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 Another Random Document on
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The Project Gutenberg eBook of Letters from
Switzerland and Travels in Italy
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Title: Letters from Switzerland and Travels in Italy

Author: Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

Translator: A. J. W. Morrison

Release date: October 4, 2016 [eBook #53205]

Most recently updated: October 23, 2024

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LETTERS FROM

SWITZERLAND AND TRAVELS IN ITALY ***
 LETTERS FROM
SWITZERLAND,
AND

TRAVELS IN ITALY.
By
 JOHANN WOLFGANG VON GOETHE
TRANSLATED BY

THE REV. A. J. W. MORRISON, M.A.

Originally published as part of

THE AUTO-BIOGRAPHY OF GOETHE.

TRUTH AND POETRY: FROM MY OWN LIFE.

VOLUME II.

LONDON: GEORGE BELL & SONS, YORK STREET,

COVENT GARDEN.

1881.

Also available at Project Gutenberg: the complete Autobiography of Goethe (Books I to

XX), with 24 illustrations by Eugène Delacroix, Lovis Corinth, T. Johannot,... added
especially for this ebook: https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/52654.
Frontispiece: Johann Wolfgang von Goethe par Eugène Delacroix (Source: Faust, tragédie
de M. de Goethe, traduite en français par M. Albert Stapfer. C. Motte (Paris) 1828, Gallica
Bnf.)

CONTENTS.
LETTERS FROM SWITZERLAND
TRAVELS IN ITALY

LETTERS FROM SWITZERLAND.

When, a few years ago, the copies of the following letters were first
made known to us, it was asserted that they had been found among
Werther's papers, and it was pretended that before his acquaintance
with Charlotte, he had been in Switzerland. We have never seen the
originals: however we would not on any account anticipate the
judgment and feelings of our readers; for whatever may be their
true history, it is impossible to read them without sympathy.

PART THE FIRST.

How do all my descriptions disgust me, when I read them over.

Nothing but your advice, your command, your injunction could have
induced me to attempt anything of the kind. How many descriptions,
too, of these scenes had I not read before I saw them. Did these,
then, afford me an image of them,—or at best but a mere vague
notion? In vain did my imagination attempt to bring the objects
before it; in vain did my mind try to think upon them. Here I now
stand contemplating these wonders, and what are my feelings in the
midst of them? I can think of nothing—I can feel nothing,—and how
willingly would I both think and feel. The glorious scene before me
excites my soul to its inmost depths, and impels me to be doing; and
yet what can I do—what do I? I set myself down and scribble and
describe!—Away with you, ye descriptions—delude my friend—make
him believe that I am doing something—that he sees and reads
something.
Were, then, these Switzers free? Free, these opulent burghers in
their little pent-up towns—free, those poor devils on their rocks and
crags? What is it that man cannot be made to believe, especially
when he cherishes in his heart the memory of some old tale of
marvel? Once, forsooth, they did break a tyrant's yoke, and might
for the moment fancy themselves free; but out of the carcase of the
single oppressor the good sun, by a strange new birth, has hatched
a swarm of petty tyrants. And so now they are ever telling that old
tale of marvel: one hears it till one is sick of it. They formerly made
themselves free, and have ever since remained free! and now they
sit behind their walls, hugging themselves with their customs and
laws—their philandering and philistering. And there, too, on the
rocks, it is surely fine to talk of liberty, when for six months of the
year they, like the marmot, are bound hand and foot by the snow.

Alas! how wretched must any work of man look, in the midst of this
great and glorious Nature, but especially such sorry, poverty-stricken
works as these black and dirty little towns—such mean heaps of
stones and rubbish! Large rubble and other stones on the roofs too,
that the miserable thatch may not be carried off from the top of
them,—and then the filth, the dung, and the gaping idiots! When
here you meet with man and the wretched work of his hands, you
are glad to fly away immediately from both.

That there are in man very many intellectual capacities which in this
life he is unable to develope, which therefore point to a better
future, and to a more harmonious state of existence: on this point
we are both agreed. But further than this I cannot give up that other
fancy of mine, even though on account of it you may again call me,
as you have so often done already, a mere enthusiast. For my part, I
do think that man feels conscious also of corporeal qualities, of
whose mature expansion he can have no hope in this life. This most
assuredly is the case with "flying." How strongly at one time used
the clouds, as they drove along the blue sky, to tempt me to travel
with them to foreign lands! and now in what danger do I stand, lest
they should carry me away with them from the mountain peak as
they sweep violently by. What desire do I not feel to throw myself
into the boundless regions of the air—to poise over the terrific abyss,
or to alight on some otherwise inaccessible rock. With what a
longing do I draw deeper and deeper breath, when, in the dark blue
depth below, the eagle soars over rocks and forests, or in company,
and in sweet concord with his mate, wheels in wide circles round the
eyrie to which he has entrusted his young. Must I then never do
more than creep up to the summits? Must I always go on clinging to
the highest rocks, as well as to the lowest plain; and when I have at
last, with much toil, reached the desired eminence, must I still
anxiously grasp at every holding place, shudder at the thought of
return, and tremble at the chance of a fall.

With what wonderful properties are we not born,—

what vague aspirations rise within us! How rarely Fancies and
feelings.
do imagination and our bodily powers work in
opposition! Peculiarities of my early boyhood again recur. While I am
walking, and have a long road before me, my arms go dangling by
my side, I often make a grasp, as if I would seize a javelin, and hurl
it I know not at whom, or what; and then I fancy an arrow is shot at
me which pierces me to the heart; I strike my hand upon my breast,
and feel an inexpressible sweetness; and then after this I soon
revert to my natural state. Whence comes this strange phenomenon,
—what is the meaning of it? and why does it invariably recur under
the same figures, in the same bodily movement, and with the same
sensation?

I am repeatedly told that the people who have met me on my

journey are little satisfied with me. I can readily believe it, for
neither has any one of them contributed to my satisfaction. I cannot
tell how it comes to pass, that society oppresses me; that the forms
of politeness are disagreeable to me—that what people talk about
does not interest me,—that all that they show to me is either quite
indifferent, or else produces quite an opposite impression to what
they expect. When I am shown a drawing or painting of any
beautiful spot, immediately a feeling of disquiet arises within me
which is utterly inexpressible. My toes within my shoes begin to
bend, as if they would clutch the ground-a cramp-like motion runs
through my fingers. I bite my lips, and I hasten to leave the
company I am in, and throw myself down in the presence of the
majesty of nature on the first seat however inconvenient. I try to
take in the scene before me with my eye—to seize all its beauties,
and on the spot I love to cover a whole sheet with scratches, which
represent nothing exactly, but which, nevertheless, possess an
infinite value in my eyes, as serving to remind me of the happy
moment, whose bliss even this bungling exercise could not mar.
What means, then, this strange effort to pass from art to nature,
and then back again from nature to art: If it gives promise of an
artist, why is steadiness wanting to me? If it calls me to enjoyment,
wherefore, then, am I not able to seize it? I lately had a present of a
basket of fruit. I was in raptures at the sight of it as of something
heavenly,—such riches, such abundance, such variety and yet such
affinity! I could not persuade myself to pluck off a single berry—I
could not bring myself to take a single peach or a fig. Most assuredly
this gratification of the eye and the inner sense is the highest and
most worthy of man; in all probability it is the design of Nature,
when the hungry and thirsty believe that she has exhausted herself
in marvels merely for the gratification of their palate. Ferdinand
came and found me in the midst of these meditations: he did me
justice, and then said, smiling, but with a deep sigh, "Yes, we are
not worthy to consume these glorious products of Nature; truly it
were a pity. Permit me to make a present of them to my beloved?"
How glad was I to see the basket carried off! How did I love
Ferdinand—how did I thank him for the feeling he had excited in me
—for the prospect he gave me? Aye, we ought to acquaint ourselves
with the beautiful; we ought to contemplate it with rapture, and
attempt to raise ourselves up to its height. And in order to gain
strength for that, we must keep ourselves thoroughly unselfish—we
must not make it our own, but rather seek to communicate it:
indeed, to make a sacrifice of it to those who are dear and precious
to us.

How sedulously are we shaped and moulded in our youth—how

constantly are we then called on to lay aside now this, now that bad
feeling! But what, in fact, are our so-called bad feelings but so many
organs by means of which man is to help himself in life. How is not
the poor child worried, in whom but a little spark of vanity is
discovered! and yet what a poor miserable creature is the man who
has no vanity at all. I will now tell you what has led me to make all
these reflections. The day before yesterday we were joined by a
young fellow, who was most disagreeable to me and to Ferdinand.
His weak points were so prominent, his emptiness so manifest, and
his care for his outward appearance so obvious, that we looked
down upon him as far inferior to ourselves, yet everywhere he was
better received than we were. Among other of his follies, he wore a
waist-coat of red satin, which round the neck was so cut as to look
like the ribbon of some order or other. We could not restrain our
jokes at this piece of absurdity, but he let them all pass, for he drew
a good profit from it, and perhaps secretly laughed at us. For host
and hostess, coachman, waiter and chambermaid, and indeed not a
few of our fellow-travellers, were taken in by this seeming ornament,
and showed him greater politeness than ourselves. Not only was he
always first waited upon, but, to our great humiliation, we saw that
all the pretty girls in the inns bestowed all their stolen glances upon
him; and then, when it came to the reckoning, which his eminence
and distinction had enhanced, we had to pay our full shares. Who,
then, was the fool in the game?—not he, assuredly.

There is something pretty and instructive about the

symbols and maxims which one here sees on all Conventional
education.
the stoves. Here you have the drawing of one of
these symbols which particularly caught my fancy. A horse tethered
by his hind foot to a stake is grazing round it as far as his tether will
permit; beneath is written, "Allow me to take my allotted portion of
food." This, too, will be the case with me, when I come home, and,
like the horse in the mill, shall have to work away at your pleasure,
and in return, like the horse here on the stove, shall receive a nicely-
measured dole for my support. Yes, I am coming back, and what
awaits me was certainly well worth all the trouble of climbing up
these mountain heights, of wandering through these valleys, and
seeing this blue sky—of discovering that there is a nature which
exists by an eternal voiceless necessity, which has no wants, no
feelings, and is divine, whilst we, whether in the country or in the
towns, have alike to toil hard to gain a miserable subsistence, and at
the same time struggle to subject everything to our lawless caprice,
and call it liberty!

Aye, I have ascended the Furca—the summit of S. Gotthard. These

sublime, incomparable scenes of nature, will ever stand before my
eye. Aye, I have read the Roman history, in order to gain from the
comparison a distinct and vivid feeling what a thoroughly miserable
being I am.

Never has it been so clear to me as during these last few days, that
I too could be happy on moderate means—could be quite as happy
as any one else, if only I knew a trade—an exciting one, indeed, but
yet one which had no consequences for the morrow, which required
nothing but industry and attention at the time, without calling for
either foresight or retrospection. Every mechanic seems to me the
happiest of mortals: all that he has to do is already settled for him,
what he can do is fixed and known. He has not to rack his brains
over the task that is set him; he works away without thinking,
without exertion or haste, but still with diligence and pleasure in his
work, like a bird building its nest, or a bee constructing its cells. He
is but a degree above the beasts, and yet he is a perfect man. How
do I envy the potter at his wheel, or the joiner behind his bench!
Tilling the soil is not to my liking—this first and most necessary of
man's occupations is disagreeable to me. In it man does but ape
nature, who scatters her seeds everywhere, whereas man would
choose that a particular field should produce none but one particular
fruit. But things do not go on exactly so—the weeds spring up
luxuriantly—the cold and wet injures the crop, or the hail cuts it off
entirely. The poor husbandman anxiously waits throughout the year
to see how the cards will decide the game with the clouds, and
determine whether he shall win or lose his stakes. Such a doubtful
ambiguous condition may be right suitable to man, in his present
ignorance, while he knows not whence he came, nor whither he is
going. It may then be tolerable to man to resign all his labours to
chance; and thus the parson, at any rate, has an opportunity, when
things look thoroughly bad, to remind him of Providence, and to
connect the sins of his flock with the incidents of nature.

So then I have nothing to joke Ferdinand about! I

too have met with a pleasant adventure. An Adventure.
Adventure! why do I use the silly word? There is
nothing of adventure in a gentle attraction which draws man to man.
Our social life, our false relations, those are adventures, these are
monstrosities and yet they come before us as well-known and as
nearly akin to us, as Uncle and Aunt.
We had been introduced to Herr Tüdou, and we found ourselves
very happy among this family—rich, open-hearted, good-natured,
lively people, who in the society of their children, in comfort and
without care, enjoy the good which each day brings with it—their
property and their glorious neighbourhood. We young folks were not
required, as is too often the ease, in so many formal households, to
sacrifice ourselves at the card-table, in order to humour the old. On
the contrary, the old people, father, mother, and aunts, gathered
round us, when for our own amusement, we got up some little
games, in which chance, and thought, and wit, had their
counteracting influence. Eleonora—for I must now at last mention
her name—the second daughter—her image will for ever be present
to my mind—a slim slight-frame, delicately chiselled features, a
bright eye—a palish complexion, which in young girls of her age is
rather pleasing than disagreeable, as being a sign of no very
incurable a malady—on the whole, her appearance was extremely
agreeable. She seemed cheerful and lively and every one felt at his
ease with her. Soon—indeed I may venture to say at once,—at once,
on the very first evening she made me her companion; she sat by
my side, and if the game separated us a moment, she soon
contrived to find her old place again. I was gay and cheerful—my
journey, the beautiful weather, the country—all had contributed to
produce in me an immoderate cheerfulness—aye, I might almost
venture to say, a state of excitement. I derived it from everything
and imparted it to everything; even Ferdinand seemed to forget his
fair one. We had almost exhausted ourselves in varying our
amusements when we at last thought of the "Game of Matrimony."
The names of the ladies and of the gentlemen were thrown
separately into two hats, and then the pairs were drawn out one by
one. On each couple, as determined by the lot, one of the company
whose turn it might happen to be, had to write a little poem. Every
one of the party, father, mother, and aunts, were obliged to put their
names in the hats; we cast in besides the names of our
acquaintances, and to enlarge the number of candidates for
matrimony, we threw in those of all the well-known characters of the
literary and of the political world. We commenced playing, and the
first pairs that were drawn were highly distinguished personages. It
was not every one, however, who was ready at once with his verses.
She, Ferdinand and myself, and one of the aunts who wrote very
pretty verses in French—we soon divided among ourselves the office
of secretary. The conceits were mostly good and the verses
tolerable. Her's especially, had a touch of nature about them which
distinguished them from all others; without being really clever they
had a happy turn; they were playful without being bitter, and
shewed good will towards every one. The father laughed heartily,
and his face was lit up with joy when his daughter's verses were
declared to be the best after mine. Our unqualified approbation
highly delighted him,—we praised as men praise unexpected merit—
as we praise an author who has bribed us. At last out came my lot,
and chance had taken honourable care of me. It was no less a
personage than the Empress of all the Russias, who was drawn to be
my partner for life. The company laughed heartily at the match, and
Eleonora maintained that the whole company must try their best to
do honour to so eminent a consort. All began to try: a few pens
were bitten to pieces; she was ready first, but wished to read last;
the mother and the aunt could make nothing of the subject, and
although the father was rather matter-of-fact, Ferdinand somewhat
humorous, and the aunts rather reserved, still, through all you could
see friendship and good-will. At last it came to her turn; she drew a
deep breath, her ease and cheerfulness left her; she did not read
but rather lisped it out—and laid it before me to read it to the rest. I
was astonished, amazed. Thus does the bud of love open in beauty
and modesty! I felt as if a whole spring had showered upon me all
its flowers at once! Every one was silent, Ferdinand lost not his
presence of mind. "Beautiful," he exclaimed, "very beautiful! he
deserves the poem as little as an Empire." "If, only we have rightly
understood it," said the father; the rest requested I would read it
once more. My eyes had hitherto been fixed on the precious words,
a shudder ran through me from head to foot, Ferdinand who saw my
perplexity, took the paper up and read it. She scarcely allowed him
to finish before she drew out the lots for another pair. The play was
not kept up long after this and refreshments were brought in.

Shall I or shall I not? Is it right of me to hide in silence any thing

from him to whom I tell so much—nay, all? Shall I keep back from
you a great matter, when I yet weary you with so many trifles which
assuredly no one would ever read but you who have taken so
wonderful a liking for me? or shall I keep back anything from you
because it might perhaps give you a false, not to say an ill opinion of
me? No—you know me better than I even know myself. If I should
do anything which you do not believe possible I could do, you will
amend it; if I should do anything deserving of censure, you will not
spare me,—you will lead me and guide me whenever my
peculiarities entice me off the right road.
My joy, my rapture at works of art when they are
true, when they are immediate and speaking Art and nature.
expressions of Nature afford the greatest delight to
every collector, to every dilettante. Those indeed who call
themselves connoisseurs are not always of my opinion; but I care
nothing for their connoisseurship when I am happy. Does not living
nature vividly impress itself on my sense of vision? Do not its images
remain fixed in my brain? Do not they there grow in beauty,
delighting to compare themselves in turn with the images of art
which the mind of others has also embellished and beautified? I
confess to you that my fondness for nature arises from the fact of
my always seeing her so beautiful, so lovely, so brilliant, so
ravishing, that the similation of the artist, even his imperfect
imitation transports me almost as much, as if it were a perfect type.
It is only such works of art, however, as bespeak genius and feeling
that have any charms for me. Those cold imitations which confine
themselves to the narrow circle of a certain meagre mannerism, of
mere painstaking diligence, are to me utterly intolerable. You see,
therefore, that my delight and taste cannot well be riveted by a work
of art, unless it imitates such objects of nature as are well known to
me, so that I am able to test the imitation by my own experience of
the originals. Landscape, with all that lives and moves therein—
flowers and fruit-trees. Gothic churches,—a portrait taken directly
from Nature, all this I can recognize, feel, and if you like, judge of.
Honest W—— amused himself with this trait of my character, and in
such a way that I could not be offended, often made merry with it at
my expense. He sees much further in this matter, than I do, and I
shall always prefer that people should laugh at me while they
instruct, than that they should praise me without benefitting me. He
had noticed what things I was most immediately pleased with, and
after a short acquaintance did not hesitate to avow that in the
objects that so transported me there might be much that was truly
estimable, and which time alone would enable me to distinguish.
But I turn from this subject and must now, however circuitously,
come to the matter which, though reluctantly, I cannot but confide
to you. I can see you in your room, in your little garden, where, over
a pipe of tobacco, you will probably break the seal and read this
letter. Can your thoughts follow me into this free and motley world?
Will the circumstances and true state of the case become clear to
your imagination? And will you be as indulgent towards your absent
friend as I have often found you when present?
When my artistic friend became better acquainted
with me, and judged me worthy of being gradually Studies of the
nude.
introduced to better pieces of art, he one day, not
without a most mysterious look, took me to a case, which, being
opened, displayed a Danæ, of the size of life, receiving in her bosom
the golden shower. I was amazed at the splendour of the limbs—the
magnificence of the posture and arrangement—the intense
tenderness and the intellectuality of the sensual subject; and yet I
did but stand before it in silent contemplation. It did not excite in me
that rapture, that delight, that inexpressible pleasure. My friend, who
went on descanting upon the merits of the picture, was too full of
his own enthusiasm to notice my coldness, and was delighted with
the opportunity this painting afforded him of pointing out the
distinctive excellences of the Italian School.
But the sight of this picture has not made me happy—it has made
me uneasy. How! said I to myself—in what a strange case do we
civilized men find ourselves with our many conventional restraints! A
mossy rock, a waterfall rivets my eye so long that I can tell
everything about it—its heights, its cavities, its lights and shades, its
hues, its blending tints and reflections—all is distinctly present to my
mind; and whenever I please, comes vividly before me, in a most
happy imitation. But of that masterpiece of Nature, the human frame
—of the order and symmetry of the limbs, of all this I have but a
very general notion—which in fact is no notion at all. My imagination
presents to me anything but a vivid image of this glorious structure,
and when art presents an imitation of it, to my eye it awakens in me
no sensation and I am unable to judge of the merits of the picture.
No, I will remain no longer in this state of stupidity. I will stamp on
my mind the shape of man, as well as that of a cluster of grapes or
of a peach-tree.
I sought an occasion and got Ferdinand to take a swim in the lake.
What a glorious shape has my friend; how duly proportioned are all
his limbs: what fulness of form; what splendour of youth! What a
gain to have enriched my imagination with this perfect model of
manhood! Now I can people the woods, the meadow, and the hills,
with similar fine forms! I can see him as Adonis chasing the boar, or
as Narcissus contemplating himself in the mirror of the spring.
But alas! my imagination cannot furnish, as yet, a Venus, who holds
him from the chace, a Venus who bewails his death, or a beautiful
Echo casting one sad look more on the cold corpse of the youth
before she vanishes for ever! I have therefore resolved, cost what it
will, to see a female form in the state that I have seen my friend.
When, therefore, we reached Geneva, I made arrangements in the
character of an artist to complete my studies of the nude figure, and
to-morrow evening my wish is to be gratified.

I cannot avoid going to-day with Ferdinand to a grand party. It will

form an excellent foil to the studies of this evening. Well enough do
I know those formal parties where the old women require you to
play at cards with them, and the young ones to ogle with them;
where you must listen to the learned, pay respect to the parson, and
give way to the noble, where the numerous lights show you scarcely
one tolerable form, and that one hidden and buried beneath some
barbarous load of frippery. I shall have to speak French, too,—a
foreign tongue—the use of which always makes a man appear silly,
whatever he may think of himself, since the best he can express in it
is nothing but common place, and the most obvious of remarks, and
that, too, only with stammering and hesitating lips. For what is it
that distinguishes the blockhead from the really clever man but the
peculiar quickness and vividness with which the latter discerns the
nicer shades and proprieties of all that come before him, and
expresses himself thereon with facility; whereas the former, (just as
we all do with a foreign language,) is forced on every occasion to
have recourse to some ready found and conversational phrase or
other? To-day I will calmly put up with the sorry entertainment, in
expectation of the rare scene of nature which awaits me in the
evening.

My adventure is over. It has fully equalled my expectation—nay,

surpassed it; and yet I know not whether to congratulate, or to
blame myself on account of it.

PART THE SECOND.

Munster, October 3, 1797.

From Basle you will receive a packet containing an account of my
travels up to that point, for we are now continuing in good earnest
our tours through Switzerland. On our route to Biel we rode up the
beautiful valley of the Birsch, and at last reached the pass which
leads to this place.
Among the ridges of the broad and lofty range of
mountains the little stream of the Birsch found of The valley of the
Birsch.
old a channel for itself. Necessity soon after may
have driven men to clamber wearily and painfully through its gorges.
The Romans in their time enlarged the track, and now you may
travel through it with perfect ease. The stream, dashing over crags
and rocks, and the road run side by side, and except at a few points,
these make up the whole breadth of the pass which is hemmed in by
rocks, the top of which is easily reached by the eye. Behind them
the mountain chain rose with a slight inclination; the summits,
however, were veiled by a mist.
Here walls of rock rise precipitously one above another; there
immense strata run obliquely down to the river and the road-here
again broad masses lie piled one over another, while close beside
stands a line of sharp-pointed crags. Wide clefts run yawning
upwards, and blocks, of the size of a wall, have detached themselves
from the rest of the stony mass. Some fragments of the rock have
rolled to the bottom; others are still suspended, and by their position
alarm you, as also likely at any moment to come toppling down.
Now round, now pointed, now overgrown, now bare are the tops of
these rocks among and high above which some single bald summit
boldly towers, while along the perpendicular cliffs and among the
hollows below, the weather has worn many a deep and winding
cranny.
The passage through this defile raised in me a grand but calm
emotion. The sublime produces a beautiful calmness in the soul
which entirely possessed by it, feels as great as it ever can feel. How
glorious is such a pure feeling, when it rises to the very highest,
without overflowing. My eye and my soul were both able to take in
the objects before me, and as I was pre-occupied by nothing, and
had no false tastes to counteract their impression, they had on me
their full and natural effect. When we compare such a feeling with
that we are sensible of, when we laboriously harass ourselves with
some trifle, and strain every nerve to gain as much as possible for it,
and as it were, to patch it out, striving to furnish joy and aliment to
the mind from its own creation; we then feel sensibly what a poor
expedient, after all, the latter is.
A young man, whom we have had for our companion from Basle,
said his feelings were very far from what they were on his first visit,
and gave all the honour to novelty. I however would say, when we
see such objects as these for the first time, the unaccustomed soul
has to expand itself, and this gives rise to a sort of painful joy—an
overflowing of emotion which agitates the mind, and draws from us
the most delicious tears. By this operation the soul, without knowing
it, becomes greater in itself, and is of course not capable of ever
feeling again such a sensation, and man thinks in consequence that
he has lost something, whereas in fact he has gained. What he loses
in delight he gains in inward riches. If only destiny had bidden me to
dwell in the midst of some grand scenery, then would I every
morning have imbibed greatness from its grandeur, as from a lonely
valley I would extract patience and repose.
After reaching the end of the gorge I alighted, and went back alone
through a part of the valley. I thus called forth another profound
feeling—one by which the attentive mind may expand its joys to a
high degree. One guesses in the dark about the origin and existence
of these singular forms. It may have happened, when and how it
may,—these masses must, according to the laws of gravity and
affinity, have been formed grandly and simply by aggregation.
Whatever revolutions may subsequently have upheaved, rent and
divided them, the latter were only partial convulsions, and even the
idea of such mighty commotions gives one a deep feeling of the
eternal stability of the masses. Time, too, bound by the everlasting
law, has had here greater, here less, effect upon them.
Internally their colour appears to be yellowish. The air, however, and
the weather has changed the surface into a bluish-grey, so that the
original colour is only visible here and there in streaks and in the
fresh cracks. The stone itself slowly crumbles beneath the influence
of the weather, becoming rounded at the edges, as the softer flakes
wear away. In this manner have been formed hollows and cavities
gracefully shelving off, which when they have sharp slanting and
pointed edges, present a singular appearance.
Vegetation maintains its rights on every ledge, on every flat surface,
for in every fissure the pines strike root, and the mosses and plants
spread themselves over the rocks. One feels deeply convinced that
here there is nothing accidental; that here there is working an
eternal law which, however slowly, yet surely governs the universe,
—that there is nothing here from the hand of man but the
convenient road, by means of which this singular region is traversed.

Geneva, October 27, 1779.

The great mountain-range which, running from
Basle to Geneva, divides Switzerland from France, La Vallée de Joux.
is, as you are aware, named the Jura. Its principal
heights run by Lausanne, and reach as far as Rolle and Nyon. In the
midst of this summit ridge Nature has cut out—I might almost say
washed out—a remarkable valley, for on the tops of all these
limestone rocks the operation of the primal waters is manifest. It is
called La Vallée de Joux, which means the Valley of the Rock, since
Joux in the local dialect signifies a rock. Before I proceed with the
further description of our journey, I will give you a brief geographical
account of its situation. Lengthwise it stretches like the mountain
range itself almost directly from south to north, and is locked in on
the one side by Sept Moncels, and on the other by Dent de Vaulion,
which, after the Dole, is the highest peak of the Jura. Its length,
according to the statement of the neighbourhood, is nine short
leagues, but according to our rough reckoning as we rode through it,
six good leagues. The mountainous ridge which bounds it lengthwise
on the north, and is also visible from the flat lands, is called the
Black Mountain (Le Noir Mont). Towards the west the Risou rises
gradually, and slopes away towards Franche Comté. France and
Berne divide the valley pretty evenly between them; the former
claiming the upper and inferior half, and the latter possessing the
lower and better portion, which is properly called La Vallée du Lac de
Joux. Quite at the upper part of the valley, and at the foot of Sept
Moncels, lies the Lac des Rousses, which has no single visible origin,
but gathers its waters from the numerous springs which here gush
out of the soil, and from the little brooks which run into the lake
from all sides. Out of it flows the Orbe, which after running through
the whole of the French, and a great portion of the Bernese territory,
forms lower down, and towards the Dent de Vaulion, the Lac de
Joux, which falls on one side into a smaller lake, the waters of which
have some subterraneous outlet. The breadth of the valley varies;
above, near the Lac des Rousses it is nearly half a league, then it
closes in to expand again presently, and to reach its greatest breath,
which is nearly a league and a-half. So much to enable you better to
understand what follows; while you read it, however, I would beg
you now and then to cast a glance upon your map, although, so far
as concerns this country, I have found them all to be incorrect.
October 24th. In company with a captain and an upper ranger of the
forests in these parts, we rode first of all up Mont, a little scattered
village, which much more correctly might be called a line of
husbandmen's and vinedressers' cottages. The weather was
extremely clear; when we turned to look behind us, we had a view
of the Lake of Geneva, the mountains of Savoy and Valais, and could
just catch Lausanne, and also, through a light mist, the country
round Geneva, Mont Blanc, which towers above all the mountains of
Faucigni, stood out more and more distinctly. It was a brilliant
sunset, and the view was so grand, that no human eye was equal to
it. The moon rose almost at the full, as we got continually higher.
Through large pine forests we continued to ascend the Jura, and
saw the lake in a mist, and in it the reflection of the moon. It
became lighter and lighter. The road is a well-made causeway,
though it was laid down merely for the sake of facilitating the
transport of the timber to the plains below. We had been ascending
for full three leagues before the road began gently to descend. We
thought we saw below us a vast lake, for a thick mist filled the
whole valley which we overlooked. Presently we came nearer to the
mist, and observed a white bow which the moon formed in it, and
were soon entirely enveloped in the fog. The company of the captain
procured us lodgings in a house where strangers were not usually
entertained. In its internal arrangement it differed in nothing from
usual buildings of the same kind, except that the great room in the
centre was at once the kitchen, the ante-room, and general
gathering-place of the family, and from it you entered at once into
the sleeping-rooms, which were either on the same floor with it, or
had to be approached by steps. On the one side was the fire, which
was burning on the ground on some stone slabs, while a chimney,
built durably and neatly of planks, received and carried off the
smoke. In the corner were the doors of the oven; all the rest of the
floor was of wood, with the exception of a small piece near the
window around the sink, which was paved. Moreover, all around, and
over head on the beams a multitude of domestic articles and utensils
were arranged in beautiful order, and all kept nice and clean.
October 26th.—This morning the weather was cold but clear, the
meadows covered with hoar frost, and here and there light clouds
were floating in the air. We could pretty nearly survey the whole of
the lower valley, our house being situated at the foot of the eastern
side of Noir Mont. About eight we set off, and in order to enjoy the
sun fully, proceeded on the western side. The part of the valley we
now traversed was divided into meadows, which, towards the lake
were rather swampy. The inhabitants either dwell in detached
houses built by the side of their farms, or else have gathered closer
together in little villages, which bear simple names derived from
their several sites. The first of those that we passed through was
called "Le Sentier." We saw at a distance the Dent de Vaulion
peeping out over a mist which rested on the lake. The valley grew
broader, but our road now lay behind a ridge of rock which shut out
our view of the lake, and then through another village called "Le
Lieu." The mist arose, and fell off highly variegated by the sun. Close
hereto is a small lake, which apparently has neither inlet nor outlet
of its waters. The weather cleared up completely as we came to the
foot of Dent de Vaulion, and reached the northern extremity of the
great lake, which, as it turns westward, empties itself into a smaller
by a dam beneath the bridge. The village just above is called "Le
Pont." The situation of the smaller lake is what you may easily
conceive, as being in a peculiar little valley which may be called
pretty. At the western extremity there is a singular mill, built in a
ravine of the rock which the smaller lake used formerly to fill. At
present it is dammed out of the mill which is erected in the hollow
below. The water is conveyed by sluices to the wheel, from which it
falls into crannies of the rock, and being sucked in by them, does
not show itself again till it reaches Valorbe, which is a full league off,
where it again bears the name of the Orbe. These outlets
(entonnoirs) require to be kept clear, otherwise the water would rise
and again fill the ravine, and overflow the mill as it has often done
already. We saw the people hard at work removing the worn pieces
of the lime-stone and replacing them by others.
We rode back again over the bridge towards "Le
Pont," and took a guide for the Dent du Vaulion. In Dent de Vaulion.
ascending it we now had the great Lake directly
behind us. To the east its boundary is the Noir Mont, behind which
the bald peak of the Dole rises up; to the west it is shut in by the
mountain ridge, which on the side of the lake is perfectly bare. The
sun felt hot: it was between eleven and twelve o'clock. By degrees
we gained a sight of the whole valley, and were able to discern in
the distance the "Lac des Rousses," and then stretching to our feet
the district we had just ridden through and the road which remained
for our return. During the ascent my guide discoursed of the whole
range of the country and the lordships which, he said, it was
possible to distinguish from the peak. In the midst of such talk we
reached the summit. But a very different spectacle was prepared for
us. Under a bright and clear sky nothing was visible but the high
mountain chain, all the lower regions were covered with a white sea
of cloudy mist, which stretched from Geneva northwards, along the
horizon and glittered brilliantly in the sunshine. Out of it, rose to the
east, the whole line of snow and ice-capt mountains acknowledging
no distinction of names of either the Princes or Peoples, who fancied
they were owners of them, and owning subjection only to one Lord,
and to the glance of the Sun which was tinging them with a beautiful
red. Mont Blanc, right opposite to us, seemed the highest, next to it
were the ice-crowned summits of Valais and Oberland, and lastly,
came the lower mountains of the Canton of Berne. Towards the
west, the sea of mist which was unconfined to one spot; on the left,
in the remotest distance, appeared the mountains of Solothurn;
somewhat nearer those of Neufchatel, and right before us some of
the lower heights of the Jura. Just below, lay some of the masses of
the Vaulion, to which belongs the Dent, (tooth) which takes from it
its name. To the west, Franche-Comté, with its flat, outstretched and
wood-covered hills, shut in the whole horizon; in the distance,
towards the north-west, one single mass stood out distinct from all
the rest. Straight before us, however, was a beautiful object. This
was the peak which gives this summit the name of a tooth. It
descends precipitously, or rather with a slight curve, inwards, and in
the bottom it is succeeded by a small valley of pine-trees, with
beautiful grassy patches here and there, while right beyond it lies
the valley of the Orbe (Val-orbe), where you see this stream coming
out of the rock, and can trace, in thought, its route backwards to the
smaller lake. The little town of Valorbe, also lies in this valley. Most
reluctantly we quitted the spot. A delay of a few hours longer, (for
the mist generally disperses in about that time), would have enabled
us to distinguish the low lands with the lake—but in order that our
enjoyment should be perfect, we must always have something
behind still to be wished. As we descended we had the whole valley
lying perfectly distinct before us. At Le Pont we again mounted our
horses, and rode to the east side of the lake, and passed through
l'Abbaye de Joux, which at present is a village, but once was a
settlement of monks, to whom the whole valley belonged. Towards
four, we reached our auberge and found our meal ready, of which
we were assured by our hostess that at twelve o'clock it would have
been good eating, and which, overdone as it was, tasted excellently.
Let me now add a few particulars just as they were
told me. As I mentioned just now, the valley The Dole.
belonged formerly to the monks, who having
divided it again to feudatories, were with the rest ejected at the
Reformation. At present it belongs to the Canton of Berne, and the
mountains around are the timber-stores of the Pays de Vaud. Most
of the timber is private property, and is cut up under supervision,
and then carried down into the plains. The planks are also made
here into deal utensils of all kinds, and pails, tubs, and similar
articles manufactured.
The people are civil and well disposed. Besides their trade in wood,
they also breed cattle. Their beasts are of a small size. The cheese
they make is excellent. They are very industrious, and a clod of
earth is with them a great treasure. We saw one man with a horse
and car, carefully collecting the earth which had been thrown up out
of a ditch, and carrying it to some hollow places in the same field.
They lay the stones carefully together, and make little heaps of
them. There are here many stone-polishers, who work for the
Genevese and other tradesmen, and this business furnishes
occupation for many women and children. The houses are neat but
durable, the form and internal arrangements being determined by
the locality and the wants of the inmates. Before every house there
is a running stream, and everywhere you see signs of industry,
activity, and wealth. But above all things is the highest praise due to
the excellent roads, which, in this remote region, as also in all the
other cantons, are kept up by that of Berne. A causeway is carried
all round the valley, not unnecessarily broad, but in excellent repair,
so that the inhabitants can pursue their avocations without
inconvenience, and with their small horses and light carts pass easily
along. The air is very pure and salubrious.
26th Oct.—Over our breakfast we deliberated as to
the road we should take on our return. As we View from the
Dole.
heard that the Dole, the highest summit of the
Jura, lay at no great distance from the upper end of the valley, and
as the weather promised to be most glorious, so that we might to-
day hope to enjoy all that chance denied us yesterday, we finally
determined to take this route. We loaded a guide with bread and
cheese, and butter and wine, and by 8 o'clock mounted our horses.
Our route now lay along the upper part of the valley, in the shade of
Noir Mont. It was extremely cold, and there had been a sharp hoar-
frost. We had still a good league to ride through the part belonging
to Berne, before the causeway which there terminates branches off
into two parts. Through a little wood of pine trees we entered the
French territory. Here the scene changed greatly. What first excited
our attention was the wretched roads. The soil is rather stony;
everywhere you see great heaps of those which have been picked
off the fields. Soon you come to a part which is very marshy and full
of springs. The woods all around you are in wretched condition. In
all the houses and people you recognise, I will not say want, but
certainly a hard and meagre subsistence. They belong, almost as
serfs, to the canons of S. Claude; they are bound to the soil (glebœ
astricti), and are oppressed with imposts (sujets à la main-morte et
au droit de la suite), of which we will hereafter have some talk
together, as also of a late edict of the king's repealing the droit de la
suite, and inviting the owners and occupiers to redeem the main-
morte for a certain compensation. But still even this portion of the
valley is well cultivated. The people love their country dearly, though
they lead a hard life, being driven occasionally to steal the wood
from the Bernese, and sell it again in the lowlands. The first division
is called the Bois d'Amant; after passing through it, we entered the
parish of Les Rousses, where we saw before us the little Lake des
Rousses and Les Sept Moncels,—seven small hills of different
shapes, but all connected together, which form the southern limit of
the valley. We soon came upon the new road which runs from the
Pays de Vaud to Paris. We kept to this for a mile downwards, and
now left entirely the valley. The bare summit of the Dole was before
us. We alighted from our horses, and sent them on by the road
towards S. Cergue while we ascended the Dole. It was near noon;
the sun felt hot, but a cool south wind came now and then to refresh
us. When we looked round for a halting-place, we had behind us Les
Sept Moncels, we could still see a part of the Lac des Rousses, and
around it the scattered houses of the parish. The rest of the valley
was hidden from our eye by the Noir Mont, above which we again
saw our yesterday's view of Franche-Comté, and nearer at hand
southwards, the last summits and valleys of the Jura. We carefully
avoided taking advantage of a little peep in the hill, which would
have given us a glimpse of the country, for the sake of which in
reality our ascent was undertaken. I was in some anxiety about the
mist; however, from the aspect of the sky above, I drew a favourable
omen. At last we stood on the highest summit, and saw with the
greatest delight that to-day we were indulged with all that yesterday
had been denied us. The whole of the Pays de Vaux and de Gex lay
like a plan before us: all the different holdings divided off with green
hedges like the beds of a parterre. We were so high that the rising
and sinking of the landscape before us was unnoticeable. Villages,
little towns, country-houses, vine-covered hills, and higher up still,
where the forests and Alps begin, the cow-sheds mostly painted
white, or some other light colour, all glittered in the sunshine. The
mist had already rolled off from Lake Leman. We saw the nearest
part of the coast on our side, quite clear; of the so-called smaller
lake, where the larger lake contracts itself, and turns towards
Geneva, which was right opposite to us, we had a complete view;
and on the other side the country which shuts it in was gradually
clearing. But nothing could vie with the view of the mountains
covered with snow and glaciers. We sat down before some rocks to
shelter us from the cold wind, with the sunshine fall upon us, and
highly relished our little meal. We kept watching the mist, which
gradually retired; each one discovered, or fancied he discovered,
some object or other. One by one we distinctly saw Lausanne,
surrounded with its houses, and gardens; then Bevay, and the castle
of Chillon; the mountains, which shut out from our view the
entrance into Valais, and extended as far as the lake; from thence
the borders of Savoy, Evian, Repaille, and Tonon, with a sprinkling of
villages and farm-houses between them. At last Geneva stood clear
from the mist, but beyond and towards the south, in the
neighbourhood of Monte Credo and Monte Vauche, it still hung
immoveable. When the eye turned to the left it caught sight of the
whole of the lowlands from Lausanne, as far as Solothurn, covered
with a light halo. The nearer mountains and heights, and every spot
that had a white house on it, could be closely distinguished. The
guides pointed out a glimmering which they said was the castle of
Chauvan, which lies to the left of the Neuberger-See. We were just
able to guess whereabouts it lay, but could not distinguish it through
the bluish haze. There are no words to express the grandeur and
beauty of this view. At the moment every one is scarcely conscious
of what he sees:—one does but recall the names and sites of well-
known cities and localities, to rejoice in a vague conjecture that he
recognizes them in certain white spots which strike his eye in the
prospect before him.
And then the line of glittering glaciers was continually drawing the
eye back again to the mountains. The sun made his way towards the
west, and lighted up their great flat surfaces, which were turned
towards us. How beautifully before them rose from above the snow
the variegated rows of black rocks:—teeth,—towers,—walls! Wild,
vast, inaccessible vestibules! and seeming to stand there in the free
air in the first purity and freshness of their manifold variety! Man
gives up at once all pretensions to the infinite, while he here feels
that neither with thought nor vision is he equal to the finite!
Before us we saw a fruitful and populous plain. The spot on which
we were standing was a high, bare mountain rock, which, however,
produces a sort of grass as food for the cattle, which are here a
great source of gain. This the conceited lord of creation may yet
make his own:—but those rocks before his eyes are like a train of
holy virgins which the spirit of heaven reserves for itself alone in
these inaccessible regions. We tarried awhile, tempting each other in
turn to try and discover cities, mountains, and regions, now with the
naked eye, now with the telescope, and did not begin to descend till
the setting sun gave permission to the mist,—his own parting
breath,—to spread itself over the lake.
With sunset we reached the ruins of the fort of S. Cergue. Even
when we got down in the valley, our eyes were still rivetted on the
mountain glaciers. The furthest of these, lying on our left in
Oberland, seemed almost to be melting into a light fiery vapour;
those still nearer stood with their sides towards us, still glowing and
red; but by degrees they became white, green, and grayish. There
was something melancholy in the sight. Like a powerful body over
which death is gradually passing from the extremities to the heart,
so the whole range gradually paled away as far as Mont Blanc,
whose ampler bosom was still covered all over with a deep red
blush, and even appeared to us to retain a reddish tint to the very
last,—just as when one is watching the death of a dear friend, life
still seems to linger, and it is difficult to determine the very moment
when the pulse ceases to beat.
This time also we were very loth to depart. We found our horses in
S. Cergue; and that nothing might be wanting to our enjoyment, the
moon rose and lighted us to Nyon. While on the way, our strained
and excited feelings were gradually calmed, and assumed their
wonted tone, so that we were able with keen gratification to enjoy,
from our inn window, the glorious moonlight which was spread over
the lake.
At different spots of our travels so much was said
of the remarkable character of the glaciers of Geneva.
Savoy, and when we reached Geneva we were told
it was becoming more and more the fashion to visit them, that the
Count[1] was seized with a strange desire to bend our course in that
direction, and from Geneva to cross Cluse and Salenche, and enter
the valley of Chamouni, and after contemplating its wonderful
objects, to go on by Valorsine and Trent into Valais. This route,
however, which was the one usually pursued by travellers, was
thought dangerous in this season of the year. A visit was therefore
paid to M. de Saussure at his country-house, and his advice
requested. He assured us that we need not hesitate to take that
route; there was no snow as yet on the middle-sized mountains, and
if on our road we were attentive to the signs of the weather and the
advice of the country-people, who were seldom wrong in their
judgment, we might enter upon this journey with perfect safety.
Here is the copy of the journal of a day's hard travelling.

Cluse, in Savoy, Nov. 3, 1779.

To-day on departing from Geneva our party divided. The Count with
me and a huntsman took the route to Savoy. Friend W. with the
horses proceeded through the Pays de Vaud for Valais. In a light
four-wheeled cabriolet we proceeded first of all to visit Hüber at his
country-seat,—a man out of whom, mind, imagination and imitative
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