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the mist disappears, and the glories of the morning sun are revealed to the wonder-stricken pilgrim in all its grandeur.. A glare of light in the east, which gradually dims the flickering of the stars, is the first token of its appearance; it soon becomes a streak of gold along the horizon, and is reflected in a pale pink tint upon the snows of the Bernese Alps. Summit after summit gradually assumes the same glittering hue; the darkness between the horizon and the Culm is next lighted up; forests, lakes, hills, rivers, towns, and villages become more and more distinct, and the whole panorama is spread out before you in all its wonder and diversified beauty. On one side the lofty chain of the Albis, running parallel with the Zurich, and the distant range of the Black Forest hills in Germany, are visible to the eye; on another, the Jura chain, the town of Lucerne, with its coronet of towers, and Tell's Chapel, on the spot where he shot the tyrant Gessler; on another, the beautiful lake of Lucerne and the magnificent white chain of the high Alps of Berne, Unterwalden, and Uri, in one unbroken ridge of peaks and glaciers; and lastly, the Alpine chain, which extends uninterruptedly along the horizon, including the pre-eminent peaks of Doedi, Glaerwisch, and Sentis, while the middle distance embraces the region famous in history as the cradle of Swiss freedom, and the bloody conflict between Suwarrow and Massena.

After taking a satisfactory survey of this wide-spread panorama, extending over a circumference of three hundred miles, we descended by way of the same path to Weggis, where we met the little steamer and proceeded through the lake of the Four Cantons to Fluellen, situated in the midst of what they here call Tell's country. The scenery on this lake is unsurpassed in Europe, and is celebrated not only for its beauty, but the many historical associations connected with it. Its shores are a classic region, the sanctuary of liberty, and memorable events are here recorded which will ever be dear to the lovers of freedom. A short distance beyond Fluellen is the little village of Altorf, the capital of the canton of Uri, the poorest and least populous in the confederation. Its only claim to in terest the traveller is in connection with William Tell. Our guide pointed out to us a stone fountain, on the public square, surmounted with statues of the dauntless crossbowman and his child, which is said to mark the spot where he stood when he shot the apple off his

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son's head. Near this fountain there is another to perpetuate the spot where the lime tree stood, upon which Gessler's cap was stuck, for all men to do obeisance to it as they passed, and to which the child was bound, to serve as a mark for his father's bolt.

Leaving this region, we passed the Devil's Bridge, crossed the snow-covered Furca, and reached in safety, after two days' travel, the Hospice of the Grimsel, an inn of the rudest kind, originally occupied by monks, who entertained those who travelled from necessity, and afforded gratuitous aid to the poor, but now daily occupied, during the summer months, by travellers for pleasure. It is a massive building, of rough masonry, designed to resist a weight of snow, and with few windows to admit the cold, which is disagreeable in the warmest season. Its situation is dreary in the extreme, in a rocky hollow, upwards of a thousand feet below the summit of the pass, surrounded by soaring peaks and steep precipices. During the winter one servant remains in the house, with a sufficient provision to serve during the period of his banishment, and several dogs to find out the approach of wanderers; for even in the depth of winter, this snow-bound habitation is resorted to by traders from Hasti and the Vallais, who exchange the cheese of one valley for the wine and spirits of the other. In the neighborhood of the Hospice are two of the most remarkable glaciers of Switzerland, the Aar and the Rhone. The former is eighteen miles long and from two to four broad, but is covered to a great extent with rubbish, which mars its beauty; while the Rhone presents a face as clear and dazzling as a sunbeam. It fills the head of the valley from side to side, and appears piled up against the shoulder of the Gallenstock, whose tall peak overhangs it. It is impossible to give you a correct idea of this "magnificent sea of ice;" its extent, thickness, yawning crevices, variety of formation, and extreme purity, are truly wonderful. The river Rhone is supplied from a cavern of ice beneath this glacier, which is estimated at 5,400 feet above the sea. Remaining all night at the Hospice of the Grimsel, we started early the next morning for Grindelwald, stopping en route at Handek, near which are the falls of Aar, considered the finest in Switzerland. They are more than two hundred feet high, which, taken in connection with the quantity and rush of water, the gloom of the gorge into which it precipitates itself, and the wild character of the rocky solitude

around, renders it far more interesting to the traveller than either the Reichenbach, Giesbach or Staubbach, all within a circuit of fifty miles, and each possessing more celebrity on account of their being accessible and situated nearer Interlachen and Thun, the favorite summer resorts of the English. Grindelwald is decidedly one of the most romantic places in Switzerland, being situated in a valley formed on one side by the Eigher, or Giant, the Mittenberg, (middle mountain,) and the Wetterhorn, (Peak of the Tempests,) between which issue out two magnificent glaciers, bordered with forests of fir, which form, as it were, a graceful fringe to the white ice, while the verdant meadows, with which they are almost in contact near their bases, contrast agreeably with the frozen peaks above. Long before we reached the mountain village, our ears were saluted with the shrill sound of the alpine horn, blown by an old soldier, living in a small chapel, who makes his bread by the charity of strangers, who always stop and listen to his wild music. The horn is simply a rude tube of wood six or eight feet long, without ornament or beauty; but the sounds that emanate from it are truly wonderful, particularly when returned to the ear by the echoes repeated from the tall cliffs of the Wetterhorn, refined and softened like an aerial concert among the crags. We were also entertained on the roadside, as we descended into the valley, by young females, who pick up a few batzen by singing Ranz des Vaches-certainly the wildest chorus that ever was heard by human ears, not excepting even the songs of our Indian hunters. The Swiss song is not composed of articulate sounds, but one in which the voice is used as a mere instrument of music, more flexible than any which art can producesweet, powerful, and thrilling beyond description.

Pursuing our journey, we passed through Interlachen, Thun and Berne, to Vevay on Lake Leman, near which is the famous castle of Chillon, familiar to all who have perused Byron's Prisoner of Chillon. Before reaching Vevay, we met some of our dearest friends, with whom we crossed the mighty deep, and separated in Belgium, with the understanding that we should soon meet again and continue our journey together; but they had changed their route, and we parted once more, and finally, I fear; for when travellers divide in Europe, there is no certainty of their coming together again. While we were interchanging salutations, and plans of

travel, the diligence left me far behind, and it was in vain that I exerted my pedestrian powers to overtake it; the delivery of the mail was of more importance to the conductor than the comfort or convenience of a passenger. I did not regret this, however, as I was repaid for a walk of ten miles by beholding a beautiful sunset on the snow-covered hills that bound the horizon of Lake Leman. I was all alone, descending the long slope of the mountain by a serpentine road, and gazing in wonder and admiration upon the spots that inspired the genius of a Rousseau, a Byron, and other gifted authors. It was an evening for reflection; thoughts of the past, the glories of the present, and the bright hopes of the future, all conspired to create emotions that will not soon be forgotten.

The following morning we drove along the shore of the lake to the renowned castle of Chillon, romantically situated on an isolated rock, surrounded by deep water, but within a stone's throw of the road, with which it communicates by a wooden bridge. The castle is now converted into a magazine for military stores, but is always shown to strangers by a young woman of some beauty, who dilates considerably upon the "good old times," etc. We were ushered through the dungeon where Bonnivard was confined, saw the ring. in the pillar to which he was chained, and the stone floor at its base, worn by his constant pacing to and fro. This pillar is a record of the past, being covered all over with the handwriting of tourists desirous of associating their names with those who have acquired greatness and renown. Among many hundred I observed those of Byron, Shelley, Rousseau, Sue, Dana, and Peel, who have visited the castle and communicated their impressions to the world in terms too familiar to dwell upon. Leaving Chillon, we proceeded upon the deep blue waters of the lake to Geneva, the metropolis of Switzerland, stopping a short time at Lausanne, the place where Gibbon wrote his celebrated work on the rise and downfall of the Roman Empire.

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Geneva is one of the most beautiful and active inland cities in Europe. It is the great focus of attraction for travellers of all nations, fifty thousand being the number calculated to pass through the city annually. The river Rhone divides the city into two parts, the water of which is so very blue that it resembles the discharge of indigo from a dyer's vat. "As a town, Geneva possesses but few

attractions; it has no fine public buildings, and scarcely any sights.” It is owing to its beautiful environs, to the commanding view of Mont Blanc, to the charming scenery of its lake, and to its position. on the great high road from Paris to Italy, that it has become a place of so much resort and importance.

LETTER TWENTY-SEVEN.

SIMPLON PASS, Switzerland.

Valley of Chamouni-Ascent to the Mer de Glace-Adventure-View of Mont Blanc from the Flegere-Hospice of St. Bernard-Dogs-Monks-Morgue-The Simplon Road, etc.

LEAVING the shores of Lake Geneva, we proceeded in a diligence through a very uninteresting country into Savoy, one of the dependencies of the Sardinian government. Although this route is much travelled during the season by visitors to the valley of Chamouni, it possesses but few facilities and conveniences to enhance one's comfort. The hotels of Switzerland, as a general thing, are excellent; but in this particular region a person may undertake to keep the seventh day without any danger of breaking it: man and horse are entertained in the same house, and their food about on a par, with the exception of the cooking-beds of straw and one waiter for all. The monotony of the country and the inferiority of the hotels were almost forgotten when we thought of the many beauties in reserve for us at Chamouni, and observed the peculiarities of manner and custom presented for our contemplation, as we jogged along in the slow-going diligence. It happened to be one of the days set apart by the people for a public fair or exhibition of the stock of the neighborhood. The women seemed to be the chief managers of the show, as every one we met was driving a black pig with a cord fastened around the neck and body, or leading a cow by the horns to the village near by. For curiosity, we sallied out into the public square to see how such fairs were conducted, and to examine the nature of the animals offered for sale. Taking us to be persons wishing to buy, a buxom young girl, about sixteen, approached us and cominenced dilating upon the fine qualities of a large milch cow

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