Interlachen, Thursday, August 10th.—Many a streamlet crossed our way, after tumbling down the hills—sometimes as clear as the springs of our Westmoreland mountains, but the instant they touched the glacier river of the valley their pure spirit was lost—annihilated by its angry waters. I have seen a muddy and a transparent streamlet at a few yards' distance hurrying down the same steep; in one instance the two joined at the bottom, travelled side by side in the same track, remaining distinct though joined together, as if each were jealous of its own character. Yielding to mild necessity, they slowly blended, ere both, in turbulent disrespect, were swallowed up by the master torrent.

The Jungfrau (till then hidden except a small portion of its summit) burst upon our view, covered with snow from its apparent base to its highest pike. We had been ascending nearly four hours; and all at once the wintery mountain appeared before us; of majestic bulk, though but a small part of that mass springing from the same foundation, some of the pikes of which are seen far and wide from every quarter of the compass; and we, after all this climbing, seemed not nearer to the top than when we had viewed what appeared to be the highest summits from below. We were all on foot, and (at the moment when, about to turn to our left and coast along the side of the hill which, sloping down to the base of the snowy mountain, forms a hollow between) suddenly we heard a tremendous noise—loud like thunder; and all stood still. It was the most awful sound which had ever struck upon our ears. For some minutes, we did not utter a single word:—and when the sound was dying away exclaimed, "It is an avalanche!" eagerly asking "where?" and whence it had come. The guide pointed to a very small and almost perpendicular rivulet (as it appeared to us) perfectly white—and dashing down the mountains—"That," said he, "is the Avalanche!" We could not believe that such mighty tumult had proceeded from a little rill (to our eyes it was nothing else, though composed of falling masses of snow, and probably ice), and I suspect we were loth to leave the mystery explained: however, we were compelled to yield to our guide's experience, seeing a few minutes after, the motion of the little white rill or torrent gradually settle till all was gone, and perfect silence succeeded, silence more awful even than the noise which had preceded it. The hollow alongside of which our course lay might be in length half a league. On our right was the Jungfrau in stillness of deepest winter; and the opposite hill, the Wengern, was carpeted with green grass and flowers. These heights were pastured by cattle, and we began to hear the tinkling of their bells, and shouts from boys at a distance; but no other stirring till we reached a single hut near the end of the sloping hollow, the only one visible hereabouts. At the door of the hut, our steeds were let loose to pasture, and we entered. Two or three young men and boys displayed the stores of their cupboard—one little piece of wheaten bread to help out the small supply which we had brought, plenty of cheese, and milk in abundance. It was not better than a savage shelter; and the youths looked as if they had had no valley culture; simple goodwill, however, cheerful smiles and stores proffered without reserve made all delightful, and had a shower and a wintry blast visited us from the Jungfrau we should have rejoiced in the comfort of that shelter; but the sun shone with peculiar brightness, enriching the soft green ground, and giving dazzling brilliancy to the snow. We desired our attendants to bring their stores into the open air, and seated ourselves on the turf beside the household spring (so let me call it, though but a child of summer at the foot of the icy mountain), the warm sun shone upon us; the air invigorated our spirits and we were as gay as larks, that soar in a region far below ours on that happy afternoon. Again we heard the thunder of avalanches, and saw them bursting out, fresh foaming springs. The sound is loud as thunder, but more metallic and musical. It also may be likened to the rattling of innumerable chariots passing over rocky places.... Soon the vale lay before us, with its two glaciers, and—as it might seem—its thousand cabins sown upon the steeps. The descent48 became so precipitous that all were obliged to walk. Deep we go into the broad cradle-valley, every cottage we passed had its small garden, and cherry-trees sprinkled with leaves, bearing half-grown, half-ripe fruit. In plunging into this vale I was overcome with a sense of melancholy pervading the whole scene—not desolation, or dreariness. It is not the melancholy of the Scotch Highlands, but connected with social life in loneliness, not less than with the strife of all the seasons.... The sunshine had long deserted the valley, and was quitting the summits of the mountains behind the village; but red hues, dark as the red of rubies, settled in the clouds, and lingered there after the mountains had lost all but their cold whiteness, and the black hue of the crags. The gloomy grandeur of this spectacle harmonised with the melancholy of the vale; yet it was heavenly glory that hung over those cold mountains.

Grindelwald, Friday, August 11th.—Scheideck to Meiringen.—To our right, looking over the green cradle of the vale, we saw the glacier, with the stream issuing from beneath an arch of solid ice—the small pyramids around it of a greyish colour, mingled with vitriol green. The bed of icy snow above looked sullied, so that the glacier itself was not beautiful, like what we had read of; but the mass of mountains behind, their black crags and shadows, and the awful aspect of winter encroaching on the valley-domain (combinations so new to us) made ample amends for any disappointment we might feel.... The rain came on in heavy drops, but did not drive us to the closer shelter of the house. We heeded not the sprinkling which a gust of wind sometimes sent in upon us. Good fortune had hitherto favoured us; and, even if we had been detained at that house all night, the inconvenience would have been trifling. Our spirits were uplifted, and we felt as if it would be a privilege to be admitted to a near acquaintance with Alpine storms. This at least was my feeling, till the threatenings were over; and then, by happy transition, I gladly hailed the bursting light of the sun that flashed upon the crags, seen by glimpses between the dispersing clouds. The interior of the house was roomy and warm; and, though the floors were of the bare soil, everything looked cleanly; the wooden vessels were pretty, ladles and spoons curiously carved, and all neatly arranged on shelves. Three generations, making a numerous family, were there living together in the summer season, with their cattle on the rough pastures round them:49 no doubt the main support of the household, but the gains from travellers must be considerable. We were surprised at being asked if we chose coffee. Hardly should we have deserved our welcome shelter had we not preferred the peasant's fare—cheese, milk, and cream, with the addition of bread fetched from the vale; and I must not omit a dish of fruit—bilberries—here very fine. Indeed most of our mountain plants, except the branchy fern and the common daisy (which we rarely saw), grow in lavish beauty, and many others unknown to us, that enamel the turf like gems. The monkshood of our gardens, growing at a great height on the Alps, has a brighter hue than elsewhere. It is seen in tufts, that to my fancy presented fairy groves upon the green grass, and in rocky places, or under trees.

The storm over, we proceeded, still in the forest, which led us through different compartments of the vale, each of itself a little valley of the loveliest greenness, on all sides skirted with pine-trees, and often sprinkled with huts, the summer dwellings of the herdsmen. Sometimes (seen through a lateral opening) a meadow glade, not much larger than a calf-garth, would have its single dwelling; but the memory of one particular spot—the perfect image of peace and pastoral seclusion—remains with me as vividly as when, apart from my companions, I travelled over its soft carpet of turf. That valley-reach might be in length a quarter of a mile or more, and of proportionate width, surrounded by hills covered with pines, overtopped by craggy mountains. It was an apparently level plain, as smooth as velvet, and our course through the centre. On our right flowed the grey stream from the glaciers, with chastened voice and motion; and, on the other, were many cabins in an almost formal line, separated from each other, and elevated upon wooden pillars, the grass growing round and under them. There was not a sound except of the gushing stream; no cattle to be seen, nor any living creature.

* * * * * *

Our way continued through interchange of pastoral and forest ground. Crossed a bridge, and then had the stream to our left in a rocky gulf overhung with trees, chiefly beeches and elms; sawing-mills on the river very picturesque. It is impossible to imagine a more beautiful descent than was before us to the vale of Hasli. The roaring stream was our companion; sometimes we looked down upon it from the edge of a lofty precipice; sometimes descended towards it, and could trace its furious course for a considerable way. The torrent bounded over rocks, and still went foaming on, no pausing-places, no gentle windings, no pools under the innumerable smaller cataracts; the substance and the grey hue still the same, whether the stream rushed in one impetuous current down a regularly rough part of its steep channel, or laboured among rocks in cloud-shaped heavings, or in boisterous fermentation.... We saw the cataract50 through an open window. It is a tremendous one, but, wanting the accompaniments of overhanging trees, and all the minor graces which surround our waterfalls—overgrowings of lichen, moss, fern, and flowers—it gives little of what may be called pleasure. It was astonishment and awe—an overwhelming sense of the powers of nature for the destruction of all things, and of the helplessness of man—of the weakness of his will if prompted to make a momentary effort against such a force. What weight and speed of waters! and what a tossing of grey mist! Though at a considerable distance from the fall, when standing at the window, a shower of misty rain blew upon us.

Meiringen, Saturday, August 12th.—Again crossed the river; then up a bare precipice, and along a gallery hewn out of the rock. Downwards to the valley more bare and open; a sprinkling of pines, among which the peasants were making hay. Hamlets and single huts not far asunder: no thought of dreariness crossed my mind; yet a pensiveness was spread over the long valley, where, year by year, the same simple employments go on in succession, and where the tempests of winter are patiently endured, and thoughtfully guarded against.... The châlet at Handek is large; four long apartments, in one of which our mules rested. Several men were living there for the summer season, but no women. They served us with the same kindliness we had experienced on the Wengern and Scheidegg Alps, but with slowness and gravity. These men were very tall, and had a sedate deportment, generally noticed I find by travellers in Ober Hasli, where the race has for centuries been distinguished by peculiar customs, manners, and habits.... From the brink of a rock we looked down the falls, and along the course of the torrent. The spectacle was tremendous, and, from that point, not less beautiful. The position of the sun here favoured us; and we beheld the arch of a bright rainbow, steadily poised on the cloud of vapour below us that burst out of the terrific waters. We looked down with awe upon

yet at first hardly without personal fear. The noise was so great we could not help fancying it shook the very rock on which we stood. That feeling passed away.... While I lay on my bed, the terrible solitudes of the Wetterhorn were revealed to me by fits—its black chasms, and snowy, dark, grey summits. All night, and all day, and for ever, the vale of Meiringen is sounding with torrents.

Meiringen, Sunday, August 13th.—Rain over, and the storm past away, long before the sunshine had touched the top of any other mountain, the snow upon the Wetterhorn shone like silver, and its grey adamantine towers appeared in a soft splendour all their own. I looked in vain for the rosy tints of morning, of which I had so often heard; but they could not have been more beautiful than the silvery brightness....

Lake of Lungern.—At an upper window of one of a cluster of houses at the foot of the valley, a middle-aged man, with a long beard, was kneeling with a book in his hand. He fixed his eyes upon us, and, while his devotions were still going on, made me a bow. I passed slowly, and looked into that house with prying eyes, it was so different from any other, and so much handsomer. The wooden ceiling of the room, where the friar or monk (such I suppose him to be) knelt at his prayers, was curiously inlaid and carved, and the walls hung with pictures. The picturesque accompaniments of the Roman Catholic religion, the elegant white chapels on the hills, the steady grave people going to church, and the cheerfulness of the valley, had put me into good humour with the religion itself; but, while we were passing through this very hamlet, and close to the mansion of the godly man, Mr. M. having lost the cork of a little flask, I asked the guide to buy or beg for us another at one of the cottages, and he shook his head, assuring me they would neither give nor sell anything to us Protestants, except in the regular way of trade. They would do nothing for us out of goodwill. I had been too happy in passing through the tranquil valley to be ready to trust my informer, and, having first obliged him to make the request, I asked myself at two respectable houses, and met with a refusal, and no very gracious looks....

Sarnen, Monday, August 14th.—The road to the monastery is marked by small pillars of grey stone, not more than a quarter of a mile asunder. At the top of each pillar is a square cupboard, as I may call it, or it more resembles the head of a clock, where, secure from the rain, are placed paintings of the history of our Saviour from His birth to His ascension. Some of the designs are very pretty (taken, no doubt, from better pictures) and they generally tell their tale intelligibly. The pillars are in themselves pleasing objects in connection with the background of a crag or overhanging tree—a streamlet, or a bridge—and how touchingly must their pictured language have spoken to the heart of many a weary devotee! The ascent through the forest was interesting on every account. It led us sometimes along the brink of precipices, and always far above the boisterous river. We frequently met, or were overtaken, by peasants (mostly bearing heavy burthens). We spoke to each other; but here I could not understand three words of their language, nor they of mine.

Engelberg, Mount Titlis, Tuesday, August 15th.—We breakfasted in view of the flashing, silver-topped Mount Titlis, and its grey crags, a sight that roused William's youthful desires; and in spite of weak eyes, and the weight of fifty winters, he could not repress a longing to ascend that mountain.... But my brother had had his own visions of glory, and, had he been twenty years younger, sure I am that he would have trod the summit of the Titlis. Soon after breakfast we were warned to expect the procession, and saw it issuing from the church. Priests in their white robes, choristers, monks chanting the service, banners uplifted, and a full-dressed image of the Virgin carried aloft. The people were divided into several classes; the men, bareheaded; and maidens, taking precedency of the married women, I suppose, because it was the festival of the Virgin.

The procession formed a beautiful stream upon the green level, winding round the church and convent. Thirteen hundred people were assembled at Engelberg, and joined in this service. The unmarried women wore straw hats, ornamented with flowers, white bodices, and crimson petticoats. The dresses of the elder people were curious. What a display of neck-chains and ear-rings! of silver and brocaded stomachers! Some old men had coats after the mode of the time of The Spectator, with worked seams. Boys, and even young men, wore flowers in their straw hats. We entered the convent; but were only suffered to go up a number of staircases, and through long whitewashed galleries, hung with portraits of saints, and prints of remarkable places in Switzerland, and particularly of the vale and convent of Engelberg, with plans and charts of the mountains, etc. There are now only eighteen monks; and the abbot no longer exists: his office, I suppose, became extinct with his temporal princedom.... I strolled to the chapel, near the inn, a pretty white edifice, entered by a long flight of steps. No priest, but several young peasants, in shepherdess attire of jackets, and showy petticoats, and flowery hats, were paying their vows to the Virgin. A colony of swallows had built their nests within the cupola, in the centre of the circular roof. They were flying overhead; and their voices seemed to me an harmonious accompaniment to the silent devotions of those rustics.

Lucerne, Wednesday, August 16th.—Lucerne stands close to the shore at the foot of the lake of the four cantons. The river Reuss, after its passage from the mountain of St. Gothard, falls into that branch called the Lake of Uri, and issues out of another branch at Lucerne, passing through the town. The river has three long wooden bridges; and another bridge, 1080 feet in length, called the Cathedral Bridge, crosses a part of the lake, and leads to the Cathedral. Thither we repaired, having first walked the streets, and purchased a straw hat for 12 francs, at the shop of a pleasant talkative milliner, on whose counter, taking up a small pamphlet (a German magazine), we were surprised at opening upon our own name, and, still more, surprised to find it in connection with my brother's poem on the Duddon, so recently published.

But I was going to lead you to the end of the long bridge under a dark roof of wood, crossed and sustained by heavy beams, on each of which, on both sides—so that they face you both in going and returning—some portion of Scripture history is represented; beginning with Adam and Eve, and ending with the resurrection and ascension of Christ. These pictures, to the number of 230—though, to be sure, woful things as works of art—are by no means despicable daubs; and, while I looked at them myself, it pleased me much more to see the peasants, bringing their burthens to the city, often stay their steps, with eyes cast upwards. The lake is seen through the openings of the bridge; pleasant houses, not crowded, on its green banks.... It was dark when we reached the inn. We took tea at one end of the unoccupied side of the table in the salle-à-manger; while, on the other side, a large party were at supper. Before we had finished, a bustle at the door drew our attention to a traveller; rather an odd figure appeared in a greatcoat. Mary said, "He is like Mr. Robinson." He turned round while talking German, with loud voice, to the landlord; and, all at once, we saw that it was Mr. Robinson himself. Our joy cannot be expressed. If he had brought the half of old England along with him, we could not have been more glad. We started up with one consent; and, no doubt, all operations at the supper-table were suspended; but we had no eyes for that. Mr. Robinson introduced two young men, his companions, an American and a Scotchman—genteel, modest youths, who (the ceremony of introduction over) slipped away to the supper-table, wishing to leave us to ourselves. We were indeed happy—and Mr. Robinson was not less so. He seemed as if he had in one moment found two homes, his English home, and his home in Germany, though it were in the heart of Switzerland.

Lucerne, Friday, August 18th.—Merrily we floated between the soft banks of the first reach of the lake, keeping near the left shore.51 Plots of corn interspersed among trees and green slopes, with pleasant houses, not neighbouring one another, as at Zurich, nor yet having a character of loneliness. Then we come to low shaggy rocks, forming pretty little bays, and a singular rock appears before us in the water, the terminating point of the promontory. That point passed, the Kusnach branch opening out on our left hand, we are soon on the body of the lake, from which the four smaller branches of Lucerne, Winkel, Alpnach, and Kusnach may be said to proceed. The lake is full and stately; the mountains are magnificent. The town of Lucerne, its red roofs softened (even in the sunshine of this bright day) by distance, is an elegant termination of its own compartment, backed by low hills. Rowing round the rocky point, we lose sight of that quarter: the long Reach of Kusnach is before us, bordered by soft shores with thinly-scattered villages, and but few detached cottages. Behind us, the lake stretches out to Mount Pilatus, dark, rugged, and lofty—the Sarnen and Meiringen mountains beyond; and the summits surrounding the hidden valley of Engelberg in the opposite quarter.

Top of Rigi, Saturday, August 19th.—At Goldau the valley desolation begins. It bears the name of the former village buried in ruins; and is now no more than three or four houses and a church built on the same site. Masses of barren rubbish lie close to the houses, where but a few years past, nothing was seen but fruitful fields. We dined at the inn, and were waited on by the landlady, whose head-dress was truly surprising. She wore from the back of the neck to the forehead a cap shaped like a one-arched bridge with high parapets of stiff muslin; the path of the bridge covered with artificial flowers—wonderously unbecoming; for she was a plain woman—not young—and her hair (I think powdered) was drawn tight up from the forehead. She served us with very small fish, from the lake, excellently cooked, boiled milk, eggs, an omelet, and dessert. From the room where we dined we had a view of the Lake of Zong, formerly separated from the small Lake of Lowertz only by fertile grounds, such as we now beheld stretching down to its shores. Yes! from a window in that house on its desolate site we beheld this lovely prospect; and nothing of the desolation.

Seewen, August 20th, Sunday.—A small white Church, with a graceful Tower, mitre-topped and surmounted by a slender spire, was in prospect, upon an eminence in the Vale, and thitherward the people led us. Passing through the small village of Engelbole, at the foot of that green eminence, we ascended to the churchyard, where was a numerous assemblage (you must not forget it was Sunday) keeping festival. It was like a Fair to the eye; but no squalls of trumpets or whistles—no battering of children's drums—all the people quiet, yet cheerful—cakes and fruit spread abundantly on the churchyard wall.

A beautiful prospect from that spot—new scenes to tempt us forward! We descended, by a long flight of steps, into the Vale, and, after about half a mile's walking, we arrived at Brunnen. Espied Wm. and M. upon a crag above the village, and they directed us to the Eagle Inn, where I instantly seated myself before a window, with a long Reach of the Lake of Uri52 before me, the magnificent commencement to our regular approach to the St. Gothard Pass of the Alps. My first feeling was of extreme delight in the excessive beauty of the scene;—I had expected something of a more awful impression from the Lake of Uri; but nothing so beautiful.

It was a moonlight night;—rather a night of fitful moonshine; for large clouds were driving rapidly over the narrow arch of sky above the town [Altorf]. A golden cross, upon one of the steeples, shone forth at times as bright as a star in heaven, against the black mountain-wall, while the transient touchings of the moonlight produced a most romantic effect upon the many-coloured paintings on the wall of the old Tower. I sate a long time at my window keeping watch, and wishing for a companion, that I might walk. At length, however, when I was preparing to go to bed (after ten o'clock) Mr. R. tapped at my door to tell me that Mr. M. was going out. I hastily re-dressed myself, and we two then sallied forth together. A fierce hot wind drove through the streets, whirling aloft the dust of the ruins, which almost blinded our eyes. We got a hasty glimpse of the moon perched on the head of a mountain pike—a moment and it was gone—then passed through the long street. Houses and ruins picturesque in the uncertain light—with a stateliness that does not belong to them by day—hurried on to the churchyard, which, being on an eminence, gave us another view of the moon wandering among clouds, above the jagged ridges of the steeps:—thence homewards struggling with the hot wind. Some matters are curiously managed on the Continent, a folding door, the sole entrance to my chamber, only separated it from the salon where, at my return, guests were at supper. I heard every word they spoke as distinctly as if I had been of the party, though without understanding more than that a careful father was travelling with his two boys, to whom he talked incessantly; but so kindly and pleasantly that I hardly wished to get rid of his voice. We had broad flashes of lightning after I was in bed, but no thunder. This reminds me that we could have no fresh bread for breakfast in the morning, the bakers having, as we were told, been prohibited (since the destructive fire) under a heavy penalty, from heating their ovens except when the air is calm. I think it must often be the lot of the good people of Altorf to gnaw a hard crust; for these mountains are fine brewing-places for the winds; and the vale a very trough to receive and hold them fast.

A smart young maiden was to introduce us to the interior of the ivied Tower, so romantic in its situation above the roaring stream, at the mouth of the glen, which, behind, is buried beneath overhanging woods. We ascended to the upper rooms by a blind staircase that might have belonged to a turret of one of our ancient castles, which conducted us into a Gothic room, where we found neither the ghost nor the armour of William Tell; but an artist at work with the pencil; with two or three young men, his pupils, from Altorf. No better introduction to the favour of one of those young men was required than that of our sprightly female attendant. From this little academy of the arts, drawings are dispersed, probably, to every country of the continent of Europe. Mr. M. selected two from a very large collection.

Monday, August 20th.53—Altorf.—We found our own comfortable Inn, The Ox, near the fountain of William Tell. The buildings here are fortunately disposed—with a pleasing irregularity. Opposite to our Inn stands the Tower of the Arsenal, built upon the spot where grew the Linden-tree to which Tell's son is reported to have been bound when the arrow was shot. This tower was spared by the fire which consumed an adjoining building, happily spared, if only for the sake of the rude paintings on its walls. I studied them with infinite satisfaction, especially the face of the innocent little boy with the apple on his head. After dinner we walked up the valley to the reputed birthplace of Tell: it is a small village at the foot of a glen, rich yet very wild. A rude unroofed modern bridge crosses the boisterous river, and, beside the bridge, is a fantastic mill-race constructed in the same rustic style—uncramped by apprehensions of committing waste upon the woods. At the top of a steep rising directly from the river, stands a square tower of grey stone, partly covered with ivy, in itself rather a striking object from the bridge; even if not pointed out for notice as being built on the site of the dwelling where William Tell was born. Near it, upon the same eminence, stands the white church, and a small chapel called by Tell's name, where we again found rough paintings of his exploits, mixed with symbols of the Roman Catholic faith. Our walk from Altorf to this romantic spot had been stifling; along a narrow road between old stone walls—nothing to be seen above them but the tops of fruit trees, and the imprisoning hills. No doubt when those walls were built, the lands belonged to the churches and monasteries. Happy were we when we came to the glen and rushing river, and still happier when, having clomb the eminence, we sate beside the churchyard, where kindly breezes visited us—the warm breezes of Italy! We had here a volunteer guide, a ragged child, voluble with his story trimmed up for the stranger. He could tell the history of the Hero of Uri and declare the import of each memorial;—while (not neglecting the saints) he proudly pointed out to our notice (what indeed could not have escaped it) a gigantic daubing of the figure of St. Christopher on the wall of the church steeple. But our smart young maiden was to introduce us to the interior of the ivied Tower, so romantic in its situation above the roaring stream, at the mouth of the glen, which, behind, is buried beneath overhanging woods. We ascended to the upper rooms by a blind staircase that might have belonged to a turret of one of our ancient castles, which conducted us into a gothic room, where we found neither the ghost nor the armour of William Tell; but an artist at work with the pencil; with two or three young men, his pupils, from Altorf—no better introduction to the favour of one of those young men was required than that of our sprightly female attendant. From this little academy of the arts, drawings are dispersed, probably, to every country of the continent of Europe.

Wednesday, August 22nd.—Amsteg.—After Wasen our road at times very steep;—rocky on both sides of the glen; and fewer houses than before. We had left the forest, but smaller fir-trees were thinly sprinkled on the hills. Looking northward, the church tower on its eminence most elegant in the centre of the glen backed by the bare pyramid of Meisen. Images by the wayside though not frequent, I recollect a poor idiot hereabouts, who with smiles and uncouth gestures placed himself under the Virgin and Child, pleading so earnestly that there was no resisting him. Soon after, when I was lingering behind upon a stone, beside a little streamlet of clear water, a procession of mules approached, laden with wine-casks—forty at least—which I had long seen winding like a creeping serpent along the side of the bare hill before me, and heard the stream of sound from their bells. Two neatly-dressed Italian women, who headed the cavalcade, spoke to me in their own sweet language; and one of them had the kindness to turn back to bring me a glove, which I had left on the stone where I had been sitting. I cannot forget her pretty romantic appearance—a perfect contrast to that of the poor inhabitants of her own sex in this district, no less than her soft speech! She was rather tall, and slender, and wore a small straw hat tied with coloured riband, different in shape from those worn in Switzerland. It was the first company of muleteers we had seen, though afterwards we met many. Recrossed the Reuss, and, ascending a very long and abrupt hill covered with impending and shattered crags, had again that river on our left, but the hill carried us out of sight of it. I was alone—the first in the ascent. A cluster of mountain masses, till then unseen, appeared suddenly before me, black—rugged—or covered with snow. I was indeed awe-struck; and, while I sate for some minutes, thought within myself, now indeed we are going among the terrors of the Alps; for the course of the Reuss being hidden, I imagined we should be led towards those mountains. Little expecting to discover traces of human habitations, I had gone but a little way before I beheld, stretching from the foot of the savage mountains, an oblong valley thickly strewn over with rocks, or, more accurately speaking, huge stones; and among them huts of the same hue, hardly to be distinguished, except by their shape. At the foot of the valley appeared a village beside a tall slender church tower;—every object of the same hue except the foaming glacier stream and the grassy ground, exquisitely green among the crags. The hills that flanked the dismal valley told its history:—their precipitous sides were covered with crags, mostly in detached masses, that seemed ready to be hurled down by avalanches. Descending about half a mile we were at the village,54 and turning into the churchyard to the left, sate there, overlooking the pass of the torrent. Beside it lay many huge fragments of rock fallen from above, resembling one of still more enormous size, called the Devil's stone, which we had passed by on the right-hand side of the road near the entrance of the village. How lavishly does nature in these desolate places dispense beautiful gifts! The craggy pass of the stream coming out of that valley of stones was decorated with a profusion of gorgeous bushes of the mountain ash, with delicate flowers, and with the richest mosses. And, even while looking upon the valley itself, it was impossible, amid all its images of desolation, not to have a mild pleasure in noticing the harmonious beauty of its form and proportions. Two or three women came to us to beg; and all the inhabitants seemed to be miserably poor. No wonder! for they are not merely summer tenants of the village:—and who, that could find another hold in the land, would dwell there the year through? Near the church is a picturesque stone bridge, at the further end spanned by the arch of a ruined gateway (no gate is there now), and its stone pillars are crested with flowers and grass. We cross the bridge; and, winding back again, come in sight of the Reuss far below, to our left, and were in that part of the pass especially called by Ebel the valley of Schöllenen,55 so well known for its dangers at the time of the dissolving of the snow, when the muleteers muffle their bells and do not venture to speak a word, lest they should stir some loose masses overhead by agitating the air. Here we passed two muleteers stretched at ease upon a plot of verdant turf, under a gigantic crag, their mules feeding beside them. The road is now, almost continuously very steep—the hills rugged—often ruinous—yet straggling pine-trees are seen even to their summits; and goats fearlessly browsing upon the overhanging rocks. The distance from Ghestinen to the vale of Urseren is nearly two leagues. After we had been long ascending, I perceived on the crags on the opposite side of the glen two human figures. They were at about the same elevation as ourselves; yet looked no bigger than a boy and girl of five years' growth, a proof that, narrow as the glen appears to be, its width is considerable:—and this shows how high and steep must be the mountains. Those people carried each a large burthen, which we supposed to be of hay; but where was hay to be procured on these precipices? A little further—and the mystery was solved, when we discovered a solitary mower among slips of grass on the almost perpendicular side of the mountain. The man and woman must have been bearing their load to the desolate valley. Such are the summer labours of its poor inhabitants. In winter, their sole employment out of their houses and cattle-sheds must be the clearing away of snow, which would otherwise keep the doors barred up. But even at that season, I believe, seldom a week passes over their heads without tidings from the top of St. Gothard or the valley of Altorf, winter being the season when merchandise is constantly passing upon sledges between Italy and Switzerland:—and Ghestinen is one of the halting-places. The most dangerous time of travelling is the spring. For us there were no dangers. The excellent paved road of granite masters all difficulties even up the steepest ascents; and from safe bridges crossing the torrents we looked without trepidation into their gulfs, or pondered over their hasty course to the Reuss. Yet in the Gorge of Schoellenen it is not easy to forget the terrors which visit that houseless valley. Frequent memorials of deaths on the spot are discovered by the way-side,—small wooden crosses placed generally under the shelter of an overhanging stone. They might easily be passed unnoticed; and are so slightly put together that a child might break them to pieces:—yet they lie from year to year, as safe as in a sanctuary.

Thursday, August 23rd.—Hopital.56—Mary and I were again the first to depart. Our little Trager had left us and we proceeded with another (engaged also for 9 francs the distance to Airola, one league less). Turned aside into one of the little chapels at the outskirts of the town. Two Italians were refreshing and repainting the Saints and Angels; we traced something of the style of their country (very different from what is seen in Switzerland) in the ornaments of the Chapel. Next we were invited to view a collection of minerals: and, avowing ignorance in these matters, passed on. The ascent is at once very steep. The sun shone full upon us, but the air was clear and cool, though perfectly calm. Straying from the paved road we walked on soft grass sprinkled with lowly flowers, and interwoven with the ground-loving thyme which (hardly to be discovered by the eye in passing) sent out gushes of aromatic odour. The Reuss rapidly descending in a rocky channel between green hills, hillocks, or knolls was on our left hand—not close to the road. Our first resting-place was beside a little company of its small cataracts—foaming and sparkling—such as we might have met with in the ghyll of a Westmoreland mountain—scantily adorned with bushes, and liberally with bright flowers—cattle wandering on the hills; their bells made a soft jingling. The ascent becomes less steep. After ascending half a league, or more, having passed several painted oratories, but neither cottage nor cattle-shed—we came to a wide long hollow, so exactly resembling the upper reaches of our vales, especially Easedale, that we could have half believed ourselves there before the April sun had melted the snow on the mountain-tops, the clear river Reuss, flowing over a flat, though stony bed in the centre. M. and I were still alone with our guide; and here we met a French traveller, of whom Mr. R. told us he had afterwards inquired if he had seen two ladies, to which he rudely answered that he had met two women a little above. This reminded me of an unwilling inclination of the head when I had spoken to this Frenchman in passing, as I do to all whom I meet in lonely places. He did not touch his hat: no doubt an intentional incivility, for, on the Continent, that mark of respect towards strangers is so general as to be often troublesome. Our fellow-travellers overtook us before we had ascended from the Westmoreland hollow, which had appeared to them, as to us, with the face of an old friend. No more bushes now to be seen—and not a single house or hut since we left Hopital. The ascent at times very rapid—hill bare—and very rocky. The Reuss (when seen at our right hand) was taking an open course, like a common mountain torrent, having no continuous glen of its own. Savage pikes in all directions:—but, altogether, the mountain ascent from Urseren not to be compared in awfulness and grandeur with the valley pass from Amsteg. I recollect no particular incidents by the way, except that, when far behind in discourse with a lame, and therefore slow-paced, foot-traveller (who intended to halt for the night at the Hospital of St. Gothard), he pointed out to me a patch of snow on the left side of the road at a distance, and a great stone on the right, which he told me was the spot where six travellers had been overwhelmed by an avalanche last February—they and the huge stone buried beneath the snow, I cannot say how many feet deep. I found our party examining the spot. The hill, from which the avalanche had fallen, was neither precipitous nor, to appearance, very lofty, nor was anything to be seen which could give the notion of peculiar hazard in that place; and this gave us, perhaps, a more vivid impression of what must be the dangers of the Alps, at one season of the year, than the most fearful crags and precipices. A wooden cross placed under the great stone by the brother of one of the deceased (an Italian gentleman) recorded the time and manner of his death. We tasted the cold snow near this spot, the first we had met with by the way-side, no doubt a remnant of the avalanche that had buried those unfortunate travellers. At the top of the ascent of St. Gothard a wide basin—a dreary valley of rocky ground—lies before us.

An oratory, where no doubt thanksgivings have been often poured out for preservation from dangers encountered on a road which we had travelled, so gaily, stands beside a large pool of clear water, that lies just below us; and another pool, or little lake, the source of the Reuss, is discovered between an opening in the mountains to the right. The prospect is savage and grand; yet the grandeur chiefly arises from the consciousness of being on ground so elevated and so near to the sources of two great rivers, taking their opposite courses to the German Ocean, and the Mediterranean Sea: for the mountain summits which rise all round—some covered with snow—others of bare granite, being viewed from a base so lofty are not so commanding as when seen from below; and the valley country is wholly hidden from view.—Unwilling to turn the mountain, I sate down upon a rock above the little lake; and thence saw (a quarter of a mile distant) the Hospital, or Inn, and, beside it, the ruins of a convent, destroyed by the French. A tinkling of bells suddenly warned me to look about, and there was a troop of goats; some of them close at hand among the crags and slips of turf; nor were there wanting, even here, a few bright lowly flowers. Entering into my brother's youthful feelings of sadness and disappointment when he was told unexpectedly that the Alps were crossed—the effort accomplished—I tardily descended towards the Hospital.

I found Mary sitting on the lowest of a long flight of steps. She had lost her companions (my brother and a young Swiss who had joined us on the road). We mounted the steps; and, from within, their voices answered our call. Went along a dark, stone, banditti passage, into a small chamber little less gloomy, where we found them seated with food before them, bread and cheese, with sour red wine—no milk. Hunger satisfied, Mary and I hastened to warm ourselves in the sunshine; for the house was as cold as a dungeon. We straightway greeted with joy the infant Tessino which has its sources in the pools above. The gentlemen joined us, and we placed ourselves on a sunny bank, looking towards Italy; and the Swiss took out his flute, and played, and afterwards sang, the Ranz des Vaches, and other airs of his country. We, and especially our sociable friend R. (with his inexhaustible stock of kindness, and his German tongue) found him a pleasant companion. He was from the University of Heidelberg, and bound for Rome, on a visit to a brother, in the holidays; and, our mode of travelling, for a short way, being the same, it was agreed we should go on together: but before we reached Airola he left us, and we saw no more of him.

Friday, August 24th.—Airola (3800 feet above the sea).—I walked out; but neglected to enter the church, and missed a pleasure which W. has often spoken of. He found a congregation of Rustics chanting the service—the men and women alternately—unaccompanied by a priest.... Cascades of pure unsullied water, tumble down the hills in every conceivable variety of form and motion—and never, I think, distant from each other a quarter of a mile in the whole of our course from Airola. Sometimes, those cascades are seen to fall in one snow-white line from the highest ridge of the steep; or, sometimes, gleaming through the woods (no traceable bed above them) they seem to start out at once from beneath the trees, as from their source, leaping over the rocks. One full cataract rose up like a geyser of Iceland, a silvery pillar that glittered, as it seemed, among lightly-tossing snow. Without remembering that the Tessino (of monotonous and muddy line) was seldom out of sight, it is not possible to have even a faint notion of the pleasure with which we looked at those bright rejoicing rivulets. The morning was sunny; but we felt no oppression from heat, walking leisurely, and resting long, especially at first, when expecting W. and R., who at length overtook us, bringing a comfort that would have cheered a dreary road—letters from England.

Sunday, August 26th.—Locarno.—We had resolved to ascend St. Salvador before sunrise; and, a contrary wind having sprung up, the boatmen wished to persuade us to stay all night at a town upon a low point of land pushed far into the Lake, which conceals from our view that portion of it, where, at the head of a large basin or bay, stands the town of Lugano. They told us we might thence ascend the mountain with more ease than from Lugano, a wile to induce us to stay; but we called upon them to push on. Having weathered this point, and left it some way behind, the place of our destination appears in view—(like Locarno and Luvino) within the semicircle of a bay—a wide basin of waters spread before it; and the reach of the lake towards Porlezza winding away to our right. That reach appeared to be of more grave and solemn character than any we had passed through—grey steeps enclosing it on each side. We now coasted beneath bare precipices at the foot of St. Salvador—shouted to the echoes—and were answered by travellers from the road far above our heads. Thence tended towards the middle of the basin; and the town of Lugano appeared in front of us, low green woody hills rising above it. Mild lightning fluttered like the northern lights over the steeps of St. Salvador, yet without threatening clouds; the wind had fallen; and no apprehensions of a storm disturbed our pleasures. It was 8 o'clock when we reached the Inn, where all things were on a large scale—splendid yet shabby. The landlord quite a fine gentleman. His brother gone to England as a witness on the Queen's trial. We had soon an excellent supper in a small salon where her present Majesty of England and Count Bergami had often feasted together. Mary had the honour of sleeping in the bed allotted to her Majesty, and I in that of which she herself had made choice, not being satisfied with her first accommodations. The boatman told us she was una bravissima Principessa and spent much money. The lightning continued; but without thunder. We strayed again to the water-side while supper was in preparation. Everybody seems to be living out of doors; and long after I was in bed, I heard people in the streets singing, laughing, talking, and playing on the flute.

Monday, August 27th.—Lugano.—Roused from sleep at a quarter before 4 o'clock, the moon brightly shining. At a quarter past four set off on foot to ascend Mount St. Salvador. Though so early, people were stirring in the streets; our walk was by the shore, round the fine bay—solemn yet cheerful in the morning twilight. At the beginning of the ascent, passed through gateways and sheds among picturesque old buildings with overhanging flat roofs—vines hanging from the walls with the wildness of brambles or the untrained woodbine. The ascent from the beginning is exceedingly steep and without intermission to the very summit. Vines spreading from tree to tree, resting upon walls, or clinging to wooden poles, they creep up the steep sides of the hill, no boundary line between them and the wild growth of the mountain, with which, at last, they are blended till no trace of cultivation appears. The road is narrow; but a path to the shrine of St. Salvador has been made with great pains, still trodden once in the year by crowds (probably, at this day, chiefly of peasantry) to keep the Festival of that Saint, on the summit of the mount. It winds along the declivities of the rocks—and, all the way, the views are beautiful. To begin with, looking backward to the town of Lugano, surrounded by villas among trees—a rich vale beyond the town, an ample tract bright with cultivation and fertility, scattered over with villages and spires—who could help pausing to look back on these enchanting scenes? Yet a still more interesting spectacle travels with us, at our side (but how far beneath us!) the Lake, winding at the base of the mountain, into which we looked from craggy forest precipices, apparently almost as steep as the walls of a castle, and a thousand times higher. We were bent on getting start of the rising sun, therefore none of the party rested longer than was sufficient to recover breath. I did so frequently, for a few minutes; it being my plan at all times to climb up with my best speed for the sake of those rests, whereas Mary, I believe, never once sate down this morning, perseveringly mounting upward. Meanwhile, many a beautiful flower was plucked among the mossy stones. One,57 in particular, there was (since found wherever we have been in Italy). I helped Miss Barker to plant that same flower in her garden brought from Mr. Clarke's hot-house. In spite of all our efforts the sun was beforehand with us. We were two hours in ascending. W. and Mr. R. who had pushed on before, were one hour and forty minutes. When we stood on the crown of that glorious Mount, we seemed to have attained a spot which commanded pleasures equal to all that sight could give on this terrestrial world. We beheld the mountains of Simplon—two brilliant shapes on a throne of clouds—Mont Blanc (as the guide told us58) lifting his resplendent forehead above a vapoury sea—and the Monte Rosa a bright pyramid, how high up in the sky! The vision did not burst upon us suddenly; but was revealed by slow degrees, while we felt so satisfied and delighted with what lay distinctly outspread around us, that we had hardly begun to look for objects less defined, in the far-distant horizon. I cannot describe the green hollows, hills, slopes, and woody plains—the towns, villages, and towers—the crowds of secondary mountains, substantial in form and outline, bounding the prospect in other quarters—nor the bewitching loveliness of the lake of Lugano lying at the base of Mount Salvador, and thence stretching out its arms between the bold steeps. My brother said he had never in his life seen so extensive a prospect at the expense only of two hours' climbing: but it must be remembered that the whole of the ascent is almost a precipice. Beyond the town of Lugano, the hills and wide vale are thickly sprinkled with towns and houses. Small lakes (to us their names unknown) were glittering among the woody steeps, and beneath lay the broad neck of the Peninsula of St. Salvador—a tract of hill and valley, woods and waters. Far in the distance on the other side, the towers of Milan might be descried. The river Po, a ghostly serpent-line, rested on the brown plains of Lombardy; and there again we traced the Tessino, departed from his mountain solitudes, where we had been his happy companions.

But I have yet only looked beyond the mount. There is a house beside the Chapel, probably in former times inhabited by persons devoted to religious services—or it might be only destined for the same use for which it serves at present, a shelter for them who flock from the vallies to the yearly Festival. Repairs are going on in the Chapel, which was struck with lightning a few years ago, and all but the altar and its holy things, with the image of the Patron Saint, destroyed. Their preservation is an established miracle, and the surrounding peasantry consider the memorials as sanctified anew by that visitation from heaven.

Tuesday, August 28th.—Menaggio.—We took the opposite (the eastern) side of the lake, intending to land, and ascend to the celebrated source of the Fiume Latte (River of Milk). Following the curves of the shore came to a grey-white village, and landed upon the rocky bank (there is no road or pathway along this margin of the lake; and every village has its own boats). Mounting by a flight of rugged steps, we were at once under a line of houses fronting the water; and after climbing up the steep, walked below those houses, the lake beneath us on our left. All at once, from that sunny spot we came upon a rugged bridge; shady all round—cool breezes rising up from the rocky cleft where in twilight gloom (so it appears to eyes saturated with light) a copious stream—the Fiume Latte—is hurrying with leap and bound to the great lake. Our object, as I have said, was the fountain of that torrent. We mounted up the hill by rocky steeps, and pathways, in some places almost perpendicular, the precipice all the way being built up by low walls hung with vines. The earth thus supported is covered with melons, pumpkins, Indian corn, chestnut-trees, fig-trees, and trees now scattering ripe plums. The ascent was truly laborious. On the lake we had never been oppressed by the heat; here it was almost too much even for me: but when we reached the desired spot, where the torrent drops from its marble cavern, as clear as crystal, how delicious the coolness of the breeze! The water issues silently from the cold cavern, slides but a very little way over the rock, then bounds in a short cataract, and rushes rapidly to the lake. The evergreen Arbutus and the prickly-leaved Alaturnus grow in profusion on the rocks bordering the Fiume Latte; and there, in remembrance of Rydal Mount, where we had been accustomed to see one or two bushes of those plants growing in the garden, we decked our bonnets, mingling the glossy leaves of those evergreen shrubs with that beautiful lilac flower first seen in the ascent of St. Salvador. An active youth was our guide, and a useful one in helping us over the rocks. A woman, too, had joined the train; but Mary and I showing her that she was neither useful nor welcome, she began to employ her time in plucking the bunches of Indian corn, laying them in a heap. We could have lingered a whole summer's day over the cascades and limpid pools of the Fiume Latte.

Saturday, September 1st.—Milan.—Our object this morning was to ascend to the roof, where I remained alone, not venturing to follow the rest of the party to the top of the giddy, central spire, which is ascended by a narrow staircase twisted round the outside. Even W. was obliged to trust to a hand governed by a steadier head than his own. I wandered about with space spread around me, on the roof on which I trod, for streets and even squares of no very diminutive town. The floor on which I trod was all of polished marble, intensely hot, and as dazzling as snow; and instead of moving figures I was surrounded by groups and stationary processions of silent statues—saints, sages, and angels. It is impossible for me to describe the beautiful spectacle, or to give a notion of the delight I felt; therefore I will copy a sketch in verse composed from my brother's recollections of the view from the central spire.

Sunday, September 2nd.—Milan.—A grand military Mass was to be administered at eight o'clock in the Place d'Armes, Buonaparte's field for reviewing his troops. Hitherward we set out at seven; but arrived a little too late. The ceremony was begun; and it was some time before we could obtain a better situation than among the crowds pressed together in the glaring sunshine, as close as they could come to the building where the temporary altar was placed. The ground being level nothing was to be seen but heads of people, and a few of the lines of soldiers, and their glittering fire-arms; but we could perceive that at one time they dropped down on their knees. At length, having got admittance into the building (le Palais des Rois), near which we stood, almost stifled with heat, we had a complete view from a balcony of all that remained to be performed of the ceremonies, military and religious; but of the latter, that part was over in which the soldiers took any visible share, though the service was still going on, at the altar below us, as was proclaimed by the sound of sacred music, which upon minds unfamiliarised to such scenes had an irresistible power to solemnise a spectacle more distinguished by parade, glitter, and flashy colours, than anything else. The richly caparisoned prancing steeds of the officers, their splendid dresses, the numerous lines of soldiers standing upon the green grass (though not of mountain hue it looked green in contrast with their habiliments), and the immense numbers of men, women, and children gathered together upon a level space—where space was left for thousands and tens of thousands more—all these may easily be imagined:—with the full concert of the military band, when the sacred music ceased—the marching of the troops off the field—Austrians, Hungarians, and Italians—and, last of all, the cavalry with the heart-stirring blast of their trumpets. Before we left the field, the crowd was gone, the tinselled altar and other fineries taken down—and we saw people busied in packing them up, very much like a company of players with their paraphernalia.

Went also to the Convent of Maria della Grazia to view that most famous picture of the Last Supper by Leonardo da Vinci, painted on the wall at one end of the Refectory, a very large hall, hung along the sides with smaller pictures and, at the other end, that painting of the crucifixion of which we had seen a copy at Lugano. This Refectory was used in the days of Buonaparte as a military storehouse, and the mark of a musket-ball, fired in wantonness by a French soldier, is to be seen in one part of the painting of Leonardo da Vinci. Fortunately the ball hit where the injury was as small as it could have been; and it is only marvellous that this fine work was not wholly defaced during those times of military misrule and utter disregard of all sacred things.59 Little conversant in pictures, I cannot take upon me to describe this, which impressed my feelings and imagination more than any picture I ever saw, though some of the figures are so injured by damp that they are only just traceable. The most important are, however, happily the least injured; and that of Our Saviour has only suffered from a general fading in the colours, yet, alas! the fading and vanishing must go on year after year till, at length, the whole group must pass away. Through the cloisters of the monastery, which are shattered and defaced, pictures are found in all parts, and there are some curious monuments.

Wednesday, September 5th.—Cadenabbia.—Bent our course toward Fuentes—and after a wearisome walk through damp and breathless heat (a full league or more) over a perfect level, we reached the foot of the eminence, which from the lake had appeared to be at a small distance, but it seemed to have retreated as we advanced. We had left the high road, and trudged over the swampy plain, through which the road must have been made with great expense and labour, as it is raised considerably all the way. The picturesque ruins of the Castle of Fuentes are at the top of the eminence—wild vines, the bramble and the clematis cling to the bushes; and beautiful flowers grow in the chinks of the rocks, and on every bed of grass. A tempting though rugged ascent—yet (with the towers in sight above our heads, and two-thirds of the labour accomplished) Mary and I (Wm. having gone before to discover the nearest and least difficult way for us) sate down determined not to go a step further. We had a grand prospect; and, being exhausted by the damp heat, were willing for once to leave our final object unattained. However, while seated on the ground, two stout hard-laboured peasants chancing to come close to us on the path, invited us forward, and we could not resist—they led the way—two rough creatures. I said to Mary when we were climbing up among the rocks and bushes in that wild and lonely place, "What, you have no fear of trusting yourself to a pair of Italian Banditti?" I knew not their occupation, but an accurate description of their persons, would have fitted a novel-writer with ready-made attendants for a tribe of robbers—good-natured and kind, however, they were, nay, even polite in their rustic way as others tutored to city civility. Cultivated vines grew upon the top of the hill; and they took pains to pluck for us the ripest grapes. We now had a complete view up the great vale of the Adda, to which the road that we had left conducts the traveller. Below us, on the other side, lay a wide green marshy plain, between the hill of Fuentes and the shores of the lake; which plain, spreading upwards, divides the lake; the upper small reach being called Chiavenna. The path which my brother had travelled, when bewildered in the night thirty years ago, was traceable through some parts of the forest on the opposite side:—and the very passage through which he had gone down to the shore of the lake—then most dismal with thunder, lightning, and rain. I hardly can conceive a place of more solitary aspect than the lake of Chiavenna: and the whole of the prospect on that direction is characterised by melancholy sublimity. We rejoiced, after our toil, at being favoured with a distinct view of those sublime heights, not, it is true, steeped in celestial hues of sunny glory, yet in communion with clouds, floating or stationary:—scatterings from heaven. The ruin itself is very interesting, both in the mass and in detail—an inscription is lying on the ground which records that the Castle was built by the Count of Fuentes in the year 1600, and the Chapel about twenty years after by one of his descendants. Some of the gateways are yet standing with their marble pillars, and a considerable part of the walls of the Chapel. A smooth green turf has taken the place of the pavement; and we could see no trace of altar or sacred image, but everywhere something to remind one of former grandeur and of destruction and tumult, while there was, in contrast with the imaginations so excited, a melancholy pleasure in contemplating the wild quietness of the present day. The vines, near the ruin, though ill tended, grow willingly, and rock, turf, and fragments of the stately pile are alike covered or adorned with a variety of flowers, among which the rose-coloured pink was in great beauty. In our descent we found a fair white cherub, uninjured by the explosion which had driven it a great way down the hill. It lay bedded like an infant in its cradle among low green bushes—W. said to us, "Could we but carry this pretty Image to our moss summer-house at Rydal Mount!" yet it seemed as if it would have been a pity that any one should remove it from its couch in the wilderness, which may be its own for hundreds of years.

Thursday, September 6th.—Cadenabbia.—After a night of heavy rain, a bright morning. W., M., and I set off toward Menaggio along the terrace bordering the water, which led us to the bay at the foot of the rocky green hill of the Church of our Lady; and there we came upon the track of the old road, the very same which my brother had paced! for there was no other, nor the possibility of one. That track, continued from the foot of the mountain, leads behind the town of Cadenabbia, cutting off the bending of the shore by which we had come to this point. From the bare precipice, we pass through shade and sunshine, among spreading vines, slips of green turf, or gardens of melons, gourds, maize, and fig-trees among the rocks; it was but for a little space, yet enough to make our regret even more lively than before that it had not been in our power to coast one reach at least of the lake on foot. We had been overtaken by a fine tall man, who somewhat proudly addressed us in English. After twenty years' traffic in our country he had been settled near his native place on the Banks of Como, having purchased an estate near Cadenabbia with the large sum of two thousand pounds, acquired by selling barometers, looking-glasses, etc. He had been used to return to his wife every third year in the month of October. He made preparations during the winter for fresh travels in the spring; at the same time working with her on the small portion of land which they then possessed. Portsmouth and Plymouth were the grand marts for his wares. He amused us with recitals of adventures among the sailors, who used to bully him with, "Come, you rogue, you get your money easily enough; spend it freely!" and he did not care if he got rid of a guinea or two; for he was sure to have it back again after one of the frolics—and much more. They would often clear away his whole stock of nick-nacks. This industrious trader used to travel on foot at the rate of from thirty to forty miles a day, and his expenses from London to Como were but three guineas, though it cost him one-third of that sum to get to Calais. He said he liked England because the people were honest, and told us some stories illustrative of English honesty and Italian over-reaching in bargains. This amusing and, I must say, interesting companion, turned from us by a side-path before we reached Menaggio, saying he would meet us again, as our road would lead us near his cottage on the heights, and he should see us from the fields. He had another dwelling on his estate beside Cadenabbia, where the land produced excellent wine. The produce of his farm on the hills was chiefly hay, which they were then gathering in.

Sunday, September 9th.—Domo d'Ossola.—We rose at 5 o'clock. The morning clear and very cold. Mr. M., R. and G. intended to take the diligence; W., Mary, and I to walk; for, having been so much gratified with our journey over St. Gothard, we had determined to cross the Simplon also on foot. M. set forward first; I followed a few minutes after defended from cold by my woollen cloak. W. was left to dispose of the luggage, which (except a small bundle carried by each) we intended to send by the diligence. Shops already open. Bought some bread, and made my way directly through the town. At the end of it, looked back upon its towers and large houses, prettily situated, as on a plain, under steep hills—some of them separate mounts, distinct in form. I could not but regret that we might not linger half a day, and ascend to the Chapel of Mount Calvary, still much resorted to for its peculiar sanctity. The view from that commanding eminence would have enabled us to bear away more distinct remembrances than I, at least, have done, of a town well deserving to be remembered, for it must for ages back have been of importance, as lying at the foot of this pass of the Alps. After a mile's quick walking I grew a little uneasy at not having overtaken Mary. Behind and before, Buonaparte's broad, unshaded road was stretched out in a right line. However convenient such roads for conquest or traffic, they are, of all others, the least pleasant to the foot-traveller, whose labours seem no nearer to their end till some natural impediment must be submitted to, and the road pursues another course. Looking forward I could see nothing of Mary, and the way being sprinkled with passengers, I was more perplexed, thinking it probable that her figure before me, or behind, might be undiscoverable among them, but my pace (to warm myself in the nipping air) had been so quick, it seemed more likely that she had not advanced so far; therefore I sate down: and glad I was, after some time, to espy her blue gown among the scatterings of women in scarlet garments. She had missed her way in the town and gone back in quest of me. The fresh morning air helped us cheerfully over the long line of road; and passengers whom we continually met amused us. Some were travellers from the Alps; but they were much more frequently peasants bent on Sunday's devotion and pleasure, chiefly women, awkward in appearance, short of stature, and deformed by their manner of fastening the full round petticoat lifted up almost to the shoulders.

It pleased me now to review our course from Bavena, where this our second ascent of the Alps may be said to begin; the princely reach of the Lake then before us, with its palaces and towns, thence towards the mountains and the vale of Tusa, solitary churches on the steeps—ruins—embowered low stone cottages—vineyards and extensive lawns—cattle with their bells, and peasants tending them. The romantic village of Vergogne, its ruined fortress overlooking the narrow dell and torrent's bed—inhabited houses as grey with age as the ruin itself—and, upon the level below, how delightful was it, in our hour of rest and sauntering, to quit the sunshine, and walk under roofs of vines! Further on, the vale more wide and open—large meadows without trees. Hay-makers—straggling travellers on the outstretched road. Villages under green mountains—snowy mountains gilded by the light of the setting sun!

Now, from Domo d'Ossola we were proceeding on the same unbending road, up the same vale, a scene of desolation and fertility, vines by the wayside, the grapes hardly ripening. Having ascended a long hill to Crevola, where there is a small public-house, at which we had thought of stopping to breakfast, the road crosses a remarkably high and massy bridge, over the chasm of Val di Vedro, whence the river Vedro takes its course down to the vale of Tusa, now below us on our right hand, where, towards the centre of the vale, the village of Crevola stands on an eminence, whence the morning sound of bells was calling the people together. We turned to the left, up the shady side of Val di Vedro; at first, the road led us high above the bed of the torrent. Being now enclosed between the barriers of that deep dell, we had left all traces of vineyards, fruit-trees, and fields. Beeches climb up among the crags to the summit of the steeps. The road descends; traces of the ancient track visible near a bridge of one lofty arch, no longer used by the traveller crossing the Alps, yet I went to the centre to look down on the torrent. Traces of the foundation of a former bridge remain in the chasm. Met a few peasants going to the vale below, and sometimes a traveller. Again we climb the hill, all craggy forest. At a considerable height from the river's bed an immense column of granite lies by the wayside, as if its course had been stopped there by tidings of Napoleon's overthrow. It was intended by him for his unfinished triumphal arch at Milan; and I wish it may remain prostrate on the mountain for ages to come. His bitterest foe could scarcely contrive a more impressive record of disappointed vanity and ambition. The sledge upon which it has been dragged from the quarry is rotted beneath it, while the pillar remains as fresh and sparkling as if hewn but yesterday. W., who came after us, said he had named it the "weary stone" in memory of that immense stone in the wilds of Peru, so called by the Indians because after 20,000 of them had dragged it over heights and hollows it tumbled down a precipice, and rested immovable at the bottom, where it must for ever remain. Ere long we come to the first passage through the rocks, near the river's bed, and "Road and River" for some time fill the bottom of the valley. We miss the bright torrents that stream down the hills bordering the Tessino; but here is no want of variety. We are in closer neighbourhood with the crags; hence their shapes are continually changing, and their appearance is the more commanding; and, wherever an old building is seen, it is overspread with the hues of the natural crags, and is in form of accordant irregularity. The very road itself, however boldly it may bestride the hills or pierce the rocks, is yet the slave of nature, its windings often being governed as imperiously as those of the Vedra within the chasm of the glen. Suddenly the valley widens, opening out to the right in a semicircle. A sunny village with a white church appears before us, rather I should say numerous hamlets and scattered houses. Here again were vines, and grapes almost full grown, though none ripening. Leaving the sunshine, we again are enclosed between the steeps, a small ruined Convent on the right, the painting on the outside nearly effaced by damp. We come to the second passage, or gallery, through the rocks. It is not long, but very grand, especially viewed in combination with the crags, woods, and river, here tumbling in short cascades, its channel strewn with enormous ruins. W. had joined us about a league before we reached this point; and we sate long in admiration of the prospect up the valley, seen beyond the arch of the gallery which is supported by a pillar left in the rock out of which the passage has been hewn. A brown hamlet at the foot of the mountains terminates this reach of the valley, which has again widened a little. A steep glen to the left sends down a boisterous stream to the Vedra. We had walked three leagues; and were told we were near the Inn, where we were to breakfast, and, having left the gallery 200 yards behind, saw more of the village (called Isella) and a large, square, white building appeared, which proved to be a military station and the post-house, near which was our Inn.... Leaving now the Piedmontese dominions, we make our last entrance into the country of the Swiss. Deciduous trees gradually yield to pine-trees and larches, and through these forests, interspersed with awful crags, we pass on, still in cool shade, accompanied by the turbulent river. Here is hardly a slip of pasturage to be seen, still less a plot of tillage (how different from the Pass of the Ticino!) all is rocks, precipices, and forests. We pass several places of Refuge, as they are named, the word refuge being inscribed upon their walls in large characters. They are small, square, white, unpicturesque buildings (erected by Buonaparte). The old road is not unfrequently traceable for a short way—Mary once detected it by noticing an Oratory above our heads that turned its back towards us, now neglected and facing the deserted track.