We travelled at the time of the vintage, and heard the song of
the labourers, as we glided down the stream. Even I, depressed
in mind, and my spirits continually agitated by gloomy feelings,
even I was pleased. I lay at the bottom of the boat, and, as I
gazed on the cloudless blue sky, I seemed to drink in a
tranquillity to which I had long been a stranger. And if these
were my sensations, who can describe those of Henry? He felt as
if he had been transported to Fairy-land, and enjoyed a
happiness seldom tasted by man. "I have seen," he said, "the
most beautiful scenes of my own country; I have visited the
lakes of Lucerne and Uri, where the snowy mountains descend
almost perpendicularly to the water, casting black and
impenetrable shades, which would cause a gloomy and mournful
appearance, were it not for the most verdant islands that
relieve the eye by their gay appearance; I have seen this lake
agitated by a tempest, when the wind tore up whirlwinds of
water, and gave you an idea of what the water-spout must be on
the great ocean, and the waves dash with fury the base of the
mountain, where the priest and his mistress were overwhelmed by
an avalanche, and where their dying voices are still said to be
heard amid the pauses of the nightly wind; I have seen the
mountains of La Valais, and the Pays de Vaud: but this country,
Victor, pleases me more than all those wonders. The mountains of
Switzerland are more majestic and strange; but there is a charm
in the banks of this divine river, that I never before saw
equalled. Look at that castle which overhangs yon precipice; and
that also on the island, almost concealed amongst the foliage of
those lovely trees; and now that group of labourers coming from
among their vines; and that village half-hid in the recess of
the mountain. Oh, surely, the spirit that inhabits and guards
this place has a soul more in harmony with man, than those who
pile the glacier, or retire to the inaccessible peaks of the
mountains of our own country."
Clerval! beloved friend! even now it delights me to record your
words, and to dwell on the praise of which you are so eminently
deserving. He was a being formed in the "very poetry of
nature.*" His wild and enthusiastic imagination was chastened by
the sensibility of his heart. His soul overflowed with ardent
affections, and his friendship was of that devoted and wondrous
nature that the worldly-minded teach us to look for only in the
imagination. But even human sympathies were not sufficient to
satisfy his eager mind. The scenery of external nature, which
others regard only with admiration, he loved with ardour:
* Leigh Hunt's "Rimini."