Of course I could say nothing when I found I had such noble neighbours, or rather when I found that it was really the last vacant room in the house! When the bell rang for tea I was shown into an immense hall that might seat 500 people, gaily painted, and ornamented with chandeliers. I sat down and found myself, to my utter amazement, beside a row of ladies in grand toilette gossamer dresses with short sleeves and waists a _little lower_ than I thought waists were ever worn; hair dressed out with curls and flowers, bracelets (I counted five on the arm next me) and rings to match! The long tables were covered with alternate bowls of sour and sweet milk, and brown bread and butter. The bread looked inviting, but when, with difficulty, I had sawn off a morsel, it was so sour that I could hardly swallow it; but the milk was good, and I did it justice. People kept coming in in groups, very merry, but all talking German; the gentlemen, I presume, were in shirt sleeves, but as they were all covered with coats, I was not shocked! The next morning early I went through a series of hydropathic operations, at which Priessnitz assisted, as he always does the first time. The course never varied—viz. packing, a half-bath, a plunge bath, a wet bandage, and some glasses of cold water at six o’clock in the morning; an _Abreibung_, sitz bath, and another wet bandage at twelve o’clock; ditto at four P.M., and water _ad libitum_ all through the day. The diet is plain, but every morning an old woman opens a white-bread shop outside the dining-room, to which almost every one is customer. Each one comes in from the early morning walk, buys a roll, and marches in with it under his arm; and morning and evening the little strawberry gatherers offer the Alpine strawberries, with their fine wild-wood flavour, for sale. Everybody seems to have a good appetite. My own is ravenous; a half-day in the open air, rambling over these fine mountain-sides, stimulated by the wind and the abundant really living water, I find myself suddenly in strong, vigorous health, and the idea of sickness seems a fable. At first I felt very lonely in such a large assembly; but now I speak to a good many, and I have found one young American, Mr. Glynn, who seems like a brother in this concourse of strangers. He is about twenty-two, nearly blind from amaurosis, but one of the ‘smartest’ fellows I have ever met; quick as a flash, full of Yankee shrewdness, he bears his terrible misfortune with real heroism, and has rendered me numberless little services.