but it is much softer. The evening gun has just been fired off from one of the batteries next the sea, the signal, I suppose, for closing the harbor, and the echo sent back by the hills on either side was prolonged and repeated fainter and fainter for nearly a minute....

The coast at Marseilles and that I saw yesterday may be described in a few words: bare, jagged, sterile, rocky mountains; scarcely high enough to be picturesque, perfectly destitute of verdure, barely supporting here and there a few stunted olive-trees. We passed Toulon and had a distant view. We sailed between the mainland and the islands of Hyères, so remarkable for their fine climate and healthfulness, but they did not look very inviting to me.

When I rose this morning the scenery had become bolder and more interesting. We were where the Alps first come down to the sea, and we have since sailed along a coast so closely skirted by the Maritime Alps, the chain which passing into Italy forms the Apeninnes, that there is scarcely room to construct a road between. The loftier peaks, the whole day, were covered with snow, in fine contrast with the gray and sterile cliffs below and the dark blue sea which seems to lave their base, for the Mediterranean has the deep azure tint of mid-ocean quite up to the shore. There are many pretty villages also, which either seem hung on the mountain’s side or to rise out of the water. In one place I counted twelve in a single view, by no means a wide one. We passed Savona, the town where the pope lived while Napoleon was master of Italy. Here the hills are more fertile, and vines, olives, and oranges are cultivated wherever room or soil enough to plant them can be found....

In the harbor of Leghorn, Monday evening, five o’clock.

I must tell you of the pretty view I had Saturday night. My room, I think I mentioned, looked directly into the bay, and also gave me a fine view of the western part of the town, the mountains of that side of the bay, and peeping over them, the sharp crests of the Maritime Alps, still white with snow, and looking rather like bright clouds than a portion of terra firma.

While I was sleeping soundly, about two o’clock in the morning the moon shone into the window directly into my face, and thinking it a pity I should lose so fine a sight, she awoke me. She was near her full; she hung in the middle of the bay at just the proper angle that the flood of golden light she was pouring upon the tranquil sea was reflected directly to my eyes. The city, too, looked beautiful indeed, and the mountains, and even the Alps, were all visible. I enjoyed it for a long time, and went to bed again regretting that I had no one to share the scene with me.[93]

There is or was a British chapel here, belonging to the British embassy, but I could find nothing of it, and so spent the Sabbath by myself, which was as well perhaps. At seven in the evening our boat left, and I was obliged to continue my voyage. I wrapped myself in my cloak and slept soundly and quietly, and when we reached the harbor of Leghorn at five o’clock awoke refreshed, vigorous, and in the finest spirits. I obtained a light breakfast on board; at seven o’clock was ashore; in five minutes more was in a cabriolet and on the road to Pisa, distant from here fourteen Tuscan miles, which make, I should judge, about ten English ones. My bargain was that I should be driven to Pisa in two hours at farthest, have two hours and a half there, and be returned again safe and sound before two o’clock. This was easily accomplished; the journey being made in less than two hours, I had the more time there, quite as much, indeed, as I wished. It is a great comfort to be able to leave a place the moment you have done with it, and so avoid being sated with it. I had a letter and a little parcel from Mirbel to deliver to old Savi,[94] the professor of botany in the university; so I was dropped at the door of the university, once so famous, but now far from formidable. I found Savi, gave my letter, was introduced to his two sons, the one professor of natural history, the other assistant professor of botany, who showed me through the museum, which was interesting, the botanic garden, which was not much; I then set out to see the four chief lions, the Duomo or cathedral, the Baptistery, the Campanile or famous leaning tower, and the Campo Santo, which all stand near each other and are soon dispatched. In fact they are the separate parts of a cathedral, the Campanile being, as the name denotes, the bell-tower, and the Campo Santo the burial-place....

The vine in Tuscany is not kept close to the ground as in France, but is trained in arbors and festoons along the borders of wheat-fields, and when their leaves appear must add very much to the beauty of the country. One here could sit under the shade of his vine, which would be out of the question in France. But the boat is leaving the harbor. On the right we can dimly discern the northern extremity of Corsica. Elba we shall pass in the night, and sometime in the course of the morning be landed in Civita Vecchia. I have made the acquaintance of an English clergyman of warm piety, who is in ill health, who has been obliged to reside for several years in Nice in the winter, and at Interlaken in Switzerland in the summer, at both of which places he preaches regularly. He has traveled in Greece, Turkey, and Asia Minor, and passed much time with our missionaries there, of whom he speaks in the warmest terms. His name is Hartley. We shall go on in company to Rome.

Rome, 1st May, 1839, Wednesday evening.

And I am indeed in Rome. This is enough to repay one for long and tedious journeys and even for transient separation from friends, and when I leave this place I feel as though my face was set homeward. I feel it is something to be in Rome....

I distinctly recollect the time when, a very small boy, in the course of a long ride with a relative, the story of Romulus and Remus was first related to me, and how it struck my wondering fancy. And I recollect most perfectly my first lesson in Virgil, and how, commencing with “Arma virumque cano,” I slowly worked my way into the mysteries of Latin prosody and the story of the Æneid. Little did I think in those days that I should ever stand within the “walls of lofty Rome;”

My enthusiasm has risen by degrees, for I arrived here this morning, after a delay at that most wretched of all places, Civita Vecchia, where an Austrian soldier, stationed there, told us he was sent as to a kind of earthly purgatory to do penance for his sins; after being subjected to those numberless petty exactions by which the purse of the pope is replenished from the pockets of us poor Protestants, after tedious delays on the road, and a most uncomfortable ride for the whole night, which altogether is enough to put one in a bad humor with everything,—after all this you may be sure I found myself in such a prosaic care-for-nothing mood that it was a long time before I could feel the interest which the Eternal City is calculated to inspire. A fog in the morning prevented us from a good view on our approach; the streets of the modern town through which we passed were mostly devoid of interest, and we saw nothing but the dome of St. Peter’s and the Castle of St. Angelo. However, we got established at the Hôtel d’Allemagne, and took breakfast. Mr. Hartley, being worn out by the journey, took to his room for the day, and I was left to myself. Though perfectly ignorant of localities here, I was determined not to be deprived of the satisfaction of discovering the most interesting places for myself. My guide-book (Madame Starke) describes objects somewhat particularly, but gives no information as to where they are to be found. I hate the chatter of a cicerone, and felt confident that I should stumble upon something worth seeing. So I climbed the hill just before me by a magnificent flight of marble steps, where the Egyptian obelisk stands which the inscription says was found in the Circus of Sallust. I saw an imposing building at the end of a long avenue, on the summit of a rise which I afterwards learned was the Esquiline Hill. On reaching it and examining the interior I found by the guide-book that it was the Basilica of Santa Maria Maggiore. These basilicas, retaining the name of ancient structures, are a larger kind of churches, which were mostly established upon the foundations of ancient temples, or they were these temples themselves turned into churches....

As I emerged from the Coliseum I stood between the Palatine and the Cælian Hills, the Arch of Constantine just before me, the Arch of Titus in view on the right hand, and just beyond the Roman Forum, all crowded with ruins; the very soil is mouldering brickwork and fragments of columns. Here I spent the greater part of the morning, silent and undisturbed, finding out by the description the ruins as they presented themselves....

The journal is so long that most of the Italian, more especially the Roman, journey must be omitted. Dr. Gray, as is shown, was a busy sightseer, enjoying the historical and romantic associations with his natural enthusiasm. Here began his great love of painting, of sculpture, and of architecture; he carried the details of churches and cathedrals in his memory remarkably, recognizing quickly a print or photograph of something he had seen perhaps thirty years before; he had the memory for form which helped him so much in his science. He was a good critic of painting and enjoyed extremely his favorite pictures, liking to wander off alone to enjoy them. Titian on the whole ranked highest in his estimation. He enjoyed much of the old church music, though his preference in music was for simple songs, hymns especially, and the old tunes to which words had long been wedded. There are many quotations from Byron and Rogers in the original journal. For Byron, with his brilliant descriptions and versification, he always kept much feeling; and his great love of natural scenery had full play.

TO MRS. TORREY.

Leghorn, May 8.

Whenever I have an hour to spare I know of no pleasanter mode of occupying it than by writing to you, for to you my thoughts, whenever they are at rest, spontaneously revert. I have yet an hour before the vetturino starts for Florence, and I may as well commence another sheet, the first of a series which I may be unable to send you for several weeks, as I here leave the Mediterranean, loveliest of seas, and except I find an American ship on the Adriatic, which is not very probable, I must keep them all until I reach Hamburg. I have just closed a formidable packet of journal, to be sent from here in the ship Sarah and Arsilia, which is to sail for New York next week....

I am very well satisfied with my visit to Rome. In the brief space of time I spent there I saw everything I wished except the pope himself, and I believe I had a glimpse of him; one statue of Michael Angelo’s, which I only learned about when it was too late; the Catacombs, where the early Christians used to conceal themselves, which are some miles off; the monument of Cecilia Metella, which is not handsome, but is immortalized by three or four singularly sweet stanzas in “Childe Harold;” and the Basilica of St. Paul, which is some distance out of the city, and was nearly destroyed by fire about ten years ago. This is a very small list compared with what I have seen, so I am quite content. I wish you could see Rome; there is so much that you would enjoy in the highest degree, and it is laying up a fund to be enjoyed afterwards as long as you live.

It is now just sunset, and the air is remarkably balmy,—a mild sea-breeze, just enough to fan you. And let me tell you, however, as to Italian skies and sunsets that they are not a bit superior to our own. You may enjoy from your own parlor windows finer sunsets every clear day in summer than I have yet seen in Italy; though they certainly are very near ours. It is only to those who are accustomed to British clouds and fogs that they are remarkable.

The peripatetic grinders of music upon hand-organs so common in all our towns are usually Italians, and I supposed that street music here was of much the same kind. This is a mistake. I have not seen such a thing in Italy or the south of France. You have universally the harp, commonly two players in concert, and very frequently a violin also for accompaniment, and the music is always creditable. At Avignon, the very land of troubadours, we were serenaded at dinner with a concert of harps, guitars, etc., but when they called for the coppers we found, shame to this degenerate age, that the troubadours were all women, and of the most unromantic appearance possible. The patois of all this part of France and of Piedmont, however, is the same as the language in which the trouvères are written, and one who understands the patois as now spoken can read the former without difficulty.

The Italian language, is very soft and musical, far more pleasant to the ear than the deep nasal tones of the French.

JOURNAL.

Florence, May 9, Thursday evening.

Finding little more that I could do to-day, I then called at the residence of Mr. Sloane, a descendant of Sir Hans Sloane of famous memory, who resides in the Bontrouline palace, and not finding him at home left a note of introduction written by two ladies, Mrs. Boott and Miss Boott, and also a letter intrusted to my care by Mirbel. I called also at the Botanic Garden, but Mr. Targioni-Tozzetti[95] was not at home, and the garden was of no great consequence. While at dinner Mr. Sloane called to welcome me to Florence, and to take me out of the city to the Campagna,—lawns and beautiful pleasure-grounds and groves skirting the Arno for a mile or two, which are thrown open to the public, forming the favorite drive or promenade. Almost the whole city was there, and I never saw a more pleasant place. The roads were thronged with carriages, from the barouche of the grand duke to the peasant’s cart, all on terms of perfect equality. The grand duke passed us twice. He mingles much with the people, is accessible to all, and is greatly beloved. The government, though despotic, is paternal, the people are not burdened with taxes, and are contented and industrious. The difference between Tuscany and the Papal States is manifest enough. But I must hasten with my narrative. Early the next morning, Friday, I called on Mr. Sloane, looked at his garden, where he has many fine things. We then crossed the Arno to the other side of the town, called on Professor Amici,[96] who removed here from Modena a few years since, and has charge of the grand duke’s observatory. He was very obliging, showed me his microscopes, which he thinks unrivaled, but I don’t, and then the observatory, where I saw all the instruments, peeped through his telescope, and from the top of the tower had a most beautiful panoramic view of Florence and the surrounding country. We then passed through the museum of natural history, which is in the same building, and is prettily arranged; saw the famous flowers and fruits done in wax, but not the figures which represent the Plague, which were in the anatomical museum adjoining, and which I did not care to see. In the collection were some recent models made under Amici’s superintendence to illustrate his discoveries, etc. They were wonderfully fine, and would be useful in a class-room. Amici is a good observer with the microscope, but his anatomical or physiological notions are in some cases very wide of the mark, and quite surprised me.

On leaving, Mr. Sloane and myself separated, he going to fulfill some engagement, and I to the Palazzo Pitti, as it is still called from the founder, though it early passed into the hands of the Medici family, who finished it, and now it is the ducal residence. I must tell you, by the way, that I should have seen a remarkable person in Florence, had she not been sick. Sloane is very intimate with her and wished me to see her; she is the ex-queen of Naples, the widow of Murat and the sister of Napoleon....

On returning to the hotel, however, I learned that I could not get a place with the courier next day, that the diligence which left at mid-day did not arrive at Bologna until Sunday afternoon, so I engaged a cabriolet, to start with me after dinner, arranged my affairs, called on Mr. Sloane to bid him an unexpected adieu, dined at the table d’hôte at five, and at dark I was climbing the outskirts of the Apennines.

I would have liked to call upon our sculptor Greenough[97] to see how the statue of Washington is coming on, but had not time.

At sunrise I was on the mountain-summits, among the clouds, which a strong wind for a moment blew aside, and gave me some magnificent views. We journeyed for some hours in this elevated region, but at length crossed the Tuscan frontier and were once more in the country of his Holiness. Just as we commenced our descent, which is very abrupt, a dense fog enveloped us and it began to rain; in consequence of this I lost the view which you often have of the Adriatic and the Mediterranean at the same time, as well as the plains of the Po on the north. This was the first rain I encountered, excepting a few drops at Rome, since I left Lyons; so you may judge of the dryness of the climate in the south of France and Italy. It is very different, however, near the mountains. At length, after a long and rapid descent, we arrived at the foot of the mountain, and stopped at a comfortable inn to take our dinner and breakfast at once, it being about two o’clock. Several carriages were there before us, and just before I left another arrived, bringing with it a most genuine Yankee, who amused me excessively. It seems that he came out in the Great Western, a few weeks ago, had seen what he thought worth seeing in London and Paris, had been even to Naples, and was now on his way from Rome to Switzerland, and expected to reach London to return by steamship in—I forget how many days! But the feat upon which he prided himself above all was that he had ascended Vesuvius and come back again in—I don’t remember precisely how many minutes, but in an inconceivably short space of time, and very much quicker than had ever been done before! to the great wonderment of the guides, as he said, and as I do not doubt. This was his chef d’œuvre, and I assure you he felt quite proud of it. I laughed most heartily at the absurdity of the thing, until I reflected how rapidly I had been doing the sights myself, and felt I might justly come in for a share of the ridicule. In this day’s journey I think I outdid the Yankee, for, arriving at Bologna about five o’clock, I immediately made arrangements for going on to Ferrara the same night, and this accomplished, I had but two or three hours to spend at Bologna, a city famous for its university and its sausages; the former decayed almost to nothing, the latter still in great demand, diffusing their abominable garlic odor from every table. I visited all the large churches, took some coffee, and before nine o’clock was on my way through the vast plain watered by the Po, which, like most large rivers, branches near its mouth into several streams. The lad who drove me did not know the road very well, and lost his way several times, so that instead of arriving before daybreak it was six o’clock in the morning when we entered Ferrara. Indeed he came near losing his horse as well as the road, for while I was sleeping soundly in the carriage I was roused by a prodigious clatter, and jumping out as quick as I could, found that he had driven into a heap of rough stones deposited to mend the road; the horse had slipped and was lying flat upon his back in the bottom of the ditch. With much ado we liberated him from the carriage and lifted him out of the ditch, repaired the injury to the harness as well as we could with bits of rope, and were again on our way. I have wondered since how I could ride thus through the night, with only a boy with me, through a country which some years ago would not have been deemed safe. But I felt not the slightest alarm, and slept as soundly as possible.

Ferrara is famous for possessing the tomb and chair of Ariosto, but except this is as uninteresting as you can imagine. It was Sunday, and I spent the day within doors as well as I could.

By making a very early ride I succeeded in reaching Padua at ten o’clock this morning; visited the university so famed of old, the churches, the splendid Caffè Pedrocchi, the Botanic Garden,—the most ancient in Italy, of which Alpinius, the elder and the younger, and Pontedera were the directors. It is under the care of Visiani,[98] to whom I brought a letter from Bentham, and who politely showed me all I wished to see. The university is a queer old place indeed, and the lecture-rooms the most dark, gloomy, and incommodious places you can conceive; everything is as old as the fifteenth century. I wish I could describe the anatomical theatre, which is the most curious specimen of antiquity I have seen. The Museum of Natural History is so-so. There is still a goodly number of students, but nothing to what there was in the olden time. The Duomo is a small affair, but the church of St. Antonio is like a mosque, the most Saracenic building I ever saw,—with its seven or eight balloon-shaped domes of various sizes, and three or four tall and slender minarets. I am sorry I can’t get a decent print of it. The interior is noble, and very rich in tombs and shrines and sculptures. Here are tombs of many of the old professors. The church of St. Augustine is in the same style, and not much inferior.... There is very much that I wish to write, but I have not the time nor the strength to write longer, and must sleep. To understand the full luxury of a bed you should sleep without one, as I have done very often of late. Good-night.

Venice, on board steamboat for Triest, lying at anchor,
Wednesday evening, May 15, 1839.

For nearly two days I have been “a looker-on in Venice,” a strange place, as unlike any other city of Europe as can be, unless Constantinople resemble it in some respects. It is more like some place you visit in dreams, some creation of fancy, than a real, earthly city, if it can be called earthly which scarcely stands upon earth.

We left Padua at five o’clock in the morning, yesterday, by the diligence, passing along the banks of a canal, bordered with numerous villas; all of them had been fine, some very magnificent, but they are now decaying. The clouds prevented me from obtaining a view of the Rhætian Alps, which bound the view on the north, but I hope to make up for this to-morrow, which will give me some amends for our detention here; for you must know that the steamboat was to have left at nine o’clock this evening, and I expected to have been in Triest this morning; but the day has been stormy, and the water is a little rough, so, forsooth, the boat is to remain until morning; but as it is to start early, I have remained on board, where I have a comfortable place to sleep, and a quiet hour to write.

Oh, I wish you could see Venice!—and the dear girls—whenever I see anything particularly queer, I think of them at once, and wish for them to enjoy it with me. And here everything is strange, canals for streets, gondolas for coaches; not a horse to be seen in the city, except the celebrated bronze gilt steeds of St. Mark; palaces of barbaric magnificence, splendid churches; people of all nations and tongues, Christians, Turks, and Jews. Surely there is nothing like it. The view from Fusina, on the mainland, which was the first I obtained, was charming....

You will wonder at the comparison, but the distant view of Venice reminded me strongly of New York, as you approach from Amboy. The gondola that brought us stopped in the Grand Canal near the Rialto, or rather the bridge of the Rialto, for the name properly belongs to the island; and in crossing this bridge during the day, I found some of the little shops still occupied by money-changers, and I saw more than one hard Jewish countenance that might sit for the picture of Shylock. This part of the town is unpleasant, although the canals are lined with what were once stately palaces, which now look as if about to sink again into the water. While on my way to a hotel, I came abruptly upon a view that seemed like enchantment: the Piazza of St. Mark, a large quadrangle, three sides inclosed by a magnificent range like the Palais Royal; on the fourth, the church of St. Mark, and adjoining it the Palace of the Doges, scarcely less magnificent, and in an equally Oriental style. In front is the Campanile, taller than that of Florence, but not handsome. As you turn out of the quadrangle in full front of the palace, you see the two granite columns, one of them surmounted with the winged lion; and you stand on the mole, with the most superb view of sea and city, shipping, churches and palaces, before and around you. I never expect again to see anything like it. I have walked over this ground again; and one is never wearied with the sight.... The street musicians here are very good. A party stops at the door of the café: a man with a violin, his wife and son each with a guitar, and they perform several airs exceedingly well, the woman sometimes accompanying with her voice. She enters the café with the little wooden cup in her hand, and is well satisfied with a kreutzer (about half a cent) from those who choose to give, and a sweet “grazia” in the softest Italian expresses her thanks. There is one café here frequented almost exclusively by Turks, who sit smoking their large pipes with such an air of ridiculous gravity. Their turbans or the red caps they often wear, their flowing robes and their nether garments, which are something between pantaloons and petticoats, are very queer....

I spare you a detailed account of my movements to-day and yesterday, of the fine churches, enough to furnish cathedrals to half a dozen cities, of the arsenal, its ship-yard, the antique lions, the public garden, the Armenian convent, the gondolas and my rides therein. I have enjoyed it greatly, and have laid up a stock for future enjoyment, for I shall read hereafter of Venice with greater interest. One who travels as rapidly as I do, if he would enjoy the full benefit of his journey, should know almost everything before he leaves home. The true way for those who have time and means sufficient is to study the history of each place on the spot with all its monuments and relics around them. So more might be learned in one month than in a year at home. If I had what I am not likely to have,—a family of children to bring up, money sufficient for the purpose, and no other duties to prevent, I think I would educate them in this peripatetic way. But now to bed.

Thursday evening, May 16.... We are to start at nine o’clock. The rain is over, but it is still cloudy. I have been for some days in Austrian dominions, but I wish to be in Austria itself. It cleared up a little just at sunset, and gave, me from the deck of the vessel, a most beautiful view of the town and harbor, with hundreds of gondolas gliding swiftly through the water in every direction....

Triest, Saturday evening, May 18, 1839.

As misfortunes never come single, I found this morning that our places were not secured in the mail-coach for Monday. The fellow who was to arrange the business found, after getting our passports in order, that there was only one place left, and supposing that we were certainly to go together, did not secure that. It was immediately arranged between us that I was to have the place, but on arriving at the office I had the mortification to find it already taken. For an hour or so we made various plans, negotiated with a vetturino, but were stopped by the information we received, that they would be five days on the road to Gratz, from where to Vienna it would require at least two days more by the same kind of conveyance, or twenty-seven hours in the mail-coach if we could get a place in it. We found that the quickest way left for us was to take places for Tuesday by the mail, and go on Monday by a private conveyance to Adelsberg, as we had intended, where we shall have a day longer than we desire; and these places we were fortunate enough to secure. So I cannot expect to reach Vienna before Friday morning of next week! I had hoped to reach that place by the twentieth.

It rained hard all the morning, so that botanizing was out of the question. So I put my collection of yesterday in press; visited Biasoletto,[99] and after dinner met Tommasini,[100] who has given me a very pretty collection of plants of the country....

Vienna, 24th May, Friday evening.

The great fête of the Grotto of Adelsberg, of which I wrote you, was to take place on Monday afternoon. Mr. Philip, the painter, and myself took a carriage to that place and arrived in good time, and saw this very strange grotto with greater advantage and under more curious circumstances, I suspect, than was ever done by an American before. I had all the next day before me, as the coach from Triest did not arrive till evening. My companion was taken somewhat ill and kept the house, while I took my portfolio and walked through the fields of this retired valley to a bold and high mountain range, more distant than I had calculated on; climbed the rocks with much difficulty; enjoyed a charming prospect from the summit; filled my portfolio with plants; got back about five o’clock, regularly tired and hungry, and just had time to eat my dinner and secure my specimens before the coach came from Triest. We took our places just at dusk, Tuesday evening, and have been on the road day and night, stopping just long enough to take our meals, until this morning; when at early daylight, just as I opened my eyes from such sleep as one might catch after three consecutive nights of such confinement, the vale of the Wien and the beautiful city of Vienna lay before me, the green fields reaching up to the very gates. It was a lovely sight. I have never seen the like. It began raining very soon, however, and has rained all day, so that I have seen little. Philip, who understands German, has been confined to his room by illness. But as soon as I got my breakfast and was fairly fixed in my lodgings, which we found as difficult to get as if we were at New York at this season (I am at the Gasthof zur Dreyfaltigkeit, a good and cheap house, and the head waiter speaks French), I took a guide to direct me to the Joseph-Platz, where the Imperial Library and Cabinet are, to find Endlicher.[101] I found the man in his den, and the moment I put my letters into his hand he recognized Bentham’s writing and addressed me by name, Bentham having apprised him of my intended visit. Endlicher received me very cordially, and I remained with him till two o’clock. He is extremely good-looking, and younger even in appearance than I expected, although Bentham told me he was about his own age; he looks about thirty-three. I had the pleasure to present in person the copy of the “Flora” designed for him.

The usual dinner hour here is from twelve to three. The common people dine at twelve, the gentry from two to four, the imperial family setting a good example by dining between one and two. After dinner I went to the police office to procure the necessary leave to remain here for a week or so, answered all the questions which are put in such cases to the traveler, such as where I stopped, how long I intended to stay, what my business was, produced my letter of credit, in order to show that I was not likely to run away with unpaid bills,—to ascertain this point is said to be the chief object of all this inquiry. When you arrive at any hotel and remain over night, you are presented with a blank formula comprising still more particular inquiries, which you are required to fill up, and it is sent to the police office. You give first your name, then your country, age, religion, occupation, state whether you are married or not! whether you are traveling alone or in company; where you came from last; your probable stay; whether you have letters of credit or not, with some equally particular inquiries! I went next to my banker’s, found no letters! I drew some money, and obtained a ticket of admission to a commercial reading-room, which is well supplied with English and French newspapers. Here I stayed until sunset, reading up my English news, in which I had got far behind, and which on the present occasion I found very interesting. I gleaned occasionally a little news from home, but vaguely. The information seemed in general satisfactory, but one letter from home were worth it all!

I have this morning changed the plants I have been drying, and have taken care of my companion Philip, who is quite sick with the fatigue of his journey and so forth. I have endured it very well, but must get into bed. Not having had my clothes off for three nights in succession, nor enjoyed rational sleep, I wonder much that I am not more fatigued. Endlicher asked me to go to the opera this evening, where there is some especially fine music, as he says, but I declined, telling him that under present circumstances I should sleep through the finest music in the world. I suppose it would be perfectly impossible to make him understand how one could have any scruples against this amusement.

Saturday, 25th, 1839.—I went early this morning to the Imperial Cabinet; remained there until two, when the rooms are closed. After dinner I explored about the city until sunset; saw many of the public buildings, the gardens, etc. I understand the localities of the town proper very well. The city itself is not large; the strong walls that inclose it are still kept up, and immediately outside of this there is a large open space, planted with trees and laid out into roads and walks. Beyond this are the faubourgs or suburbs, larger many times than the city itself; very pleasant, but rather inconvenient to reach. Most of the public buildings, the shops, etc., are in the city itself. I went to see the fine old Gothic Cathedral of St. Stephen’s. It is a very old and exceedingly fine, large building, but the roof is very awkward. The spire is the finest thing I ever saw in the way of Gothic architecture. It is four hundred and sixty-five feet high, and is the very poetry of steeples. I intend to climb to the top presently....

Monday morning, 27th May.—I find we are in a different climate from Italy. It has been cold ever since my arrival here; the first day was rainy, and yesterday it rained from morning to night, and was very cold and unpleasant; so of course I kept my room nearly all day. I had also to take care of Mr. Philip, whose indisposition has turned into intermittent fever, such as he has been subject to at Rome. It is a most distressing thing to be sick in a strange land, and I cannot be too grateful for the uninterrupted good health I have enjoyed ever since I left you.

I have deferred telling you anything about the Grotto of Adelsberg, on account of the great difficulty I find in conveying any idea of it. It is without doubt the most wonderful thing of its kind in the world.

Adelsberg itself is a little German village perched under a steep conical hill which is crowned with the ruins of an old castle; it is at one border of a circular plain, several miles in extent, dotted here and there with little hamlets, and surrounded with mountains, so that it is like a large basin, and seems wholly shut out from the rest of the world. It is so still and quiet that it would do very well for the valley of Rasselas, but the mountains do not form precipices except on one side, where they are accessible at a few points only, and there with much difficulty, as I had occasion to know. The streams that come down from the mountains unite to form a little river, perhaps nearly twice the size of the Fishkill Creek; and this, after running about the valley seeking an outlet in vain, at length in despair, as it seems, dives into the solid rock at the foot of hills near the village. The entrance for visitors is a small hole above this, which opens into a long gallery, perhaps two hundred yards in extent. From this you descend into a vast hall, called the Dome, more than one hundred feet high, and three or four hundred feet in length. As you descend you hear the roar of the waters confined in their deep prison-house, and at the bottom you meet the river which rushes swiftly to the distant extremity of this hall, and there sinks into the dark depths. Instead of a stupid monument and inscription by the late emperor, placed above this, it would have been much better taste to have placed in the stream a piece of statuary representing Charon and his boat, for never was seen so perfect a beau-ideal of the fabled river Styx. This is the last you see of the river Poik; but the Unz, which bursts forth a large stream from the rocks at Planina, is believed to be the same. This river is crossed by a bridge. Then we went on to another hall about three quarters of a mile from the entrance; the ball-room, where a large gathering of peasants of the surrounding country, in their national costume, were dancing waltzes in the bowels of the earth!

Hiatus vastus.—I left this account of the Adelsberg Grotto, and my journey through Illyria and Styria, for the first convenient opportunity,—a time that never comes,—so now I must send it as it is. The grotto is wonderful past all description, and our visit was very opportune; the whole scene not soon to be forgotten.

29th May.—It rained all day yesterday, so Schönbrunn was out of the question, and I spent the morning again at the Cabinet of Botany; and after dinner Philip and myself, in spite of the rain, set out to visit the imperial picture-gallery in the Upper Belvedere Palace, which is finely situated in one of the suburbs. The gallery is very extensive and excellent, especially in the Dutch school, and we had barely time to finish our hasty reconnoissance before it closed for the night. I had a fine view of the city from the windows of the upper story. We stopped at a café on our way home, took some lemonade and ice-cream, while I read “Galignani’s Messenger” for English news. This morning I went to the gallery as usual, and after working for a little time, Mr. Putterlich,[102] the sub-assistant, went with me to the famous Mineralogical Cabinet, the finest in the world. A most splendid affair it is. It occupies a suite of quite ordinary rooms, but is excellently arranged and shows to great advantage. Here are all the fine gems, diamonds, emeralds, topaz, and all sorts of precious stones, both polished and natural. I saw also the bouquet of precious stones made for Maria Theresa, a most brilliant affair. The collection of aerolites is unique. I intend to visit it again on Saturday. I obtained some useful information here as to the mode of constructing the shelves, etc., in a mineralogical cabinet; their plan here is the best I have seen. If I knew what I now do, I could have given a plan for the construction of the cabinets at the Lyceum infinitely better than the present. Returning to the Botanical Gallery I occupied myself in selecting specimens for myself from Rugel’s New Holland collections. Endlicher offers me these and other plants, as many as I like. He also offered to send to Hamburg for me a copy of the “Iconographia Generum Plantarum,” the “Annals of the Vienna Museum,” and some other of his works. After dinner, finding nothing else to do for a few moments, I went into a bookseller’s,—the publisher of Endlicher’s “Genera Plantarum,”—to look up some reports on education, etc. I asked also for botanical works; and after offering me several things which I did not want, they brought out, as a great rarity, our own “Flora,” which I told them I did not want at all. At six o’clock, Endlicher called upon me to take me to the Botanic Garden of the university, under the care of Baron Jacquin, who is professor, at the same time, of both botany and chemistry in the university, and scarcely lectures on either. He introduced me to the old fellow, a hard-featured chap, who managed to speak a little English and talked to me of the year he spent at Sir Joseph Banks’ in bygone times. We went through the garden, which is finely situated, covers much ground, and has fine trees, but is wretchedly cared for; in fact it is almost left to run wild, although well endowed.... I have some curious anecdotes to give you about the censorship of the press at Vienna, but have not energy enough left to write this evening.

Thursday evening.—Nothing can be printed and published here, without first being examined and approved by a censor of the press. The government appoints four or five persons in Vienna, who examine in different departments, one for newspapers, one for works of science! others for different branches of literature. Every author must send his manuscript to the police-office, whence it is handed over to the proper censor, who certifies that it contains nothing immoral, nothing against the government, and that it is good literature, or science, or poetry, as the case may be, and worthy of being published; it is then returned to the author, with permission to print it. The author’s annoyance does not end here. He is obliged to leave a copy of his manuscript with the police, and a copy of the work as soon as printed, so that they may be compared, and any alterations or additions detected. If he desires to make any alterations in his manuscript after it has passed the censorship, he must send it back for a second examination. Persons holding responsible official situations are not exempt: if a censor himself wishes to publish anything, his manuscript must be given to the police that it may be examined by some other censor. All kinds of works, books of dry science not excepted, are subject to the censorship. To my great surprise, Endlicher, who gave me all this information, informed me that all the manuscript of his “Genera Plantarum” is sent to the police, who transmit it to Baron Jacquin, the censor for natural history, etc., and who is well paid for the business, but who knows just as much about it as if it were written in Arabic, and who certifies to each portion that it contains nothing hurtful to the people, nothing offensive to the emperor, to religion, etc., and more than all, that it is good science! To avoid the annoyance of sending it back repeatedly, as he has alterations to make, he is obliged to promise the printer to indemnify him, in case any discrepancy is observed between the manuscript and the printed work. Endlicher spoke of all this in terms which there is no necessity for me to record just at present. He gave me an anecdote respecting the publication of his earliest botanical work of any consequence, a Flora of his native town, the “Flora Posoniensis:” the manuscript being duly sent to Jacquin, that worthy refused to give it his imprimatur, because, it was arranged according to the natural system! which Jacquin did not like; and Endlicher was obliged to apply personally to the ministers and take great pains, when he obtained permission to print in spite of the censor; he took his revenge by dedicating the work to Baron Jacquin himself! This system sufficiently explains the low state of literature in Austria, as compared with northern Germany. I could hardly believe all I have heard, had I not obtained my information from such authentic sources....

Friday evening, 31st May, 1839.—The remainder of the morning was devoted to the botanical cabinet; and in the afternoon and early part of the evening I called with Endlicher upon Mr. Fenzl,[103] the aide-naturaliste in the botanical department, who is confined to his bed by some affection of one of his legs. He is engaged in a monograph of Alsineæ, which I think will be very faithfully done, and we looked over several collections by his bedside. I made a bundle of all I wished to examine, which are sent to my lodgings for the purpose, and which will give me occupation for the evening. He introduced me to his frau, a regular German lassie, and we managed to converse altogether for some time in a curious mixture of French, German, and English.

On the Danube, on board the Dampschiff
(steamboat) Maria-Anna, bound for Linz, 5th June.

Schönbrunn, the Versailles of Austria, is much like Versailles itself on a smaller scale, but much less magnificent. I visited the grounds with Endlicher, and also visited the botanic garden attached, under the care of M. Schott.[104] The garden is very finely arranged, but all that is particularly worth seeing is the conservatories and the large collection of exotics, many of them very old like those of Kew. It is richer than Kew in Palms, Aroideæ, etc., but in other things it seems not quite equal. As we passed by the palace, the emperor was pointed out to me, through the open windows of his cabinet. I am told privately that he is scarcely compos mentis, and that all government affairs are managed by a regency of which Metternich and Archduke Charles are chief. We went next to see Baron Hügel, and the extensive collection of living plants he has collected during his travels. I think I have not told you the cause of his long journeying. He was, it appears, the accepted lover of an accomplished and beautiful lady of very good family here, and their union was considered as a settled affair. But unfortunately for poor Hügel, Prince Metternich looked upon the lady and determined to have her. So he sent Hügel upon some humbugging political mission, to Paris I believe, and during his absence he made his propositions to the father and mother, who were not slow in discovering that Metternich, with all his riches and power, malgré his sixty-odd years, was the fittest bridegroom; and I am sorry to add that they persuaded the daughter to the same opinion, though she could have had little liking to the old fellow personally, and was said to be much attached to Hügel. The latter at length found out why he was sent to Paris, and came back with all speed, but he was too late. His intended became Princess Metternich, and Hügel set out to cure his disappointment or forget his love by traveling in foreign lands. Metternich, being glad to get rid of him, threw facilities in his way, and being fond of plants he collected and sent home an immense quantity for his garden. At the same time he made extensive collections of dried specimens, etc., which all reached Vienna safely. He spent nearly all his fortune in traveling, and would have been in a quandary, but the government, that is to say, Metternich, bought all his collections of dried plants, animals, etc., for the Imperial Cabinet, giving for them an immense price, some thirty times more than they are worth, and so Hügel is able to enlarge and embellish his place, improve his garden, and build most beautiful greenhouses. He has fitted up his house very tastefully, and filled it with all manner of strange things, arms, idols, and so forth. His collection of living plants is larger than that of Schönbrunn, though the trees are younger.

Several days after my arrival I called to pay my respects to our minister here, Mr. Muhlenberg, and the secretary of legation, Mr. Clay. Philip and myself also spent an evening at Mr. Clay’s, where we met Mr. and Mrs. Muhlenberg, and their daughter, a young lady of about seventeen; also Mrs. Clay, a pretty woman, and Mr. Schwartz (the American consul here) and his wife, who both speak English indifferently well. Muhlenberg seems quite sick of living here, and speaks of the Austrians with anything but praise.

We went one evening to a public garden, of which there are many here, to hear the most celebrated musician here, Mr. Strauss. A few kreutzers are charged for admission, and the company are nearly all seated, at little tables, eating a substantial supper, or sipping coffee or ices, as they incline, while Strauss with his fine band played the finest music, mostly pieces of his own composition. It was the best music I ever heard.

Philip left me on Monday evening and went to Prague. On Tuesday I arranged passport, left parcels to be sent to Hamburg, took leave; came out to Nussdorf after dinner, from which the steamboat leaves, and after seeing my luggage deposited safely on board, I climbed the Leopoldsberg, a steep mountain between eight hundred and nine hundred feet high, and enjoyed the beautiful and extensive view from its summit,—a fine view of Vienna, of the Danube branching into many different streams, forming pretty green islands, and the whole of the broad valley far into Hungary. In a fine day, it is said the towers of Pressburg, forty miles off, may be distinguished. The Danube, which is here as large as the Niagara, broad and swift, washes the base of the mountains, and the view up the river, though not so extensive, is more picturesque. I collected a handful of plants, bid good-by to Vienna, and descended, slept on shore, and was on board the boat in time to start with it at five o’clock this morning.

This is the first time I have slept in a genuine German bed,—a feather-bed beneath, and an eider-down bed the only cover. It is inclosed in a sheet like a pillow-case, and under this you creep. In the winter it might do very well, but at this time of the year it is very oppressive. The upper sheet here I find, in all cases, is tied fast to the coverlet, which is all of one piece, and just long enough to cover a moderately sized man like myself from the chin to the toes. A taller person must choose between his shoulders and his toes, for they cannot both be covered.

Living is dear in Vienna. I stopped at a cheap hotel, being aware of this, and lived as economically as I well could, but I find I have made way with a very considerable sum. The only way to travel cheaply anywhere on the Continent is not to be in a hurry, and to understand the language.

Notabilia for Dr. T.—I have seen Corda[105] at Vienna. He is one of the curators of the collection at Prague, and was at Vienna on a visit. Learning that I was there, he called and left his card. I afterwards saw him at his hotel. He is a little fellow about thirty, with a small expressive countenance. He works chiefly at minute fungi, on which he is publishing a large work. I saw a part of it in London. He showed me an immense quantity of drawings, which he makes with great rapidity. He is also publishing a work supplementary to Sternberg’s “Flora of the Former World,” a work of which Corda did a good part. He gave me two copies of a lithograph of Count Sternberg,—now dead, as you know,—done by himself. I observe by his drawings that he has anticipated an unpublished discovery of Valentine’s, which he showed to Lindley and myself in London, about the holes in the tissue of Sphagnum opening exteriorly. I looked at Corda’s microscope (one of Shiek [?] at Berlin), but it is inferior to the English or Chevalier’s.

I made a second visit to Fenzl, as he lay in bed; had a long botanical talk with him, and think him a most promising botanist.

Ungnadia (the character of which Endlicher has not yet published,—the last plate in the “Atakta”) was named in memory of Baron Ungnade, once an ambassador from Austria to Constantinople or Persia, I forget which, and the first to introduce Æsculus Hippocastanum into Europe,—hence the propriety of the name. Endlicher is soon to publish the description in the “Annals of the Vienna Museum,” which work, with the “Iconographia Generum Plantarum,” he has promised to send to Hamburg for me, along with the parcels of plants given me. We have studied the new Loganiaccous plant from Florida. It proves, as Brown guessed, near his Logania § (or Gen.) Stomandra, but extremely distinct from that or any other genus, by the character of the style which Decaisne first noticed. Endlicher is to give a figure in “Iconographia Generum Plantarum,” and the description has gone to the printer in one of Endlicher’s articles in the “Annals of the Vienna Museum,”—Cœlostylis Loganioides, Torr. & Gr. Can’t we get more of it? Has Leavenworth found it?

I have been looking over the “Reliquiæ Hænkeanæ,” and examining what specimens of the collection from North America they have in the Vienna Herbarium. Endlicher goes this week to Carlsbad to recruit his health, stopping a day at Prague. He has kindly taken a list of my desiderata of the species published in that work, and I hope to get some bits of them. I have copied so much from the work that we can get along even if I do not see it again, but as I was about to purchase it, Endlicher suggested that he should see if Presl himself has not a copy left for us. Following this hint I have sent by Endlicher a copy of the “Flora” to Presl,[106] in nomine auctorum.

There is a new genus of Presl in Loaseæ (Acrolasia) from Mexico, which may be Nuttall’s. The most curious thing is a new genus of Datisceae from Monterey (why have none of the other collectors found it?), called Tricerastes; very interesting.

I find from all inquiries that it is very difficult to find Nees von Esenbeck[107] at Breslau, especially in the summer. He is a queer stick altogether, is not well satisfied with his situation at Breslau, and spends the greater part of his time at a little place high up in the Riesengebirge, studying Hepaticæ.

I have bought Grisebach’s new “Genera et Species Gentianearum,” and have been studying it on my way in the steamboat. It seems very well done, particularly his preliminary matter on structure, affinities, development, geographical distribution, etc., which is very interesting. It is very carelessly printed. Our well-known “Tuckerton,” in the pine-barrens, figures under the form of “Juckerten”! Let this suffice at present.

Salzburg, June 10.

Arrived at Linz Friday noon, dined, looked a little about the town, which is remarkable for nothing except its agreeable situation on the Danube, and its unusual kind of fortification; and at half past one started for Gmünden, about thirty-five miles by railroad, in a car drawn by horses. This railroad, the oldest in Germany, is rather a primitive affair; we were jolted more than on the ordinary roads, which I have found everywhere excellent. The first part of the road was very uninteresting. I was seated in the middle of the car, with five or six inveterate German smokers around me, each equipped with a huge meerschaum pipe with a wooden stem nearly as long as your arm, which he replenished as often as it was exhausted, and all puffed away in concert as if they were locomotive engines and our progress depended upon their exertions. You are everywhere annoyed in the same way, but I have become accustomed to it so that it does not trouble me as at first. At length a fat military officer next me smoked himself to sleep; and I was amusing myself with the ridiculous pendulum-like motions he was making, his pipe still grasped by his mouth at one end and by his hand at the other, when he knocked his head against the window and pitched his hat into the road, to his great astonishment and our infinite amusement. We passed through Wels, and afterwards Lambach, a pretty place and most beautifully situated upon the Traun. In this part of the journey we had a fine view of the Salzburg Alps, which rise to their greatest height just where Austria proper and the provinces of Styria and Salzburg meet. From Lambach to the end of the journey, the country appeared completely American: finely wooded with fir and larch with here and there a clump of beech. We reached Gmünden just at twilight, a neat village on the very bank of the Gmündensee or Traunsee, for it is called by both names. The situation, close down upon the water and in the bosom of green undulating hills, is as lovely as can be conceived, and is in fine contrast with the upper extremity of the little lake, where the dark and lofty mountains rise abruptly from the very edge of the water, not leaving room enough even for a footpath. Their summits were still covered with patches of snow, but they are overtopped by the peaks of the Dachstein and other portions of these Alps which are crowned with perpetual snow. I found at the Goldenes Schiff neat rooms, and a most comfortable bed, which I was prepared fully to enjoy, having first made a supper on nice trout from the lake, with a few etceteras. At seven o’clock the next morning I was on board the little steamboat,—commanded by an Englishman, as most boats are in Austria,—which affords the only means of communication with the country beyond. The morning was pleasant, and I had a good opportunity of seeing the finest scenery I ever beheld; indeed I do not expect ever to see it surpassed. As we left the green slopes at Gmünden behind us, the mountains which inclose the upper portion of the lake gradually disclosed themselves more distinctly; halfway up, we were opposite the gigantic Traunstein, whose naked and weather-beaten summit had been full in view almost ever since we left Linz the day before. It is a huge mountain, appearing as if split from top to bottom and turned with the cloven side toward the lake, so that it presents a perpendicular wall of jagged rock nearly three thousand feet high! leaving just room sufficient between it and the water for one or two fishermen’s huts, which look the veriest pygmies. The mountains beyond this on the same side are equally picturesque, but not so high. They rise in sharp isolated peaks, leaving the wildest glens between, down which streams fed by the snows of the mountains in the background come leaping to the lake. On a promontory which seems from the lower part of the lake to form its southern extremity stands the little hamlet of Traunkirchen; the picturesque little church was founded by the Jesuits, who once had a small establishment here; a little nook is occupied with the wee bits of cabins belonging to the peasantry employed in the salt-works or in rowing the salt-barges down the lake; they are set down here and there, as room can be found, and add much to the beauty of the view. As the boat doubles this promontory, Gmünden and all the lower part of the lake is lost sight of, and you seem to be on another smaller but wilder lake, entirely shut in by the precipitous mountains; a few minutes more and we are landed at Ebensee, the little salt-village at the head, where the Traun enters, and you regret that the voyage is so short. I was strongly inclined to go back again with the boat, and return again in the afternoon; but knowing I had no time to lose, and that I might not readily find another convenient opportunity of going on to Ischl, I was obliged to bid farewell to Gmündensee. Loveliest, wildest of lakes, I shall not soon forget thee.

I had not time at Ebensee to look at the works where the brine is evaporated, which seem to be on a large scale. The brine is brought here in aqueducts, some fifteen or twenty-four miles, since fuel is more plenty here, and it is found more economical to bring the brine to the fuel than the fuel to the brine. The stellwagen was ready, and I took my seat. A ride of ten or eleven miles up the valley of the Traun, a narrow defile bordered by lofty mountains, brought us before noon to Ischl. It is a pretty village, lying in a green valley formed by the junction of the little river Ischl with the Traun; it contains extensive salt-works and is a favorite bathing-place, people of all degrees coming here in the summer to pickle themselves in the salt water. Three immense ridges of mountains come down almost into the village, leaving a triangular space for the village, with just three ways of getting in or out, viz., by ascending the river as we came, or by either the Ischl or the Traun as they enter the valley.

I took a hasty dinner, and left the hotel at one o’clock, determined to enjoy the satisfaction of climbing a real mountain. The Zeimitz, the highest in the neighborhood, is said to command the finest prospect, and it looked as if I could ascend it in an hour or two with the greatest ease, although the guide-book says that ten to twelve hours are necessary for going and returning. I have accomplished the task; I climbed the mountain, 5000 feet high, traveled over the snow from one to the other of its four peaks at considerable distance from each other; enjoyed the most magnificent prospect; filled my portfolio with alpine plants, descended the steepest side, picking my difficult way down the rocks and sliding down immense snowbanks, until I was past the alpine portion; then making a turn to a subalpine pasture, where cows and goats are driven to pass the summer, I struck an old path, and ran with all speed to the gorge at the base, where the stream that I had traced from its source as it trickled from a snowbank, and down a succession of little cataracts, was now a foaming and rushing torrent. It was then just twilight, and a quiet walk of an hour brought me back to the hotel at nine o’clock, quite proud of my feat and delighted with the fine view I had obtained. But I have paid well for it. In the morning I could scarcely stir for the aches and pains in my bones, and even now the extensor muscles of my legs are sore to the touch and bear woeful testimony to the hard service they have been obliged to perform. “I shall think about it,” as Mr. Davis says, before I ascend another mountain.

And yet I feel myself well repaid for all my fatigue. To say nothing of the prospect opening out wider and grander as I ascended, I had from the summit a magnificent mountain panorama which it was well worth the labor to see; the summits of more than one peak white and brilliant with perpetual snow and ice. The most stupendous of all is the Thorstein or Dachstein, which closes the view to the south, with its immense glaciers of the most dazzling whiteness, from which numerous steep pinnacles rise like spires, towering high above all surrounding objects, illuminated by the rays of the setting sun long after all other objects are left in the shade. The dark lake of Hallstadt was distinctly seen, appearing to reach up to its very base. I could not distinguish the village which is hidden under the cliffs at that end of the lake, where from November to February the inhabitants do not see the sun, they are so shut in by high mountains. Four other lakes were in full view, two of them lying almost beneath my feet.

And then imagine my pleasure at collecting alpine plants for the first time, some of them in full blossom under the very edge of a snowbank. I filled my portfolio with Soldanella, Rhododendron, Primula Auricula, Ranunculus Thora, and another with white flowers, etc., etc. I am sorry to say that in my eagerness I have left my knife, last relic of the Expedition, and so long my trusty companion, somewhere on the top of the mountain. Sunday was at least a day of bodily rest, for I did not rise until past ten o’clock, and hobbled out but once beyond the limits of my hotel. I was obliged to leave, however, late in the evening, about half past ten, when the eilwagen, which comes but twice a week, arrived from Gratz on its way to Salzburg; and here I found myself at six o’clock this morning; a rainy day, and a very dull town, with nothing but its fortress and its exceedingly beautiful and romantic situation to make it interesting. There are many objects of great interest in the neighborhood, but this rainy day prevents any distant excursion; my place is taken for Munich for to-morrow morning, and not even the inducements of “the most beautiful region in all Germany,” as it is called, not even the sublimities of the Berchtesgaden and the Königsee, which are but fifteen miles off, shall detain me longer. I begin to look with expectation toward the end of my journey, and have already in my plans shortened it a little. I have looked about the old churches and buildings of this town, and am waiting now for it to clear up that I may climb the Mönchsberg, and enjoy the prospect that is said to be so fine. At midday I had hopes of a pleasant afternoon, but it is now raining harder than ever.

In this region, as in the retired parts of Styria, through which I passed to Vienna, you are charmed with the kind-hearted simplicity of the people. If you meet them in walking, they always give you some word of greeting, and commonly take off their hats and bow to you; yet there seems to be nothing servile or cringing in it. You get a porter to carry your baggage, who, instead of asking for more when you have given him already more than he expected to receive, takes off his hat, makes you a low bow, and thanks you most heartily, though without any palaver. So with the servants, who never ask anything, and I suppose would not if you were to forget them altogether; I doubt if they would ever remind you; you give them about a third part of what an English servant would expect, and you have them all most heartily wishing you bon voyage or glückliche reise, according to the language they speak. In some places they say the chambermaid kisses your hand, but this has not happened to me yet. The women, when not rendered wholly masculine in appearance by performing the labor of men, which is very common, are almost universally good-looking, and in such vigorous health. I do not admire their head-dress, which is ordinarily a black silk thing tied closely around the head and tied in rather fantastic bows behind. The women of Linz and all this part of the Danube wear, when in full dress, a cap of tinsel or gold lace, shaped exactly like the Roman helmet, which fits close to the top of the head. But fashions never leave this world; when you ladies throw aside some mode, it is picked up and perpetuated in some out-of-the-way part of the world. Thus, for example, all the young fraus of Ischl wear balloon sleeves, after the most approved fashion some three or four years ago. I assure you it looked quite natural to see them again, even upon the buxom damsels of the Salzkammergut (there’s a name for you).

It is now half past seven; and it is still raining most obstinately, so ascending the Mönchsberg is not to be thought of; and I must make up my mind to leave Salzburg without this view. My trunk is sent to the office of the brief-post-eilwagen, all ready for starting at six o’clock in the morning, and to-morrow evening at eleven I hope (D. V.) to be in Munich, seventy-eight miles. I owe Bentham a letter, and have not written him or any one else since I left Paris. I will take this convenient opportunity and write forthwith.

Munich, 12th June.

I arrived in this capital of Bavaria last evening at eleven o’clock, after a tedious, though not uninteresting ride of seventeen hours. The day proved a fine one, and after leaving Salzburg through the curious tunnel that penetrates the Mönchsberg we came abruptly into the open country; and as the mists gradually rose from the sides of the mountains and we ascended some small hills, I obtained some most beautiful and picturesque views of the surrounding mountains. The Stauffenberg, which stood between us and Berchtesgaden, a magnificent mountain, was for a long time the most prominent object; backed by the more distant central portions of the Salzburg Alps, all white with snow. It was only as I left this place that I could appreciate the beauty of its situation, and I felt a momentary regret that I had not stayed a day longer and visited Berchtesgaden. These fine mountains and those of the Tyrol (the more western portion of the same chain) were in full view during the whole journey, filling the southern horizon, while we journeyed through a rather level country; for the whole of Bavaria south of the Danube is a great plain, stretching from that river to these mountains that skirt its southern border. It is an inclined plain, since Munich, though in a perfectly flat region, is about sixteen hundred feet above the level of the sea. We crossed the frontier in an hour after we started, where our baggage was slightly and very civilly examined, and our passports viséd by the Bavarian police. We passed two pretty lakes, but no place of interest except Wasserburg, situated in a picturesque dell on the river Inn. For companions I had a Dane, who spoke a little English surprisingly well, and was very agreeable; a German, who spoke a little French; and a Frenchman, who had come up the Danube from Constantinople, and who tired us all with the continual clack of his very disagreeable voice. I took up my abode at the Schwarzer Adler, a very comfortable and quite cheap hotel; slept pretty well; rose early this morning to take a look at the town, which within these last twenty years has become a magnificent capital; saw many of the public buildings,—that is, their exterior,—churches, and squares; went to the office of the police and obtained the required permission de séjour; and then went to the Royal Cabinet to find Martius, for whom I had three letters of introduction. He is a small man, not so tall as I, quite thin, but rather good-looking, apparently fifty years old, but his hair may be prematurely gray. He seems to have his hands very full of business, but he received me with cordiality; took me to the library and the cabinet of natural history, which are in the same building, told me to amuse myself till one (the universal dinner hour), and meet him at the Botanic Garden at three, and afterwards spend the evening at his house. The cabinets here are in an old, rather inconvenient building, once a Jesuits’ college, which now contains them all, as well as the library, the lecture-rooms of the university, etc., but in a year or so all will be removed to very fine buildings the king is erecting for their reception. Excepting the Brazilian collections, which are large and good, there is nothing worth particular notice in the zoölogical and mineralogical cabinets; they make no great show after that of Vienna. The library is immense, this and the one at Paris being the two largest in the world; the books fill a great number of rooms, none of them magnificent but very convenient; the whole is soon to be transferred to other quarters. I was introduced to one of the librarians, who was at the moment showing the curiosities of the collection, very old and rich manuscripts,—the earliest attempts at wood-engraving, etc.,—to a party of English. When he had done with them I told him he must have been bored quite sufficiently for once, and that I would not trouble him any further just then, but that I wished to acquire some useful information about the plan and arrangement of the library, rather than to see its curiosities. So he fixed upon Friday morning, when he would be quite disengaged, and would gladly afford me all the information I desired. Shortly after dinner I went down to the Botanic Garden; found Martius, who, having an unexpected engagement, consigned me to the head gardener, and I was very kindly shown over the whole establishment, which is much larger and better than I had supposed, and in excellent condition.