy heights towering above; now catching with glad curiosity the first glimpse of a more beautiful bend of the river, a higher mountain peak, a more romantic ruin; now looking back to gaze as long as possible on some picturesque point of view, of which, 24as the boat floated down but slightly assisted by the rowers, we lost sight for ever—unless you can imagine and sympathise in the cheerful elasticity of the setting out at morning, sharpened into hunger at noon, and the pleasure that attended the rustic fare we could command, especially accompanied as it was by bright pure Moselle wine; then, the quiet enjoyment of golden evening, succeeded by still and gray twilight; and last, the lassitude, the fatigue, which made us look eagerly out for the place where we were to stop and repose:—there is a zest in all this, especially on a voyage unhacknied by others, and therefore accompanied by a dash of uncertainty and a great sense of novelty, which is lost in mere words:—you must do your part, and feel and imagine, or all description proves tame and useless.

We arrived at Kochheim at ten, and found a comfortable inn. In the salle-à-manger was a respectable-looking man, apparently some sort of merchant;—he could talk English, and we entered into conversation with him. I observed that it was sad to see the wretched villages and the destitution of the inhabitants, and this in a land which yielded such lucrative produce as Moselle wine, the sale of which must render the landed proprietors rich, while the mere cultivators languished in penury. 25The man replied, that it was not so—the villagers were well off, having all they desired, all they wanted. During the French revolution, he said, the nobles forfeited their estates, which were mostly bought up by the peasants, and consequently these rich vineyards belonged to the cultivators. It was true that the trade was carried on by wine merchants, who made large profits; but the peasants might do better if they chose. They were, however, cut off from the rest of the world; they lived as their fathers had done before them; and had no ideas or wishes beyond their present style of life. They had enough, and were content.

Wednesday, July 1.

We left Kochheim at eight. The day grew warm; but a breeze sprung up, which helped us on our way. The vine-clad hills still sheltered the river; still villages with their spires occurred frequently; and still the landscape was distinguished and ennobled by the ruins of feudal towers and castles. At about four o’clock, we reached the mouth of the Moselle as it joins the Rhine. Our boatman wished to land us on the bank of the Moselle itself. We naturally desired to enter the Rhine and land close to an hotel. They declared it was impossible,—the stream was too swift. But they spoke to incredulous ears—some 26of my companions had before this relieved the men in their work, being accustomed to pulling at Cambridge. Two now took the oars: the old man continued to steer. The rowers did not find the stream very difficult to stem, working as they did with a will. The old boatman steered us near the banks, among the numerous barges, apparently with some malice, to bring us into difficulty. On one occasion, indeed, it appeared as if we should be inevitably run down by a large barge, and my maid screamed and wanted to jump overboard to save herself: a stroke of the oar saved us. We had not far to go. We landed at the bridge, and betook ourselves to the Hôtel Bellevue, close at hand.

The German hotels are all conducted with great order and regularity, and are very clean, quiet, and good. The head-waiter is the responsible person—he is paid for all the other servants; and the usual sum, a franc a day for every master, is reasonable enough, as it includes every one; and the traveller is not laid in wait for by sighing chambermaid or imploring boots. The only fault is, that the eating is carried on in the common room, where Germans smoke, and consider fresh air unhealthy. The Bellevue is one of three first-rate hotels at Coblentz. The Géant, however, is the largest, and enjoys the best reputation. There is a good one, I believe, on the other side of the river.

27Thursday, July 2.

This day was passed on board the steamer, going to Mayence. We embarked at ten in the morning. Years had elapsed since I had passed down this river, before steamers were in use—in an ungainly boat, managed in a still more ungainly manner. Memory had painted the Rhine as a scene of enchantment; and the reality came up to what I remembered. The inferior beauty of the banks of the Moselle enhanced still more the prouder and more romantic glories of the Rhine. The promontories stood in bolder relief—the ruined castles and their ramparts were more extensive and more majestic—the antique spires and Gothic abbeys spoke of a princely clergy—and the extent of mouldering walls marked cities belonging to a more powerful population. Each tower-crowned hill—each picturesque ruin—each shadowy ravine and beetling precipice—was passed, and gazed upon with eager curiosity and delight. The very names are the titles of volumes of romance: all the spirits of Old Germany haunt the place. Even the events of modern days have added an interesting tale:—When the German soldiers, led by Blucher, and driving the proud fallen victor before them, beheld the river honoured by them, so late occupied by the enemy they hated, now open and free, the name of “The Rhine!” burst from many 28thousand voices, accompanied by tears of ecstacy. Some day I should like much to establish myself for a summer on the banks of this river, and explore its recesses. As we glide by, we obtain but a cursory and unsatisfactory survey. One longs to make a familiar friend of such sublime scenery, and refer, in after years, to one’s intimate acquaintance with it, as one of the most valued among the treasures of recollection which time may have bestowed.

We were a large party in ourselves, and enjoyed our voyage greatly; but, as evening came on, we left the more picturesque part of the river, and grew weary as still we did not arrive. When it became dark, we saw, looming up the river, a shadowy bark, with bright lanterns at its mast-head. What boat was that? The steamer that had left Coblentz at two—four hours later than ourselves. It neared—it passed us. “Oui, ça marche plus vite que nous,” replied the phlegmatic German captain, to our accents of surprise and discontent. To go a-head, never entered his mind as desirable. One boat went quick, the other slow—that was all the difference—their day’s work was the same. To us, however, the difference involved, besides great unnecessary weariness, our comfort for the night.

We did not arrive at Mayence till near midnight; and we were preceded by our rival, which, together 29with another steamer, had reached the pier, and disgorged their passengers. We had first to seize on porters, to carry our luggage; which, for our large party, was multifarious; and without the aid of our friend who spoke German, I know not how we should have managed it. We went to the best inn: it was quite full. The next—there appeared some hope; but it failed us. We were driven, at last, to a very mediocre one; but, though we were Godsends to these people, they were neither rude nor exorbitant: on the contrary, they received us with a sort of cordiality; their accommodation was bad, but they made up for it by civility. We were very tired, and very glad to go to bed.

Friday, July 3.

We left Mayence early. Our plan had been to go by the last train of the previous night to Frankfort. Balked of this, we arranged to go by the earliest of this morning. Here we separated from our chance companions; as they stopped to view the lions at Mayence, and were destined for Strasburg, with which city we meant to have nothing to do.

The railroad from Mayence to Frankfort is not a very good one; but the carriages were comfortable, and the way short—twenty-one miles, which we did 30in little more than an hour. We went (guide-directed by the inestimable Murray) to the Hôtel de Russie—a most excellent one. Frankfort looks a clean, airy, but dull town. We have walked about it a good deal, but seen nothing worthy of remark. We missed, by stupidly not making proper inquiries, viewing the Ariadne of Dannecker, which is held in high estimation, as among the best modern sculpture. I am not well all this time, and tormented by a cough that fatigues me greatly. We have dined at the table d’hôte, which is thronged by English; and at the hotel the waiters all speak English, and are cross if you speak French, as they want to practise.

A bargain has been made this evening with a voiturier to take us to Schaffhausen for eleven napoleons. We were to stop a whole day at Baden-Baden, and reach our destination on the seventh day after leaving Frankfort.

31

LETTER III. Darmstadt.—Heidelberg.—Carlsruhe.—Baden-Baden.

4th July.

We set off from Frankfort, feeling as if we were making a fresh start, and were about to traverse districts new and strange. The road we pursued was perfectly flat, and presents an easy task for the construction of the projected railway. To the right, a fertile plain stretches for several miles to the Rhine; to the left, high hills hemmed us in—by turns receding from, and advancing close to, the road. As usual in this frontier part of Germany, the foldings of the uplands were sprinkled by villages, with their spires; and the neighbouring heights were crowned by ruined castles and towers, which ever add so much to the interest of the scene. What lives did the ancient inhabitants of those crumbling ruins lead! The occupation of the men was war; that of the women, to hope, to fear, to pray, and to embroider. Very often, not having enough of the first in the usual course of their existence, they contrived a little more, which led to an extra quantity 32of the second and third ingredients of their lives, and, in the end, to many a grievous tragedy. Wayward human nature will rebel against mental sloth. We must act, suffer, or enjoy; or the worst of all torments is ours—such restless agony as old poets figured as befalling a living soul imprisoned in the bark of a tree. We are not born to be cabbages. The lady, waiting at home for her husband, either quaked for fear, or relieved the tedium of protracted absence as she best might, too happy if death or a dungeon were not the result. The young looked down from the hills, and fancied that joy would meet them if ever they could escape to countries beyond. Meanwhile, the peasant in the plain below toiled, and had been far happier than his lord, but for the desolation brought on him by the fierce wars, of which this region was perpetually the theatre.

The peasant, at least, has gained by the change. Hard-worked, he doubtless is; and, probably, poorly fed: but he is secure. We look round for the mansions, which we expect should replace fortified castles, as the abodes of the rich; but find none. It is strange; but, except in Italy and England (and I am told, in parts of France, but in none I ever traversed), the wealthy never seek to enjoy the delights which nature affords; and country-houses, and parks, and gardens, are nowhere else to be found.

33We were somewhat annoyed, and much amused, at Darmstadt, where we stopped for luncheon. The inn was good; but they were expecting the Grand Duke of Baden: the whole of the private rooms were prepared for him, and we were shut out from all, except the common eating-room—of course, redolent of smoke. It was impossible not to laugh, however, at the tokens every waiter gave that his head was turned by the expected arrival—I use this expression literally, as well as figuratively; for, as they unwillingly served us, still their heads were averted towards the window, and frequently they rushed madly to gaze; and whatever question we might ask, still their answer was—“The Grand Duke of Baden is coming.”

Darmstadt looked, like most of the towns we traversed in this part of Germany, clean and airy, with wide streets, and a large undecorated building—the palace of the reigning prince; but all rather dull. The road continued pleasant, and the mountainous district to our left became more picturesque. Agreeable excursions might be made among the hills; but we were bound right on, and could not indulge in extraneous rambles. We turned in among the inclosing hills, as we approached Heidelberg. The road lay on the right bank of the Neckar, and at every step the scenery acquired new beauty. Heidelberg is on the left bank; to our right, that is, as 34we advanced up the stream; and is situated on a sort of narrow platform between the river and the hill on which the castle stands. The town itself has a wholly different appearance from those we had recently passed. It has an ancient, picturesque, inartificial look, more consonant with our ideas of German romance. The best hotel was full; we were transferred to the second, which was very tolerable. We went out to walk by the river-side: the scene was tranquil and beautiful: the river gave it life. The castellated hill crowned it with aristocratic dignity, and the picturesque mountains around closed all in, giving an air of repose, and yet of liberty; for mountains ever speak of the free step and unshackled will of their inhabitants, and, at the same time, of their limited desires and local attachments. Parties of students passed down the streets; but all were quiet. There were numerous shops for painted German pipes: these my companions visited, and made purchases.

Sunday, 5th.

Before eight in the morning we were on the alert, that we might visit the Castle before our departure. We walked up the hill: the way was not long. The first aspect from the outer terraces, commanding a beautiful view of the country around, and the ruined towers and walls of the castle itself, all 35verdurous with ivy and other parasites, was exceedingly pleasing. The woman, who showed us over the Castle, was, without being pretty, very agreeable; with gentle, courteous, and yet vivacious manners: she spoke English with a very pretty accent, and her laugh was soft and joyous. It is always pleasant to meet, among the uneducated classes, individuals with whom you lose all sense of caste—who are instantly on a level with those deemed their superiors, from mere force of engaging manners, intelligence, and apparent kindness of heart. She took us to the ruins of the wing of the Castle built for the Princess Elizabeth, daughter of our James I. She ought to have been happy in so beautiful a place. From her castle windows, she looked on her fertile and rich domains. Her habitation, whose situation was so much favoured by nature, had been adorned by the hands of fond affection; for her husband had not only built this wing for her comfort, but, to welcome her on her arrival, had laid out a flower-garden in the English style, the remains of which still bloom. But she wished to be a queen; and, to gain the shadowy crown of Bohemia, she devoted the beautiful Palatinate to desolation. Again, in Louis XIV.’s time, this unfortunate province was laid waste by his orders, with a barbarity that has cast an indelible stain on the reputation of that monarch, 36who was, perhaps, the most heartless and destructive among modern kings. These circumstances, and, in later times, an accidental fire, after which it was never repaired, has reduced the castle to a mere ruin; but it is thus one of the most beautiful, both in itself and for situation, in the world. And now, on this summer day, we felt how happily we could spend months at Heidelberg, to enjoy the pleasure of loitering, day after day, beneath these weed-grown walls, and in the surrounding grounds. The façade of the Hall of Knights, which was built by an Italian architect, charms the eye by its exquisite finish and perfect proportions. We saw also, of course, the famous tun, and the wax figure of the celebrated dwarf.

On we went from Heidelberg. Our route was altogether pleasant. The road preserved the same characteristics. I should say, that this part of Germany was peculiarly agreeable to the mere passing traveller. The towns have the appearance of health, comfort, and cleanliness. The manners of the people with whom we had to deal, was courteous and pleasing: many of the women we thought pretty. The custom of smoking is a drawback; but some annoyance is necessary, for the culture of toleration and patience in a traveller.

Carlsruhe, where we slept on the night after 37leaving Heidelberg, has spacious streets, and some good-looking public buildings. However, we saw them only from the windows of the inn, for it rained hard all the evening.

Monday, 6th.

About noon, we turned off from the main road, and bending in among the green hills, without ascending any, reached Baden-Baden, which lies picturesquely yet snugly in the valley, on the banks of the Oes—a mere mountain torrent, it is true, but the “sweet inland murmur” of such is ever grateful to the ear. It looked a cheerful, and even a gay place; yet I feel that I could steal away from the throng, and find solitude at will on the mountain tops or amidst their woody ravines. A wish has come over me to remain here: this sounds strangely, considering my yearning after Italy. How seldom do human wishes flow smoothly towards their object; for a while they may steal imperceptibly on, unstopped, though often checked; winding round, or perseveringly surmounting impediments. Or obstacles still more mighty present themselves, and then our wishes gather power;—they swell, and dash down all impediments, and take an impetuous course. But when all is smooth and free for their accomplishment, then they shrink 38and are frightened, as (to make a grand similitude) the Gauls did when the open gates and silent walls of Rome offered no opposition to their entrance. We fear treachery on the part of fate; and objections, overlooked in the hurry of desire, present themselves during the peace of easy attainment. With regard to the feelings that hold my wishes in check when I think of Italy,—these are all founded on fear. Those I loved had died there—would it again prove fatal, and do I only please my fancy to destroy my last hope? We are bound for the lake of Como, a place of sad renown for wreck and danger; and my son’s passion for the water is the inducement that leads him to fix on it for his visit. What wonder that I, of all people, looking on the peaceful valley of Baden-Baden, with its mountain torrent that would not sail a paper boat, wistfully incline to stay here and be safe. But that which forms, in this sort of back-current manner, its attraction to me, renders it devoid of any to my companions: besides, study and solitude is their aim.

We dined at the table d’hôte; and a most tiresome and even disgusting mode of satisfying the appetite we found it. The company was disagreeably numerous; the noise stunning; and the food, to our un-Germanised tastes, very uninviting. We were amused, however, by our neighbours—three 39persons—a German, his sister, and his affianced bride, whom he is to marry to-morrow. She was pretty—he was ugly; but she saw him with the eyes of love, and very much in love they were, which they took no trouble to conceal, looking at each other as Adam and Eve might have done when no other human creature existed to observe them. Meanwhile, a number of little sins against the rules of well-bred behaviour at a dinner-table gave a very ludicrous turn to their overflowing sentiment.

In the evening we visited the salon, and looked in on the gamblers—often a dangerous spectacle. The Rouge-et-Noir table was densely surrounded; and gold or silver was perpetually staked, but never, as far as I could observe, to any great amount—four napoleons at a time being the most I saw placed on a colour, and that but once or twice—generally one gold piece or five francs. I believe serious play is reserved for a later hour of the night. I saw no signs of despair; but all looked serious,—some anxious. The floor was strewed with cards, pricked for numbers. One man I stood near, calculated very carefully, and generally won. Once, when he felt very sure, he staked four napoleons and was successful. He stowed his gains in a purse, which looked gradually but surely filling. The Rouge-et-Noir table was open all day; the roulette table, in another 40room, only in the evening—it was thinly attended. The multiplication of your stake at this game, if you are lucky, is attractive; but the chances are known to be so much in favour of the bank, that people are shy of it. Rouge-et-Noir, they say, is the fairest game of any; though, in that, the bank has advantages, which, unless under very excessive failure of luck, secures its being largely a gainer, and the players, of course in a mass, certain losers: thus, the players, in fact, play against each other, and the bank has a large premium on their stakes, which renders it for its holders a lucrative investment of money.

Tuesday, 7th.

We spent this day at Baden-Baden. In the morning I took a bath; the water was exceedingly refreshing and pleasant, but the bathing rooms and baths themselves are small, without accommodation, altogether got up in an inferior and dirty-looking style. We have rambled among the hills; looked on the gamblers: the Rouge-et-Noir went on all day. I now betake myself to writing letters. There is to be a dance in the evening and a concert; the place seemed quietly gay, and there are some well-dressed people. I should think, with the aid of ponies to explore the surrounding country, one might spend a 41few months here, pleasantly. But the circumstance that always strikes me as strange is the manner in which the visitors always seem tied to the spot where they roost, as if they were fowls with a trellis before their feeding yard. It is true that they visit the lions of the place now and then; but, really, to wander, and ramble, and discover new scenes does not form a portion of their amusements; and yet this is the only real one to be found in such a place.

42

LETTER IV. Offenberg.—Ettenheim.—Freyberg.—The Höllenthal—The Black Forest.—Arrive at Schaffhausen.

Wednesday, 8th.

We left Baden-Baden a little before seven. The scenery had exactly the same character—level to the right, to which indeed was now added a view of distant high mountains; on the left, wooded hills; often picturesque with peak or precipice crowned by ruined castles. We dined at Offenberg, at the inn, “La Fortune,”—a very excellent one—where we had a good dinner; the host had lived in England, and now frequently exported wine thither. He showed us a book containing the names of his English customers, and took my companions into his cellars, to taste his vintage. He was a jovial, good-humoured man.^[2]

Before dinner at Offenberg, we had walked towards a ruin on the hills, but had not time to reach it; it was picturesque, and continued long to grace the landscape as we proceeded along the plain; 43for the peculiarity of this route from Franckfort to Freyberg is, that you never ascend in the least, though the hills, wild and romantic, are so near at hand. For several miles from the Rhine, there is a plain flat as the Maremma of Italy, and in that country might be as unhealthy.

I have not yet spoken of our carriage and voiturier. The former was roomy and commodious enough, a sort of covered calèche; it could have been thrown quite open but that the roof was encumbered by our luggage. During all this time, the weather, though dry, was by no means hot: it was, in fact, very agreeable weather for travelling. Our driver was quiet, civil enough, and the horses went well; our want of German prevented our knowing much about him. This evening we had expected to reach Freyberg, but he stopped at a road-side inn of bad promise, and no better execution. He could not be persuaded to go on; the evening was fine, the hour early; it was very provoking. I forget the name of the place; indeed, the inn was a solitary house: however, it was near Ettenheim, whither we walked, and which looked a cheerful small town, and has the sad celebrity of being the place at which the Duke d’Enghien was seized, whose fate was one of three crimes which cast a dark stain on Napoleon’s name. The others were—first, the 44miserable death of Toussaint l’Ouverture; second, the execution of Hoffer. The sun set cheerfully on a pleasant landscape; we returned to our dreary inn;—it was the first bad accommodation we had encountered on our way.

Thursday, 9th.

Proceeding along the same style of country, we arrived in the middle of the day at Freyberg, where we dined. This was not one of the regular, formal, white-looking, modern German towns; it was antique, irregular, picturesque. We visited its Cathedral; it is celebrated for its great beauty: it is Gothic, and the tower, and spire that surmounts it, are of the most exquisite tracery and finish. We were accompanied by a valet de place, who had lived in a nobleman’s family in England, and spoke English tolerably. His claims were high to the knowledge of our language; he had not only written an English description of the Cathedral of Freyberg in prose, but an English poem descriptive of the route we were about to pursue through the Höllenthal and Swartzwald, anglicè Valley of Hell, and Black Forest. The poem is in heroic measure, rhymed, meant to be in the style of Pope’s didactic poems. It is a curious specimen of the sort of mistakes a foreigner may make in a language which 45he otherwise understands very tolerably: the accents on the syllables are nearly all misplaced, and the words used with erroneous significations; but, make allowance for these defects, and it reads smoothly enough.

The name of the Black Forest alone awakens the imagination. I own I like to give myself up to the ideas excited by antique names, and by the associations that give it vitality. Through the Swartzwald poured the multitudinous Germans on their way to Helvetia—and the Roman legions penetrated its depths by dint of intense labour and perseverance. The Black Forest of the middle ages is peopled by shadows, still more grim and fearful: the charcoal burners were a race, savage, solitary, and to be feared: and, till quite lately, the name conjured up robbers, cut-throat inns, and the worst ills to which travellers are liable. We were to reach this wide track of evil renown through the pass of the Höllenthal, or Valley of Hell. The Germans know how to give the glory of spirit-stirring names to their valleys and their forests, very different from the Little Woman, or Muddy Creek, of America. The pass itself perhaps deserved its title better in times gone by:—as we passed through it on this calm and sunny summer evening, there was nothing frightful or tremendous, but all that is verdant and lovely. The 46Höllenthal is indeed a narrow ravine shut in by hills, not very high, but rocky and abrupt, and clothed in the rich foliage of majestic trees. In parts the ravine closes in so as to leave only room for the road between the precipice and the mountain river, the Dreisam, which now steals murmuring between its turf-clad banks, and now roars and dashes in a rocky bed. Jagged pinnacles and bare crags overhang the road; around it are strewn gigantic masses of fallen rock, but all are clothed with luxuriant vegetation, and adorned by noble woods. We caught points of view to charm a painter, and others almost beyond the reach of imitative art, that might well entice the traveller to linger on his way. The pass opened as we ascended it, and became wilder in its character. We remained the night at the Stern, a tolerable inn, placed amidst abrupt crags, a brawling torrent, and dark forest land.

Friday, 10th.

We ascended out of the Höllenthal into the wilder region of the Swartzwald. The tract, so named, extends over several hundred miles; but is no longer the dark, impervious forest of olden time. Nearly half of it is cleared, and the clearings have become farms, and pretty villages are scattered here and there in the open uplands. There is 47nothing gloomy, nor what is commonly deemed romantic, in the scenery, but it is peculiar. The clearings have been made in patches, and the road alternates between cultivated fields, with a view of dark pines stretching away in the distance; and, amidst these straight high trees of the forest, where the axe of the woodcutter frequently breaks upon the ear. On the highest part of this mountainous district is a tarn or lake, named Titi-See, which our poet celebrates; and informs us, in a note, that from this spot, on a fine morning, we might catch a glimpse of the distant Alps, and see “the mountains unroll themselves in a convulsive manner.” Our morning was cloudy, and we were balked of this curious spectacle. We breakfasted at Lenzkirch, in great comfort; and heard the while some fine German music played by a self-acting instrument, for the manufacture of which this part of the country is celebrated. We were told that the women of the Swartzwald were famous for their beauty, so I wandered about the pleasant looking village in search of pretty girls; for beauty, in the human form, is a divine gift, and to see it is delightful: it increases our respect for our species, and also our love—but I saw none. The peasantry, we are told, are a hardworking, independent, manly race; but they are dirty in their appearance, and by no means attractive.

48We dined at Stuhlingen in a new-built inn, kept by a man of high pretensions, and had the nastiest dinner, and the most uncomfortably served, we had encountered in our travels. However, young lady’s fare of good bread and butter is always to be found in Germany; and with that, and our stock-dish of fried potatoes and German wine, we always did very well. We have had a long day’s journey, and evening was advanced when we descended on the valley of the Rhine, a blue mountain river, brawling and foaming among rocks. We entered Schaffhausen at last; and the horses, with much ado, ascended its steep streets. Here we bade adieu to our voiturier, a quiet fellow, not over-sullen for a German of that class, who performed his engagement very faithfully, and from whom we parted without any regret; a little glad, indeed, as foolish human beings always are when they get rid of a king Log; being prone, in the hope of doing better, to forget that they may do worse.

49

LETTER V. The Rhine.—Zurich.—Journey to Coire.—Via Mala.—The Splugen.—Chiavenna.—Colico.—The Steamboat on the Lake of Como to Cadenabbia.

Cadenabbia, on the Lake of Como.

Our journey has reached its termination; but this letter will tell nothing of our present prospects and intentions, for truly they are as yet obscure and unformed: it will but conclude the history of our journey.

The inn at Schaffhausen is large and good, without being first-rate. We engaged a voiturier to take us the next day to Zurich, and bargained to visit the Falls of the Rhine on our way. We wished to reach them by water, as the best approach; but Murray had by a misprint in his Hand-book put seventeen francs instead of seventeen batz, as the price asked for a boat; and as we, as you well know, are perforce economical travellers, we demurred. This misapprehension being set right by the very civil master of the hotel, we engaged a boat, and the carriage was to meet us at the Falls. We embarked in 50a rough canoe; a man held an oar at the stern, and a woman one at the prow. We sped speedily down the rapid river, and at one point a little apprehension of danger, just enough to make the heart beat, was excited. We approached the Falls, we were hurrying towards the ledge of rocks; it seemed as if we must go right on, when, by a dexterous use of the oars, we found ourselves with one stroke in the calm water of a little cove; the moment was just agreeably fearful; and at the crisis, an eagle had soared majestically above our heads. It is always satisfactory to get a picturesque adjunct or two to add interest when, with toil and time, one has reached a picturesque spot.

The cottage built to let out the Falls as a show is the contrary of all this; but it has some advantages. You see the sight from various points of view, being first on a level with the upper portion of the river, and by degrees, as you descend to other windows and balconies, reach the level of the lower part. The falls of Terni is the finest cataract I have seen: I believe it to be the grandest in Europe; but it is altogether of a different character from the falls of the Rhine. The waters of the Velino are contracted into a narrow channel, and fall in one stream down a deep precipice. The falls of the Rhine are broken into many, and are spread wide across the 51whole breadth of the river; their descent is never so great, but they are varied by many rocks, which they clothe fantastically with transparent waves, or airy spray.

What words can express—for indeed, for many ideas and emotions there are no words—the feelings excited by the tumult, the uproar and matchless beauty of a cataract, with its eternal, ever-changing veil of misty spray? The knowledge of its ceaseless flow; there, before we were born; there, to be after countless generations have passed away; the sense of its power, that would dash us to atoms without altering the tenor of its way, which gives a shiver to the frame even while we gaze in security from its verge; the radiance of its colouring, the melody of its thunder—can these words convey the impression which the mind receives, while the eye and ear seem all too limited in their powers of perception? No! for as painting cannot picture forth motion, so words are incapable of expressing commotion in the soul. It stirs, like passion, the very depths of our being; like love allied to ruin, yet happy in possession, it fills the soul with mingled agitation and calm. A portion of the cataract arches over the lowest platform, and the spray fell thickly on us, as standing on it and looking up, we saw wave, and rock, and cloud, and the clear heavens through its glittering 52ever-moving veil. This was a new sight, exceeding anything I had ever before seen; however, not to be wet through, I was obliged quickly to tear myself away.

We crossed the river in a boat, and saw the Falls from the other side—the spot best adapted to painting—and whence the views are generally taken. The carriage met us here, and we rolled along towards Zurich. At first our road was the same as that which we had taken to arrive at Schaffhausen: “We are going back,” cried one; “this won’t do—we must not go back to Höllenthal,” which might be taken as a pun, at least we laughed at it as such. But we soon turned aside. We dined at a pleasant country sort of inn; the scenery was varied and agreeable, though without any approach to magnificence; our pace was very slow, and we became very tired, but at last arrived at Zurich.

Some very good hotels had been lately built and opened at Zurich. I believe the Hôtel des Bergues, at Geneva, is the model, as it is the best of these Swiss hotels, where every thing is arranged with cleanliness, order, and comfort, surpassing most English inns. To the door of each room was affixed a tariff of prices, moderate for such good hotel accommodation, though not cheap as lodgings for any length of time; but the certainty of the prices, the 53fixed one franc a day, per head, for attendance, the extreme cleanliness and order, makes them very agreeable.^[3]

We went to the Hôtel du Lac. From our balcony we looked out on the lake of Zurich. This lake is not so extensive nor majestic as that of Geneva, with its background of the highest Alps; nor as picturesque and sublime as Lucerne, with its dark lofty precipices and verdant isles; but it is a beautiful lake, with a view of high mountains not very distant, and its immediate banks are well cultivated, and graced by many country-houses. After dinner, I went out in a boat with P——, by ourselves; he rowed in the style of the natives, pushing forward, and crossing the oars as they were pulled back;—we crossed the lake, which is not wide at this point, and returned again by moonlight.

We had become tired of our slow voiturier style of proceeding, and were seized by a desire to get on. So we took our places in the diligence for Coire, determined to arrive at the end of our journey as soon as might be.

54Sunday, 12th.

The diligence was neither clean nor comfortable; we ought to have gone to the end of the lake by the steamboat. The carriage-road runs at a very little distance from the water’s edge. Half way on the lake is the longest bridge in the world. A bridge across a lake is less liable to be carried away, I suppose, by storms and the swelling of the waters, than over a river, but it ceases to be the picturesque spanning arch that adds such beauty to a landscape; it becomes a mere long low pier. At the end of the lake we took into the diligence a number of passengers, who had come so far by the steamboat. Our road lay through a valley surrounded by immense mountains, which became higher, closer, and more precipitous as we advanced through the plain at their foot. At one time it seemed as if we must be quite shut in, and then, just as we reached the very extremity of the valley, another lake opened on us—the lake of Wallenstadt, so surrounded by precipitous mountains, that it had been impossible to construct a road round it; but blessings on steam—a traveller’s blessing, who loves to roam far and free, we embarked in a steamboat, and in an hour arrived at the other end of the lake. The lake of Wallenstadt, surrounded by its high precipitous mountains, is gloomy; indeed, all the region we now travelled was marked 55by a vastness allied to dreariness, rather than to the majesty of picturesque beauty. Leaving the lake we proceeded along the valley of the Rhine; vast mountain barriers arose on each side, and in the midst was a flat valley, frequently overflowed, with the Rhine in the midst, struggling through a marshy bed. There was something dreary in it; but if the traveller approaches those mountains, and turns aside into their ravines, they instantly disclose scenes graced by all the beauty of Alpine magnificence. I much regretted not visiting the baths of Pfeflers, which I heard to be particularly worth seeing, and only a few miles distant.

At about nine o’clock in the evening we arrived very much fatigued at Coire. Before leaving the diligence-office we secured our places for the following day to Chiavenna. To my great delight I found Italian spoken here. French does not penetrate into these parts; English, if ever found, is a mere exotic, nurtured in particular spots; German, we had none; so now to be able to inquire, and learn, and arrange with facility, was very agreeable. “You do speak Italian!” exclaimed one of my companions in accents of surprise and pleasure;—so many difficulties in the future disappeared under this conviction. I certainly did speak Italian: it had been strange if I did not; not that I could boast of 56any extraordinary facility of conversation or elegance of diction, but mine was a peculiarly useful Italian; from having lived long in the country, all its household terms were familiar to me; and I remembered the time when it was more natural to me to speak to common people in that language than in my own. I now easily settled for our places; and we repaired to the inn to supper and to bed—we were to set out early in the morning.

Monday, 13th.

At five in the morning we were in the yard of the diligence-office. We were in high spirits—for that night we should sleep in Italy. The diligence was a very comfortable one; there were few other passengers, and those were of a respectable class. We still continued along the valley of the Rhine, and at length entered the pass of the Via Mala, where we alighted to walk. It is here that the giant wall of the Alps shuts out the Swiss from Italy. Before the Alp itself (the Splugen) is reached, another huge mountain rises to divide the countries. A few years ago, there was no path except across this mountain, which being very exposed, and difficult even to danger, the Splugen was only traversed by shepherds and travellers of the country on mules or on foot. But 57now, a new and most marvellous road has been constructed—the mountain in question is, to the extent of several miles, cleft from the summit to the base, and a sheer precipice of 4000 feet rises on either side. The Rhine, swift and strong, but in width a span, flows in the narrow depth below. The road has been constructed on the face of the precipice, now cut into the side, now perforated through the living rock into galleries: it passes, at intervals, from one side of the ravine to the other, and bridges of a single arch span the chasm. The precipices, indeed, approach so near, in parts, that a fallen tree could not reach the river below, but lay wedged in midway. It may be imagined how singular and sublime this pass is, in its naked simplicity. After proceeding about a mile, you look back and see the country you had left, through the narrow opening of the gigantic crags, set like a painting in this cloud-reaching frame. It is giddy work to look down over the parapet that protects the road, and mark the arrowy rushing of the imprisoned river. Midway in the pass, the precipices approach so near that you might fancy that a strong man could leap across. This was the region visited by storm, flood, and desolation in 1834. The Rhine had risen several hundred feet, and, aided by the torrents from the mountains, had torn up the road, swept away 58a bridge, and laid waste the whole region. An English traveller, then on his road to Chiavenna, relates that he traversed the chasm on a rotten uneven plank, and found but few inches remaining of the road overhanging the river.^[4] It was an awful invasion of one element on another. The whole road to Chiavenna was broken up, and the face of the mountain so changed that, when reconstructed, the direction of the route was in many places entirely altered. The region of these changes was pointed out to us; but no discernible traces remained of where the road had been. All here was devastation—the giant ruins of a primæval world; and the puny remnants of man’s handiwork were utterly obliterated. Puny, however, as our 59operations are, when Nature decrees by one effort that they should cease to exist, while she reposes they may be regarded proudly, and commodiously traversed by the ant-like insects that make it their path.

We dined at the village of Splugen. It was cold, and we had a fire. Here we dropped all our fellow-travellers,—some were going over the St. Bernardin,—and proceeded very comfortably alone. It was a dreary-looking mountain that we had to cross, by zigzags, at first long, and diminishing as we ascended; the day, too, was drear; and we were immersed in a snow-storm towards the summit. Naked and sublime, the mountain stretched out around; and dim mists, chilling blasts, and driving snow added to its grandeur. We reached the dogana at the top; and here our things were examined.

The custom-house officer was very civil—complained of his station, where it always rained—at that moment it was raining—and, having caused the lids of one or two trunks to be lifted, they were closed again, and the ceremony was over. More time, however, was consumed in signing passports and papers; and then we set off down hill, swiftly and merrily, with two horses—the leaders being unharnessed and trotting down gravely after us, without any one to lead or drive them.

60All Italian travellers know what it is, after toiling up the bleak, bare, northern, Swiss side of an Alp, to descend towards ever-vernal Italy. The rhododendron, in thick bushes, in full bloom, first adorned the mountain sides; then, pine forests; then, chesnut groves; the mountain was cleft into woody ravines; the waterfalls scattered their spray and their gracious melody; flowery and green, and clothed in radiance, and gifted with plenty, Italy opened upon us. Thus,—and be not shocked at the illustration, for it is all God’s creation,—after dreary old age and the sickening pass of death, does the saint open his eyes on Paradise. Chiavenna is situated in a fertile valley at the foot of the Splugen—it is glowing in rich and sunny vegetation. The inn is good; but the rooms were large and somewhat dreary. So near our bourne, low spirits crept over some of us, I know not why. To me, indeed, there was something even thrilling and affecting in the aspect of the commonest objects around. Every traveller can tell you how each country bears a distinctive mark in the mere setting out of the room of an inn, which would enable a man who had visited it before, if, transported by magic, he opened his eyes in the morning in a strange bed, to know to what country he had been removed. Window-curtains, the very wash-hand stands, they were all such as had been familiar to me 61in Italy long, long ago. I had not seen them since those young and happy days. Strange and indescribable emotions invaded me; recollections, long forgotten, arose fresh and strong by mere force of association, produced by those objects being presented to my eye, inspiring a mixture of pleasure and pain, almost amounting to agony.

Tuesday, 14th.

This morning, we were to proceed to Colico, at the head of the lake of Como, there to embark on board the steamer. We engaged a voiture, which cost more than we had hoped or expected. We drove through a desolate region,—huge, precipitous, bare Alps on either side,—in the midst, a marshy plain. The road is good, but difficult to keep up. The Adda flows into the lake, over a wide rock-strewn bed, broken into many channels. It is a mountain torrent, perpetually swollen by rain and snow into a cataract that breaks down all obstacles, and tears away the road.

We arrived at Colico two hours too early. The inn was uninviting: we did not enter it. We tried to amuse ourselves by strolling about on the shore of the lake. The air was bleak and cold; now and then it threatened rain. At length, welcome signal of release, the steamer, appeared; another hour had yet to pass while it crossed over to us, and we were on board.

62Our plan, formed from the experience of others, had been to take up our quarters at Bellaggio—look at a map, and you will see the situation. The Lake of Como is long, and, in proportion, narrow. About midway between Colico and the town of Como, in its widest part, it is divided into two lakes—one taking a more eastern course to Lecco; the other, to Como. On the narrow, rocky promontory that divides these two branches, looking towards the north, Bellaggio is situated. The steamer, however, did not stop there, but on the opposite shore, Cadenabbia, which looked southward, and commanded a view of Bellaggio and the mountains beyond, surmounting Varenna. We were landed at the Grande Albergo di Cadenabbia. A tall, slight, rather good-looking, fair-moustached master of the inn, welcomed us with a flourish. And here we are.

Strange to say, there is discontent among us. The weather is dreary, the lake tempest-tossed; and, stranger still, we are tired of mountains. I, who think a flat country insupportable, yet wish for lower hills, and a view of a wider expanse of sky: the eye longs for space. I remembered once how the sense of sight had felt relieved when I exchanged the narrow ravine, in which the Baths of Lucca are placed, for the view over the plains of Lombardy, commanded from our villa among the Euganean 63hills. But it was not this alone that made us sad and discontented. This feeling frequently assails travellers when their journey has come to a temporary close; and that close is not home. It will disappear to-morrow. Meanwhile, to relieve my thoughts from painful impressions, I have written this letter. And now, it is night; the sky is dark; the waves still lash the shore. I pray that no ruin, arising from that fatal element, may befal me here; and I say good-night to you—to myself—to the world.—Farewell.

64

LETTER VI. Albergo Grande della Cadenabbia.—The Brothers Brentani.—The view from our windows.—The Madman.—Arrival of the boat.

Cadenabbia, July 17th.

The morning after our arrival we began to consider where and how we should live for the next two months. Two of my companions went by the steamer to Como, for money; and I remained with the other, to arrange our future plans. We at once decided not to remove to Bellaggio, but to remain on this side of the Lake. One chief motive is, that the steamer stops each day at Cadenabbia; and our communication with the world is, therefore, regular and facile. We looked for lodgings in the neighbouring village of Tremezzo, and found several, not bad, nor very dear; though rather more so than we expected. But this was not our difficulty. There were five of us, including my maid, to be provided for. We must have food: we must have a cook. I knew that, in a strange place, it requires at least a month, and even more, to get into its ways, and to obviate a little the liabilities to being cheated. But 65we are only going to stay six weeks or two months; and the annoyance attendant on my initiation into housekeeping will scarcely be ended before my acquired knowledge will have become useless. The host of the inn declared we must have everything from his house, or, by steamboat, from Como: he insinuated we should be better off at his hotel. At first, we turned a deaf ear; then we listened; then we discussed: in brief, we finally settled to remain at the Albergo Grande. We have one large salon; four small bedrooms contiguous, for three of us and my maid, and one up stairs: we are provided with breakfast, dinner, and tea; the whole (rooms included) for seven francs a-head for the masters, four for the servant. This was reasonable enough; and we agreed for a month, on these terms. Thus I am delivered from all household cares; which otherwise, in our position, might prove harassing enough.

These arrangements being quickly made, our manner of life has fallen at once into a regular train. All the morning, our students are at work. I have selected a nook of the salon, where I have established my embroidery-frame, books, and desk. I mean to read a great deal of Italian; as I have ever found it pleasant to embue oneself with the language and literature of the country in which one is residing. Reading much Italian, one learns almost to think 66in that language, and to converse more freely. At twelve, the steamer arrives from Como; which is the great event of our day. At two, we dine; but it is five, usually, before the sun permits us to go out. During his visit to Como, P—— went over to the neighbouring village of Caratte, where lives a boat-builder, who studied his trade at Venice. All the boats of the country are flat-bottomed. P—— has selected one with a keel, which he is now impatiently expecting.

Descriptions with difficulty convey definite impressions, and any picture or print of our part of the lake will better than my words describe the scenery around us. The Albergo Grande della Cadenabbia is built at the foot of mountains, close to the water. In front of the house there is a good bridle-road, which extends to each extremity of the lake. One door of the house opens on an avenue of acacias, which skirts the water, and leads to the side-gate of the Villa Sommariva.

Continuing the road towards Como, we come to the villages of Tremezzo and Bolvedro, with frequent villas interspersed, their terraced gardens climbing the mountain’s side. In the opposite direction towards Colico, we have the village of Cadenabbia itself, with a silk mill: but after that, the road, until we reach the town of Menaggio, is more solitary. In 67parts, the path runs close upon the lake, with only a sort of beach intervening, sprinkled with fragments of rock and shadowed by olive-trees. Menaggio is three miles distant; it is the largest town in our vicinity, and properly our post-town, though our letters are usually directed to Como, and a boatman fetches them and posts ours, three times a week, with great fidelity.

High mountains rise behind, their lower terraces bearing olives, vines, and Indian corn; midway clothed by chesnut woods; bare, rugged, sublime, at their summits. The waters of the lake are spread before; the villa-studded promontory of Bellaggio being immediately opposite, and further off the shores of the other branch of the lake, with the town of Varenna, sheltered by gigantic mountains. Highest among them is the Resegone, so frequently mentioned by Manzoni in the Promessi Sposi, with its summit jagged like a saw. Indeed, all these Alps are in shape more abrupt and fantastic than any I ever saw.

I wish I could by my imperfect words bring before you not only the grander features, but every minute peculiarity, every varying hue, of this matchless scene. The progress of each day brings with it its appropriate change. When I rise in the morning and look out, our own side is bathed in sunshine, and we see the opposite mountains raising 68their black masses in sharp relief against the eastern sky, while dark shadows are flung by the abrupt precipices on the fair lake beneath. This very scene glows in sunshine later in the day, till at evening the shadows climb up, first darkening the banks, and slowly ascending till they leave exposed the naked summits alone, which are long gladdened by the golden radiance of the sinking sun, till the bright rays disappear, and, cold and gray, the granite peaks stand pointing to the stars, which one by one gather above.

Here then we are in peace, with a feeling of being settled for a year, instead of two months. The inn is kept by the brothers Brentani, who form a sort of patriarchal family. There is, in the first place, an old mother, who evidently possesses great sway in the family, and a loud voice, but with whom we have nothing to do, except to return her salutation when we meet. The eldest brother, Giovanni, a tall stout man, attends to the accounts. He is married. Peppina, his wife, is of good parentage, but being left an orphan in childhood, lost her all through the rascality of guardians during the troubled times of Napoleon’s wars and downfall. She waits on us; she is hardworking, good-humoured, and endowed with all the innate courtesy which forms, together with their simplicity of manner, the charm of the 69Italians. Luigi, the next brother, who welcomed us from the steamboat, is put forward to do the honours, as the beau of the establishment. He has all the airs of one, when each day he goes to receive guests from the steamer, with his white, low-crowned hat, and velvet jacket, his slim figure, and light mustachios; he waits on us also. Then there is Battista, who acts as cook: Bernardo, who seems as a sort of under-waiter: and Paolo, or Piccol, as he is usually called, to his great disdain, a handsome lad, who runs about, and does everything: these are all brothers. There is a woman besides, to clean rooms, and a scullion or two: all the family work hard. Poor Battista says his only ambition is to get a good-night’s sleep; he is up early and down late, has grown infinitely thin upon it. Bernardo nourishes the ambition of going to England—the frequent resort of the natives of the lake of Como—and try, as others of the villages about had done, to make a fortune. My young companions are great pets in the house. You can be on excellent terms with this class of people in Italy without their ever forgetting themselves: there is no intrusiveness, no improper familiarity, but perfect ease joined to respect and ready service. For the rest, they of course are not particularly addicted to truth, and may perhaps cheat if strongly tempted, and, I dare say, their morals are 70not quite correct. But in all their doings, as yet, they keep their compact with us faithfully, taking extreme pains to serve us to our liking; far from having the slightest cause of complaint, we have every reason to praise.

Sunday, 19th.

We begin to feel settled, but to-day a strange and disagreeable incident occurred. Peppina came in with wild looks, to say that a madman—an Englishman—had arrived by the steamer, and was frightening everybody with a pistol.

It seems that two gentlemen had landed from the steamer, and had proceeded, as was the wont of visitors, to the Villa Sommariva, to look over it. One was an Italian, the other an Englishman, who spoke Italian perfectly. Suddenly, as they reached the gate of the Villa which opened on the road, the Englishman said to the Italian, “Are you not afraid of being set upon? Are you not afraid of being assassinated?” The other, who had come from Milan with him, and was not otherwise acquainted, and had no idea of his malady, replied, “No, why should he?” “Do you not know that we are watched, and there is treachery everywhere about us?” “No,” said the other, “and if there were, you have as much cause to be frightened as I.” 71“But I am armed,” said the madman, “this is loaded,” and he drew a pistol from his pocket, and still more excited by the sight of the weapon, began to shriek “Tradimento! Tradimento! Alla Villa Sommariva! Tradimento!” His companion, frightened enough, ran off and alarmed the inn and village, and as Englishmen, my companions were summoned to see if they could do anything with their countryman.

There he stood on the steps before the gate of the villa leading down to the lake, shrieking “Tradimento;” he kept every one at bay with his pistol, which was cocked, capped, and ready. Some people from across the lake tried to land at the steps to visit the villa, but he soon made them row away; the inhabitants around all flocked, hiding behind trees and peeping from coverts. He was well content to talk or to be spoken to in Italian or English, but no one must approach; and his position, standing on a semicircular flight of steps leading down to the lake, was sufficiently impregnable: it gave him the whole command of the road in front, and no one could outflank, or come behind him. After three or four hours, however, he grew less watchful. As the people talked to him, he allowed them insensibly to approach nearer, till one fellow getting behind, threw up his arm with the pistol, and then throwing his arms round him, took him prisoner. His pistol was 72double-loaded. But with all his madness he was aware, that if he had fired it, his power was at an end; and this latent sanity saved, perhaps, a life.

He was brought to the hotel, and a dismal day my friends have passed watching over him. Poor fellow! he is quite mad. He had given English lessons at Milan for some years, and earned a sufficient livelihood. His insanity has taken the turn of believing, that the Austrian police want to poison him. He said he never went to the theatre but a police officer was behind, who scattered a poisonous powder over him. He will not take any food in consequence; neither touch bread nor water. My maid took him a cup of tea made by herself, and, to her great indignation, he refused it, as poisoned. He tried to escape several times. First, he made friends with his countrymen; but when he found that they watched him, he turned to the Italians, calling us, according to the phrase of the country, “non Cristiani,” and begging them to save him. He had sixteen napoleons with him. It seems that the doctor who attended him (he was without relations or English friends) had advised him to go to England, had put him into the diligence for Como, introducing him to a Milanese in the vehicle, without mentioning his malady, and thus he was delivered over to the miserable wanderings of his mind. A doctor had been sent for from Menaggio 73at the first moment; of course, he could do nothing. With difficulty he was induced to go to bed; he was thoroughly persuaded he should be murdered in the night, and his expostulations on the subject were shocking and ghastly enough. The next morning, having taken an aversion to all those with whom he had been friendly the preceding day, he consented to go back to Milan, under the escort of a police officer. I saw him as he got into the boat; he was a spare man, with an adust, withered face and unquiet eye; but not otherwise remarkable. We heard that at Como he selected a pear from the bottom of a basket in the market place, and ate it; it was the first food that had passed his lips since he left Milan, two days before.

Tuesday, 21st.

In our hotel are an English gentleman and lady, with whom the adventure of the madman brought us acquainted. Mr. and Mrs. F—— had been spending the last two years in Italy; they are passed middle life: he is a scholar and a gentlemanly man; he has printed a volume of poetry, and aims at connoisseurship in pictures. She appears one of those dear, gentle, sensible, warm-hearted women, the salt of the earth. Her acquaintance, alone as I am with my son, and his youthful friends, promises to be a great resource to me.

74This evening P——’s little boat has come; small, indeed, it is. In shape it is something of a sea boat, and it has a keel, and a tiny sail; but it is too small to convey a feeling of safety. I look at it and shudder. I can bring no help, except constant watchfulness; and many an anxious hour it will cause me to pass. Do not call me a grumbler. A tragedy has darkened my life: I endeavour, in vain, to cast aside the fears which are its offspring; they haunt me perpetually, and make too large and too sad a portion of my daily life.

The arrival of the boat, you see, has dashed my spirits, so I break off.—Adieu.

75

LETTER VII. Excursions on the Lake.—Manzoni’s Ode of “Cinque Maggio.”

Cadenabbia, Monday, 27th July.

Yester evening there was a thunder storm, and this morning the loftier Alps to the north are covered with snow, a sign that we shall have a boisterous wind from Colico until the snow disappears; this is the wind that brings heavy waves, and renders the navigation of the lake dangerous. P—— desired to sail; I walked round to the bay of Bolvedro, and watched while he tacked in and out. I afterwards got into the boat to return; but it seemed to me that the little craft must run into the depths of the crested waves which met her. For the first time in my life I took thorough fright, and insisted on our landing at the steps of the villa Sommariva. The most dangerous thing we could do: for the waves might dash us against them, and the lake is fathomless deep in that spot; it is said who went down there, was never seen again. We landed, however, in safety.