After passing the little village of Brienz,—where the English-speaking landlord of the Bear (Ours) will entertain you well if you give him a call,—we soon began the ascent of the Brunig mountain. It gives you at once some conception of the immense expenditure of money, time, and science of engineering required to construct these Swiss roads. As smooth as those of Central Park, and as solid, they are made to wind around and about so as to render the ascent gradual. Sometimes we seem to be returning on our track, but always singing _Excelsior_, and yet so gradually that the strain is not severe on the horses, and you feel no sense of danger as you are borne along without jolting or fatigue. And what a lovely vale is every moment in view at the foot of the mountain! A rapid river sweeps through it, and by its side a white, smooth road: sweet Swiss homes in the midst of green farms dot the valley, that may well be the pride of the whole land. Now we are looking down into the Vale of Meyringen. For two or three hours we have seen in the distance a splendid cascade, and now that we have approached it, we find it the lower leap of the celebrated Reichenbach Falls, and into the valley so many are pouring constantly, that you are not surprised to learn the inhabitants have often suffered sadly from the swelling of these mountain torrents, which come down so rapidly and fearfully as to bear away every thing before them. A hundred years ago, almost the whole village of Meyringen was buried twenty feet deep in the sand and rocks and rubbish. A mark on one of the principal buildings shows the height to which the waters rose in that memorable deluge. And as we are wound along up the Brunig, we enter the clouds and find the rain descending, so that we are obliged to shut the carriage up till we pass through the cloud, and emerge as we come down into a sunnier region. At the foot, the village of Lungern offers us dinner, and we rest. One of my friends had been suffering all day with toothache, and had at last reached the reckless determination to have it out, if a dentist, or even a blacksmith, could be found in the place. I admired his courage more than his discretion, but probably had only a feeble sense of his suffering. The village doctor was summoned, a fine-looking, self-reliant, intelligent young man. The landlord stood with solemn face at the door of the room where the dread operation was to be performed. The landlady wrung her hands in sympathy. The head waiter held the sufferer’s head. I held my peace. In a moment it was done! And then the charge, it was one franc! twenty cents!! Think of that, ye man tormentors, who, with forceps dire, tear a tooth by the roots from one’s bleeding jaw and charge him two dollars, or five!