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and it did very well.
I am now going to finish my sketch of the Glacier of the Rhone, and then the day will be at my own disposal; which means that I am going to sleep. I will write to you on the next page to-morrow evening wherever I am, for to-day I have no idea where I shall be. Good night! Eight is striking in F minor, and it is raining and blowing in F sharp minor or G sharp minor; in short, in every possible sharp key.
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St. Gall, the 4th.
Motto—"Vous pensez que je suis l'Abbé de St. Gall" (Citoyen).[23] I do feel so comfortable here, after braving such storms and tempests. During the four hours when I was crossing the mountains from Altstetten to this place, I was engaged in a regular battle with the elements; when I tell you that I never experienced anything like the storm, nor even imagined anything approaching to it, this does not say much; but the oldest people in the Canton declare the same: a large manufactory has been demolished, and several persons killed. To-morrow, in my last letter from Switzerland, I will tell you of my being again obliged to travel on foot, and arriving here, after crossing by Appenzell, which looked like Egypt after the seven plagues. The bell is now ringing for dinner, and I mean to feast like an abbot.
Lindau, September 5th.
Opposite me lies Switzerland, with her dark blue mountains, pedestrian journeys, storms, and glorious heights and valleys. Here ends the greatest part of my journey, and my journal also.
At noon to-day, I crossed the wild grey Rhine in a ferry-boat, above Rheineck, and now here I am, already in Bavaria. I have of course entirely given up my projected excursion on foot, through the Bavarian mountains; for it would be folly to attempt anything of the kind this year. For the last four days it has rained more or less with incessant vehemence; it seemed as if Providence were wroth. I passed to-day through extensive orchards, which were not under water, but fairly submerged by mud and clay; everything looks deplorable and depressing; you must therefore forgive the doleful style of this last sheet. I never in any landscape saw a more dreary sight than the sward of the green hills, covered with deep snow; while below, the fruit-trees, with their ripe fruit, were standing reflected in the water. The scanty covering of muddy snow, which lay on the fir-woods and meadows, looked the personification of all that was dismal. A Sargans burgher told me that in 1811 this little town had been entirely burnt down, and recently with difficulty rebuilt; that they depend chiefly on the produce of their vineyards, which have been this year destroyed by hail-storms, and the Alps also were now no longer available; this gives rise to serious reflections, and to anxious thoughts with regard to this year.