Life in the Old World/Station 03

by Fredrika Bremer

 

THIRD STATION.

Hasli valley and the Swedish emigrants—Rosenlaui—Grimsel—Gloomy scene—The source of the Rhone—The Forest Cantons—Grutli and its heroes—Life in Schwytz—Two types of Conservatism—Sunday on Rhigi—Nicholas de Flue—Life in Zürich—Einsiedeln, its pilgrims and teachers—Zwingli—My home in Zürich—Journey to Basle—Missionary Institution and Missionaries.

Meyringen, Ober-Hasli, August 21st.—The nearer you approach the High Alps, the more is the soul penetrated with unusual emotions at the sight of the grandeur of nature. The thought of its creation untold ages before that of mankind, and the sense of its immovable stability, leads the mind to draw a melancholy comparison between it and the fleetingness of our physical being. But at the same moment the soul elevates itself, as if to place a higher nobility beside this majesty of the life of nature. It is with such feelings that you reach Ober-Hasli, and wandering on the edge of gloomy precipices, along broken, and, as it were, riven paths, continually ascending, continually astonished by the grand scene, you leave behind you the region of fruit trees, and passing through pine woods and yellow gentians, enter the region of the Alpine rose, the savine, the small aromatic flowers that grow on the pasturages, and so reach the steep slopes of the mountains, where a slippery and dangerous sward seems to mark the limits of grazing for the cattle, and of human curiosity. For, higher up, immense masses of snow crush down the life of nature, and the ice of many thousand years clothes the Jungfrau, Finsterhorn, Wetterhorn and Shoukhorn, the lonely pyramids of this Alpine chain. The clear waters of the Aar rush forth from beneath a vault of ice. To a great distance, as far as the eye can penetrate, all is ice; immense crystals glitter in the depths; seldom is a chamois seen to speed through the icy desert; seldom a lammer-geir circles over these crags; man has made a few tracks, but for the extent of many, many miles, not a foot-trace can be discerned. The wanderer is easily swallowed up in the crevices of the ice, and when this happens, he is sometimes found, after several ages, carried away by the perpetually advancing glacier, immovable in the midst of its accumulated ice. Thus the earth lies buried under La Gemmi. La Gemmi rears itself, naked and broken up by time. The poisonous^[1] Aconitum napellus, or Christmas rose, gives an agreeable effect, for it is the announcement of vegetation. From the lofty region of the Daulear See of the Engsten Alps, the path descends, sometimes over rocks, sometimes through the beds of torrents, along a naked wall of rock as far as Adelboden. Between the long icy valleys of the lake of Thun, in the bosom of the mountain, which extends westward from Niesen to Stockhorn, descending the while to Leman, lies the Oberland, a labyrinth of innumerable valleys, through which the Sarine, Simmen, Kander, Engstetenbach, and the two Lutschine rivers, increased by innumerable streams, proceed along their wild and devious courses to the Aar, or to the lake of Thun.

“In the highest regions, however, where grass can grow, you meet with herdsmen and their herds, whilst the fertile heights of Asia are desolate, because Asia wants that which blesses the Oberland—freedom.”

Thus far my R., both for your benefit and mine, have I followed J. von Muller's description of the Oberland, because I acknowledge myself totally bewildered in the labyrinths of the Alpine country, which the powerful Swiss wanders through with a safe, though it may be somewhat plodding step, and I was not able to give you, like a new Ariadne, a guiding thread through them. I can merely show you one and another picture from it, whilst I go on spinning the thread of my narrative. I look upon the various knots tied in, as memories, and by the help of these I shall be able to uphold both you and myself.

The first leads me to the very beginning of this my pedestrian excursion to the high valleys of the Vaud, to the valley of Jessonay, and an evening spent there in the comfortable little inn, with a kind young couple, who were here to part, the one to become, from this point, my traveling companion, the other to return to her highland home and her little ones. But the young wife and mother wished to accompany her husband so far; and this evening, therefore, we spent happily together, the young couple, and their elderly friend, happy, both heart and soul, in the society of each other, and——in the midst of Alps and ice-fields it did the old heart good to warm itself with such memories from the domestic hearth. But now: now we must proceed on our journey.

And early on the lovely summer morning we set forth through the valleys of Jessonay and Simmen, magnificent scenery opening out on every hand, with “mountains high and low, deep valleys,” and waters of the Zweisimmen rushing along in their wild career by the side of our road, and sometimes precipitating themselves in foaming cascades. Human dwellings are small, and seem here even smaller than usual, in the bosom of the giant mother. But the Bernese cottages—for we are now in the Canton of Berne—are more elegant abodes, at least outwardly, than the cottages of the Canton of Vaud. They are adorned with exquisite carving, and with wooden galleries, often very peculiar; and upon the gallery are flower-pots, from which splendid red carnations tower upwards, or hang down in splendid bouquets, in the midst of which you may see, at times, the father in his night-cap, smoking his pipe, and the mother, in her elegant Bernese costume, busied about one thing or another. The people seem to be in good circumstances; and the Swiss cottage, with its great roof, resembles a large hen with bright-colored feathers, covering her brood with outstretched wings.

By degrees, the valley becomes narrower, and, as it were, tamer—more idyllian—but it resumes its magnificent proportions when it expands towards the region in which the lake of Thun lies, as amid a verdant garland, encompassed by the icy giants of the Oberland. Again I say, make a journey to Thun, if you can; and go thither from this side. I do not believe you can find any thing more magnificently beautiful in the world. The scene reminded me of one in Sweden, that of the Wetter-lake, with Jönköpping on its banks, as you descend down the forest-pass of Oestergöthland." Nay, but that has no showy Alps as a back-ground.

And never have I spent a more spiritually beautiful evening than the last, on the shores of the lake of Thun. “Föhn,” the sirocco of Switzerland, rustled unceasingly in the lofty trees of “La Chartreuse,” and a heavy storm which had collected, discharged itself in lightnings which blazed on all sides around us, without thunder, and with merely a few drops of rain. When we returned towards the town it had cleared; the bells were ringing, and the moon, like a harbinger of peace, ascended out of the huge cloud which now retired behind the Alps. We expected a storm tomorrow, and the physiognomy of the sky promised nothing agreeable; but, towards noon, the clouds vanished, and the sail across the lake of Thun was as lovely as a scene of enchantment. Standing on the deck, I closed my eyes, that I might, as it were, feel and enjoy, with a more intense inwardness, the inimitable delight of the air, through which I seemed to myself to be flying; and when I again opened them, behold, I then, was actually flying through the bright ethereal space towards the glittering snow-white heights, which stood forth in their calm magnitude, and breathed freshness towards us. Every object shone, but as if through a thin, gauze vail, like that which the Indian summer spreads over the landscape of North America. It was like fairy-land; it was magically beautiful. One did not wish to speak, or to move, but only to see and to feel. My friend and traveling companion felt it just as I did, and so, I fancy, did every one on board, for a deep silence prevailed. The wind, too, was still; and the lake lay smooth as a mirror.

The hospitality of kind friends enhanced to me the pleasure of this second visit to the lake of Thun. Thou little lake—thou little town—thou magnificent scene I shall never forget you!

It was the height of the season at Interlachen. All the hotels were full. The grand promenade was thronged with elegant ladies and gentlemen; one might have believed one's-self on a Parisian boulevard; but all around was heard the ringing of the cow-bells in chorus, reminding one that one was in a Swiss valley. The number of guests at this little Interlachen now amounted to about five hundred.

We crossed to Giessbach. The description of this beautiful cascade (a poem of many stanzas), another can give you better than I can. The steamer across the Brienz lake was crowded with passengers, and I could not find a seat, until a peasant, squeezing himself into as little compass as possible, made friendly signs to me to take a seat beside him. On the bench just opposite to him sat his wife. They were peasants from the Canton Wallis, poorly clad, and not over-clean in the outward; but they had something indescribably gentle and good-tempered in their expression, voice, and demeanor. They told me that they had just re- returned from a pilgrimage to Einsiedeln, which they undertook in consequence of a vow which they made some years ago, when their only son broke his leg. He had recovered, and the good parents had made their thanksgiving pilgrimage. They were now returning on foot to their home in Wallis. They had crossed over St. Gothard.

Whilst I was talking with the good, communicative people of Wallis, four young peasant girls, in the holiday costume of Berne, were singing various of their country's “Ranz de Vaches,” such as " “Les Amallis de Collombette” etc. They had fresh and pure voices, and their joddling rang like glass bells. After they had sung, the prettiest of the four went round with a plate, but looked all the while so shy and so sweetly-earnest, that one could not do other than thank her and her companions.

Again I visited Lauterbrunnen valley, again I saw the gigantic fall of Schmadribach, which nearly frightened me the first time I saw it, at a considerable distance in the evening twilight. Its foaming-dirty-white mass of waters is not more beautiful, and not less frightful, seen in the full light of day and from a nearer point of view, but I had now the sun, and the companionship of a friend, and I experienced from the Undine valley only a deep and quiet impression. And whilst numerous streams sung and murmured, and Schmadribach thundered in the distance, my friend and I held quiet divine service in the great temple of nature. Sitting on little green hillocks, we read Vinet's Sermon on the Transfiguration, and one of Monod's “Adieux.” These parting words with which the noble martyr, when on his bed of suffering, took leave of his friends and the world, gave to them at the same time the impress of his memory and his Christian faith more powerfully than he had done in any of his orations from the pulpit:—

“They speak great truths who breathe their words in pain.”

When A. Monod found himself seized upon by the cruel malady which caused his death in the prime of life, he grieved that he must cease to labor just at the moment when he hoped to have accomplished something really good for the church. Could he now but see how his parting sighs have become his most beautiful, perhaps his actual work!

This was my birthday, this day spent in the Undine valley, and it could not have been celebrated better.

From the Lake of Brienz we proceeded to Meyringen, and here we are now sitting on a lofty and extensive plateau in the midst of a garland of Alps, from the nearest heights of which several cascades are hurled to the plain. Here Reichenbach, most abundant in water and romantic beauty; there the three-armed Alpenbach, which, in spring, becomes dangerous from its floods. We are in Ober-Hasli, in the district where, it is said, in ancient times, a Swedish Colony established itself. I this morning paid a visit to Pastor Immer, a learned and sensible man who has lived a long time in the valley, in order to obtain from him such information as he could communicate on this subject. I have seldom conversed with a more agreeable or sensible man, and seldom seen such kindly moonlight beam from a full-moon countenance. The tradition which furnished the subject of our conversation, and which has been handed down from the most ancient time, from one generation to another, is this:

Up in some old country which lay far away in the north, amongst the Swedes and Frieslanders, there was once upon a time a famine. In consequence of this, the whole community met together, and it was decided by vote that every tenth man of the people should leave the country. These men, so elected, besought of God to show them a country where, as in their fatherland, protected from the power of tyranny, they might keep their flocks and herds in peace. God led them therefore to the country Brockinburg, where they established Schwytz.^[2] As the chronicles of the middle ages give to Sweden, as well as to Schwytz, the name Sueeia, therefore Sweden is considered to be the northern country from which the Swiss province became peopled. As, in the mean time, Pastor Immer strengthened what I had already heard, namely, that the popular song in which this tradition is especially preserved, and of which I obtained a copy, is founded upon written record,^[3] which, in its present form, is certainly not older than the latter half of the sixteenth century, as well as that no other written document on the subject has been discovered, led me to seek for other traces. I therefore inquired after the baptismal and family names prevailing in the district, after peculiar manners, songs, and old usages, especially at marriages and such occasions.

The following is what Pastor Immer told me:

“There is in this district a usage at marriages, which I never met with in any other part of Switzerland, as for instance, at the marriage feast, both the parents and the guests make the bridal pair presents either of cattle or money. The people love music and violent bodily exercises. They are a cheerful, kind and useful people, fearing God, but at the same time believing in the existence of dwarfs and many other spirits of nature, and in conjuration and witchcraft. Above all things they love freedom.^[4] They believe firmly and fully in their Swedish origin, and the more educated of them are interested in Sweden, and are glad to hear any news from that country.”

So far Pastor Immer. In the songs of East Friesland, which are especially current in Ober-Hasli, “Schweden and Oestfriedland,” are represented as a neighboring country, and it is an “Obrist Schwitzerns” who conducts the emigrants from Sweden, each one with his cattle passing over the Rhine, and coming to the good country, “Brockenburg,” where they established themselves. During a visit which I paid the preceding summer to Gothland,^[5] I heard speak of a tradition, current there from the most ancient times, of a migration thence in consequence of famine, when every tenth person left the country.

The Hasli people are handsome, and remind me of the peasantry of Blukingo. I have made a sketch of a good old woman, in her peculiar head-dress. I now take my leave of the Swedish colony, to betake myself to the “Waldstetten,” but whether across Brunig or Furca, depends upon what the barometer and Pastor Immer shall advise. Both seem doubtful. It would not be desirable to go to Grimsel and the “Glacier du Rhone,” in bad weather.

Before I leave Hasli valley, however, I must say a few words about Rosenlaui, the beautiful ice-palace in its neighborhood, to which M. P. and I took a walk yesterday, conversing the while, on—the conscience, which made our walk doubly interesting. P. is occupied in writing, on this inner judgment-seat, a treatise, the singular depth and value of which, only his own great modesty and severe self-criticism can underrate. This morning, in the sunshine, on our romantically wild but beautiful walk, we went still deeper into the question: “What is the conscience?” I see and feel it the soul's holy of holies, a deeper conception than that of P., who wholly regards the conscience as a moral eye,—as “conscience morale.”

We were interrupted by Rosenlaui Glacier, which all at once stood in astonishing beauty before us, but sent forth at the same time, such a current of cold air, as was less agreeable.

Rosenlaui is called a “Glacier des donnes,” partly for its beauty, and partly for its accessibility. It struck me by its human resemblance. Rosenhorn, the crag which rises highest in its midst, represents the head, and from the shoulders, down each side, falls an icy mantle in glittering whiteness. The tower-like crags, Wellhorn and Engelhorn, rise on the opposite side of the mountain throne on which the icy giantess has been seated these thousands of years, and between these, project her vast knees, richly draperied by her icy mantle, from below the deep folds of which, her immense foot is seen planted upon the smooth mountain. It is around this foot, that the human visitors circulate. In the full, deep drapery which falls around it, and which forms ice-closets, and passages, they peep in and out as if they were hiding from one another, and then gaze wondering up at the vast knee, which rises one hundred feet above their heads. The beautiful azure color of the ice in the deep folds or walls of the glacier, has not as yet been satisfactorily explained, though many have endeavored variously to account for it.

It was remarkably beautiful this afternoon, although the sky was cloudy and soon vailed both the glacier and its visitors in cold rain. Many strangers had come up with us hither from the little town. The ladies walked forward, took off their gloves, and laid their warm, hands cautiously upon the icy walls, and peeped into the icy closets. The gentlemen did the same, and even ventured higher, whither the glacier's self-constituted watch and ward invited them, for he had cut steps in the ice, and by means of these, any one could climb up into the more profound regions of the icy mantle. Cascades fall from the depths of the glacier, the largest of these is hurled down from below the huge knee, as if out of an arch, and falls at a little distance, with a thundering din, into a chasm between the rocks, which the eye cannot measure, and which makes one dizzy to look down.

Most people pay their visit in a very off-hand kind of a way. They come, look, and—turn round. I felt myself, however, so little satisfied by this visit in the rain, that I proposed to my companion, to stay over the night at the little inn in the neighborhood of the glacier, in hope that the morrow would afford us sunshine, and with it, the opportunity of seeing the beauty of Rosenlaui in full daylight.

We were the only guests who remained over the night, and we were rewarded for so doing, by the brightest sunshine the following morning. Under these favorable circumstances, we again visited the glacier, which shone in dazzling splendor. It was fatiguing to the eye to look at the white snow-mantle, as it glittered in the sun, at the bright, thousand-year, crystal walls of the vaulted closets, at the beautiful, manifold icy formations. It was singular that the azure color of the deeper folds, now, in the clear blue heaven, seemed less rich and beautiful, than in the gray sky of the day preceding. But the ice-walls were clearer, and more transparent.

As we stood thus gazing, a grandly-attired lady arrived in a chair, carried by four men. She alighted; approached the glacier, laid her hand upon the ice, peeped in below the knee, and said, “Is that all?”

“Yes,” replied her bearers.

“Oh!” said she, turned her back on the magnificent giant form, reseated herself in her chair and was carried away.

M. P. and I lingered by the glacier until we had clearly impressed its image upon mind and memory, then we returned to Meyringen, looking back as long as we could, to Rosenlaui, which, as it were, accompanied us on our way with its glittering icy glance.

Grimsel, August 23d.—Mist, rain, and snow surround us here, which is a bad prospect for our journey to the sources of the Aar, and the Rhone. But our courage does not fail us, and it was not without pleasure that I beheld in the morning, the new-fallen snow around us, because it reminded me of the Swedish winter, and of the fresh, invigorating sensations which I have experienced while walking or driving through murmuring pine-woods, or over glittering snow-fields. But here, in the stony desert of Grimsel, all is cold, hard, desolate, terrible. Not a tree within sight, nor even a bush; only rocks, stones, and amongst the snow, a few meagre patches of grass, where a withered dock seems to be a king. Herds of goats, which clamber amongst the stones and crags, are the only living objects in the scene.

Yesterday morning was splendid after a night of violent storm, and splendid was the journey through the green fertile Alpine valleys from Meyringen, along the Aar, on the road to Hanclek. Earth and heaven, mountain and valley, shone out in the ascending sun, the air was clear as crystal, and as pure and fresh, as—Alpine air only can be. I enjoyed it sitting in a chair, for the first time in my life, borne by two young peasants, from Meyringen, who seemed to have more pleasure in running with me, than in walking, which gave me the agreeable feeling, that I was no great burden. My friend, M. Penchaud, went on foot, like a true mountaineer, with his knapsack on his back, enjoying the walk with his whole heart and soul. Before us, went the respectable Gaspard—an acquaintance of Meyringen, with our baggage in a large basket, on his back. Thus, the journey proceeded upwards, ever upwards, from terrace to terrace, from plain to plain, through extents of luxuriantly-verdant valley, where the cottages stand so snugly on the green-sward, at the foot of the rocks, amongst which the snowy giants glance forth. Roaring torrents, large and small, hurl themselves down from the heights, tributaries of the Aar, whose foaming course we constantly follow, now on the right bank, now on the left, crossing it by small bridges or planks, which hardly look safe. It is a succession of wild, picturesque scenes, without grand views, but rich in ever-varying features, near at hand, rocks, wood, and waterfall. And so on, to La Handek. Here, we partake of a very good dinner, at the hotel, in company with a number of other travelers, and afterwards go to see the celebrated “Chute de l'Aar.”

Here it is, that the Aar, not far from its source in the glaciers above Grimsel, hurls itself down amongst the rocks, into an abyss of two hundred feet. In this fall, its wildly-agitated mass of waters meets the silver cascade of Arlenbach, from the glaciers of Arlenberg, and uniting, plunge with a deafening thunder into the gulf below, from which ascends a dense cloud of spray. At noon, just when we were there, the sun threw a beaming rainbow over the dark cleft between which the fall is precipitated, and then was thrown out in perfectly dazzling splendor from the dark background of rocks.

The wind was strong on the bridge above the fall, and drove the spray over us. Besprinkled with water, but delighted with the scene, we left the grand, beautifully wild spectacle to continue on our journey.

From Handek, the scenery becomes wilder and more desolate. Trees are no longer seen, vegetation decreases, the mountains become more rigid, blocks of stone cover the land, life seems, by degrees, to be dying out. The glacier rivers roar more loudly, swollen with the torrents from the ice-fields and lakes lying high amongst the mountains. The splendid Gelten fall, seems to plunge down as if out of the very sky. At all distances, the eye meets, on the heights, ice and pointed rocks. The wild falls of the Aar increase the nearer you approach to its source. In some places the bridges have been carried away by it. The people are very busy replacing them, assisting me in my chair across, and through the roaring waters, I don't rightly know how, and I was scarcely dizzy. Now and then, we meet troops of gentlemen and ladies, on foot, on horseback, or in chairs. And these processions, with the long Alpine staffs of pedestrians, and the fluttering dresses and vails of the ladies, look very picturesque, but are not so agreeable to meet when the road happens to be fearfully narrow. Notwithstanding my confidence in the skill of my bearers, I sometimes grow dizzy when they suddenly swing round the point of a cliff, on the edge of the precipice where the Aar rages below.

The weather which was so beautiful in the forenoon, became in the afternoon, windy, and cold; clouds gathered on the heights, and rain began to fall; whilst the surrounding scenery grew increasingly savage and stern. Human dwellings were no longer to be seen; there was no cultivated spot of earth; nay, indeed, there was scarcely any earth at all. A kind of dwarf pine stretched its ugly shapeless branches out of the stony ground. It seemed to me like a cry for help from vegetation. The rhododendron, nevertheless, grows abundantly by the rocky streams, but the season of its flowering was over. A delicate and beautiful fern, and some small yellow and white flowers, still accompany us. But the wind is colder and colder, and, I know not why, but the heart grows heavier and heavier, amid these surroundings, which bring to mind all that is most depressing in human life. And this stony desert has also its gloomy story of humanity.

We reach the place were the old Grimsel Inn used to stand, which was burned down a year ago, as was believed by accident, but as has since been discovered intentionally to conceal a terrible murder committed by the host and hostess upon an unfortunate traveler, who stayed there alone during a night in the autumn. A memory worthy of this melancholy region!

But my bearers go on cheerfully, and, as I could fancy, with still lighter steps. They know that the place of rest is at hand; and just as they swing round to the left, a large, gray, two-storied house comes in sight between the naked gray mountains. It is “l'Hospice du Grimsel,” the goal of our day's journey, and we have arrived in good time. We find here a great number of travelers of all classes, but, luckily for us, we can obtain two small rooms, though of the homeliest kind, and in them the prospect of rest and shelter against the increasing storm.

Sitting at my window, I amuse myself during the evening by watching the milking of two hundred goats, which operation is performed by two men, who each bears, fastened round his middle by a strap, a little stool with one leg in the middle. With this they go round from goat to goat, and seat themselves upon it whilst they milk. It looks as if it were a part of their body, and produces the most comic effect. They say that an English lady quite seriously believed that this projecting wooden leg was a tail, and that they who carried it were the aborigines of the country. But—what do they not tell about English ladies?

This morning the greater number of the travelers have left the hotel in rain and mist. We still remain, in hope of a change. The bad weather, which continued the whole night and this forenoon, has just cleared off—at 12'o clock in the day—by a violent storm. Perhaps it may chase away the mist, which is still so thick that one cannot see ten paces around one.

Grimsel is indeed the dreariest place in the world. Not far from the house lies, with the most melancholy aspect, a dark little lake in its stony bed. A little further off lies another, somewhat larger, called the Lake of the Dead, because the bodies of the French and Austrians who were slain in a skirmish in the mountain pass, during the summer of 1799, were thrown in there by way of burial. And it is still believed that the Lake of the Dead serves as a grave for the wanderers who are killed during the winter in this terrible region.

Andermatt, August 25th.—Shortly after I had written the above, my good friend Penchaud came to me, tired and out of patience with stopping at this place, which affected him physically very painfully, and besought me to continue our journey, let the weather be what it might. We could not be worse than here, and if we were now to set off we might reach “La Furca” before night. I consented, but, I confess, with a heavy heart. To continue our journey in this weather, was for me to give up the purpose for which I had come. It was merely to see the “Glacier du Rhone” that I had undertaken this difficult and expensive journey; but in this fog one could see nothing. In the mean time it began to look as if it would clear up. But scarcely were we on our way up the steep Grimsel mountain, when a storm of sleet and wind came on again with renewed violence. I could only dimly discern the dreary shores of the Lake of the Dead through the thick fog. A vail of fog enveloped the whole of nature. Under these circumstances, I must entirely give up the chance of beholding the source of the Aar, although my bearers offered to take me there. But an excursion to this icy region I dare not venture upon, on account of my friend; besides, what could one now see?

With such deplorable prospects and thoughts we clambered up the naked mountain, in somewhat more than an hour's time. I was sitting very out of sorts, with my little gray shawl over my head to defend me against the wind and the rain, when my bearers, all at once, exclaimed: “Voila le Glacier!”

I looked up and saw in the air before me something white and shapeless shining out through the mist. Upon this white apparition I riveted my glance immovably; for every moment it became clearer, and by degrees it stood forth out of the thick, misty vail; the sun-illumed, snow-covered peaks of Gelmerhorn and Gallenstock, between which the upper portion of the Rhone Gletscher, or Triften Gletscher, spread out like a frozen waterfall covered with driven snow. I have no words to describe the spectacle which was presented to my gaze, whilst cloud and mist disappeared before the lightning beams of the sun, which seemed to overcome them. The clear blue heaven arched itself all the more freely over the shining Alpine peaks and ice-fields; and these stood forth all the clearer in dazzling grandeur and splendor, as we accomplished the last steep mountain ascent, called “Majenwand,” from the beautiful verdure and the multitude of flowers fostered by the warmth of the sun and the moisture of earth produced by the Gletscher. But I do not notice these, and scarcely feel any uneasiness about the steep path, on the sharp turnings of which, now slippery with the rain, my bearers can hardly keep their footing. All my senses are fascinated by the astonishing scene. But every moment the air becomes warmer and the wind stiller. The Rhone Gletscher in all its grandeur lies before us, below us; we sink down into its bosom and only beauty and pleasantness meet us on every hand; summer air and splendor in the home of eternal winter! Behold the scene as I saw it, as I see it at this moment.

At the foot of the broad snow-fall, between Gallenstock, Gersthorn and Gelmerhorn, rises an immense cupola of ice, surrounded on three sides by Alps towering to the sky; and on the fourth, extending towards an open extent of valley, two buks flow from the two sides of the icy cupola; these, at a little distance, flow together into one stream, and soon afterwards uniting with the waters of two warm springs, the eye follows their course, far, far in the distance, through the valley which opens to the southeast. This is the Rhone—the eternal Unrest, born from the bosom of the eternal rest. The Rhone is here like a lively boy who springs, full of play, from his mother's lap. Its course is brisk but calm; its color milky, and nothing in its being betokens its future fate and grandeur; nothing, the mighty river whose floods almost annually desolate countries and cities, but whose waters also form valleys of unequaled fertility, and which, far away from its Swiss cradle, feed the cheerful vines of France in the valley of Avignon.

We descended for about an hour from the “Majenwand,” when we found ourselves down in the valley and stopped at a little inn, only at a few minutes' distance from the foot of the icy cupola. After we had here refreshed ourselves with tea and wine, as well as rested for some time, we proceeded to the Gletscher. The sun shone with full power, and every object was bright in its beams. My friend and I wandered for a full hour at the foot of the ice-cupola, through a regular park of sun-flowers and other flowers, which grew here above two ells high, in indescribable luxuriance, between the ice-vault and the mountain walls. The air was as warm as summer, and this ramble between icy-cold winter and blooming summer was wonderful, was enchantingly beautiful!

The snow-clad mountains, the watchers by the cradle of the Rhone, stood in eternal rest; nor in the frozen force between them could any unrest be observed,^[6] but in the icy cupola the birth-struggle of the river was in progress. Within was a deafening thunder and commotion, a rushing sound of released waters, and here and there little cascades were seen to pour glittering from the icy walls. For in many places of the cupola there were deep chinks in the ice. These walls were of a clear, blue color, but the cupola, as a whole, is rather of a dirty gray than white, and in this respect forms a contrast with the dazzling beauty of the Triften Gletscher. In the highest parts of this Gletscher, where travelers rarely venture, a bloody shirt and a plundered pocket-book have been lately found. But of the murdered man, or the murderer, nothing as yet is known. There are few of these solitary regions which have not their appropriate story of misfortune or crime. The bloody traces of man meet one every where—stain even the eternal snow!

The sun continued to shine brightly daring the whole time of our stay at the glacier, and its beams seemed to recall the masses of cloud which gathered together on the ridge of the Grimsel mountain, and which continued restlessly to vault themselves there, as if they were ready to hurl themselves down over the valley. I cannot tell how thankful I felt for this kindness of the sun.

“I have now, however, perfectly seen this grand work of Nature!” I was able to say to myself, when I was again seated in my chair, to continue my journey. And I was able to enjoy yet for at long time the splendid sight as we advanced upwards toward Furca, the sun continuing to bless us with his beams as long as we had the Rhone cradle in view. But scarcely had we lost it, when down came the cloud-avalanches from the Grimsel mountain, and we were soon enveloped in a cold mist.

Yet we were able to give the Matten Gletscher our silent admiration, and to salute the birth of the rapid Reuss from the glacier which is its cradle, but which has neither the beauty nor the grandeur of the glacier of the Rhone. The Reuss, insignificant in comparison with the Rhone in its after career, has, at its source, a much more rapid and wilder character; and many little streams soon hasten down from the mountain to increase its waters. It grows rapidly by these means, and hurries along with still greater violence in a direction contrary to that of the Rhone. How similar are the life-career of rivers and heroes! I know not whether any one has ever worked out this idea more beautifully than Tegner, in his little poem, “The River.”

Our road lay along the course of the Reuss; but our road was a narrow foot-path upon the slope of a steep mountain, so narrow and in such bad condition, that I often felt myself in danger of my life, and was in a continual state of amazement that a road in considerable use should be left in a condition which, from that very cause, must often lead to the occurrence of misfortunes.

Again and again, we met troops of travelers on horseback or on foot, and that this did not happen in the narrowest and most dangerous parts of the road, was prevented by the guides, who went with their long Alpine staffs at the head of the procession. More difficult, however, became the dilemma when, at one point of the road between the precipice and the mountain-wall, our advance was stopped by a cow. She stood there immovably, with her horn-decorated brows facing us, and seemed to think to herself, as I did, “What is to be done now? One of us must tumble down the precipice, because pass one another we cannot, that's clear!”

My bearers took a view of the case also, but soon made up their minds. With hands and feet they prevailed upon the sober cow to turn round on the narrow path at the risk of her life, and she now became my pioneer until a wider space allowed her to get out of the way, which she did with a couple of joyful leaps, which I seconded in my heart.

We are now in the Canton Wallis. Snow-fields gleam forth on every side, but also with these verdant and grassy pastures. On one of these, close beside the glacier, grazed a large herd of cattle, attended by a herdsman and his dog.

This day's journey appeared to me very long, in the cold and mist; and more than once I silently wondered that any one could be so thoughtless as to undertake it. Twilight had already commenced, when at length we reached “La Furca,” in such a dense fog, that I could distinguish nothing but the lofty hill up which we ascended, and the snow-covered roof of the little inn, which affected me as the mariner on the stormy sea, at the sight of land.

How pleasant it seemed here to sit down in the warm salle of the snug little, almost comfortable, herberge, and refresh myself with a good supper of tea, potatoes, and fresh butter. We ate and drank, we played chess, check-mated each other, and, before we separated, thanked God together for the day. P. has the gift of prayer, which it seems to me the Reformed Protestants, in an especial manner, possess, perhaps because family worship is more practiced by them than by the Lutherans. The prayer comprehended much under few words, and its quiet, earnest feeling, went to the heart.

A restless night succeeded, for me, to the quiet, holy evening; for the extreme cold prevented my sleeping. Fortunately, the weather changed during the night. The fog was transformed to frost-crystals, and the morning arose beaming over a snow-covered landscape. The sun shone gloriously, from a lofty blue sky. It was delightful to go forth upon the pure snow, and gather small, dark-blue gentians, which came forth as the snow melted before the heat of the sun. There were neither trees, shrubs, nor birds to be seen. The Furca valley lies 7,419 feet above the level of the sea, and is scarcely ever free from snow. Snow-clad Alps close it in on every side, so that there is no open view. Finster-Aarhorn and St. Gothard, the highest Alpine heights, which can be seen far beyond the others, rise on the opposite sides of the narrow valley.

It was Sunday, and all was quiet in the little inn. We also had determined to remain quiet during the early hours of the forenoon, and whilst the sun removed the frosty vail of night from the grassy sward of the valley, and the little hills, we read A. Monod's sermon on “le plan de Dieu” It is a good thing to place the futileness of human plans in opposition to the plan of God. But, do we really know so little of God's plan, in its chief features, as this preacher represents? Has not He told us something about it? Has not He written it in Divine characters on the earth? And can we really understand so little, whether we act in accordance with, or in opposition to this Divine plan?

Towards noon we were again in motion. The road, but which is indeed no road, now continually follows the ever more rapid and abundant Reuss. The miserable path seems less dangerous than that of yesterday, and we begin to descend. The tract through which we pass is a petrifaction, without beauty or vegetation, but lovely cascades roar and glitter in the mountain, and the sun passes joyously over the rigid heights. Our road lies across many mountain streams, the only enliveners of the desolate region.

At length we reach a few poor houses. It is the little inn “Realp,” where a Capuchin monk finds the traveler room to rest and refresh himself. We also solicit the good father's hospitality, because there is no other shelter on the road to Andermatt, the goal of our day's journey. We halt here, but are somewhat astonished when, instead of a Capuchin monk, a rosy young girl, with a red bow of ribbon on her throat, comes to meet us at the door. Within the salle, we found the father, who was playing cards with two shabby-looking semi-gentlemen, and two, ditto, half-grown boys. He was a large, jovial-looking man, good-natured and kind, but bearing very little resemblance to the model hermit of these parts,—Nicholas de Flue. After he had welcomed us, and given orders about our dinner, he asked permission to continue his game, which we, of course, gave. The rosy maiden, in the mean time, laid the cloth, and served us up a very good little dinner, for which a reasonable charge was made. We thanked the father and the rosy maiden, and departed.

The road from Realp was a very rapid descent, so that I sometimes grew dizzy, looking at the depth down which I was carried, especially as my bearers now moved with less elasticity. But the air becomes ever milder. We look down into the extensive vale of Urseren, which, though still without trees, is splendidly verdant. Afar in the distance, upon the green-sward, at the foot of a lofty wall of mountains, shines forth, white and cheerful, a little town. That is Andermatt. And in the midst of the immense mass of mountains, we soon see the broad road of St. Gothard, which, in pliant sinuosities, winds along the heights, down into the vale; and we see heavy diligences, and carriage after carriage, rolling along it. Our weary little train proceeds through the green carpeting, and miserable roads of the Urserenvale, out upon the great high-road which seems to us to be thronged with people, driving, riding, and walking. I am delighted, both for my own sake and my bearers, when we reach Andermatt, and find comfortable quarters in the hotel of St. Gothard. The most difficult part of my journey is now happily ended, and I have taken care that my good bearers are as well supplied here as I am. Better and more satisfactory people cannot be found!

Altdorf, August 27th.—The memory of William Tell surrounds us here. They show the spot where Gessler placed the hat to which Tell would not bow; the place where Tell stood when he shot the apple from his little son's head, and where he afterwards addressed the threatening words to the cruel bailiff, who had compelled him to do it. A statue of Tell stands in the market-place, which represents him at the moment after the fortunate flight of the arrow, with his child pressed to his heart. The paintings, both within and without the houses, represent passages from his life. One of these gives Bürglen as the place of his birth, not far from Schächenbach, where he met his death, as tradition states, in an attempt to save the life of a child during a flood. In a word, every thing here teems with the memory of Tell, who, singularly enough, became in the popular mind, the peculiar hero of the contest for Swiss liberty, whilst, in fact, there is not any thing particularly great or noble in the actions which are related of him, and whilst the learned critic doubts whether he ever had an existence at all; but, with all due respect to his superior wisdom, it seems to me a little short-sighted and stupid; for a great smoke does not rise without any fire, and that which has taken such firm hold of the popular mind and feeling, must, of a certainty, have its root in reality, however poetry may, of late, have adorned or misstated it. Even if there be no mention of Tell in the chronicles or narratives of those times amongst the men who formed the Confederacy of Grutli; nay, if his name never appeared with these until long afterwards, that is no argument against his still being in direct connection with the Sworn-Confederates, through his actions, as a man of courage and lover of freedom, who fought for freedom in his own way, and in that manner which Providence and the occasion inspired. The picturesque and romantic elements of his fate have made him the hero of the popular imagination, because it loves the bold and the striking. That there existed among the Scandinavian traditions the story of a father who was compelled to shoot an apple from his son's head, long before the story existed in Switzerland, seems to me no argument against its truth in that country. True, or untrue, however, it ought to serve as one proof more of the Scandinavian emigration, of which I have spoken; because the emigrants would assuredly carry with them their manners and traditions. Perhaps it might be this very tradition which suggested to Gessler the trial of shooting at the mark to which he put the stiff-necked Switzer! Such repetitions of facts are not by any means new under the sun.

We had a proof how deeply the episode of Tell lives in the memory of the people, from a little incident near Andermatt. During the lovely evening of our arrival there, we went out, my friend and I, to see the wild fall of Reuss, at the Pont du Diable, one of those beautiful, terrible scenes, in which Switzerland, more than any other country, abounds. On our return, we saw an elderly woman standing before a little chapel, into the trellised windows of which she was peeping, with more of curiosity than devotion, as it seemed to us. As we approached, she turned round and saluted us in a friendly manner. She was a tall, handsome woman, with strong features, well dressed in the country costume, and with the white over the head which I had already observed to be general amongst the women of this vale, and which I had seen nowhere else so worn, except by the country women in Sweden. Penchaud asked the good woman, in his broken German, whether she could tell us any thing about Wilhelm Tell? It required a little while before she understood the question, and then her whole countenance brightened at once, and she began to declaim a rude poem in rhyme, in which Tell's actions were related in very strong and peculiar language. And as she went on, the old woman became quite animated, and strengthened the words by her gesture. Tell's unbending obstinacy before the Austrian hat; his shooting at the apple, as the mark; his kicking over of the boat which was to have conveyed him to prison; and finally his taking aim and shooting the arrow at Gessler, all were represented in highly-dramatic action by the old woman, as she recited the poem, and that too, in the middle of the road, where, in her zeal, she never troubled herself that the passers-by cast upon us wondering and inquiring glances. At the end both we and the old woman laughed heartily, shook hands and departed.

Early the following morning we set off from Andermatt, along the splendidly constructed St. Gothard's road, on which every turn is so measured, that, however steep it may appear to the eye, yet its descent never exceeds that which is safe for horses and vehicles. We drove in an open carriage, through a region, the magnificent scenery of which, ever more and more assumed a delicious and beautiful character. As we rolled along in our descent, the air became ever warmer. Beautiful walnut trees, lovely groves, twittering birds, surrounded us. Luxuriant, green pasturages, with trees, bushes, and cattle, gleamed out high up among the mountains, above which glanced forth the glaciers. The lower we descend, the more we come into the region of summer. We are now in the Canton Uri, the smallest and the poorest of the Swiss Cantons, and at the same time one of the foremost in the history of Swiss liberty. We drive past the rains of Gessler's castle, Zwing-Uri, where, with chains and cudgels, he endeavored to overawe the free sons of the country, and which thence derives its name. We salute Attinghausen, the castle and abode of Walter Fürst, the ruins of which are still shaded by a garland of beautiful trees.

We drive in close companionship with the Reuss, through the vale, and a more beautiful vale than this is watered by no river. It has also been bathed with blood in more than one bitter combat. The French, the Austrians, and Russians have fought with each other and the sons of the country, more than once, in this, and the vale of Urseren. Poor, little Switzerland! Long and severe has been the fight for the freedom and the peace which thou enjoyest; nowhere more severe than in the Forest Cantons, the primeval home of the Swiss people.

Yesterday afternoon we went to Burglen, the birthplace of Tell. On the place where his house is said to have stood, now stands a little wooden chapel to his memory, very finely painted and adorned with patriotic inscriptions. The walk thither, along the valley of Schächenbach, is one of the loveliest conceivable, from its affluence of beautiful trees; and the Schächenbach now flows clear and calm, as a thanksgiving hymn for the heroic deeds of old.

I have this morning paid a visit to the nunnery of the Franciscan order here. I had seen above the lofty wall of its garden, two walnut trees stretching out, partly verdant and partly withered branches, and I felt a desire to see the women, who, in the midst of this grand and beautiful natural scenery, shut themselves in forever, (for these nuns are under a vow of perpetual seclusion,) behind walls which prevent them from even seeing any thing of it. This convent receives, as I was informed, only ladies of high family, and it requires a very considerable portion to enable them to enter.

In the “Frau Mutter,” with whom one converses through a grated window, I found a very charming, middle-aged lady, of great refinement of features and manners. The loveliness of her hands, and the delicate tips of her fingers, showed her to be of aristocratic birth. She answered my questions with simplicity and frankness. This order belongs to the contemplative, and, pre-eminently, to the praying class. The nuns have many and severe fasts. They have divine service every night from eleven o'clock till two. Their prayers cease only when the hour commences at which another praying choir, in another convent, takes up the prayers and performs service for the living and the dead. For the whole twenty-four hours, the whole year round, must these continue, without interruption, in the Catholic Church. Good and beautiful in thought! But who can answer for the carrying of it out? And can any blessing, either for the living or the dead, be expected from these prescribed Latin prayers, uttered by half-sleepy bodies and souls, as a day's work? Only three of the sisters here occupy themselves with the instruction of children. The rest are employed in the convent. Their quiet life and severe fasts, render many of them sickly. “Frau Mutter,” had evidently a weak chest. I asked her if she had not sometimes a desire to see the world, and beautiful natural scenery? She smiled cordially, and replied, that she “had not the slightest desire for any thing of the kind.” And this was said with so much candor and cheerfulness, that I dismissed all anxiety about “Frau Mutter's” conventual life. Let us hope that other sisters participate in her taste!

“It requires a great many kinds of people to make a world!” is an American proverb, of which I often find the truth.

A Capuchin convent, on an elevation in the valley, is said to be the oldest in Switzerland. In front of the convent you see one of those “holy forests,” which are often found upon the slopes of the mountains in Switzerland, and which no one may touch, because they form a defense for the inhabitants of the valley against the avalanches or snow-lavines, which roll down from the rocks. These are broken in their fall by the holy forest, which itself stands firm and green amidst their fury.

This district is full of memories of the oppression and deeds of violence of the former Austrian bailiffs. Gessler and Landenberg are especially the heroes of such histories.

Here it was that Gessler, who was angry that the peasants had such beautiful houses, built his castle, which he himself called Zwing-Uri, by the sweat and money of the people. There it was that Landenberg, who, after desiring to take the oxen from the plow of the young Arnold of Melchthal, put out his old father's eyes, and laid a heavy fine upon him for the imagined crime of his son. “This thing,” says an old historian, “went so deep into the heart of many an honest man, that they resolved rather to die than to leave such a cruel action unrevenged.”

But it was not alone men's hearts that rose against oppression and deeds of violence.

It was thus that Margaretta Herlobig, the wife of Werner Stauffacher, spoke to her husband: “In former times the men of Schwytz did not remain satisfied under, and patiently bear such treatment; and it will become worse yet if they have not courage enough to oppose it, and to meet force with force. At this rate there will soon be an end of our liberty and our peace!”

If they who guard the domestic hearth admonish their husbands to defy dangers which in a twofold measure must press upon the heart of the wife, then,—then a great combat is at hand, a combat of life and death.

Against the avalanche which threatens to over- whelm the life of the vale, is opposed the holy forest of Freedom's Sworn-Confederates, who will either break, or themselves perish in the fight. This holy forest is the people of the Swiss Forest Cantons.

Brunnen, on the Lake of Lucerne, or the Vierwaldstädter See, Aug. 28.—Never did nature adorn more beautifully the cradle of Freedom than in Sweden and in Switzerland. There is Dalecarlia, here the Forest Cantons, which became its first home. And here, on the banks of the Lake of Lucerne, I seem to myself to be sitting beside one of the quiet, deep lakes of Dalecarlia. The resemblance is striking. The same earnest, lofty beauty; the same encircling band of mountain and woody shores around the lake; the same gay, sunny, grassy fields among the mountains; the same silence over the grand landscape, and in its bosom a people of simple manners, of pious and quiet disposition, but, at the same time, of powerful will and unconquerable love of popular right and popular freedom! There is also a similarity between the Swedish and Swiss struggle for freedom. There it was the oppression of the Danish bailiffs, here of the Austrian bailiffs, in the names of their respective masters, which armed the people and converted herdsmen into warriors. But here the resemblance ceases, without the history of either people becoming less noble or less remarkable. The Dalecarlians gave themselves a leader and Sweden a king, in Gustavus Wasa. The men of the Forest Cantons gave themselves unity and power in the Sworn-Confederacy. I now return to this.

Encouraged by his wife Margaretta, Werner Stauffacher crossed the lake into Uri, to visit his friend Waltur Fürst, of Attinghausen. With him he found young Arnold of Melchthal, who was here in concealment from the wrath of Gessler. The three imparted to each other their troubles, and resolved rather to die than tolerate any longer the humiliation of the fatherland under an unjust domination. Property and life, every thing, would they risk in order to regain the old freedom for people and fatherland. They desire for themselves neither power nor possessions. If their undertaking succeed, they will, on its completion, again withdraw themselves to their own quiet life, and let others reap that which they have sown. Thus the three engaged to each other; and into this compact they invited associates whom they regarded as like-minded with themselves. In order to carry this out, and to arrange their plans of action, they established nocturnal meetings at Grutli—a solitary, green meadow on the banks of the lake, between Unterwalden and Uri.

There, under the free vault of heaven, surrounded by forests and night, they could converse in freedom; there they mentioned to each other the new friends whom they had found for the general design; thither they conducted the new allies, and took counsel together for the accomplishment of their plan.

One starry night, at the beginning of November, 1307, thirty men from the Forest Cantons of Uri, Unterwalden, and Schwytz, assembled here, under the guidance of Walter Fürst, Werner Stauffacher, and Arnold of Melchthal. Here, after they had firmly resolved, each man took his friend's hand, and, at the moment when the beams of the morning sun first tinged the summits of the primeval mountains, the three leaders, and with them the thirty men, raised their hands and swore, “By God who created all men for the same freedom, and by all the saints,” this oath:

“That all would hold together, and in friendship live and die, whilst by their united power they would help their innocent, oppressed people to regain their ancient liberty and rights, so that all the Swiss should have forever, the enjoyment of this friendship. The Counts of Hapsburg should not, however, lose, in consequence of it, the least of their property or their rights, their people or servants, or one drop of blood, but the freedom which the Swiss inherited from their forefathers, would they preserve to leave to their successors.”

They agreed as to the manner and the time of carrying out their resolution. After this they returned home, kept their own counsel, and gathered in their cattle for the winter.

This was the confederacy of Grutli—the first Sworn-Confederacy. Nor has the sun ever risen upon a more beautiful or purer confederacy. At the moment when I write this, the lofty meadow of Grutli shines out just opposite the lake, splendidly green in the morning sun, which seems as if it would bless this spot, whilst the Mythen-stone rises solitarily from the lake like an eternal monument, placed there by the hand of the Creator.

It was on New-Year's morning, 1308, when the fight for freedom was to commence. It began with the first hour, when, at the given signal of a horn, Landenberg's castle was stormed. The inhabitants of Uri demolished Zwing-Uri. Stauffacher, with his Schwytzers, took Schwanau and Küssnacht. The bailiffs fled, the castles were in flames, and the national tempest advanced from Alp to Alp. But not a drop of blood was spilled on this day. Freedom, not revenge, was the desire of the people of the Forest Cantons. The love of justice and humanity led them to the battle against the tyrants. Their victory was perfect. God was with them.

The following Sunday the Confederates again met and renewed their oath for the defense of freedom and fatherland.

The murder of the covetous Duke Albrecht, by the hand of his nephew, and the slaughter of Gessler by William Tell, assisted at the same time the Swiss struggle for freedom. A pause ensued of astonishment and horror. But soon the house of Hapsburg armed itself afresh, that it might crush with all its force the young, free Switzerland. Duke Leopold, the brother of the murdered Albrecht, and the flower of Austrian chivalry, armed himself and took the field against the people of the Forest Cantons. But the herdsmen and peasants of the Forest Cantons also armed themselves. Hence occurred at Morgarten, on the 16th of March, 1315, that ever-memorable fight, in which a few hundred peasants of the three Forest Cantons, overcame, nay annihilated, a host of twenty thousand Austrians. And Duke Leopold, who swore to revenge upon the people of the Forest Cantons the death of his brother Albrecht, who threatened to trample the peasants under his foot, and who carried with him a wagon full of ropes to bind them with,—the proud, stately Duke Leopold was obliged to fly before the peasants. It was with difficulty that he saved his life. By lonely forest paths, and with but few followers, he reached Winterthur late in the evening, pale as death, and sorely dejected.

But the people of the Forest Cantons returned loud thanksgiving to “the Lord Almighty who had given them the victory over their enemies.”

It was in the mean time easy to see that this victory could not be conducive to their freedom. The men of the Forest Cantons foresaw clearly that new hosts would speedily be armed against them and their freedom. In order to overcome these and to permanently withstand their enemies, the Confederates saw no other means but by an Eternal Sworn-Confederacy with each other.

It was at the town of Brunnen, on the 9th of December, 1315, that the deputies from the Forest Cantons assembled and swore an eternal confederacy against “all warfare and all power,” as well within as against themselves. A confederacy, unlike other federate unions at this period, which had trade-interests or the acquisition of power or honor for their object, this aimed only at the maintenance of the noblest prerogatives of humanity,—freedom, justice, peace, and happiness. Therefore it won by degrees the esteem and attention of princes and people, and became confirmed by them not long after its commencement. Therefore it extended its power by degrees from its home in the Forest Cantons over more and ever more Cantons and their people, whom it attracted with magnetic force into its freedom and peace-giving circle. Therefore, during the course of several centuries, it has been able to overcome enemies both within and without, been able to form a federal republic, which at this moment stands alone amongst the States of Europe, an example to many and esteemed of all.

The Forest Cantons, the kernel of the Confederacy, whilst they developed for themselves the results of their contest and victory for freedom, assumed more and more a decided position against the rulers of other countries, and even against the ruler of their own church, the Pope. They stood steadfastly upon their ancient rights, freedom, usage, and even abuse. Like the primeval mountain of their own land, they stood opposed to the advance of the enemy, and even sometimes to the advance of the cultivator. They will not tolerate any law which they have not laid down for themselves, neither any thing new which has not grown up in their own soil. And hence it is that they have remained stationary, in a high degree, both as regards good and evil. But the good has developed itself in many excellent humane institutions, in trade-industry, in cultivation and general prosperity. Towns and convents have emulated each other in the cultivation of the land, even in the most savage districts, and every hut has become a home for industrial occupation, which has placed its inmates in connection with the trade of other lands.

I was told that in the Catholic Cantons, that is in the Forest Cantons, I should find a great difference as regarded order, cultivation, and comfort, between them and those who had embraced the reformed faith. But I did not find it so. On the contrary; wherever I turn my eyes I cannot but admire the excellent and respectable appearance of every thing that belongs to the country and its people. Every thing seems well-conditioned and prosperous. I have had this morning a better opportunity of judging, and with the same result, during a longer ramble than usual into the country by the side of a stream of the most crystalline water. The land seems to me to wear a holiday garb. Brunnen is the harbor for the Canton Schwytz, and the life and movement of the little town seem unceasing.

I might now speak somewhat less favorably of the conservatism of these Cantons, but defer doing so till I have seen more of them. They appear to me to look backward rather than forward, and that is injurious, in the long run. The old struggle for freedom and the rights they have acquired, seems to occupy the popular mind too exclusively, and to close it against higher spiritual development. The lately-ruptured Sonderbund is a bloody proof of this.

August 29th.—I visited Grutli during the morning, after crossing the lake in calm and beautiful weather. It is devoutly to be wished that the Swiss people may never take it into their heads to place upon this beautiful sun-lighted spot, a monument either of stone or marble, with inscriptions, etc. I cannot describe the peculiar charm there is, in finding here nothing besides the objects which surrounded the Sworn-Confederates during the nights when they assembled here, and upon the morning when the sun arose upon their solemn oath. This beautiful carpet of turf, these trees, this lovely pyramid, the Mythen Stone on the shore, this enchanting lake, with its garland wood and mountain, this image of Swiss scenery, and this memory,—are they not sufficient? And if people will still have any thing more, then nature and the popular poetical belief united, have provided it in the three springs from the crystalline waters of which people drink to the honor of the heroes of freedom, and which, it is said, sprung up in their footsteps.

Nor has Dalecarlia, the cradle of the Swedish champion of freedom, any other monument of its epic poem than the whispering forest, than the little hills, or the cottage, which served the hero as his stage of action or his asylum. And this is enough. Monuments of stone would be injustice to the popular memory.

I gathered some lovely grass on Grutli meadow, and sunned myself in its beautiful scenery and its ancient memories. After which, we rowed back to Brunnen, where we amused ourselves by contemplating two large inartistic works, in fresco, which are to be seen at the landing-place. The one is to commemorate the Sworn-Confederacy, which took place here between the Three Forest Cantons, on the 17th Dec., 1315, and represents these under the form of three men; the other represents two combatants, one of whom falls in a most dangerous and extraordinary manner. Below are the words—“Switer conquers Swen, and founds Schwytz.”

I am told that the subject of the picture is a quarrel between two brothers, which occurred at the commencement of the Swedish colonization.

In the evening, my friend and I fell into conversation,—I know not rightly what led to it,—on the Calvinistic doctrine of predestination, which several of the ministers of the Reformed Church still adhere to, to this day; but not Penchaud, who is too mild and too much enlightened. He observed, what a small space this doctrine occupies in the Holy Scriptures in comparison with the doctrine of free grace, its demands and consequences. This former dogma, originated by Augustin and Calvin, which it is easy for the natural sense of justice to refute, has its root in the difficulty, hitherto unsolved by the human mind, the uniting of God's omnipotence and man's free will. We talked on this subject, and then—we became silent. It had grown dusk, and, in the quiet evening, no sound was heard but the soft dashing of the waves against the shore on which our inn stood. The windows were open; I leaned against the window-frame, and looked out into the landscape. It was gloomy. Dark clouds hung over the heights, and threw black shadows in the mirror-bright lake. One shadow, in particular, lay there: so black, so profound, that even the brightness of the water was lost in it. And upon this dark object my eye was involuntarily riveted, whilst I listened with a melancholy feeling to waves striking upon the shore. They seemed as impelled by an inward unrest, of which the outward calm knew nothing; and I thought upon the questions always recurring, always dark, which from one century to another, hurl their waves with the same plunge, the same unsolved dissonances, against the human breast, causing its heart to throb with restless bitterness.

“Will it always remain the same, for me, for all?—the same in all times upon the earth?” I asked, dejectedly, and gazed at the dark shadow. All at once arose out of it, the most delicious music and wind-instruments. I could not see those who produced it—the dark shadow was as impenetrable as before—neither did I inquire after it. I merely listened and drank in, with my whole soul, these heavenly tones, which ascended, like angelic voices, out of the deep. Eternal harmonies! are there such in the depths of the dark questionings of human life? And do we not hear a promise of the harmonious solution of these,—a promise of your harmonious concord, when we listen to our own soul's deepest anticipations and requirements?

In the far distance across the lake, a voice joddled so freshly, so joyously! Prophetic voices amid the shades of evening, receive my thanks! Let us wait and hope! And having seen the sun rise, it would be pusillanimous not to wait and believe that it will penetrate with its light the shadows of earth—even those cast by the great mountain. Thank God, I can both wait and hope!

I proposed to Penchaud that, during the quiet evenings of our journey, we should read together the ninth chapter of St. Paul's Epistle to the Romans, which has so frequently occasioned me the bitterest anguish, and that he should help me to understand it in connection with the two following. For the right explanation of this lies infallibly in these.

Schwytz, August 29th.—The town Schwytz lies at the foot of the lofty obelisk-like rocks, the Mythen, as quiet, as silent, as if it alone were occupied in collecting its memories. And that it is so, seemed proved by two acquaintances which I made to-day. The first in the morning, when we paid a visit to the Landamman Reding, one of the oldest and noblest families in the Canton. It was now represented by individuals of refined and elegant manners, living in a beautiful house, in rooms with silk hangings and antique splendor. They expressed themselves with displeasure against the Diet, which had lately met, and which, in its foolish democratism, had unanimously rejected a law which the government of the Cantons had conscientiously elaborated. Landamman E. occupied himself in collecting genealogies and records of the ancient noble families of the Cantons. He communicated to me a new variation of the old tradition of the immigration of the Swedes into Switzerland, and which strengthened it. The suggestion was interesting,—that they entered the country at eleven o'clock in the day, and that in memory thereof, it was ordained that every day, when the clock struck eleven, the people should pray a Pater Noster and three Aves,—a custom which is still held in reverence by the people of Schwytz. The high-born couple conducted themselves towards us politely, but with coldness. Not a breath of hospitality refreshed the visit. My friend, with his mildness and sensibility, was quite depressed by it.

In the evening of the same day, we paid a visit to a certain M. Kid, to whom we had a letter. We found in him a pale man, of gentle demeanor, and of an extremely interesting character. After a life of much labor and suffering, he had attained to a quiet independence, and could now wholly devote himself to those literary occupations which were dear to him above every thing. They consisted, principally, in collections having reference to his native town—Brunnen. His little abode was a museum of memories, appertaining thereto. In one work of twelve volumes (!) he had drawn up the history of every old house in the town, and of the families and trades occupying them. To this belonged portraits in the old-fashioned costumes, copied from those still existing in the churches and chapels of the place. Some of these were executed by good artists, and were really excellent. Amongst a collection of ancient documents, he possessed one which also had reference to the immigration of the Swedes.

Whilst M. K. himself lived with the greatest economy, he was still able to employ and remunerate several artists, who designed and painted pictures for him from the past, and even the present life, of his native town.

M. K. accompanied us home, and whilst on our way thither, he related to us some portions of his own life, which I wish I had space to repeat,—they are so pervaded by a spirit of noble pride, of faithful labor, and warm-heartedness. His earliest, bitter sufferings, as a child, when, his father being cruelly maltreated by the French soldiers, his mother had nothing for the wounded man but soup made of bread boiled in water with a piece of tallow-candle, and the son felt that he would rather die than complain; of his gradually struggling upward by making gunpowder; the payment of his debts; his purchasing of books; his earliest delineation of old houses; his courtship, marriage, and domestic felicity; all these described so livingly, so evidently from the heart's faithful memory, were quite delicious! His good wife had now been dead some years. M. K. showed us her picture, extremely well executed, representing her at her spinning-wheel; and his life has, since then, been empty and overshadowed,—so he said, with an expression which showed how deeply he felt it to be so. He now lived merely in his collections of old memories.

There is a good and a bad conservatism. The former is a golden thread which links us to the past and makes us more thoroughly understand the present and the future; the latter is a block of wood which stands where it stands, understands in fact nothing, and goes no further.

We walked along the shore of Lake Lowertz. Rossberg, with its riven summit and gloomy tradition, lay just opposite. M. Kid related to us various incidents of the terrible occurrence when the summit of Rossberg was hurled down over the valley of Goldau and buried the villages of Goldau, Bussingen, and Kothen, together with four hundred and fifty-seven human beings. Amongst these was a wedding procession. It was the 22d of September, 1806, and the summer had been rainy. Early in the morning of the unfortunate day, dull, cracking sounds were heard in the mountain. Its fall occurred in a moment. Large herds of cattle had already taken flight. Many hundreds of animals, both large and small, together with human beings, were buried under the mountain rains. Of these only two hundred were saved. There still lies the formerly fertile and rich valley buried under a mass of earth and rocks, presenting a very effective sermon to the worshipers of Nature, who see in nature nothing but harmony and the highest revelation of the Creator's wisdom and goodness. But does not the Creator indeed permit destruction? Yes: and had he not a more beautiful Goldau valley beyond that, in which bride and bridegroom might complete their marriage procession, and enter into indestructible habitations, then the Creator would be—not a good, not a fatherly God. But what does Nature tell us about that other Goldau, about that realm beyond the fall of mountains, or any destruction whatever?

Lucerne, 30th August.—Early this beautiful morning we set out in a little, open carriage, along the lake Lowertz, out of the Canton of Schwytz into that of Lucerne. The country resembled a vast orchard; in the meadows the people were busy with their second hay harvest. The people here have carried cultivation as high as possible up the mountains, combating with the mountain and the severity of the cold for a foot-breadth of cultivatable land. Amongst and by means of large stones, they collect and keep together the soil, and in it plant a few potatoes or flowering plants. It touches and it rejoices the heart to see this solicitude about the food-bearing earth. In the so-called “Hohle Gasse,” or Hollow Way, by Küssnacht, a deep road which winds amongst trees and bush-covered, lofty headlands, we were shown the place where Tell concealed himself when he had shot Gessler—an action which was scarcely honorable—and a chapel has been erected on the shore, with images and paintings to his memory. The steamboat journey on the lake of Lucerne from Küssnacht was splendid between the vast mountains. Pilatus, Rhigi, and others, towards Lucerne, which, at the upper end of the lake, extends its quay, its handsome houses and church towers, with so much grandeur that one might fancy oneself approaching an important city.

But the importance of Lucerne consists not in its greatness, but in its glorious situation and its life. To the outward and grand features of this belongs the Reuss, which is hurled like a cascade out of the lake, and across the rapid smaragdus-green waters, pouring onward into the country, are thrown three bridges, one very peculiar with its number of paintings from Swiss history. To the outer life belongs also the number of steamboats which arrive here all the day through, and the multitude of travelers who transform the beautiful quay, with its hotels and cafés, into a Parisian boulevard. As belonging to the inner—but also to the outer—life at the same time, may be mentioned the trade expositions for the Cantons, which now attract visitors, and where we cannot but admire the great development of the little Cantons in every kind of trade and beautiful industrial occupation. The most peculiar seems to me a perfect choir of cowbells, from the largest to the least bell which is carried by the Swiss herds of horned cattle. When one approaches a herd, the whole being set in motion would produce—although the sound might be almost deafening—the melodious concert which often delighted me when I heard it up amongst the mountains.

Alone of its kind, is a work of art, called “the Lion of Lucerne,” executed in memory of the Swiss guards, who were slaughtered in Paris, the 10th of August, 1792, whilst endeavoring to defend the unfortunate King, Louis XVI. I have visited the Lion this morning. The sun glanced through the trees as if to caress the beautiful monument. It is hewn in the rock—a colossal lion drooping in death over a broken column, which, though expiring, it still seeks to defend. The expression of sorrow and suffering in the countenance of the noble animal, is indescribable. 0ne might say that it weeps. It made me weep. The design was by Thorwaldsen, that son of Iceland, who gave to all his works, the stamp of life, which genius alone can give. At the foot of the mountain-wall and the lion, lies a little sheet of water, deep and dark, reflecting the figure of the lion, the shadowy trees around it, and the sky which glances through them.

Alone of its kind also, is the panorama of Rhigi, which its artist, M. Meyer, now exhibits here. One sees the rosy dawn ascending, and the sun set above the magnificent scene, which is said to be painted with admirable fidelity. I shall soon perhaps be able to judge of this, as in the afternoon we ascend Rhigi. But without fine weather, nothing is to be seen. Mount Pilatus wears a nightcap of cloud which, people say, denotes rain. Perhaps, therefore, Mr. Meyer's panorama may be my only view from Rhigi. In order to accomplish this work, it is said that he ascended Rhigi one hundred and twenty times.

Rhigi Culm, September 1st.—There is undeniably, nothing like “weather-luck!” And without having something of this kind, people ought not to travel, because all the pleasure of the journey depends upon it. I am fortunate enough to have a little of this good luck, and that even now on the Rhigi.

The weather became calm and beautiful, yesterday afternoon, when we set off from Küssnacht, for the ascent of Rhigi; I, on a lazy Rosinante, which had much more desire to graze on the side of the road, than to go along it. Calm and blue, like heavenly mirrors, lay the lakes which we left below us, and which seemed to become ever smaller and smaller, as we clambered upwards. The road is broad, and in excellent condition, the whole way, and the views magnificent. After the ascent of three hours, we approached Rhigi. Reaching its lowest station or “Rhigi Scheideck,” we were informed that the hotel at Rhigi Culm, was quite full; that it would be impossible for us to pass the night there, so many travelers having lately arrived on account of the fine weather. Nevertheless, I was determined to make the attempt. But when, half an hour afterwards, we approached the great hotel, at the summit, we saw on all sides, troops of travelers arriving on horseback, and in chairs. One fat gentleman was carried by eight men. Sighing, and yet jocundly, I told my friend that I foresaw what my fate would be; I should have to pass the night “à la belle étoile, under my umbrella.”

Arrived at the hotel, we were met by the information, “that every place was full. A hundred guests had already secured rooms for themselves.”

The kind, agreeable, hostess, however, added consolatorily for me;

“Wait, a little! Don't be uneasy! I will manage so that you shall have a little room. But you must be content with what you can get!”

“With any thing!” I assured her. “All I wanted, was a roof over my head, and shelter from the night-cold!” My friend had already taken a room at Rhigi Scheideck.

Now, therefore, we calmly gave ourselves up to the contemplation of the grand scene. This is, as every body knows, the most extensive in the world, but not exactly in the sense which I call magnificent and beautiful. You behold the earth spread out like a map beneath your feet, and the gigantic Alps seem like small white sugar mountain summits, around the horizon.

But now commenced the grand spectacle of the sun's departure from earth; and here, it was a scene of wonderful pomp and beauty. The hundred guests stood in innumerable groups upon the wide plateau, and beheld with us the splendid show, but less silently than we did. The many-colored mass of people, their various physiognomies, their restlessness and noise, was a picture in itself, by no means without interest to the looker-on.

But now an Alpine horn sounds with trumpet-like clangor to announce that the sun has descended, that the scene is at an end, and that people can go to supper. The hundred, therefore, come into hasty movement, and stream down singly, or in groups, towards the hotel. Anon, the great table is occupied. People eat and drink, and chatter and laugh. A band of Tyrolese play “table-music,” sing and joddle. I hastily swallowed some bread and butter, and a cup of tea, and then hurried forth again, and up the heights, knowing that I should now behold something unusually splendid in the “afterglow” of the setting sun. And so it was.

The western and southern horizon glowed like a ring of the clearest fire round the dark earth, the lower tracts of which now wholly disappeared from the eye; darkness resting upon the face of the deep. But in the north, dark, gigantic forms elevated themselves threateningly, from the home, as it were, of eternal night. These two half circles, these two embraces, of light and darkness, which here inclosed the earth,—the earth with all its desires and all its agonies, this tranquilizing day, this “Ginnunga-gap,” this watchful, mysterious night, which inclosed these all in a ring—it was a sight, the effect of which is indescribable. It seemed to me that a brain not overstrong might become dizzy with this sight forever.

But I recommend all tourists, who love the forcible in color and effect, not to neglect, when on Rhigi, the scene after the sunset. I spent above half an hour totally alone, on the heights, and when I returned to the hotel, people were still sitting at table, eating and drinking and making a great noise, and the Tyrolese were still playing and singing.

After that, people went to bed. My room was a little attic, just large enough for a bed, a chair, and a table. There was also a large window, almost above my bed's head, and when I extinguished my candle, behold, a star beamed above me, so large and so bright, that it shone into my soul and I could not sleep. A starry heaven like that night on Rhigi, I never saw equaled. No wonder that it kept me awake, and allowed me to follow all its changes, till the blush of morning glowed, and it paled before sunrise.

And now again was heard the Alpine trumpet. It was the signal of sunrise. I hastened up and out. The one hundred streamed forth pell-mell to the plateau, in costumes and physiognomies which looked tolerably bewildered and only half-awake.

The earth seemed as yet altogether “without form and void,” covered with the shades of night. But by degrees they became lighter, and you saw the little lakes down below vailed by thick clouds of mist, as of white cotton-wool. A gentleman stood on the summit with a couple of ladies.

“See,” said he in French, pointing to the cloud-covered spots, “see, there is the eternal snow!”

And when the people round him laughed, he began,—exclaiming, in great amazement, “Quoi?—Comment?—ce n'est pas?—Mais—Ah!” etc., to have a consciousness of, and an insight into his mistake, at which he himself laughed merrily.

And now people stand in silent waiting for whatever shall follow. The scene brightens by degrees, and an increasing glory is seen upon the white peaks of the Oberland Alps. Again the Alpine trumpet sounds, and immediately afterwards a dazzling ray flashes over the jagged mountains of the Canton Glarus. The giants of the Oberland gleam forth in its blaze, and soon the earth sphere grows clear in the sun's light. But the mist above the lakes seems to become denser, and to extend itself over the surrounding country. The morning spectacle is now at an end, and the hundred stream back again to the hotel to breakfast, and I follow in the stream.

It was Sunday. I had resolved to spend the whole day at Rhigi, in order to enjoy its scenes thoroughly. The greater part of the hundred guests left the mountain soon after breakfast. At Rhigi, at this season, there is a perpetual ebb and flow of human beings.

I seated myself on a rock on the lofty plateau. The mists had spread themselves from the lakes, over the whole earth, so that one could not in the slightest degree discern its dwellings, fields, or hills. A dense vail of cloud covered every object. Above this the white, jagged peaks of the Alps were alone visible, and above them arched itself a deep blue and perfectly cloudless heaven.

“If the people below there, under the vail of cloud, did but know how bright it is at the same time,” thought I, grieved for those from whom this gray, cloudy heaven concealed the sun. Then the church bells began to ring down below. They rang for divine worship. It seemed to me as if the bright sound was dulled by the cloud-covering. But before long this was penetrated by the sunbeams, or riven asunder by a wind which was not felt on the heights where I sat; and from the river mist stood forth, one after another, towns and churches, villages, woods, cultivated fields, lakes and rivers. The first lake which stood out, blue and bright, was the little mountain-lake, Egeri, the lake of Lucerne, Zug, Sarnen, and others. By degrees, the whole region was unvailed, and it was an enchanting scene. But now, lying there in its whole extent, in the full blaze of daylight, the beautiful, affluent earth, it was no longer remarkable for the attractiveness of its beauty. Every object seemed so miserably small, and human beings as mere nothings. The landscape lay there, immovable and lifeless, like a map. It is true, that many places might be pointed out which were celebrated as the scenes of great battles and heroic achievements, but the greatness of these vanished, as it were, in the pettiness of the causes for which they were sometimes undertaken. The man athirst for conquest, should behold the earth from heights such as those of Rhigi. Methinks he would then ask himself whether it were worth while to steep it in blood for a few foot-breadths of land. It is only when war has reference to higher interests, that its exploits become great and important, even though achieved on a mere point of space.

During the forenoon, Penchaud and I read the Epistle to the Romans. The various chapters ought to be taken collectively, in relation to the whole epistle, of which they are a part. Thus only can they be rightly understood. We also read portions of P.'s treatise on the conscience. He regards this innermost principle in man, as the highest truth, in its development from the most elementary condition, to its full, concrete form, in the Christian consciousness. I stated my objections to various parts, but I cannot sufficiently express my opinion of the excellence and importance of the work in its purport and execution. Such works are of great value at the present time; but the author's conscientiousness prevents him from finishing “The Conscience.”

We spent the afternoon in contemplating the Alpine scene. The sky continued clear, and the air so calm, that the lakes appeared smooth as a mirror. A little fly, no larger than a point, skimmed backwards and forwards across the water,—it was a steamboat. At length I grew heartily tired of the immovable scene, and its map-like landscape. I longed for whispering trees, purling brooks, flowers and birds; for mankind—loving, suffering, laboring mankind. The morning was beautiful, but not equal to the last.

Sarnen, September 3d.—It is pleasant to rest here a couple of days after the fatiguing descent from Rhigi, which we made on foot. Passing through scenes of idyllian beauty and fertility, we arrived at Stanz, the capital of Unterwalden, and the smallest capital I ever saw. It lies embedded amongst mountains, in conventual quietness. It has been, nevertheless, the cradle of heroic souls. Arnold Winkelried was born there; and during the religious war, young girls fought there for their faith, and died with their arms in their hands. The greatest notability of the little city, at the present time, is the painter, Deschwanden, the most celebrated artist in German Switzerland. We visited him in the forenoon, and found him a small man, with large, soul-full eyes, and quiet demeanor. He stood, with his brushes and pallet in hand, surrounded by pictures of angels and saints, which he was painting for the churches and chapels of the Catholic Cantons. His angels seemed to me actually angelic; his Madonnas, with the child Christ, very lovely, but not deep in expression. His most important picture seemed to be one which he was painting for the Cathedral of Corie, the capital of the Grisons. It is large, and represents the martydom of St. Stephen. Stephen is seen in the centre of the picture, sunk upon his knees, whilst his transported, beaming countenance is directed upwards. On the left, stand the people of the lowest grade, who are stoning him, frenzied, blood-thirsty, scarcely half-human, who, having tasted blood, are athirst for more, and rush blindly against the victim whose very purity irritates their savagery. On the right, you see a couple of Pharisees, who are turning away, with inexpressible scorn in their glance and on their lips. But Saul lingers, with a sense of reaction. You see, evidently, that thoughts and feelings are awakened in him which will afterwards make themselves acknowledged,—at the time when he hears the voice: “Saul, Saul, why persecutest thou me? It is hard for thee to kick against the pricks!” The expression in the countenance of the dying Stephen is the prick which, for the first time, has entered his heart. Deschwanden's picture has given me a better understanding of Paul's conversion.

Separated from the world in this convent-like quietness, Deschwanden seems to obtain, from the depths of his own soul, inspiration and the ideal. These have both purity and beauty, but hardly proportionable strength. Yet his Paul is grand, and he himself is one of the fortunate of the earth. We visited Winkelried's dwelling, or that which is said to be his,—a handsome but ruinous country-house, with its garden. The old-fashioned decorations of the rooms indicate an aristocratic condition. During the beautiful evening, we drove to Sarnen, the capital of Upper Unterwalden. The principal object of attention in this little city, seems to be the memory of Nicholas de Flue and his hermit-cell, in the neighborhood.

This man, the most celebrated saint of the Catholic Cantons, was born 1417. He was a wealthy man, and of the nobility of the country. At the age of fifty, he left house and home, and a large family, the youngest of which was still in the mother's arms, in order to devote himself to a life of poverty, fasting, and prayer, in a solitude far removed from mankind. Thus would he live, alone for God and heavenly things. He practised this mistaken service of God for more than five-and-twenty years, during which time, it is said, that he performed many miraculous works.

We have, during the day, made an excursion, under umbrellas, to the romantic Melchthal, where he lived his hermit-life, and where the whity-gray Melch roars wildly through the narrow valley. Its surroundings are, however, soft, shadowy trees, and green slopes. The dwelling of “Bruder Klaus,” under which name Nicholas de Flue was known in his monastic life, is still standing on the rock near the river,—a miserable little hut, with small, four-paned windows. Here you find still, the wooden board, worn smooth with use, which served him for his bed, and also the stone, smooth also, which served him for pillow. The walls of the hut, and still more those of the little chapel in the neighborhood, are covered with votive tablets in his honor. The chapel contains, besides these, a series of paintings, representing scenes from his life, the greater number miraculous incidents, more or less absurd. His horse seems to have had its share in his saintly glory. In one picture, you see a remarkable white flower growing out of its mouth. The people in the surrounding districts seem to have a fanatical devotion for his memory, as well as faith in his power.

“Do you pray also to Brother Klaus, when you are in need of help?” I inquired from our young attendant, the daughter of the host of our hotel, the Golden Key, at Sarnen. “Yes, certainly!” replied she.

“But do you not think that God would hear your prayers, if you addressed them to Himself?” “Yes—but help comes more quickly if one prays to Brother Klaus.”

It is an easy thing for the Protestant Christian to smile at the attributes with which the popular imagination, and the popular childishness of Catholic countries, deck out their saint; and the thinking world, of the present day, has another and a higher ideal of the Christian life, than that which is represented by the life of the self-torturing, world-abandoning hermit. But yet it is certain, that this lonely, self-abnegation of all which the world gives, brings with it, powers of which the earthly great are destitute, and which govern the heart of princes and people. To fear nothing but God, gives alone, immeasurable strength.

When the cruel Queen Agnes, in order to revenge the death of her husband, King Albrecht, had a thousand innocent persons, men, women, and children, tortured and murdered, in whose blood, she said, “she bathed as in morning dew”—when she, with the property of her victims, built upon the spot of Albrecht's death, the splendid convent of Königsfelden, where she herself lived in an ostentatious sanctity, which attracted the admiration of the thoughtless; then it was, that a pious hermit, Berchtold Strobert, refused her the absolution which she desired, addressing to her these severe words:

“Lady, it is a miserable God's service, to shed innocent blood, and to build convents with the spoil! God has more delight in kindness and mercy!”

And when, at the close of the fifteenth century, many of the Swiss Cantons, after long dissensions, were on the eve of coming to a bloody quarrel with each other, it was Brother Klaus, who, by his appearance in the Diet at Stanz, and his affecting and wise address to the Sworn-Confederates, succeeded in uniting them afresh. Berne, Lucerne, and Zürich, gave up their “Sonderbund,” all the Cantons made mutual concessions, and Freyburg and Soleure, came into the Confederacy. A few years after having rendered this important service to his native land, Nicholas de Flue died, at the age of seventy. During his hermit-life he was a general benefactor and good counselor for the whole country round. The pictures of him, represent him as a very meagre form, in a capuchin cloak, bare-headed, and bare-footed. He is thus painted in his entrance to the Diet-chamber at Stanz.

In these Cantons, Uri, Unterwalden, and Schwytz, the smallest and poorest in Switzerland, we have encountered very little poverty, and seen only one beggar, a proof that the government takes good care of the common-weal. The land is everywhere beautiful and well cultivated.

During our hours of rest in this city, we have read the conclusion of St. Paul's chapters on predestination. His meaning, taken as a whole, seems to us, to be this. The election between people and people, man and man, is relative. The one is called earlier, the other later, to enter into the kingdom of God. If the first called misuse the call, he is cast off, and another takes his place. But the first can be replaced, if he will, and if he seek to be so, and thus all Israel becomes blessed.

The reading of these passages has produced a good and tranquilizing effect upon me. St. Paul's doctrine here, is no other than that love will, and that conscience must, agree with the prophet in believing in a just God and Lord, who “hath wrought and done it, calling the generations, even from the beginning.”

Zurich, September 6th.—We arrived two days since at Zürich, the cheerful city; known for its hospitality to strangers, its freedom, and science, the Athens of Switzerland, as it is often called. We traveled in the early morning from Lucerne over the Albis. The air was cold; snow had fallen during the night on the mountains. We traveled by omnibus. A couple of gentlemen, our fellow-travelers, spoke of a revolution which had broken out the preceding day in Neufchatel. “The mountain is said to have come down into the city (les montagnes sont descendues sur la ville), and seized it in the name of the King of Prussia.” Every body expressed amazement at the occurrence. What if that should turn something more than the Swiss revolution, which Voltaire characterized as a tempest in a glass of water, or lead to a great war! Nobody dared to prognosticate any thing about it.

We drove through the little Canton Zug, the entire population of which does not exceed seventeen thousand and some hundred souls, the greater number Catholics, but which yet takes its place and has a voice in the Great Federal Council, by the side of Zürich and Berne. From the summit of Albis, the sun-lighted view of Zürich, with its lake and its richly cultivated and populous shores, was indescribably beautiful.

In Zürich two suns seemed to be shining, because every countenance seemed beaming as from an inner sun. As so it was. There was a great festival there, the greatest of its kind in Switzerland. Six thousand little boys from the German Cantons, and all bearing arms as soldiers, had been for a couple of days assembled in Zürich, upon the Champs de Mars, on which they enacted the battle which took place—I do not know in what year—between the Austrians and the French in the neighborhood of the city. All these children had been quartered with kind friends in the city, and every body seemed to participate with their whole hearts in this military children's festival.

This had brought a great concourse of strangers to the place, so that there was no more room in the great Hotel Baur, neither in any other hotel. But this embarrassment became my good fortune, and I found a home and the most amiable hospitality, in a private house on the banks of the Limmat.

In the afternoon the great Thalach Street was crowded with people; faces looked out from every window, and every countenance was gay; every eye was directed to a distance with a look of eager expectation. The loud beating of drums was heard afar off, and you might read in every countenance, “Now they are coming!”

They are the Boy-legions who are entering the city after their manœuvring and fighting before it. And now they march onward, the youthful, future defenders of the fatherland, in separate detachments, according to their Cantons, in full uniform, with colors flying and excellent military bearing, and in advance of all, a large troop of little drummers, who drum as if they had never done any thing else all their days. It was in truth a joyous sight to behold these six thousand boys, with the roses of childhood on their round cheeks, with a gravity of expression and demeanor, as if they knew that they had already entered into the service of their native land.

Two of the young heroes of the future were quartered in the house where I found my home. They were from St. Gall, handsome lads of nine or ten years of age. I could not understand them, neither was their St. Gall dialect very intelligible to my hostess, but the politeness and the propriety, at the same time, with which these children conducted themselves in their strange home and at supper-time, testified to their excellent breeding. They were most hopeful examples of the rising generation of the republic. In the evening there were fireworks in the city, in honor of the six thousand young ones.

Canton Zürich is, after Berne, the most populous, and beyond comparison the most wealthy of the Protestant Cantons of Switzerland; and the city of Zürich, one of its most beautiful and most flourishing cities. Since the walls of its fortifications have been removed by order of the Grand Council, it has extended and developed itself daily in every direction, like a vigorous tree in the spring. Science, industry, benevolent institutions increase, as if in emulation of each other; and gardens and plantations encircle the increasing city with beauty. Its situation and the views of the lake and the Alps, are among the most glorious in Switzerland.

The enlightenment and education of the people seem to take the lead. Every week, during the winter, each professor of the academy delivers a lecture on his own particular branch of science, in a popular manner, suitable for the public, at the Hotel de Ville. The taste for science and art is by no means a stranger among the artisan classes. Butchers are collectors of pictures, sometimes even painters; tobacco-dealers, botanists. The wealthy M. F. Ascher, who employs several thousand work-people, at his large mechanical works—whence steamboats are sent to every lake in the republic—employs himself also, by giving them opportunities for moral and intellectual culture. The silk-looms maintain many thousand families without the workers being crowded in factories. The people work at their own homes and in the country. The looms stand in the cottages scattered about the fields of the Alps. The country people fetch from the town their orders, and the raw material, and carry back thither their shining fabrics.

The well-to-do and cheerful people, who crowd to Zürich on the market days, show very evidently what is their condition. The poor in the Canton Zürich, are in the proportion of one to thirty-five, whilst in Berne they are as one to ten. The Professor of Political Economy here, M. Cherbulliez, considers that this very different proportion is occasioned by the circumstance, that, in the Canton Berne the State is compelled to assist the poor, whilst here in Zürich, they are almost entirely aided by benevolent societies. The ladies of the city distinguish themselves by their judicious activity in these, devoting themselves especially to the children, to the old and the sick. Mathilda Ascher—the daughter of the great manufacturer—is spoken of by all the needy as an angel of goodness and mercy.

Amongst the benevolent institutions here, I have been especially interested with the lately-established Pfünd Institution, in which upwards of seventy men and women of the burger-class, receive a home and maintenance for their old age. I saw an aged couple here, who told me that this was now the happiest time of their life. Both were sixty-nine. She could scarcely speak for tears of joy. The fresh air, the beautiful view, the lovely grounds which surround the institution, all were evidences of the piety of the founder, and the good sense employed in the laying out of the place. I noticed that on the well-supplied dinner-table, a bottle of wine was placed for each person. The old folks are entertained three times a day with coffee. Long live the good who thus interest themselves in making old age happy!

I have seen amongst the scientific institutions, the Antiquarian Museum, and those Celtic antiquities which have been found in the Swiss lakes. All these ancient articles, whether arms, domestic implements, or personal ornaments, belonging to the primeval inhabitants of the country, have been fished up from these lakes, thus strengthening the view which Swiss antiquarians began to entertain, that the most ancient inhabitants of Switzerland built their dwellings upon piles in the lakes. The librarian, M. Weise, who showed me these interesting antiquities, which, in many respects, resembled those of the primeval inhabitants of Sweden, showed me also a document regarding William Tell, which he had lately discovered in the so-called “White Books,” in the archives of Unterwalden. In this ancient book, of the fifteenth century, William Tell's history is related simply and fully, and in all its main features, is identical with that of the popular tradition. The language and style of the narrative prove its age and its originality.

I must now leave the lively, and in many respects, very interesting Zürich, for the details of two days which I spent at Einsiedeln, the Delphi of Switzerland, whither annually a hundred thousand pilgrims proceed from every part of Catholic Switzerland, and even from Germany, and where, at this very time, a great festival is to be celebrated. I have a wish to see life in the Swiss republic, under all its various forms.

Zurich, September 10th.—We were sitting, Penchaud and I, upon the steamer, on the shore of the lake of Zürich, waiting till it should set out and convey us to Bapperschwyl, on our way to Einsiedeln, when I saw a young man, of remarkably agreeable exterior, hastily come across the deck and approach us with joyful looks. He placed himself before my traveling companion, and exclaimed:

“Penchaud!”

Penchaud looked up, uttered an exclamation of joy, his whole countenance brightened, and the two men were clasped in each other's arms.

They had been fellow students in Lausanne, at the time when, according to M. Penchaud's expression, the young girls in the city envied the youths their happiness in being students under such teachers as Alexandre Vinet, Choroles Schritau, and others, and when, according to Penchaud's own account, these youths assembled for conversation on the highest subjects, and remained together discussing them till one or two o'clock in the morning, and then walked home, arm in arm, in a regular intoxication of friendship.

Eight years had passed since all this. Penchaud, after having traveled on foot through France, preaching the gospel and disseminating the Holy Scriptures, had married in Switzerland, and settled down in one of the high valleys. Young Vogel, his friend, had become a teacher in the Tecknological Institute, at Wurtemburg. They had not seen each other through the whole of this period. On Penchaud's arrival in Zürich, Vogel's mother had telegraphed the news to her son.

“And thou hast come all this way merely for my sake,” exclaimed Penchaud, with emotion, “just at the moment when I am leaving!”

“But I am going with thee! I am here for that very purpose!”

“Nay, that is delightful!”

And now the steamer was put in motion and the two friends sat side by side, in the most cordial conversation, whilst I enjoyed the sight of their happiness, and views of the richly-populated banks of the Lake of Zürich. Charming villas and manufactories, with their tall, smoking chimneys, lay interspersed with groves and cultivated fields. Before us, arose in the distance, the snowy Alps of Glacis and Appenzell.

At Kapperschwyl, we took a carriage, and entered and ascended the Canton Schwytz. The weather had become stormy and wet. After a three hours' drive, we arrived in rain and gloom, at the little town of Einsiedeln, which for the greater part is a town of houses of entertainment for the pilgrims to the convent and its Holy Virgin. Lights shone from every window in the town. Ten thousand pilgrims are said to have arrived for the morrow's festival. A letter which I had brought with me procured us rooms, however, and a most kind reception at the inn to which it was addressed.

San Loretto in Italy, St. James of Compostella in Spain, and Einsiedeln, or “Notre Dames des Eremites,” in Switzerland, are the most frequented places of pilgrimage in Europe.

It is now, according to the chronicle, many centuries since Meinrad, Count of Sulgen on the Danube, built for himself a hermit's cell on the heights of Etzel, together with a chapel for a miraculous image of the Virgin, which had been given to him by Hildegard, Abbess of Zürich. He was murdered in the year 861, and the murderers were discovered by ravens which the holy man had fed. After Meinrad's death, the fame of his sanctity spread far and wide, and the Benedictine Monastery was built on the spot where his cell had formerly stood. Legends and dreams announced the election and consecration of the new temple by the Lord himself. A Bull of Pope Pius VIII. confirmed these and gave plenary indulgence to all pilgrims to “Notre Dames des Eremites.” The believing, or superstitious throng streamed thither, and the monastery became the richest in Switzerland, after that of St. Gall. Rudolph of Hapsburg elevated its abbot to the rank of prince. A court was formed around him, and he became lord of great territory. At the present time the Monastery of Einsiedeln is the most considerable in Switzerland, and its abbot is generally chosen from some of the principal families of the country, and is called in the Catholic Cantons “the Prince of Einsiedeln.”

The number of pilgrims amount yearly to 150,000, and it is said that since 1848 it has been on the increase.

The monks and priests of the convent employ themselves in the education of the young. A hundred pupils are received into its seminary. It has its own printing establishment, a considerable library, physical and mineralogical collections, etc.

The festival which is now about to be celebrated—one of the greatest in the course of the year—commemorates the announcement of the angels at midnight to the Bishop of Constance, that the Saviour himself, surrounded by legions of the heavenly host, had already consecrated the church. This was on the 8th of September, 948; and on the 8th of September, 1856, I went in the earliest dawn, with my traveling companions, to the celebrated church. The morning was damp and cold, but the stars, gleaming through the clouds, seemed to divide them and to give us hope of a clear day.

The monastry is a large and palatial building. In the church itself it was so dark that we could see nothing of its celebrated beauty and pomp. Numerous groups of pilgrims stood, or had fallen on their knees in every part of the church, but more especially around the little chapel in the centre aisle, through the gilded grating of which a little image of the Virgin, of black wood, with the child Jesus, also black, may be seen Toy the light of small, yellow, wax candles which the devotees have lighted and placed there. Both images are adorned with golden crowns and precious stones. Their countenances are unusually pretty and agreeable, but it produced a most strange effect to see a jet-black Virgin and child. They were considerably smaller than life size. Not a hymn, not a note of the organ was heard at this early hour. Nothing was heard but the dull murmuring of the pilgrims' “Pater Nosters” and “Ave Marias!”

All around St. Meinrad's chapel—the chapel which contains the Virgin—the church became more and more thronged with devotees. As the day dawned we went out. In the square before the monastery stands a splendid fountain which pours forth its unceasing water from fourteen pipes. We noticed several pilgrims go round and drink from every separate jet. Tradition states that our Lord Christ drank on one occasion from one of these pipes, and in order not to miss drinking from the one which quenched his thirst, the pious pilgrims drink from them all. Water drunk from the right one, will, it is believed, give health both to soul and body.

At ten o'clock the grand processions began. A gilded image of the Virgin is carried round the great square in front of the monastery; then follows the priestly array with standards and banners; then come men and women and children, all in order, and walking two-and-two. One beautiful division was composed of young girls dressed in black, walking one-by-one, carrying urns with relics.

To this succeeded High Mass. A letter of introduction from a kind Dr. K., of Zürich, to the present abbot and prince, Henry IV., obtained for me a place in the lofty choir, and afterwards a conversation with the prince and his court; but of that anon.

High mass continued a long time, but its beautiful instrumental and vocal music afforded me enjoyment, as did also its excellent organ. The priests who officiated in the choir, bowed themselves alternately before the altar and the abbot, who was seated on his velvet throne, without apparently taking any part in the service.

After this, the multitude of pilgrims spread themselves about the great square, where a large market was being held, partly for the sale of red ribbon, and pictures of saints, and partly of small printed papers, issued from the printing presses of Einsiedeln. I purchased a couple of these on speculation. They promised forgiveness of sin for two hundred days, to those who made a pilgrimage to the Madonna of Einsiedeln, and who prayed, with their whole heart, the prayer there prescribed to the Holy Virgin.

Provided with these indulgences, I set out in the afternoon for my audience with the Prince of Einsiedeln. Brother, “Master of the Kitchen,” a tall Benedictine monk, conducted me through the long and numerous passages of the convent, with distinguished politeness and complaisance of manner. With him, however, and two others of the convent's notabilities, Father Brandis and Father Gallmorell, I had already become acquainted, having been shown round the monastery by them. The former was a little, animated, and merry man, who understood my “sketches,” and talked about them as kindly and as cheerfully as a layman. Father Gallmorell, a tall man, of Italian descent, and with a perfectly Italian physiognomy, was known as the genius of Einsiedeln, and as a poet of no inconsiderable merit. He seemed to me profound, but at the same time cunning and satirical.

I was conducted into a handsome room, more suitable for a castle than a convent, adorned with good portraits of the former abbots of Einsiedeln. Here I was received by its present abbot, Henry IV. He was a man of fifty, of singular personal beauty and dignity. In his mild countenance, and refined, complacent manner, a certain degree of embarrassment betrayed itself; he blushed continually. It occurred to me whether high birth, and an amiable character, had not elevated him to the rank of Prince of Einsiedeln, rather than, erudition and other gifts. His little court, which, equally with himself, took part in the conversation, which I desired, had evidently no great respect for these. Father Brandis frequently replied for him; nay, in his vivacity, even interrupted him without any ceremony. Father Gallmorell made, without any regard to him, his profound, half-sarcastic remarks, which seemed sometimes to have reference to us altogether.

My first question concerned the indulgences which I had bought for a few pence.

“They are issued,” said I, “from your printing-press. Do you approve of their promise of forgiveness for sin for two hundred days, for such as purchase here these writings, and offer the prescribed prayers?”

The abbot seemed at a loss to know how to answer.

“Observe, I pray you,” said Father Gallmorell, pointing to the little paper, “that it here states, for such as shall, with their whole heart, pray this prayer. The indulgence is merely for those who pray with the heart.”

“But why, then, only for two hundred days? or for any fixed number of days? We Evangelical Protestants believe that God forgives the sins of the whole life to those who, with their whole heart, pray for it.”

The spiritual gentleman said that the forgiveness here referred to, applied only to temporal or ecclesiastical punishment. I could not understand their explanation, and I am not sure that they themselves were clear on the subject.

My second question was:—

“The pilgrims to Einsiedeln evidently believe in the miraculous power of the image of the Virgin. Is it, also your opinion that the image possesses any such power?”

“No,” replied they, unanimously. “We venerate it only because the holy Meinrad venerated it.” And this they all corroborated.

“But the people here,” I said, “evidently believe quite the contrary.”

“Yes, the people, that is true,” said the abbot, hesitatingly; “and they ought to be enlightened, but, but—” he paused, and Father Brandis went on to say how this must be done: “by degrees, slowly, by degrees!” and Father Gallmorell examined his sandals with a sarcastic expression.

I mentioned the faith which the people had in the mediation and prayers of the saint, and inquired “how they—they, the wise fathers—could explain this also, in conformity with the faith of their church, that God alone hears and answers the prayers of men?”

“We think,” commenced Father Gallmorell, in explanation, “that probably, like as a good father of a family allows to his children as a reward, the privilege of dealing out alms and gifts to poor, beseeching beggars, so also does our Lord, with his faithful servants. All prayers are heard by God alone, that is true, but he sends his nearest friends or servants to convey the answers to them.”

This explanation was very good, and may, it seems to me, be not without its truth. But the worthy father forgot that the prayers of the people are actually addressed directly to the saint himself, besides that, they have concern to outward things and donatives. I noticed this to him, as well as that the comprehension of the prayer, and the soul's connection with God, by means of it, are done away with.

They conceded this, said that “the people ought properly to be enlightened, but, but—the church had, in all ages, believed in the mediatorial prayers of the saints.”

“We have,” said Father Gallmorell, “proof in the catacombs, that the early Christian church believed on this subject as we do.”

My last questions had reference to the worship of the Virgin. “Did the Catholics,” I asked, “found this upon any passage in the Holy Scriptures?”

The abbot looked quite nonplussed; but the acute Father Gallmorell, who was never at a loss for an answer, interposed:

“Not precisely in the Scriptures, but in the catacombs, it is evident that from the earliest times, the first Christians prayed to the Virgin Mary, as the Queen of Heaven.”

I now observed that Father Gallmorell must be particularly conversant with the catacombs, but that I could not follow him, as I had never been there, and knew but little about them. But I said, “something ought to have appeared in the Gospels regarding the high dignity of the Virgin, if it had its foundation there. But our Lord Christ had always appeared desirous of abrogating the placing of faith in his earthly relatives, as participators in his work, and I referred to the words in Matthew xii. 48-50.

The abbot in the meantime had recovered himself, and he said:

“We believe that the words which the Saviour uttered on the cross to his disciple, regarding his mother, “Behold thy mother,” were not spoken alone for him, but for every one of his disciples in the world, for all mankind and for all time! Therefore we venerate Marie, as our mother, and the mother of all mankind.”

This explanation was beautiful, and it was beautifully given, and I conceded that it might have its truth within certain limits, as—but I would not any longer detain the noble prelate, of whose politeness I did not wish to take undue advantage. I thanked the handsome and worthy gentleman for his kindness and took my leave. He asked if I should like to see his own private chapel, and the other gentlemen conducted me into a room as splendid as a boudoir; brilliant with crimson velvet and gold fringe. Above the altar was a Madonna, by Deschwanden, beautiful and lovable, but too human, a figure less to worship than to fall in love with. Henry IV., of Einsiedeln, was evidently one of the elegant and amiable prelates of the Catholic church, not one of its apostles and saints; he was neither a brother Klaus nor a St. Meinrad.

It was remarkable how all these gentleman seemed to consider themselves thinking and enlightened men, far above the prejudices and superstitious of the people. The poor people!——

But is it not the people's own fault if they remain in the dark? It was at Einsiedeln that Ulrich Zwingli, pastor of that place from 1515 to 1519, first commenced his powerful preaching against the sale of indulgences, the abuse of which he became well acquainted with at Einsiedeln. It was here that he began to preach the gospel, and the new life in Christ, in conformity with the Holy Scriptures. He preached at this very festival of the angels' consecration, so powerfully against indulgences, pilgrimages, and monastic vows, that the monks abandoned their cells and the convent was empty for a time. The mild and cheerful man became violent, and his language sometimes coarse, as indeed it usually was at this time, when he saw the failing of the church and the sins of the people.

“I know it,” he said, in palliation of himself, “those great sinners kindle my wrath. But Christ, Peter, and Paul also, attacked them with violence. I am very far from finding any pleasure in abuse; I am generally of so gentle, conceding, and good-tempered a character, that it troubles me!”

It was at Einsiedeln, that Zwingli saw the same criminal persons return year after year, laden with the same and renewed crime, to seek for absolution by kissing the holy relics, or by the purchase of indulgences, and learned more deeply to comprehend the wants of the people and the age. “In truth,” said he, “the greatest villains come hither merely to get fresh courage, and not one is ever reformed!”

The noble reformer, however, was obliged to leave Einsiedeln. On New Year's day, 1519, he made his appearance as preacher in the Cathedral of Zürich. Here he explained the Gospels in their due course, comparing at the same time, their dictates with the abuses of the Catholic Church, and the deviation of its teaching from the precepts of the Scriptures. And week after week he became better understood.

It was in Zürich that the reformatory activity of Zwingli became perfected and bore fruit; but it was in his solitary cell at Einsiedeln, when he knelt and cried to God for “an understanding of the word,” that the first beams of the light of the new day arose for him. “God does not grow old!” was an expression which he often used.

The study of the Holy Scriptures in Greek produced the conversion of Zwingli. He did not in all respects take the same views as Luther. Both received from Heaven the truth which they published.

“I commenced,” wrote Zwingli, in the year 1516, “to preach the gospel at a time when the name of Luther was unknown in our country. I have not learned the Christian truth from Luther, but from the word of God. When Luther preaches Christ, he does the same that I do.—That is all!” Zwingli required, at the same time, the study of science, literature, and the classics. His heaven had room enough in it for Plato, Aristides, Camillus, and Scipio.

But Zwingli was not the only reformer in Switzerland. Luther stood alone in Germany, high above every other, and face to the colossus of the Romish church, whose great opponent he became. Luther, so to speak, is the monarch of the spiritual revolution. But the light of the truth, and of the new life, did not proceed from Germany to Switzerland, and, from thence, to France, and from France to England and Holland. All these countries were visited at the same time by the warm, awakening, vernal wind of the same new, life-giving sun. One and the same teaching found its way, during the sixteenth century, into home and church of the most diverse peoples; the same spirit awakened every where the same faith. Throughout Switzerland, a reformer arose in almost every canton. Many leaders were seen, but not one general commander. It is like a confederacy of reformers arising in the republic of the Sworn-Confederacy, each one with his peculiar physiognomy and different influence. There are Wittenbach, Zwingli, Capito, Heller, Œcolampadius, Oswald, Myconius, Leo Juda, Farel, Calvin, in Geneva, Zürich, Berne, Neufchatel, Glarus, Basle, Lucerne, Schaffhausen, Appenzell, Gall, Graubünden.

In the German reformation there is one chief man, and one place of honor; in Switzerland the new life divides itself according to the thousand mountains. Every valley has its awakening, every Alpine height its clearing away of cloud.^[7]

The high valley of Einsiedeln had its, also. Its people might choose between light and darkness! I now return to my enlightened Benedictine monks. The valuable library of the monastery, which is strictly closed against strangers, was nevertheless opened at my request, to my friend Penchaud, who wished to see the writings of some of the oldest fathers of the church in their original language.

“It is quite wrong,” said the mild abbot, “that our library should not be open to all who may have an interest in its collections.”

Father Brandis and Father Gallmorell gave me several books, partly with reference to Einsiedeln, and partly of a higher interest, amongst which was Möhler's celebrated work, his Apology for the Roman Catholic Doctrine. Father Gallmorell gave me a printed collection of his poems, in which there is really “la scintella celesta” The learned father accompanied me to the grated door of the monastery, behind which they withdrew, taking leave with a chivalric politeness which would have perfectly become courtiers; and I fear that the pious brothers were that, rather than servants of the Gospel. If amiable kindness and courtesy, united to handsome exteriors, could have converted me to the Roman church, these monks would have converted me; but——

I spent the remainder of the afternoon partly within, and partly out of the splendid church, observing the same scene, and listening to the same Ave Marias and Pater Nosters incessantly repeated.

At vespers, a magnificent Salve Regina was sung in St. Meinrad's chapel, by fifty monks. The music and choristers are excellent, but the singing is without shading in its strength; it is one continued fortissimo. Late, in the twilight, I went alone to pay a farewell visit to the church. The state of things there was very peculiar. The prayers were much louder, much more violent; people shouted aloud; they were taking heaven, as it were, by storm; but the prayers were all in Latin; always the same five Pater Nosters, and three Ave Marias, in succession, repeated with a fervency and hurry, as if all power and strength consisted in the number of prayers. Bands of ten or twelve pilgrims proceeded from altar to altar, from chapel to chapel, throughout the church, kneeling and repeating at every one, a number of Pater Nosters and Aves. Many of these pilgrims, as I was assured, are deputies for others, and for a certain fee, undertake to repeat here certain prayers, and to do a little, so-called, holy business—purchase indulgences, masses, and so on. Whilst the voices of the pilgrims, amidst the increasing darkness of the church, rushed like the waves of an agitated sea, the organ peeled a tranquilizing, monotonous Amen—so sounded the accords above the prayers of the people. Such was the conclusion of the scene. It was not edifying.

Early on the following morning, we drove under a brightening sky, back to Rapperschwyl. On the road, the two friends fell into an earnest conversation on political subjects, on the Swiss Revolutions, popular education, and such like questions, which so easily lead to bitter words and coolness between friends who discover themselves to entertain different opinions. The former comrades and fellow-students of Lausanne, even they discovered that, during the long separation of eight years, they had each taken different paths on more than one topic. And each advocated his own views warmly, but with so much moderation in expression, so much friendly regard and esteem for the other, that it was a pleasure to hear. One could see that on neither side had a single shade of displeasure disturbed the cordial relationship between the friends. And more than once during this journey, it has been a pleasure to me to observe the cheerful candor, and yet delicacy at the same time, which prevailed in the intercourse between these two young men, and which I have seldom seen among men.

I have again spent two extremely interesting days in Zürich, during which I visited the beautiful promenades both in and on the outside of the town, the Botanic Gardens, and the “Weid,” with its glorious amphitheatre of the Alps of Glarus and Appenzell.

I have also, during this time, made the acquaintance of several persons whom I shall gratefully remember, amongst whom, are Professor Cherbulliez, and his family; an intellectual young Mme. Lavater, who presented me with her father-in-law's works ; and those four young sisters W————, handsome and highly cultivated, who came to talk to me about their father. He had educated them, and trained them to independence, freedom, and useful activity; imparting to them the treasures of his heart and mind, he had been to them, at once, a father and a brother. By the assistance of his daughters he had established an educational institute, which was one of the most flourishing in Zürich. The good father has now been dead a year, and the daughters continue the work which he began, but it seems to have lost its best pleasure for them in his removal. Bright tears filled, again and again, their beautiful eyes, as they spoke of him. There are the most beautiful flowers on his grave. One of the handsome sisters is about to be married.

“We hesitated long,” they said, “before we gave our consent, but———&c.” It seemed as if all the four sisters married in this one. Thus they were all one in sisterly love. Their father had taught them to be thus attached to each other. All that was good was the work of the father. Blessings on him, and on all fathers who resemble him!

Zürich has given Switzerland and the world many distinguished men, amongst whom, Gessner—a monument to whose honor, stands upon one of the tree-crowded peninsulas between the Sihl and the Limmat, which during his lifetime was his favorite promenade,—Zwingli, Pestalozzi, and Lavater, are the most generally known. Many distinguished Italian refugees also, during the period of the Reformation, added lustre the hospitable city; amongst these, is the pious Tellicare, who, during his life of eighty years, “never experienced three days of sorrow, and not a single one of anger.” A rare life!—Italian family names are borne at this day by many of the most esteemed families of Zürich.

Let me here make reference, and prefer a request to the authors of certain books which I value very highly, because no books seem to me more difficult to compile—I mean guide books. They show us the way to towns and places, and give us the names of hotels, cafés, and promenades. But they very seldom tell us what memorable persons, what benefactors of their country and mankind, have been born and lived in these cities. And yet, this it is, which would give to a town or locality, a higher rank, and a more enduring memory on earth, than cathedrals, and battles, and which are more interesting to travelers with hearts, and heads, than information about the best hotels, and places of amusement. We implore for a little space for the great men in these guide books, which now constitute a peculiar branch of literature, and which no traveler can dispense with! For the want of such a chapter in my “Bradshaw,” I stumble about in uncertainty, regarding these the Swiss Cantons' highest ornaments, and am quite certain, in consequence, to commit more than one oversight, more than one mistake.

Few countries on the face of the earth, ought to be richer in these, the noblest product of public life, than little Switzerland; few have given to the world so many great citizens. Is not this principally the effect of its federative states culture?—of the many central points around which public life groups itself, at the same time that all possess a common unity and a common object, for which one and all work in freedom, conformably with their genius and their power? Thus every Canton and its chief town may produce its highest human fruit. The Cantons of the Confederation appear to me to be, in their constitution, a type of all other great nations and confederate states in the world.

I have felt myself happy in Zürich, from the spirit of fresh spring-life which I could there perceive permeating the realm of heart and mind. The Ygdrasil of human life (the world's tree) shoots out vigorously in every direction, and thus it grows towards heaven, nay, in heaven!

And now let me utter a thanksgiving and a blessing upon the home into which I was received as a sister and a friend; that home in which long and bitter sorrow was overcome by many prayers and much work, and where much daily work did not prevent the most noble and delicate hospitality being shown to the stranger, nor the amenities and attractive pleasures of life being obtained for her. Let me, from my heart, thank the mother and sisters Rohrdorf!

The bright river which flows past their handsome, old-fashioned dwelling, and the sunshine in its waters are faithful images of my life during those days and in that home!

Basle, September 12th.—Arrived here at eleven o'clock at night, and was miserably accommodated at the “Wildman,” where the young “wildmen,” the waiters, seemed to think that people came thither for their sakes and to obey their laws.

I parted in Zürich with my good friend and traveling companion, Penchaud, who returned home, whilst I bent my steps towards Germany. I was accompanied on the railway by my young friend Louisa Rohrdorf, as far as Baden, in the warm sulphur baths of which place ten thousand persons annually bathe. Here I parted from the amiable and lovely young lady, one of the most beautiful examples amongst the many, confined by a life of material labor, who courageously and patiently battle through the long weeks of labor without a complaint, whilst they secretly lift tearful, longing glances towards a life of thought, of soul-enjoyment, and activity to which they believe they can never attain!

There are, even in Switzerland, many such sufferers. This ought not to be the case there.

It was at Baden that the former princes of Hapsburg had their residence; and the ruins of their stronghold still elevate themselves above the town. It was here that the cruel Queen Agnes committed her atrocities to revenge the murder of her husband, King Albrecht; here where the wife of the innocent Von Wart knelt and prayed the pitiless woman, “by God's mercy at the Last Day!” to forgive him. For three days and three nights Von der Wart lay upon the rack; for three days and three nights his wife stood by his side, enduring his torture with him. He died asserting his innocence, and she, barefooted, went to Basle, where she died of a broken heart. Not far from this place is the great Convent of Königsfelden which was erected by Queen Agnes, and where, after having committed her wholesale murders, she lived, making pretensions to the honor of sainthood. For such saints there must be a reward in—hell.

At the town of Brugg, the Aar, the Reuss, and the Limmat unite their waters. The district is beautiful, and abounds with historical memories. The road runs through the Canton Argovie. It was with a melancholy feeling that I followed the course of the Aar through the fields. It flows broad and heavy, with sandy islands and banks, through green valleys, no longer resembling the rushing, living stream which I had beheld in its childhood, near its glacier cradle, and from whose waves I derived new vigor; now it was aged and weary, and allowed itself to go carelessly onward towards its change. Had it any presentiment that it went on at the same time towards a higher change, a greater history? It did not appear as if it had. My eye followed it with regret upon its tedious last journey, till it was hidden from view by a mountain.

Towards evening, I was driving along the banks of a mighty river, the cheerful waters of which flowed calmly through a flourishing region. It was the Rhine, now enriched with the Aar, the Reuss, and the Limmat, forever renewed from their sources in the Alps and the Jura. A glowing evening crimson-flushed the distant country towards which the mighty stream was flowing, and towards which I was journeying by its side.

I saluted it again with joy at Basle.

Basle has many great memories, and amongst these various noble and distinguished individuals. Œcolampadius and Erasmus lived and taught here. The noble Italian refugees and friends of the Reformation, Olympia Morata, from Ferrara, distinguished by birth, learning, and the noblest character, Curione and his daughters, found here an asylum.

The chief honor to Basle at this moment, appeared to me to be the publisher of the monthly journal, “Protestantische Blätter,” Dr. Heinrich Geltzer, and this periodical itself, with its liberal and comprehensive spirit, as well as the great Missionary Institute, which makes this city a centre of missionary activity, not alone in Switzerland, but in Protestant Germany. Here the men intending to become missionaries are prepared to preach the Gospel to “all people and to all creatures.” Here, again, they are assembled at the great missionary festivals, and together with them the societies and persons who take part in the great work,—the former to render up their accounts, the latter to hear and advise.

Two years ago, there was a want of means for the institute and its labors. The difficulty was laid before the people of the Protestant Cantons. It was proposed that every man and woman should give a “sous” towards the good work. Sixty thousand francs were sent into the missionary fund that year, by these means, and the same sum has been continued annually, since.

In M. Josenhaus, the Superintendent of the institution, I became acquainted with a remarkable and very unusual person. Such ought the peaceful champion of the kingdom of God upon earth to appear; thus ought he to speak, and thus to be penetrated by the feeling of no more belonging to himself, but to the work to which he has been called. Thus decided, thus steadfast, yet at the same time mild and cheerful, ought the man to be who, with undeviating firmness, must prepare young men for the fight of life or death, which is the vocation of the missionary, especially in the regions whither they are generally sent from here. A row of black crosses stands already on the coast of Guinea, and testifies of the dangers which there meet the preacher of the gospel; and yet fresh candidates are continually offering themselves.

The best and most persevering disciples come from the agricultural classes. As soon as they have overcome the first difficulties in their studies, these sons of the soil advance steadily. Youth of a higher grade, accustomed to a more delicate mode of life, can seldom long stand the hardships which they have to endure, and the relinquishment of all the conveniences of life. M. Josenhaus believes that women would be of great service in missionary labor, especially for the women and children, and in the education of youth. But they ought, in that case, to be sent out in little companies, of from four to six, under a superintendent.

The period of instruction, in the Missionary Institute, is usually five or six years. Mr. Josenhaus was now occupied with the formation of an alphabet which should serve for the instruction of all races of heathen and savage people. The impression which my intercourse with him produced upon my mind, was peculiar and profound. I never before felt myself so tumble, and so insignificant. I felt ready to weep because I was no longer young, and could not enter upon this path, under the guidance of this man! Otherwise, I would have done it. God did not will that it should be so!

Six young men were now ready to go hence, to the deathly coast of Africa. Three of these go as missionaries proper, the other three as their assistants. Their portmanteaus were packed; their knapsacks buckled; every thing was ready, and on this day they were to set out. They seemed thoroughly equipped, both soul and body. One of them, a young man of thirty, struck me by the deep earnestness, and at the same time the cheerfulness, of his expression. To him might have been applied the words of

THE MISSIONARIE'S CALL.

“My soul is not at rest. There comes a strange and secret whisper to my spirit, like a dream of night, that tells me I am on enchanted ground.

“Why live I here? The vows of God are on me, and I may not stop to play with shadows, or pluck earthly flowers, till I my work have done, and rendered up account.

“And I will go. I may no longer doubt to give up friends, and idle hopes, and every tie that binds my heart to thee, my country.

“Henceforth, then, it matters not if storm or sunshine be my earthly lot. Bitter or sweet my cap. I only pray God make me holy, and my spirit nerve for the stern hour of strife.

“And when I come to stretch me for the last, in unattended agony, beneath the palm's green shade, it will be sweet that I have toiled for other worlds than this.

“And if one for whom Satan hath struggled, as he hath for me, should ever reach that blessed shore, oh, how my heart will glow with gratitude and love.

“The voice of my beloved Lord, ‘Go teach all nations,’ comes in the night, and awakes mine ear. Through ages of eternal years, my spirit never shall repent, that toil and suffering once were mine below.”

(Aside to the Reader.)

They tell me, my R——, that at the present moment you do not care much about Switzerland; that all your interest is devoted to Italy, and that I must hasten to conduct you thither. I would gladly oblige you in this respect, for I myself long to go there; but I must beseech of you to have patience with me yet a moment, and to hear what I have to tell you about Switzerland, and you will then acknowledge that the contemplation of the life and condition of a Confederate State of high development, is not unnecessary for the forming a correct judgment on one which is strong, after such a state of development; in a word, the perfect knowledge of life in Switzerland affords an insight into the Italian question, in its deepest significance—the human.

And do not all the higher political questions of the present time—and a great and glorious time it is, nor would I willingly have lived during any other—tend in all their bearings to the question:

Under what form of government can human and social life attain to its noblest and fullest prosperity?

A state which approaches to this condition, may serve as a model for one which is endeavoring after it.

The highest well-being to the people is also the people's highest and most sacred right.

Therefore, my R——, if you love Italy, and its young, freedom-seeking life, do not object to spend yet a few moments with me in contemplating life in the country where its noblest refugees have, in bloody and dark times, found an asylum against persecution, where they last breathed the air of freedom and learned the laws of self-government.

For this purpose, I will henceforth contract my copious journal to the notice of a few essential data, and advance with seven-mile steps through countries and times till I shall have scaled the Alps and descended to the soil of Piedmont, rich in promise.

The sun-illumined heights of Monte Rosa are not alone the points of union for the eye to glance over the valleys of Switzerland and Piedmont. Higher interests, more elevated heights, illumined by a never-setting sun, unite them and—all peoples.

Albens, January 1860.

1. Plants, when produced on the lofty mountains, have a totally different power to what they have when grown on the plain.—Author's Note.
2. See J. von Müller's History of Switzerland.—Author's Note.
3. The land Urbahr.—Author's Note.
4. How truly Swedish are all these traits of national character every one will acknowledge who is more intimately acquainted with the national Swedish temperament. I could not find, however, amongst the names in the church books, any Swedish ones. But the resemblance of the female costume, and especially the head-dress, to that prevailing in certain Swedish provinces, struck me. And it seems to me that it would be easy for any who are more favorably circumstanced than I was, to gather among the Hasli people such traces as would be furnished by their manners, customs, and traditions. In doing this, particular reference should be had to domestic life and to the women, those most faithful conservators of popular tradition, whether in tradition itself or costume.—Author's Note.
5. The Vaudois archeologist, M. Troyou, has requested me to make inquiries whether, in Sweden, and especially in Gothland, the children, in a certain game, express themselves any thing like the following, which prevails:—

   In Schwytz, thus:	Einige, binige, pumperti,
   	Tiffi, Taffi, numen-n—i,
   	Hättibrod, ninder der Noth,
   	Zechigfange—zöll zatter—erst dusse si.
   In the Canton Vaud, thus:	Enik, Benik, top, te
   	Triff, Traff, kom me
   	Akabrö, Sinknö
   	Fine fane, tousse house.
   In Berne, thus:	Anige, Bäinge, doppelde
   	Trift, Traft, trummer me
   	Acherbrod zinternoth
   	Zinter dfanne dusse gstande.
   In Basle, thus:	Anige bänige doppel de,
   	Dickel, Dackel, domine,
   	Ankebrod, in der Noth
   	Zinne, Psanne Dusse stoth.
   And in Solothurn, thus:	Andi bändi, doppede,
   	Divi, Davi, Domine,
   	Ackenebro, Zinereno
   	Dfanne, Tiller, dusse stoth.⁠
   Author's Note.

6. The Swiss naturalists, Agassiz, Desor, and others, have, after long and patient investigation, discovered that the quiet or immovability of these glaciers, is merely apparent; that under the pressure of the snow-masses which annually accumulate upon their heights, they slide incessantly and softly downwards. In this way coming under the influence of the sun and the temperature of the earth, their ice is melted and the rivers are released.—Author's Note.
7. See the History of the Reformation by Merle d' Aubigne, vol. ii., book 3.—Author's Note.