were public property.) My conscience does not reproach me for that, however. But I felt disappointed to lose my quiet Sunday at Chamonix; I had looked forward to it so much. But here we are at last in full view of Mont Blanc, of which we have a fine view from our window, as also one of the Mer de Glace. I stopped to write this letter, or the last part of it and my other to you, and will now go to bed. Love to all the folks.
HENRY.
CHAMONIX, Aug. 17, ’79.
MY DEAR MOTHER,
I commenced a letter to you on the war-path from Pisa to Genoa, or Genoa to Milan, I forget which, but the thing has disappeared somewhere or other. If I find it I will send it on. In any case you will not lose much. Since my last to you, written from Rome a week ago to-day, the grandest act of all our travels has been ushered in—I mean that we have left Italy and are in cool, beautiful Switzerland at last. Yes, Mother, we have crossed the Alps; the grandest scenery I ever saw or ever expect to see has been traversed, and here we are in the “Vale of Chamonix.” To-day, yesterday, the day before, and the day before that, by which circumlocution I mean four days, have been, I may say, among the most wonderful of my life. We arrived at Milan Wednesday night, Aug. 13th, the day after Father’s birthday. The next morning we visited the Milan Cathedral, of course, and ascended the tower for a view of the roof of the Cathedral, wonderful, you know, for its extraordinary elaborateness of adornment, and also the plains of Lombardy, neither being worth seeing (?) We—that is, Carrie and I, with most of the section—started for Lake Maggiore at 11 A.M. Jim, Helen, and Miss White did not go. We had a most magnificent sail on the Lake, recalling in beauty Loch Lomond. Leaving the steamer at Stresa, after a two-hours’ sail, we were served a good dinner, after which interesting episode, we took a boat and had a sail out to an island, about fifteen minutes’ row. This island was beautiful in the extreme. It was all terraced, and laid out into magnificent gardens. There was a palace on the island, the first we had seen! (??), and we surveyed it with much interest, as usual.. But the garden got ahead of all. We spent about an hour and a quarter here, and then returned singing “Home, Sweet Home,” and other tunes on the way. They chimed in well with the scenery. Immediately upon returning, about half-past seven P.M., several of us took a splendid swim in the lake, the most delightful I have had since leaving the islands. We started about 11 P.M. in the diligences for the passage of the Alps by the Simplon Pass. Riding all night, sleeping a little and seeing a little, we arrived at Domo Dossola early in the morning, where we breakfasted in the court-yard of the hotel, with no roof above us but the blue sky. We were supposed to have an hour and a half here for breakfast, resting and a general good time, but lo and behold, before I had my coffee poured, Mr Gray announced that it had dwindled to fifteen minutes. I ate all I had time for, and jammed the rest in my pocket—legitimate? We now came very soon into grand scenery that altogether beggars description. I extemporized a seat on the top, and got Carrie up there, and we had a general good time. Jim and the rest caught up with us in a few hours, which added of course to the enjoyment. The Alps abound with water—delicious cold streams in which many times I washed and drank that day and laved my burning brow. It is late, and I must go to bed, as a slight preparation for the Mer de Glace excursion to-morrow. This letter has told positively nothing, and it is impossible that I should tell anything in less than 20 sheets. I must learn to glean. All I say now is, this is beautiful and that is beautiful, the extent of my descriptions and ideas.
With love,
HENRY.
INTERLAKEN, Sunday, Aug. 24, ’79.
DEAR MOTHER,
Aug. 24th finds us at Interlaken, nearly ready to leave Switzerland. The idea most present in the mind just now is that our grand European tour is nearly ended. Less than two weeks will pass, and the Atlantic will receive us to its cold embrace again. Usually the thought would be one of pleasure, but just now my stomach doesn’t feel very good, and the result is that the very thought of the ocean is sickening. Strange how one’s enjoyment of things and ideas of life depend on the state of his system. Nine out of ten of a man’s heart troubles and discontents and weariness pf life may be laid to dyspepsia. Switzerland is a beautiful country’ and pleasure unalloyed has been the programme of the last week. The being too continually in the presence of beautiful scenery has a tendency to make me a little thoughtful—by no means disagreeable for a change. Chamonix, Geneva, Chillon, Fribourg, Berne, Interlaken. That includes a beautiful sail on the Lake of Geneva, and another still more beautiful one on the Lake of Thun. I also forgot yesterday’s programme — Interlaken, Lauterbrunnen, Staubbach, Grindelwald, the ice cave, and back to Interlaken. Switzerland has one delightful feature apart from its scenery, which I have forgotten to mention, and that is honey! Ah! what does not that magic word express! Honey for breakfast! I have gone back on coffee altogether now, and eat nothing for breakfast but bread, butter, and honey.
Interlaken is a beautiful place—one of the most beautiful we have visited. The village is composed mostly of hotels. So, at least, appearances say, and has as well, so they say, only one street, though I guess there are some small ones poking around somewhere. Our hotel faces a large square or park, and commands a delightful view of the hills and snow-capped mountains in the distance. This morning, after breakfast, we took a walk of an hour or so around in the neighbourhood, and then I went to church at eleven o’clock. We had walked around the little churchyard beforehand, and it was very nice and pretty. English, Scotch, Presbyterian, and Catholic Churches are all in one building. I liked it. It seemed like an acknowledgment from each to each, that they were all worshipping God, and that the difference was one of form and method only, not of spirit. I went to the Scotch Presbyterian Church, and as the service proceeded, we heard the singing from one of the other Churches. They had the Psalms rigged up in rhyme. It was perfectly abominable. I think they made y rhyme with high. They sung too long, too—ten verses at one time. It made my back ache. I sat down. The sermon was a good one from the text: “They feared the Lord; but served their gods.”—(I don’t know whether I have that straight or not)—a passage of scripture always applicable to the second section, now as much as any time. This afternoon at five we leave Interlaken for Giessbach, via the Lake of Brienz. There we will have dinner, and then we witness the illumination of the falls by means of coloured lights. Not a very Sunday-like programme, you think, but there is no help for it; we must start or be left behind. Besides, there is but little difference between gazing reverently and worshipfully upon Nature, and reading the Bible; but the chief difficulty is the crowd and bustle. Much is crowded into little here. To-morrow witnesses the passage over the Brünig Pass, and sunset from the Rigi. The next day sees us at Lucerne. Then comes the grand sail on the Lake of the Four Cantons. And Wednesday night off for Paris. Metcalf must room with me next term. I will be dreadfully lonely without him. And now, mother, it will not be long before I see you face to face. Oh, what a day that will be! And what a host of recollections I will have to carry around with me of the most wonderful ten weeks I ever spent. Give my love to Aunt Mary and Uncle Thompson. Keep a large slice for yourself.
Lovingly,
HENRY.
LUCERNE, Tuesday Aug. 26, ’97.
DEAR MOTHER,
I take up my pen to write you at Lucerne about three in the afternoon, whiling away in the operation the three long hours which must elapse before the cheerful sound of the dinner bell is heard. To-day and yesterday have been great days with me, yesterday witnessing the journey from Giessbach via the Brünig Pass to Lucerne, and from thence to the Rigi Kulm, and to-day the sunrise from the top, the descent of the mountain, and the grand sail upon the lake of the Four Cantons, which nearly drops the curtain upon the hills and valleys, lakes and rivers, snowfields and glaciers of Switzerland. The short time that has elapsed since the morning sun found us within the borders of this pleasant land in the heart of the grandest of Alpine passes seems an age. Putting a man through Europe in the style in which we have traversed it is like placing him in a jar of oxygen—he lives fast. And so with us three months seem as many years. Yesterday afternoon at five found us a dusty, seedy-looking crowd, as usual, arrived at Lucerne for a fifteen-minutes’ stay preparatory to retaking the steamer en route for the Rigi Kulm. Some delay being made about a steamer or a train (I had not the curiosity to discover which), many of the party commenced to agitate the question