harf at Rapperschwyl.

There are two small islands in the lake, one of which, with a little
chapel rising from among its green trees, is Ufnau, the grave of Ulrich
von Hutten, one of the fathers of the German Reformation. His fiery
poems have been the source from which many a German bard has derived his
inspiration, and Freiligrath who now lives in sight of his tomb, has
published an indignant poem, because an inn with gaming tables has been
established in the ruins of the castle near Creuznach, where Hutten
found refuge from his enemies with Franz von Sickingen, brother-in-law
of "Goetz with the iron Hand." The monks of Einsiedeln, to whom Ufnau
belongs, have carefully obliterated all traces of his grave, so that the
exact spot is not known, in order that even a tombstone might be denied
him who once strove to overturn their order. It matters little to that
bold spirit whose motto was: "_The die is cast--I have dared it!_"--the
whole island is his monument, if he need one.

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