HERE again, after six months’ absence—six months only! How to believe that! Why, I seem to have lived cycles and cycles; seem to be not one, just one small, insignificant I, but dozens and dozens of myself. Yes, even sometimes have an enormous delusion that the little nobody who went away suffered a not-sea, but an no, not-earth—What then? Ah! I have it: tourist change into something strange, grand, glorious (it must out), goddess-like! Was ever presumption so immense and so absurd? Well, I am not responsible for it, but the experiences. Could any mortal go through such and escape the same scath?

September 2d. If good intentions were the same sort of masters that czars, emperors, the great mogul, the sublime porte, et id omne genus are, or have been—what a lot of things come under that last pathetic head—this letter would have been finished and on the way to you. But there is such a throng of hindering duties got themselves mixed up in my affairs, I really don’t know what moment I may be ruthlessly torn from the performance of what I wish to do to that I wish—still more to do! Such is woman’s—

September 3d. Just there I was torn off again after I don’t know how many feminine raps at my door and feminine heads bobbing in, and, worst of all, each of them supplied with that rabidest of all tongues, a feminine one! (Let alone a woman for a just estimate of her own sex!) Don’t that last dozen lines show “confusion worse confounded” from some cause? You have no leave to indulge in mental comment, such as, “Perhaps, my lady, that unspiritual circumstance was in your own state of mind, without any outside pressure to develop it.” And so don’t you dare. Truth is, I was in the superlative degree of calmness, collectedness, clearness, comprehensiveness, like clouds that have gathered their quota of electricity, the inevitable “next thing” being “the most brilliant display of fireworks of the season.” Any letter heretofore would have been a battery of “spent balls,” an eruption of mere dead cinders. There! that’s what you would have gotten, what you have missed, because of those hindering goddesses. “The more’s the pity.”

I glance up at that last broken sentence, “Such is woman’s—.” What was to follow, I am as much at a loss to recall as a panic-stage, I mean—struck, debutante of the boards. Oh! for “a prompter.” Can’t you come to the rescue? I will “most graciously permit.” And do you know, even now when I have double-locked (both doors and ears) myself in for this blessed privilege of communion with a “choice fellow-being,” these pages are bound to be tossed off with the lightning-like rapidity of a printing-press of the latest patent, not only with all modern improvements, but those of the future too! For somebody is coming directly to dejeuner with me, another specimen of feminine attributes, that of being equal to inviting herself, being not the least. She will claim me for the rest of the day. And that’s the way it will be.

There’s a flash of inspiration for you, which reminds me I had a feminine compliment yesterday among those other feminine impositions. If it had been of masculine origin, how different would have been the animus of the

“return-thanks.” She said, it must be true if one woman could bestow such words on another, so you needn’t try to put a pin in my balloon. “Mrs. Collins is always inspired.” I had just “made a remark” as innocent as “a natural” (Scotch for idiot) of any intention to soar above “the dead level.” Think of my sudden inflation. In all your kite-flying days, you never gave one such “a bully send-off.” You may be sure I did not allow myself to “flop down” by opening my mouth except for “rations” the rest of the day. But was I ever “in the whole course of my long life” whirled about in such an eddy of nonsence? I can’t account for it, unless on the principle of counter-irritation, because writing to you who are so lavish of “good, sound sense.” Bite and wait for your own turn. I am applying soothing lotions already in anticipation of the crunching your reply will give me. How I’ll wish I had not then. Well, now I may as well have out “my dance on a fiddle-string.”

I left off at Lucerne. I wish I could remember what I told you of that lovely week there. I shan’t venture on more than a word for fear of repeating myself. But I want you to know, if I did not tell you, what a hold that “lion” has taken. You know about it; that it is carved in a grotto out of the natural sandstone in the face of the grand cliff, the crest of which is fringed with overhanging trees. It is reclining, dying, transfixed by a broken lance, and protecting with its poor, helpless paw the shield of France with its Bourbon Lily. Anything more noble and pathetic I cannot conceive. It made my heart ache as the Dying Gladiator did. I wanted to get near enough to take its head in my lap and stroke it, and chafe its paw with my hands, and somehow make it feel my human sympathy. Indeed, it is a miracle “in kind,” that dead stone can be wrought into forms that so move one. The wonder of this is that it is a lion—the lord of the brute creation, it is true—but not a human being in a lion’s form. The qualities expressed are those tested in our intercourse with that “lower order of creation,” affection, sense of trust, faithfulness unto death. You don’t know how often I think of him, and yearn to him as to a living suffering creature, that majestic creation of one of my fellow beings. Oh! sometimes I take a most reverential pride in my race. Who was it—Dr. Holland—who said, “It is a great thing to be a man?” One must agree now and again. I shan’t linger on Lucerne now. Hereafter, may be. From there here will have to be a skeletonized sketch. You can’t divine the difficulty of leaving out how trying such shadowy limning is to such an effusive creature as I, who have always had the dubious distinction of making not something, but so much out of nothing, of seeing more than is ever shown. Alas! poor me.

From Lucerne by the SchÖellenen Defile and Furka Pass to the Rhone Glacier, a diligence trip from Andermat, giving many privileges in the way of fine views and other things, such as “getting up very high in the world.” At last nothing but barren rocks, snow and the plucky little wild flowers, that wouldn’t be beaten out of beautifying waste places as long as a cleft or cranny was found to give them a foothold. At the very highest, 7,992 feet, I could have made snow-balls with one hand and posies with the other without moving. I saw the great glacier from almost every point, and in such a glow of sunshine as can only be transcended in some other world. From it to Visp. Here I had my first “mule ride,” on horseback, with a guide to lead it. This for four hours; then a blessed exchange to an open carriage, which in as many more hours brought us to Zermatt, at the foot of the Matterhorn. Here the windows of my room just framed that curious freak of rock and snow, and I saw its transfiguration at dawn without moving my head from my pillow. Give me due credit though for the early wakefulness that won me that spectacle. First, in the wink of an eye, one glowing, burning golden ruby spot—the tip of the horn struck by the first gleam in the crystal of dawn; then it spread downward like the suffusion of a blush to where its base seemed resting on a dark pine-covered mountain; and behold! the whole gigantic horn a dazzling mass of that fervid glow. You can guess Beauty in the fairy story did not lie stiller or more breathless under her spell of enchantment.

Then I had my second mule-ride, this time a sure-enough mule, to make the ascent of the Gorner Grat. I don’t know what you know about it, but I am bound to tell you something at least of what I know. Just here I think I’ll confess to a singular hallucination; it seems to me that nothing I have been seeing was ever seen before. My analysis of this has only gone far enough to convince me there is no egotism, self-conceit or anything “on a lower range of feeling” in this, only that innocent, unsophisticated child-feeling over an experience out of its common way. This is a ridge of rock rising in the center of a vast hollow surrounded by a vaster amphitheater of snow-peaks and glaciers, the former including the Matterhorn, Monte Rosa, etc., the latter numbering eleven. It is the sublimest spectacle my eyes have rested on. Retracing to Visp, then by rail along the Rhone to Leuk, whence by open carriage again to Leukesbad to make the passage of the Gemmi.

Leukesbad is the place where they do the spectacular bathing, remaining in the baths for hours at a time, and to beguile the tediousness thereof having floating tables on which are placed books, papers, games or refreshments—the public admitted to see what good times can be got in that way. Also there is a great curiosity in the neighborhood; a little village of a most aspiring turn of mind has built itself like an eagle’s eyrie on the most inaccessible perch it could find, 8,895 feet high. The way to it is by a pathway or stairway of ladders fastened into the precipitous face of the mountains. The guide-book does not recommend a trial of it to persons liable to dizziness, and says the descent is more difficult than the ascent. It says also, however, that the view from the grotto at the end of the second ladder will repay the climber. You can guess into what climber’s head that “put notions.” Yes, she stole off there Sunday morning, “all alone by herself,” took the measure of the feat and feet, laid aside ulster, umbrella and guide-book, and went up like a beast on all fours, and down like a crawfish. Alas! that you can never know the comfort and elation of having done it.

The passage of the Gemmi was another bona fide mule ride. I had heard so much about the precipitousness and the danger of the climb, my heart had been in my mouth whenever I thought of it for days before. Nothing but moral cowardice prevented the physical cowardice of—backing out. Were you to taunt me with “You couldn’t do it again,” a la Tom Sawyer, to the comrade who had just licked him (by the skin of his teeth), I’d follow his example and not try. Imagine, as far as in you lies, a mule-ride up a tree or a steep spiral staircase; above, sheer precipices; below, to such frightful depths, the same—two and one-half hours of that. Do you wonder I went “into retreat” at the top, if not to give thanks, surely for the precious privilege of once more drawing some long breaths? It was a five and one-half hours’ mule-ride to Kandersteg at the foot on the other side. We got to our hotel at 9 p. m., and slept the sleep of the elect. Open carriage next morning to Thun; the sunshine so glorious I didn’t believe it could ever “do it again,” and every roll of the wheels bearing onward to fresh charms of earth, air and sky. From Thun to Interlaken for a week; Staubbach, drives and walks in honor of the Jungfrau, MÖnch and Eiger. You know that part of the story well. All the world does it. But to no one did it ever happen what unto me there befell one wonder afternoon. At the Belvedere, atop of a pretty height which commands the best view of that trio of snow-covered beauties, a party of English ladies came in. I caught the eye of one lovely-faced, silver-haired, soft-voiced, sweet-mannered old lady; an instant exchange of bow and smile, and then much pleasant talk. At parting, she fixed her eyes on me with such a blessing-beaming look in them, and said with the clearest distinctness of those low, silver tones, “May all your walks be pleasant.” I shall carry that benediction with me in every walk my feet shall tread in the future. From Interlaken to Berne, striking a fest, a peasant’s wrestling match, set for Sunday! Fine opportunity for seeing men, women and peasants’ costumes. Heard its great organ; saw the bear-clock; paid my visit of courtesy to the bears; had all its exquisite views; went to its really fine museum to see those marvelous specimens of white and black quartz-crystals, one weighing over 290 pounds and several over 200; and also “Barry,” the noble St. Bernard that saved fifteen lives; and ever so much else. Then Fribourg and its lime-tree dating from 1476, its organ, and a walk that might belong to a tale of necromancy.

On to Lucerne and the “Lake Leman,” where I went and sat in the garden in which Gibbon “wrote the conclusion of his great work.” And next, Chillon! I loitered away hours there. It is the loveliest, most romantic, picturesque spot. I wish I owned it! I stayed till the sun set fire to it, the lake and the snow peaks in the background, and then saw the full moon swing into space right over it; then a long, long sigh, and the train through several stages to Vernayaz, to make another “passage” to Chamouny. Another gorge, the Gorge de Trient at V. equals that at PfÄffers. A funny little two-wheeled vehicle and a guide, and we attacked the ascent. It wasn’t so perilous as that of the Gemmi, but it wasn’t easy. We crossed a waterfall tearing down the mountain side forty-nine times over as many bridges. It was beautiful beyond the reach of words. As to giving even an idea of the innumerable beauties of that route, it would take a long summer’s day to do it. There was another gorge, different, but as interesting: lovely vales, glaciers, torrents, mountains, snow peaks, cascades, almost as numerous as the hairs on your head, especially if you are inclining to baldness, and so on. At Chamouni the monarch “crowned long ago.” I was a most willing worshiper at his feet. Like Mark Twain, the only ascent of him I cared to make was by telescope. But I made that of the Brerent, the next best thing. The mule ride again, with a guide at the bit; but even that didn’t seem so good part of the time as my own feet, and the last half hour had to be done that way. It was all “of a piece” climbing up rocks and plunging over stretches of snow, while my “little hand lay lightly”—not a bit of it—with the tightest kind of a grip, as well as “confidingly,” in that of my guide. He was as tender of me as a lover—more so—as for the time being we were bound to each other “for better and for worse.” The Mer-de-glace came in too; not the conventional walk across; for one who had walked across the Ohio, what was that, pray? Bah! From Chamouni by diligence, in an ecstasy all the way to Geneva. There for some days, with excursions on the lake into its realms of inexplicable blue, where everything was so unreal and ethereal. I felt as if I too were a phantom, a dream, a spirit, just as little of a reality as all I was surrounded by. From Geneva here.

About that book, and your need of the aid of “good taste, judgment and scholarship,” it strikes me any one who had to help that much would feel, like you, “certainly very glad when the creature was fledged.” Thankee, sir; I never can bear to know what I am to have for dinner, or any other meal. That for sauce. This for earnest. Call on Miss B——. I don’t know the woman who is so equal to such demand. She knows everything and has it at command. She is a long distance beyond me in such matters. This is no affectation; I mean it.

Many thanks for your charges in behalf of proper caretaking. I don’t mean to break down if I can help it. Am now taking a good rest. This pension is a kind of a home—Paris home. I could tell some things of its kindness—yes, even petting—would show how much I have to be thankful for. The dear, good madame takes me in her arms, kisses me “from ear to ear,” and, what is better, smuggles “goodies” in to me unbeknown to the others! It is too funny to see her coming with one hand covered with a napkin and the forefinger of the other on her lips! My room adjoins the salon. I take the hint. Wouldn’t you? Answer.

L. G. C.

Paris, September 1, 1883.