tradition, current there from the most ancient times, of a migration thence in consequence of famine, when every tenth person left the country.
The Hasli people are handsome, and remind me of the peasantry of Blukingo. I have made a sketch of a good old woman, in her peculiar head-dress. I now take my leave of the Swedish colony, to betake myself to the “Waldstetten,” but whether across Brunig or Furca, depends upon what the barometer and Pastor Immer shall advise. Both seem doubtful. It would not be desirable to go to Grimsel and the “Glacier du Rhone,” in bad weather.
Before I leave Hasli valley, however, I must say a few words about Rosenlaui, the beautiful ice-palace in its neighborhood, to which M. P. and I took a walk yesterday, conversing the while, on—the conscience, which made our walk doubly interesting. P. is occupied in writing, on this inner judgment-seat, a treatise, the singular depth and value of which, only his own great modesty and severe self-criticism can underrate. This morning, in the sunshine, on our romantically wild but beautiful walk, we went still deeper into the question: “What is the conscience?” I see and feel it the soul's holy of holies, a deeper conception than
