I left Lausanne in the diligence for Bern, on the 10th of September. A long ascent leads us to the summit of the Jorat, 1,767 feet above the Lake of Geneva; but it was night, and I lost the prospect. We breakfasted at Moudon at half past two in the morning. The day dawned beautifully among woods of fir and oak, and the same sort of scenery continued to Fribourg, a city seated partly at the bottom, and partly at the top of some sandstone cliffs, between which the river Saane takes a very winding course. Beyond Fribourg I walked up some long hills, and found the views singularly beautiful. The near ground is well varied, and rich with woods intermingled with cultivation, like some of the best parts of the weald of Kent and Sussex. Beyond this are more distant mountains, while the extensive snows of the Jung Frau, and the steep pyramid of the Schreckhorn, bound the horizon. On the other side we see the Jura; behind us are the mountains of the canton of Fribourg, and those which formed the principal objects about the Lake of Geneva. We arrived at Bern about noon. It is a regularly built city, in which the foot-paths are under low arcades, taken from the ground floor of the houses. Beneath these arches are the shops, but nothing belonging to the dwelling-house or inn, till you have mounted to the first story. There is a good table d’hôte at the Falcon, where I was fortunate enough to meet some old acquaintance, and to form some new ones, by which I profited in the thoroughly wet day which succeeded my arrival. The cathedral here is a building of the latter part of the fifteenth, or beginning of the sixteenth century; rather clumsily though richly decorated, and presenting no features of much interest; but the situation is admirable.

At the Museum at Bern are some of the best models I have seen of the Swiss mountains. I suspect however, that nothing of the sort is very exact in the mountain forms, and after all the observations which can be made, it is hardly possible to refrain from mixing up a little imagination in the details.^[27] All of them are made with a scale of heights, different from that of lengths, which is another source of misconception. Another object well deserving attention at Bern, is the Gymnasium. The children at the public school are taught not only the exercises of the mind, but also those of the body; to swim, to jump, to climb, to ride; a plan which seems to me excellent, as giving a wholesome direction to that restless activity of boys, which so often leads them first into mischief, and then into vice. Not far from Bern is the establishment of M. Fellenberg at Hofwyl, but the children were not there when I visited it; and you may find so much better accounts of the establishment than any I could give, that I shall not obtrude upon you my hasty observations.

On Saturday about noon I took the diligence for Thun, a most delightful ride through a fine cultivated country, bounded by some of the most magnificent summits of the Alps. At Thun the nearer mountains rise into importance, while the more lofty ones, though partially hidden, lose nothing of their consequence. The next day I took a boat up the Thuner See to Nieuhaus, whence I walked to Unterseen. This is a delightful place; the town itself is extremely interesting, because it is completely Swiss. All the houses are of wood, with galleries and great projecting roofs. The situation is a level valley between two lakes, well cultivated and shaded with fine trees; mostly walnut. The Harder is a noble crag, rising immediately above the plain; all around are fine craggy mountains shaded with wood, the lower parts of which are sprinkled with cottages, and enlivened by cultivation; and an opening in the range, which forms the little valley of Zwey Lütschinen, exposes to the delighted eye the vast mass of the Jung Frau, the beautiful pyramid of the purest snow called the Silberhorn, and the craggy summit of the higher Mönch. The Hotel de Ville of Unterseen is in the inn. The landlord procured me a lad to act as a guide, and to carry my parcels, for thirty batzen^[28] per diem, just half what had been previously demanded of me; but he could speak only German, at which I hammer terribly.

We set out on a fine morning for Zwey Lütschinen, and thence proceeded to Lauterbrunnen. The first part of the walk is amazingly fine; the second still finer. It seemed impossible that after this there could be any thing worth seeing in the way of mountain vallies, but I was very much mistaken. The best notion I can give you of the valley of Lauterbrunnen is, to tell you to magnify Gordale, and stretch it out into a valley six or seven miles long; put trees, hedges, and cottages below, fringe the tops of the precipices with trees, and pour down a multitude of little waterfalls. Of these the Staubbach and the Myrrenbach are the principal; the first falls 900 feet, and for two thirds of the way without touching the rock; the latter I should think quite as high, but it streams down like a lock of dishevelled hair of the purest white. The next morning I ascended to the top of the Staubbach, and to the foot of an upper fall; and here standing on a rock at the summit of the great fall, in a place however of perfect safety; I looked down into the deep contracted valley beneath, and saw one of the smaller waterfalls entirely turned into a rainbow. I had no idea of the presence of water there, except from the colours it produced. I then continued my walk to Myrrem, one of the highest villages in Europe, though not by any means the highest habitation. It is 5,156 feet above the level of the sea. The Curé of Lauterbrunnen, at whose house I have taken up my lodgings, pays it a visit every winter. I was at first surprised at his chusing this time of year to visit his parishioners; but he reminded me that in the summer, the men were dispersed in the chalets still higher on the mountains. The path in winter is very dangerous, as the little streams are frozen, and present inclined planes of ice which terminate in the precipices overhanging the valley of Lauterbrunnen. At Myrrem, the sun shines every fine day in the year; at a hamlet beneath it, they are three months without sun. Even at Lauterbrunnen in the middle of September, the sun does not appear till past eight, and sets about half past two. This walk gave me a fine view of the branch of the Alps which divides the Vallais from the Oberland of Bern, some of the highest and wildest in Switzerland; and I had the pleasure of seeing, though at a great distance, a considerable avalanche. I suppose the fall could not be of much less than 1,200 feet, and it raised a cloud of snow which at last obscured the whole mass of rock. Hardly half an hour elapsed during the whole walk, in which I did not hear some smaller ones, and I saw many; but such an exhibition as this large one is of rare occurrence. As they give no previous notice, the traveller has but little chance of seeing them, till the sound of the first fall serves to direct him, and of course the first burst is thus lost to the eye. My attention was quite on the alert, and I marked a vast body of snow and ice on the Ebene fluh which seemed almost suspended, and a dark line above indicated that a separation had already taken place. I watched for some time in hopes of seeing a most stupendous fall; for there were, I dare say, ten acres of snow and ice, and the middle of the mass was not less than 100 feet thick,—but I watched in vain. These avalanches are only from one bed of snow to another, or on to ground kept naked by frequent falls, and consequently do no harm. It is those formed of the snow of the preceding winter, and falling in the spring, on or near the cultivated ground, which do so much mischief. They destroy all the hopes of the farmer, and bury his cottage, or overturn and carry it along with them; and even sweep down the woods before them. The wind produced by them is said to be so violent, as sometimes to throw down large trees, which are not touched by the snow. Descending into the valley, I stumbled upon another waterfall; perhaps the most beautiful of any, though less astonishing. It is only about 120 feet high, and is therefore no subject of interest or admiration to the inhabitants, who see so many of much greater elevation.

The next day I had another fine walk over the Wengern Alp to Grindelwald. The mountain tops were partially veiled in clouds, but there was no uniform covering of mist, and the Silberhorn rose beautifully above me in unsullied whiteness. Grindelwald is as different as possible from Lauterbrunnen. On the north side, the hills rise in steep slopes, thickly set with cottages, and divided into meadows by hedges mixed with trees, to a considerable height, before the wild and craggy Alps begin. The term Alp in Switzerland indicates a mountain pasture, as distinguished from a snowy mountain: the highest summits are consequently never called Alps. Some of our travellers mention this as a corruption of the word, but it has, I think, never been proved that it was not its primitive signification. The Blumlis (flowerless) Alp is agreed on all hands to be a tract covered with perpetual snow, though tradition says it was once the best pasture in Switzerland: it is not however agreed where this Blumlis Alp was placed. Some give the name to a range of glaciers above Lauterbrunnenthal, while others apply it to parts of those above Kanderthal, because, they say, there is a more extensive tract very little above the snow line, which renders the tradition more reasonable. The name of Blumlis Alp in Keller’s map is given to a point 11,370 feet above the sea, which never could have been Alp at all. For my part, if I may not reject the story altogether as a fable, I should incline to adopt the first opinion, because it has nothing but tradition to support it; while there seems a reason for the invention of the second; and it is very possible that some small spot above Lauterbrunnen, now covered with ice, may once have been pasture. The lower glaciers are said to be all on the increase, yet with one exception, (that of Bosson) they all bear evident marks of having been at some period much larger than they are at present, and similar changes may occur in the upper ones without supposing any constant increase of snow and ice.

I have made a great digression from the description of Grindelwald, to which I will now return. On the south side of the valley, three enormous crags rise immediately into the region of perpetual snow; the Wetterhorn, which is 11,720 feet high, the Mettenburg somewhat less, and the Eiger 12,240. Grindelwald is 3,182 feet above the sea. It is not perhaps quite the summit of these rocks that is visible, and there are some hundred feet of slope at the bottom; the rest is almost perpendicular cliff, at least what appears such to the eye, whose height indeed you may estimate, but whose effect you will find it difficult to imagine. Between these three vast mountains are two glaciers, at one of which I spent the morning in attempting to imitate its forms and colouring, in company with two very agreeable young Englishmen, whom I met at Grindelwald. On the 20th I returned down the valley to Zwey Lütchinen, and thence to Unterseen. The walk was delightful, but that from Unterseen to Grindelwald would have been still finer; for in that case I should have had the three great mountains successively before me: first the Wetterhorn and the mountain behind it, the Hinter gletscher horn, over the woods and rocks of the valley; then the Mettenburg, and then the Eiger; and after some interval the same objects in the opposite order, with the accompaniments entirely changed. About a mile from Unterseen is the castle of Unspunnen, which makes some figure in Swiss history; and near this, a spot whence one has the finest imaginable view over both lakes. Each appeared enchanting; the lake of Thun more varied, but with the surrounding objects in shade, as I was looking towards the sun; the lake of Brientz, with its cliffs and woods in light, more uniformly wild and savage. From Unterseen I walked to Müllinen. What a country to ramble in! Wherever one goes, some new object, some new mode of beauty delights us; but language has little of the variety of nature; and the perpetual recurrence of lakes and streams, rocks and mountains, woods and cultivation, and snow and ice, fatigues, instead of exciting the attention. I made a diversion to the top of the Niesen, 7,310 feet in height: snow still lingered on the summit, but only in patches. I expected a fine view of the Simmenthal and Kanderthal, but clouds obstructed the prospect. In the other direction, Bern and the Jura were distinguishable at intervals, through openings in the thick bed of clouds which lay before me. The next morning I proceeded up Kanderthal. The clouds hung low upon the mountains, but now and then exposed the waste of snow above me, and I saw enough to persuade me that Kanderthal was well worth a visit, even after Lauterbrunnen and Grindelwald; and that its style of beauty, or of sublimity, is quite different from that of those vallies. On the 25th I passed the Gemmi: the ascent is steep, but not otherwise bad, and at the top is a public house, where I procured some hot milk. The scenery is wild and dreary in the extreme, and the natural melancholy of the place was heightened by the gloom of the weather. The Dauben See is a shallow and muddy pool at the top. I met there a solitary Englishman, who was taking a wrong track; my guide set him right. He observed to me that there was something very sublime in crossing the Alps alone in a snow storm, which in fact was then coming on very heavily. I regretted afterwards that he had been set in the right path, for there only wanted to complete the sublime, that he should lose his way; and there would have been no danger, since meeting with the lake would have shewn him his error. The flakes of snow soon hid him from my sight, and I shortly after arrived at the descent: but what a descent! It is impossible I can give you any idea of it. It would be easier to make a road up the most inaccessible part of the wildest mountain in England, than up the Gemmi. The inn-keeper at Lausanne told me that the Gemmi was passable all the year; and in fact the couriers do pass it at all seasons, but it is extremely dangerous, and accidents frequently occur. Last year there were six avalanches, and three couriers lost their lives. These avalanches fill the road with snow, and the couriers are obliged in some places to creep upon ledges of rock, half supporting themselves on the snow; and sometimes to trust themselves entirely to the snow over a precipice of six or eight hundred feet. It does not appear that these accidents arise from negligence or ignorance; but the men advance with full sense of their danger, and using every possible precaution to avoid it. The road is cut out of the face of the precipice, and in some instances completely into the rock. At this time of year there is no danger; yet I would not advise a person to undertake the descent, whose head is apt to be giddy. After reaching the bottom I looked back, and began to wonder where the path could be, or how it had been possible to descend such a horrible precipice.

The company had nearly left the baths of Lötsch, and had I been a few days later, I should have found the inn deserted, except by a single individual, who is left to take care of the house, and to give shelter to any stray wanderer. During the proper season, the invalids begin to resort to the bath about five o’clock in the morning, and remain there four or five hours, usually taking their breakfast while sitting in the warm water. At eleven they dine, and afterwards return again to sit in the bath. At six they sup, and go to bed at eight. How should you like this regimen?

Next morning I walked down to Leuk, or Lötsch, where I breakfasted, and hired a char à banc, which took me to Brigg. The Vallais is a fine valley, much narrower here than I had imagined from my view of it from above Martigny: the mountains which bound it are steep slopes, the bottom appears flat, and altogether, it wants variety; yet it offers some beautiful scenes, especially at the openings of the little vallies. The inhabitants are esteemed to be lazy, dirty, and goitrous, and by far the most licentious in Switzerland, but rather improving of late years. Till the road over the Simplon was made, it was one of the most unfrequented parts of the country, and it may serve as an encouragement to those who fear that good roads and freer intercourse with their neighbours, will spoil the sobriety and simplicity of the Swiss character.

On Friday morning I set off to cross this famous pass. A thick dark bed of clouds covered the opposite mountains, and against them was reflected the finest rainbow I ever saw. The middle colours were repeated seven times. The road is excellent, as good as any about London, but not so wide; and here and there the rubbish fallen down from above, has contracted it perhaps to fifteen or eighteen feet, but this is a mere guess; I did not measure it. It is certainly a most noble work, but the scenery of the ascent is not picturesque. It winds up sloping hills covered with wood, and runs round the little vallies, hardly ever making a zig-zag upon the face of the hill. The village of Simplon is about two leagues beyond the summit. The republic of the Vallais is repairing the road, and there is no indication of any intention to abandon it, nor do the inhabitants seem to entertain the least idea that such a design could be entertained.

I slept at the village of Simplon, where I was told that it is always cold, and certainly I found it so. The people were cleaner and honester, and spoke better French than I had met with the preceding days in the Vallais. Next morning I resumed my walk towards Italy: the descent on this side is highly romantic, but after winding among savage rocks and subterranean passages, and looking against mountains crowned with snow, I was delighted to come out of the confined pass at Dovedro, and find myself in a fertile valley full of corn-fields, vineyards, and villages. In one part of this day’s walk, I observed a quantity of snow which had fallen the preceding winter, and being afterwards thickly covered with earth, was sprinkled with vegetation. After this opening the valley again contracts into another wild and rocky pass, though not with the frowning horrors of the preceding: this leads into the comparatively open Val Ocella, one league along which brought me to Duomo d’Ossola.

I have now left Switzerland, but I will not begin another subject without a few general observations. The country churches are generally small and poor buildings, each with a square tower at the west end, which terminates in a high gable. They are, I believe, always of stone; the cottages always of wood. These latter are generally elevated on a stone basement of six or eight feet in height. There are two stories below the roof, and one in it. The wood-work is not painted all over, and sometimes not at all; but there are frequently broad horizontal bands ornamented with painting, as well as with carving. The roofs span the long way of the building, and project five or six feet all round; they are consequently immensely large; and they are covered with shingles, or with slates. On one side, or often on both, is a gallery under the shelter of the roof, and the whole of this covered way forms an admirable place for drying flax, and sometimes corn: the flax, by the bye, is dressed without steeping.

I did not find any building at Duomo d’Ossola to excite much attention. There is a Via Crucis, that is, an ascent leading to a church or convent, on which is a series of chapels, representing the circumstances of our Saviour’s passion. Each chapel is here a small room filled with figures, carved in wood and painted: as much light is admitted as will shew them distinctly, and two or three holes are left, with gratings of wire, through which one may peep to see the imagery. These things are very common in Italy, but not all on so expensive a scale: the chapels are generally much smaller, like watch-boxes, and are adorned only with a painting exhibited in the same manner: sometimes they are mere arched recesses, to protect the series of pictures. This history is not confined to the facts related in the scriptures, but is heightened by tradition or invention. It is regularly a part of the story, not only that our Saviour himself carried the cross, nearly if not quite all the way, but that he fell down under it three times; and the circumstance is improved, if we may use the methodist expression in speaking of Roman Catholic superstition, by the inscriptions placed underneath. Little stations of this sort are also frequent by the road-sides, with a saint painted at the bottom of the niche.

From the top of the hill of the Via Crucis at Duomo d’Ossola, there is a fine view of the flat circular valley, at the edge of which stands the town. A considerable portion of this plain is covered by the enormous beds of gravel and sand brought down by the mountain torrents. In other places it appears rich and fertile, and the meadows are as green as in England.

The churches in this part of Italy have very high slender towers, covered with a depressed pyramidal roof of red tiles, or sometimes with a little cupola; they are almost always white, and form a very striking and characteristic feature in the landscape.

I dined at Duomo d’Ossola in company with a young Englishman, who seemed to have been all over the world; and afterwards, as we were talking together in the balcony, he exclaimed, “Do you keep a pet scorpion?” I followed the direction of his eyes, and saw one of the largest size, crawling on my right breast. I soon got rid of him, but I dare say I looked fifty times at my waistcoat during the evening to see if any other had taken its place: I have no conception how it came there. The room we were in had been newly plastered, but we found another on the wall: they seem to be dull, sluggish animals.

On Monday, 30th of September, I left Duomo d’Ossola, and crossing the valley, great part of the way on beds of gravel covered with Hippophæ rhamnoides, mounted by a pleasant rocky defile to Val Vigezza. These Italian vals are for the most part surrounded on three sides by mountains, and on the fourth connected with the plain country by a deep ravine, through which the waters are discharged. I should perhaps rather say separated than connected, as it is only by a narrow track on the slope of the mountain, that the communication is preserved; and it has in some cases been found easier to make the road across the mountain, than to carry it through the defile. Val Vigezza occupies the highest part of the hollow, and discharges its water both ways; partly by the defile through which I ascended, and partly by Cento Valli, where there is hardly any open space, and where the views are finer than on the ascent, but which I should probably have admired more, if I had not just passed the grander and more impressive scenery of the Simplon. I eat, and slept, at the house of the parish priest in the little village of Borgnone, in the Swiss state of Ticino, and the next morning continued my walk to Locarno. I did not fare very well on this road, probably from not being sufficiently aware of the manners of the people, nor having learned to apply for food at the proper hours. In all these remote places you must comply with the customs of the country; it is too difficult a task to teach the inhabitants to accommodate themselves to yours.

On Wednesday morning I walked to Ascona, and thence, along the shores of the lake, to Canobio. The road near the villages is usually between two stone walls, with a trellis supporting the vines overhead. The grapes within reach are whitewashed, apparently to prevent passengers from eating them. In the remoter parts these precautions are omitted, and the rude trellis, which supports the vines, rests on posts of granite or mica slate; but the trees and vines seldom permit an extensive view, though the road is a continued succession of steep ascents and descents. I became rather tired of this, and at Canobio hired a boat to take me down the lake, and to the Borromean islands. The scenery improves as we descend; the mountains divide, and present more variety in themselves, as well as give occasional views of higher and more distant summits. About Intra, Palanza, and Laveno, it is particularly fine: the long continuous range of mountains, forming the eastern shore of the lake, here ceases; and at the last mentioned place, and below it, we have only hills of moderate elevation, covered with trees and cultivation, and terminating in steep banks or little cliffs at the water’s edge. The range on the western side also ceases at Intra; but there is a fine detached hill behind Palanza, and mountains again occur of considerable height, beyond the bay which incloses the Borromean islands. Two rivers fall into the head of this bay: their vallies are separated by a noble crag, and a long perspective of a succession of mountains, exposes the snowy summits of the higher Alps, which form a delightful contrast with the beauties of the nearer scenery. There is one island near Palanza which commands this view better than any other; but it is seldom visited, because there is only a small villa upon it. On the Isola Madre is a larger villa; on another island (Isola Peschiera) is a little village; but the great object of curiosity is the Isola Bella, where we see a magnificent villa of the Borromean family, in sublimely bad taste, both inside and out. There are however, some handsome rooms within; and the profuse and extended scale on which art has exerted itself, joined to a luxuriant vegetation, produces no small effect of grandeur without. The views from it are most beautiful, both up and down the lake, and up the bay. I landed at Stresa, and walked to Belgirate, and thence to Arona. The lower part of the lake is quiet, and without any of the sublime character of the upper, but still very beautiful; and points of cliff occasionally rise from the water. Arona is a very picturesque little place, seated on a point at the foot of one of these cliffs. On a hill above it is the statue of St. Charles Borromeo; 66 feet high, on a pedestal of above 30, so that the whole is about 100 English feet in height. As I walked along the road below, the pedestal was quite lost; and the great priest, walking among the woods, which reach only to his middle, and holding up his fingers in the act of blessing the people, had a very singular effect. It is made partly of cast bronze, and partly of plates of copper on timber framing, and the execution is very good. The views from it are exceedingly fine. From Arona I crossed the lake to Ispra, where the custom-house officers took it into their heads to examine my little bundle, and then asked me for something to drink. From Ispra I walked to Comerio, near the lake Varese. The entire change of scenery had a pleasing effect; instead of rocks and mountains, I was among gently swelling hills, well cultivated with different sorts of grain, and shaded with fine chesnut trees. The maize was nearly ripe: the barren flowers and the upper leaves had just been cut off, that the juices of the plant might all be directed to the seed. In some instances the heads of seeds had likewise been gathered and hung up to dry about the houses. Many of the inhabitants were employed in beating down the chesnuts; which were large and good, like the Spanish chesnut; whereas among the mountains, though great part of the wood is formed of chesnut trees, yet the fruit is small, like what we have in England.^[29] From Gavirate to Comerio, the land rises considerably, and there are extensive surfaces of white limestone, containing beds of flint rather than chertz. Before me lay a great extent of country of the same character as that which I had passed; the Lake of Varese lying on the right; to the left is the woody hill on whose slope the road runs; and behind are the distant mountains of Lago Maggiore, and the still more distant snowy mass of Monte Rosa. My eye is so familiarized to white tops, that I can hardly fancy any mountain high without them, and something always seems wanting where they are not. As it was meagre day, I could get nothing at the little inn but some small fish, called Cavezzali, not much bigger than minnows, maccaroni, and an omelet, but the fellow charged for my supper five francs, the usual price to English travellers at the better inns in this part of Italy, and three for a miserable bed. I gave him six francs, which I am told was twice as much as I ought to have paid; indeed he seemed perfectly conscious that it was too much. I walked in this direction as far as Varese, and then turning short to the left, soon found myself again among mountains, much broken and varied, but not very high. The road lies so low and is so much sheltered, that we only see enough of the scenery to tantalize us; but by the deviation of a few yards, before the descent to Porto on the Lake of Lugano, I enjoyed one of those delicious scenes which baffle all description, comprising every mode of rich and beautiful in landscape, set in a frame of magnificent mountains. A man, who overtook me on the road, asked me a louis for a boat to Lugano, then a napoleon, then eighteen francs, as the least possible. I offered him five, which he accepted, and seemed just as active and good humoured as if he had obtained his whole demand.