scene. The sky continued clear, and the air so calm, that the lakes appeared smooth as a mirror. A little fly, no larger than a point, skimmed backwards and forwards across the water,—it was a steamboat. At length I grew heartily tired of the immovable scene, and its map-like landscape. I longed for whispering trees, purling brooks, flowers and birds; for mankind—loving, suffering, laboring mankind. The morning was beautiful, but not equal to the last.
Sarnen, September 3d.—It is pleasant to rest here a couple of days after the fatiguing descent from Rhigi, which we made on foot. Passing through scenes of idyllian beauty and fertility, we arrived at Stanz, the capital of Unterwalden, and the smallest capital I ever saw. It lies embedded amongst mountains, in conventual quietness. It has been, nevertheless, the cradle of heroic souls. Arnold Winkelried was born there; and during the religious war, young girls fought there for their faith, and died with their arms in their hands. The greatest notability of the little city, at the present time, is the painter, Deschwanden, the most celebrated artist in German Switzerland. We visited him in the forenoon, and found him a small man, with large, soul-full eyes, and quiet demeanor. He stood, with his brushes and pallet in hand, surrounded by pictures of angels and saints, which he was painting for the churches and chapels of the Catholic Cantons. His angels seemed to me actually angelic; his Madonnas, with the child Christ, very lovely, but not deep in expression. His most important picture seemed to be one which he was painting for the Cathedral of Corie, the capital of the
