Afterwards I strolled about the town for an hour or two, heard the fine military band in the Hofgarten, and at half past six went to the house of Martius; saw his wife, who looks much younger than he, and I suspect he was not married until after his return from Brazil. She seems a very intelligent and pleasant lady, understands English pretty well, but does not speak it, while Martius speaks extremely well; the eldest daughter, a pretty girl of thirteen, speaks French fluently, has taken lessons in English, which she reads readily, but speaks slightly; there is another daughter of about ten, another still younger, and a boy a little more than a year old completes the list. Professor Zuccarini[108] was there, and afterwards an entomologist, whose name I forget, dropped in; also a young man from Rio Janeiro, a Dr. Hentz from Vienna, who inquired especially after Dr. Buck; the director of the music in the royal chapel here; and two ladies, one of whom sung exquisitely. The director and Dr. Hentz both played the piano to perfection, and, to crown all, Martius seized his fiddle, quite to my surprise, and played with great spirit. Before they were done a little crowd had began to assemble before the windows. So the evening passed off very pleasantly.

I like the sound of the German language much; it is manly, and certainly not more rough than the English. From the lips of the women and the little children I assure you it sounds very musical, and I often stop in the street to listen to it, when I do not understand a word that is spoken.

13th June, 1839.—I passed the whole morning, that is, until one o’clock, at the Botanical Cabinet, looking at grass and such like. After dinner Zuccarini called for me, took me to his house, showed me his Japan plants, the work he is publishing on them, etc. I looked over and named his American Cyperaceæ, and he made me most bountiful offers for exchange. He gave me some of his publications and even offered me his “Japan Flora” (Siebold’s), which is an expensive work, but it is very desirable for us to have, though it will be rather difficult for me to give him an equivalent. It is now sunset, eight o’clock; all the shops in the town have been closed nearly an hour, the people all enjoying themselves in the gardens roundabout. I am going to bed early, in hopes to rise in time to go down to the Garden and hear Martius lecture at seven o’clock. He lectures every morning at that hour, and Zuccarini again every morning from eight to nine, and also from eleven to twelve. The scientific people here have been arranging a little fête for Saturday, the birthday of Linnæus. It is decided that there is to be a botanical excursion, I believe, to the Tegernsee, some fifteen miles off, and I suppose also a picnic dinner. I have not learned all the particulars, but this I shall do in time, as I am to be one of the party.

14th June, 1839.—I rose early this morning and went to hear Martius lecture at the Garden at seven o’clock. He is a good lecturer, fluent and clear. Called on Dr. Schultes;[109] then returned to breakfast; afterwards spent the morning at the cabinet, with the exception of an hour devoted to the library, which one of the chief officers very kindly showed me through. They have about half a million books, excluding duplicates, and about 16,000 manuscripts. The librarian took much pains to explain to me the arrangement and classification of the library, which is in excellent order, and to show me as many of the rarities as I desired to see: very ancient Greek and Latin manuscripts of the Bible or the Evangelists; a number of very old and richly illuminated German manuscripts; the collection of printed books without date, of which they had 6000 (these early printed books being many of them intended to pass for manuscripts); a copy of Faust’s Bible again (the first book printed),—they have two; Luther’s Bible, beautifully printed on vellum, and illuminated,—in the frontispiece his original portrait, a sturdy-looking old fellow, who looks as if he might have been as fearless as indeed he was; the portrait of Melanchthon, by the same artist, whose name I forget, is given on the next leaf. I saw also a manuscript letter of Luther, and many other things, too tedious to trouble you with now.

Dined with Martius and his very pleasant family; stayed until six o’clock, looking over plants, etc.; took a little walk, now that it is a little cooler, for the day has been exceedingly sultry, and am now going to bed, as I have to rise at half past four and meet the pedestrian portion of the Linnæan party at half past five. If it be as sultry a day as this has been we shall have warm work of it.

15th June, 1839.—We had a truly German fête champêtre, and I have learnt more of German life and manners in one day than I could otherwise have obtained in a long time. I was at the place of rendezvous at the time appointed, and met there the two professors and about thirty students, with whom we set out on our excursion, and our number was soon doubled by the accessions we received. Our course lay along the banks of the Isar (what lad that has been at school has not heard of “Isar rolling rapidly”), along which we ascended for about six miles, botanizing on the way. It was about twelve o’clock when we reached the place where the Linnæan celebrations are always held. Here we found Madame Martius and the girls, who had arrived in a carriage, and the lady and children of another professor. Three or four other professors also joined the party: Professor Tirsch, the celebrated Grecian scholar; Professor Neumann, of Oriental languages; a celebrated physician, and some others. We filled an immense rustic dinner-table spread in an open pavilion, ornamented in a simple manner with branches and flowers, and a portrait of Linnæus. Professor Martius then read his address, which I judged from its effects upon the audience to be humorous; then followed the dinner, plain but good, consisting of three or four courses, beer supplied ad libitum, and this was no trifle, as you would understand if you could see how all these Bavarians swill their beer. It is light, extremely light as compared with English. But you may judge how cheaply the Germans contrive to live, and how cheaply and simply they get up an affair which in England or at home would cost a round sum, when I inform you that the whole charge for dinner was twenty-four kreutzers or one Austrian zwanziger (sixteen cents!). This I suppose did not include the wine, of which there was a small supply, provided, perhaps, by Martius himself.

Three or four odes, written for the purpose, some in Latin, others in German, were sung, with a heartiness and a nicety of execution entirely German. Three or four toasts were drunk, some speeches made, and the party left the table. The greater part, excluding the ladies, then went to the Linnæan Oak, a young tree planted on the day of this fête five years ago. Here all took their seats on the grass around it, and a number of half-serious, half-humorous addresses or meditations were made, the people all sitting at their ease; then a song for the purpose was sung, and the celebration was over. Some part dispersed immediately, but the greater part assembled around our dinner-table, and heard some music from a paysanne, who accompanied her voice with an instrument like a guitar. Martius and Zuccarini had arranged to stay over night in the neighborhood to botanize to-morrow, and wished me to stay also, which I declined to do, but returned in a carriage with Madame Martius and the eldest daughter. We had a very agreeable ride and reached the city just as it grew dark. We had all day most beautiful views of the Bavarian Alps, which seemed close to us. The different professors spoke English with me, Professor Neumann, indeed, extremely well; were very polite to me, and I obtained much important information, and have put myself in the way to get still more. The whole affair was extremely well arranged. I have printed copies of a part of the odes, and a copy of the print of Linnæus, a very good lithograph, which was brought to the place and sold to the students for twenty-four kreutzers (sixteen cents) a copy. This is not the birthday of Linnæus; the 24th of May is the proper one, but it is not then pleasant in the country here.

18th June.—On Sunday I attended service in the Protestant church, a large and fine building, which was well filled. A part of the royal family are Protestants, but the king himself is a bigoted Catholic. The interior of the church is made to resemble a Catholic chapel as much as possible; the altar has a picture behind it, and a small crucifix stood upon the reading-desk. There was a very short liturgy, and singing in which all the congregation took part, as is always the case in Germany. The sermon which followed may have been very orthodox for all I know, for I could understand but a few words of it. I spent the remainder of the day in my own room....

Tuesday evening.—This morning I went to the cabinet of botany, to the library, and after dinner to Martius; looked over his Carices, etc. We then walked to the Garden, and afterward to the establishment for telescopes, etc., of the successors of Fraunhöfer, where I bought a very pretty little achromatic glass and a simple lens; looked at his workshop and collections, etc....

It is so long since I have seen your handwriting that I might forget it, but I met with it to-day very unexpectedly, you would never guess where! Even on labels of Carices in Martius’ herbarium. After I get to Switzerland I shall count days until I see England again, from which there are but two steps home, on board a ship, and off again.

Zurich, June 22, 1839.

In the afternoon I called on Dr. Schultes, who offered me a pretty little parcel of Egyptian plants. Made up my parcels and left them with Martius, to be sent, with the things that he and Zuccarini are to add, to Hamburg, against my arrival there. Spent the evening at Martius’ house, and took my leave of madame and Caroline. I gave Madame M. my copy of “Childe Harold,” a very pretty one, which she seemed to value considerably. Martius I saw again the next morning at the cabinet, and took leave very affectionately; he kissing me tenderly, after the German fashion. Ask Dr. Torrey to look in the list and see if Martius is not an honorary member of the Lyceum, as I believe, but am not sure. If he is he knows it not. The Lyceum has also been remiss in sending him the “Annals,” which should not be, as he has been a liberal contributor. His works give him much trouble since the death of the late king, who was his patron and subscribed toward the expense; the present king does nothing at all for Martius or for science anyway, so that poor Martius is a little embarrassed. Meanwhile he is pressed down with his duties as professor, director of the Botanic Garden, etc., for which he is most miserably paid.

The Botanic Garden is better arranged than any other I have seen on the Continent, except at Paris, and I have secured a copy of the plan. But I must break off with Munich.—Arrived at Lindan, on Lake of Constance, yesterday; a fine lake, but too large to show well; the shores only at the eastern end mountainous; the rest ordinary, and in high cultivation, dotted with thriving villages; took a steamboat after dinner for Constance....

On the Rigi, 25th June.

I must resume the thread of my narrative where I left it, at my entrance to Zurich. I did nothing that evening but look about the town, visit the old church where Zwingli, the earliest Swiss reformer, preached. The prettiest view is from the new stone bridge which is thrown across the Limmat just where it emerges from the lake. The stream, like all those that proceed from these lakes, is full, and clear almost as glass, of a fine blue tint; it rushes with great rapidity, but is still and even. The view extends up the lake to its middle, where a slight change in its direction intercepts further view; beyond rise some low mountains; a little farther a higher range overtops these, and these are again overlooked by the Alps of Glarns, Schwyz, etc., with thin tall peaks and brilliant glaciers. The shores of the lake are highly cultivated and thickly covered with little manufacturing villages. This is a Protestant canton. I attended church and heard a preacher who seemed to be very earnest, but as his language was an unknown tongue, there was little chance of my being edified, and I spent the remainder of the day at my room. The new hotel here is extremely good. Early yesterday morning I prepared myself for a pedestrian excursion over the finest mountain regions of Switzerland, which will take me about ten days, if I do not get tired of it and give it up. Not that I intend to walk all the way, which would be a great loss of time, but to avail myself of steamboats, etc., along lakes, and a diligence when I am on routes which they traverse, knowing full well that there will remain many weary and difficult miles that can only be passed by the pedestrian. So I have packed up my trunk and sent it on to Geneva, at the opposite corner of Switzerland. The garçon of the hotel purchased a knapsack for me.... Thus equipped, my knapsack on my back, the Guide to Switzerland in one pocket, and Keller’s excellent map in the other, I set out on my travels in search of the sublime. At nine o’clock yesterday morning I left Zurich; took the steamboat down the lake as far as Horgen, some eight or ten miles, where I took a little lunch, and crossed the bridge into the little canton of Zug,—Catholic, as one soon finds out, by the crosses and beggars which abound by the wayside. Here the lofty Mont Pilate, with its sharp peaks, was in sight; it lies on the other side of Lake Lucerne. Soon after I saw the Lake of Zug, and soon after one o’clock I reached Zug, on the borders of the lake of the same name, the capital of the canton, a retired and lifeless village. I entered the best hotel well heated with my walk, which now amounted to about twelve miles. I obtained a plain but very good dinner of soup, the everlasting corned beef, fish, roast, and strawberries and cherries ad libitum; chatted French with the voluble kellnerinn (the demoiselle of the inn); paid my bill of two francs, and was again on my way. It was very warm, so I walked quite leisurely down the shore of the lake; the scenery growing every moment more picturesque, the Rigi rising at its foot on one side, bold and abrupt, the Rossberg on the other. (A sad tale belongs to this last, of which I had often read.) I reached Arth, the little village at the foot of the lake and of these two mountains, at half past four (seven miles); took more strawberries and milk, and at five o’clock commenced the ascent of the Rigi by the shortest but most difficult footpath. The landlord told me the ascent took four hours and a half. This, indeed, I accomplished, but found it a hard task. But the desire of witnessing the sunset from the top induced me to do my best. I had plenty of offers to relieve me of my knapsack, and at length, as I left the village, transferred it to the shoulders of a stout fellow, for it began to grow weighty. The poor fellow I think earned the ten batz he demanded (about thirty cents), though he did not seem to mind it much. The first third of the ascent the path is formed of steps like a staircase, and is very fatiguing. After we meet the road for mules or horses, which ascends from Goldau, it is not so difficult. Both in the ascent and from the summit, I had a full view of the vestiges of the awful landslip of the Rossberg; the vacant space of the mountain occupied by the portion that fell and the scarred surface of the path are most distinctly in view, and at the bottom of the valley lies the huge and unsightly and confused mass of rubbish which overwhelmed and buried the three villages of Goldau, Bussingen, and Rothen. This catastrophe took place in September, 1806. Several hundred houses and other buildings were destroyed; cattle in great number, and four hundred and fifty human beings perished....

But time is becoming precious, and I must tell you in a few words of the view from the summit of the Rigi, though description is wholly out of the question. The view from the Kulm, or peak, owes its great beauty and extent, not so much to the height of the mountain, which is only 5676 feet, as to its isolation, giving a clear view in every direction. It is also easy of access; ladies and persons who do not care to walk can ride up on horses or mules, by either side of the mountain. So there are great crowds here all the summer....

I was called in the morning at half past three to ascend the peak and watch the effect of sunrise upon the Alps and valleys. The morning proved quite favorable, though a little cloudy. The mountains, lakes, and valleys were all distinct, but looked cold. At length a blast from a wooden trumpet (a better instrument than you would think) announced sunrise, and the sun appeared between two strips of cloud, lighting up first the distant and high peaks and glaciers of the Bernese Alps, the Jungfrau, the Finster-Aarhorn, the Titlis, highest of all,—the white glaciers shining like burnished silver. Soon the serrated ridge of the gloomy Pilatus is lighted up; the dark valleys become more distinct; the lakes look brighter, and the broad valley toward the north stretches before you like a map, far as the eye can reach, covered with hamlets and villages, and diversified here and there with beautiful lakes....

Stanz, 25th June.... I intended to leave the Rigi by way of Wäggis on Lake Lucerne; to take there the steamboat as it passed at two o’clock, and go up the farther part of the lake, the Bay of Uri, and finding, if possible, the mail-courier at Fluellen, to go with him to the summit of the pass of St. Gotthard, return as far as Hospital, and cross by the pass of the Furca and the Grimsel to Grindelwald, etc. If you had Keller’s fine map before you, it would be easy to trace this route, and to find out also where I now am. Without it you will not do it so easily. So having plenty of time, I stayed on the Rigi until noon, and then descended leisurely, having grown wise by experience, and knowing that the descent of a steep mountain is much worse for the legs and feet than the ascent. Besides, a little storm arose, and I took shelter under an overhanging rock, and amused myself in watching its progress down the lake, and in hearing the deep and prolonged echoes of the thunder as it was reverberated from peak to peak among the Alps. It was a scene to be remembered. And then the numerous ever-changing aspects of the mountains and lake as it cleared up! Saw the steamboat at a distance, and hastened to the foot of the mountain, when it soon became evident enough that the boat did not intend to touch there; so we took a boat and went out to meet it. But although we drew very near them as they passed, they did not choose to take the slightest notice of us, and I was obliged, in the middle of the lake, to consider what should be done in such a predicament. I had no intention of awaiting the return of the steamboat and going with her to Lucerne, thence to begin the route to-morrow; and for a few moments I was a little bothered. But fortunately a pedestrian like me is not at the mercy of steamboats and stagecoaches; and the high satisfaction one feels at his comparative independence is one of the great pleasures of this mode of locomotion, and goes far to compensate for the fatigue. I reflected that I might not find the courier at Fluellen, and in that case should have a prodigious journey, and moreover that I had clearly saved the money I should have paid. So, learning on hasty inquiry that a blind mountain path led from the opposite shore into the canton of Unterwalden to Stanz, etc.,—from whence I knew I could reach the Grimsel, and if I chose St. Gotthard, and that it was the nearest way to the Grindelwald and all the finest part of Switzerland,—I ordered the boat to take me to that shore, where I was accordingly left to shift for myself as well as I could. But then came on one of the ills that flesh is heir to, most especially in traveling,—I wanted my dinner! I stopped at a cottage, the only one in the vicinity, but found no one but a little girl, who stared at me as if she had never seen a civilized being; saw no chance of getting anything to eat, so I climbed the mountain, very steep, and almost without a path; it evidently had not been crossed before, this season. From the top I saw the bay and village of Buochs, and in the distance, Stanz, which I reached at six o’clock; found an inn which within was more comfortable than its exterior promised. I think I never enjoyed anything more than the piece of cold roast veal and coarse bread, and the plentiful dish of strawberries with excellent cream that followed. Now that I had got out of the ordinary route of travelers, I determined to visit the valley of Engelberg. I asked the landlord for a char-à-banc (as there is a good enough road for this vehicle) or a horse, to go this evening, but mine host seemed to have made up his mind that I should stay with him all night, and insisted that there would not be time for Engelberg. So not to disappoint him, I made up my mind to rest for the night, and sallied out to look at the village....

Meyringen, 26th June.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Geneva, 19th July.

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

TO GEORGE P. PUTNAM.

Bâle, July 23d.

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

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

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

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

Most truly yours,
A. Gray.

TO GEORGE BENTHAM.

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

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

TO WILLIAM J. HOOKER.

London, September 13.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A. Gray.

New York, 5th November, 1839.

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

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