“Passed the boundaries, out of Vaud and into Berne canton; French exchanged for bad German; the district famous for cheese, liberty, property, and no taxes.  Hobhouse went to fish—­caught none.  Strolled to the river—­saw boy and kid—­kid followed him like a dog—­kid could not get over a fence, and bleated piteously—­tried myself to help kid, but nearly overset both self and kid into the river.  Arrived here about six in the evening.  Nine o’clock—­going to bed; not tired to-day, but hope to sleep, nevertheless.”

“Sept. 22nd.

“Left Thoun in a boat, which carried us the length of the lake in three hours.  The lake small, but the banks fine.  Rocks down to the water’s edge.  Landed at Newhause—­passed Interlachen—­entered upon a range of scenes beyond all description, or previous conception.  Passed a rock:  inscription—­two brothers—­one murdered the other; just the place for it.  After a variety of windings came to an enormous rock.  Arrived at the foot of the mountain (the Jungfrau, that is, the Maiden)—­glaciers—­torrents:  one of these torrents nine hundred feet in height of visible descent.  Lodged at the curate’s.  Set out to see the valley—­heard an avalanche fall, like thunder—­glaciers enormous—­storm came on, thunder, lightning, hail—­all in perfection, and beautiful.  I was on horseback; guide wanted to carry my cane; I was going to give it him, when I recollected that it was a sword-stick, and I thought the lightning might be attracted towards him; kept it myself; a good deal encumbered with it, as it was too heavy for a whip, and the horse was stupid, and stood with every other peal.  Got in, not very wet, the cloak being stanch.  Hobhouse wet through; Hobhouse took refuge in cottage; sent man, umbrella, and cloak, (from the curate’s when I arrived) after him.  Swiss curate’s house very good indeed—­much better than most English vicarages.  It is immediately opposite the torrent I spoke of.  The torrent is in shape curving over the rock, like the tail of a white horse streaming in the wind, such as it might be conceived would be that of the ’pale horse’ on which Death is mounted in the Apocalypse.[2] It is neither mist nor water, but a something between both; its immense height (nine hundred feet) gives it a wave or curve, a spreading here, or condensation there, wonderful and indescribable.  I think, upon the whole, that this day has been better than any of this present excursion.

    [2] It is interesting to observe the use to which he
    afterwards converted these hasty memorandums in his sublime
    drama of Manfred:—­

It is not noon—­the sunbow’s rays still arch The torrent with the many hues of heaven, And roll the sheeted silver’s waving column, O’er the crag’s headlong perpendicular, And fling its lines of foaming light along, And to and fro, like the pale courser’s tail, The Giant steed, to be bestrode by Death, As told in the Apocalypse.

“Sept. 23rd.