Letters of Felix Mendelssohn

Fluelen, August 19th.

A day made for a journey; fine, and enjoyable, and bracing. When we wished to start this morning at six o'clock, there was such a storm of sleet and snow that we were obliged to wait till nine o'clock, when the sun came forth, the clouds dispersed, and we had delightful bright weather as far as this place; but now sombre clouds, heavy with rain, have collected over the lake, so that no doubt to-morrow the old troubles will break loose again. But how glorious this day has been, so clear and sunny—we had the most charming journey! You know the St. Gothard Road in all its beauty; you lose much by coming down from above, instead of ascending from this point, for the grand surprise of the Urner Loch is entirely lost, and the new road which has been made, with all the grandeur, as well as convenience, of the Simplon, impairs the effect of the Devil's Bridge: inasmuch as close beside it a new arch, much bolder and larger, has been constructed, which makes the old bridge look quite insignificant, but the ancient crumbling walls look much more romantic and picturesque. Though the view of Andermatt is thus lost, and the new Devil's Bridge far from being poetical, still you go merrily downhill all day, on a delightfully smooth road, flying rapidly past the various localities, and instead of being sprinkled by the foam of the waterfall on the old bridge as formerly, and endangered by the wind, you now pass along far above the stream, between two ranges of solid parapets.

We came past Göschenen and Wasen and presently appeared the huge firs and beech-trees close to Amsteg; then the charming valley of Altorf, with its cottages, meadows, and woods, its rocks and snowy mountains. We rested at Altorf in a Capuchin Convent, situated on a height; and finally, here I am on the banks of the Vierwaldstadt Lake. To-morrow I purpose crossing the lake to Lucerne, where I hope to find letters from you. I shall then also get rid of a party of young people from Berlin, who have been pursuing almost the same route with me, meeting me at every turn, and boring me terribly; the patriotism of a lieutenant, a dyer, and a young carpenter,—all three bent on destroying France,—was peculiarly distasteful to me.