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In The Tyrol And Switzerland 1870
DEAR FATHER, — It rains to-day, and is very wet, miserable, and disagreeable, the second bad day we have had on our voyage. One cannot go on deck without getting wet through and his eyes full of cinders.
Courmayeur, Italy
DEAR MOTHER, — I have not written since I landed, of which I am a little ashamed, but I have been very busy, and it has been hard to find a place to write in. But here I am, on Sunday afternoon, sitting on the gallery of this queer hotel, in this funny old Italian town, on the south side of the Alps.
DEAR WILLIAM, — I wonder what you have all been about at home since I left you at the Worcester station four weeks ago tomorrow morning. I have not heard a word yet, and shall not get letters till tomorrow night, when we reach Coire, to which place I have ordered letters sent.
Ischi, Austria
DEAR FATHER, — You have written me twice, and well deserve that this Sunday's letter should go to you. This Ischi is the great watering-place of Austria. Here the Emperor has his summer palace, and the great Vienna swells come hither to be under the shadow of his magnificence.
DEAR MOTHER, — I think you will not find this town on any map at home. Indeed, it is not easy to find when one is very close to it, for it is hidden away among mountains of the biggest kind, and is the littlest sort of a town itself.
Meran, Tyrol
DEAR FRED, — I have been meaning to write you ever since I came abroad ; especially, I had a notion of writing to you on your birthday, the glorious 5th, but the mountains were too many for me, and every night I was so tired that I was fain to get into my uncomfortable little Dutch bed as soon as possible.
DEAR FATHER, — I have received a letter from you this week, written July 26, the second that has reached me. The mails seem to be deranged, and it is not strange. I have written once a week to some of you ever since I landed. I hope long before this the stream has begun to flow, and you have received my letters regularly.
Hτtel D'orient, Paris
DEAR MOTHER, — We are at last in Paris, after a long week's doubt whether we should be able to get here. We arrived this morning at eight o'clock, after a seventeen hours' ride from Geneva. We met with no detention further than having to wait here and there for trains loaded with cattle and provisions for the army.
DEAR WILLIAM, — I write a line, which will probably not get home before I do, but I may be detained, and this will tell you that I am well and coming. Yesterday was too busy and exciting a day to write. As the telegraph will have told you, there was a blood-less revolution and we went to bed last night under a Republic.
Summer In Northern Europe 1872
DEAR FATHER, — The voyage is almost over. To-morrow morning we shall be at Queenstown, where I think we shall land, to go by Cork and Dublin to London. It will be pleasanter and quicker, and probably get us to London on Sunday morning.
DEAR MOTHER, — I will begin a letter to you, now that I have a leisure moment, while I am waiting for Fred, who reported himself at the hotel this morning when I was out, and has not yet returned. So he has arrived, but I have not seen him yet. I wrote to father just before we landed from the Palmyra.
Lillehammer, Norway
DEAR WILLIAM, — I have written to you in the course of our correspondence from many queer places, but perhaps this tonight is the queerest of them all. It is the neatest, triggest, cosiest little Norwegian inn, one day's journey from Christiania, just set in among the mountains at the head of lake Mjosen.
Aak, Norway
DEAR FATHER, — We have been spending Sunday at this remote little place in the mountains, at the mouth of the Romsdaal Valley, which is one of the most remarkable gorges in Norway. We came here in a three days' journey from Lillehammer, whence I wrote to William last Wednesday.
Steamer Fjalir, On The Nord Fiord, Norway
DEAR MOTHER, — It is a rainy forenoon on a steam-boat, and there is nothing pleasanter than to sit in the little cabin and write my weekly letter to you, although it is before its time. We are on our way to Bergen, running down one of the countless fiords that cut up the coast of Norway into slices. Last Sunday afternoon, I wrote to father from Aak, at the foot of the Romsdaal Valley.
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