to the very smallest detail. From there I sent my bundle by the post to Interlaken, and am now regularly marching through the country, with my nightshirt in my pocket, together with brush, comb, and guide-book. There is nothing further that I want. However, I am very tired—if only it would be fine weather to-morrow.
I had breakfast at this place. I had to draw it for you with a pen, so do not laugh at my ingenuous water. At Boltigen I had a terrible night. There was no room in the inn on account of the fair, so I had to take refuge in a neighbouring house. There one had all sorts of nuisances, like in Italy—a loud, harsh clock that struck all the hours immensely loud, and a little child that cried the entire night through. I was really obliged to study the child for a while; it cried in every key, and with every sort of suggestion in its voice. First captious, then furiously angry, then plaintive, and when it could scream no longer, it began to snore deeply. And people will tell one we ought to wish our childhood back, children are so happy! but I am persuaded a little rascal like that has as many bad tempers as one of us grown-up folk; its sleepless nights, too, its passions, and all the rest of it. This philosophic reflection occurred to me this morning while I was sketching Weissenburg, and I was going to give it you all hot, but I found a copy of the “Constitutional,” in which I read that Casimir Perrier insists on resigning, and much other matter
