I spent the whole of the morning with Freiligrath, the poet, who was lately banished from Germany on account of the liberal principles his last volume contains.  He lives in a pleasant country-house on the Meyerberg, an eminence near Rapperschwyl, overlooking a glorious prospect.  On leaving Frankfort, R.S.  Willis gave me a letter to him, and I was glad to meet with a man personally whom I admired so much through his writings, and whose boldness in speaking out against the tyranny which his country suffers, forms such a noble contrast to the cautious slowness of his countrymen.  He received me kindly and conversed much upon American literature.  He is a warm admirer of Bryant and Longfellow, and has translated many of their poems into German.  He said he had received a warm invitation from a colony of Germans in Wisconsin, to join them and enjoy that freedom which his native land denies, but that his circumstances would not allow it at present.  He is perhaps thirty-five years of age.  His brow is high and noble, and his eyes, which are large and of a clear gray, beam with serious, saddened thought.  His long chesnut hair, uniting with a handsome beard and moustache, gives a lion-like dignity to his energetic countenance.  His talented wife, Ida Freiligrath, who shares his literary labors, and an amiable sister, are with him in exile, and he is happier in their faithfulness than when he enjoyed the favors of a corrupt king.

We crossed the long bridge from Rapperschwyl, and took the road over the mountain opposite, ascending for nearly two hours along the side, with glorious views of the Lake of Zurich and the mountains which enclose it.  The upper and lower ends of the lake were completely hid by the storms, which, to our regret, veiled the Alps, but the part below lay spread out dim and grand, like a vast picture.  It rained almost constantly, and we were obliged occasionally to take shelter in the pine forests, whenever a heavier cloud passed over.  The road was lined with beggars, who dropped on their knees in the rain before us, or placed bars across the way, and then took them down again, for which they demanded money.

At length we reached the top of the pass.  Many pilgrims to Einsiedeln had stopped at a little inn there, some of whom came a long distance to pay their vows, especially as the next day was the Ascension day of the Virgin, whose image there is noted for performing many miracles.  Passing on, we crossed a wild torrent by an arch called the “Devil’s Bridge.”  The lofty, elevated plains were covered with scanty patches of grain and potatoes, and the boys tended their goats on the grassy slopes, sometimes trilling or yodling an Alpine melody.  An hour’s walk brought us to Einsiedeln, a small town, whose only attraction is the Abbey—­after Loretto, in Italy, the most celebrated resort for pilgrims in Europe.