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capital of the world, as the French term their noisy Paris, lay behind me. I had grown heartily tired of it. My soul longed for repose—nothing but repose. I was worn out with the fatigues of the glorious campaign. After passing a year amid the turmoil of a military life, I was in quest of a spot where I could enjoy rest—a peaceful, tranquil spot, where I could belong exclusively to myself. With this view I hastened by way of Fontainebleau and Dijon to Switzerland.

I shall reserve for another occasion an account of all that I saw on the road thither, and in the friendly Neufchatel, and beyond it on the right and on the left, and shall for the present confine myself to the Valley of Lauterbrunn.

Leaving my companion, who was not well, at Unterseen, I pursued my route on the day of our arrival there. My guide was a stout, active fellow. We ascended, with rapid step, along the bank of the foaming Lutschine, which winds between rocks of immense height, first to Mat-