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.

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 commenced dilating upon the fine qualities of a large milch cow

that we happened to be noticing. She talked so glibly, knowingly and earnestly, that we were disposed to humor the joke, and ask questions about the age of the cow, etc.; whereupon she immediately lifted the head of the animal, opened its mouth, and showed us the marks on the teeth and the ring on its horns, with as much self-possession and accuracy as the most experienced cow dealer. When she had finished we thanked her for the information she gave us, and told her that we were not purchasers, but merely travellers from a distant land who wished to see every thing in her country. Wishing us a happy and prosperous journey, she turned to a real customer and disposed of her cow.

When we reached the village of Chamouni it was after night-fall, and the little square in front of our hotel was illuminated with torch-lights by the friends of an Englishman who had been seen. through a telescope during the day on the summit of Mont Blanc. At twelve o'clock the hero returned with a long retinue of guides, and expatiated largely to an eager crowd on the many trials, troubles, difficulties and dangers that he had to encounter, wondered how any human being ever summoned courage to perform such a feat, and thanked God that he was spared to return once more to a habitable region and receive the congratulations of his English friends.

Taking his word for it, we concluded not to ascend Mont Blanc so high, but compromised by going to the Mer de Glace, which is neither difficult nor dangerous. Just before reaching Montanvert, a place where refreshments are kept for the accommodation of visitors during the season, we had quite an adventure. One of our party, a gentleman from Boston, concluded he would try the velocity of a stone down the mountain, and accordingly set one in motion, which unfortunately came in contact with a cow before it rolled very far, and to our astonishment the poor animal was hurled with incredible speed to the foot of the mountain. Knowing that we could be of no service to the creature after such a roll, we continued our journey to the Mer de Glace, which is one of the most beautiful sights in Alpine scenery, and wonderful beyond description. The view of this enormous sea of ice is one of the most striking of these scenes of wonder; its great extent, the beauty of its purity, the color and depth of its crevices, surrounded by a thousand nameless pinnacles, render it enchanting and romantic in the extreme.

Many persons cross the Mer de Glace, and go as far as the Jardin or island in the ice; but we dispensed with that privilege-descended the mountain by way of the Glacier, and ascended a mountain called the Flegere on the opposite side of the valley of Chamouni, which affords one of the best views of Mont Blanc. Near the summit of the Flegere is a small châlet, where we procured a very good dinner, served in a homely way, but very palatable to a hungry man. After discussing our dinner, we went out and watched the last rays of the setting sun, sinking behind the snow-covered peak of Mont Blanc. The valley beneath was invisible, and we were separated entirely from the inhabitants of the village by a cloud that was as dark and impenetrable as night itself. The panorama presented a picture of singular grandeur and beauty-the time was auspicious, the associations grand, and its recollections imperishable. Returning to Chamouni, we found the owner of the cow we had killed and the syndic of the village awaiting our arrival. The case was properly presented on the part of my friend, who contended that it was an accident. After a great deal of talking and ten thousand gesticulations, my friend was permitted to go, provided he remunerated the owner of the cow.

Leaving Chamouni the following morning, we passed through the Tête Noire to Martigny, and thence to the snow-covered pass of St. Bernard, where we were entertained one night at the Hospice by the monks, who devote their lives to the service of their fellow-men whose pursuits oblige them to traverse these dreary fields in seasons of danger, and the weary traveller who visits their lonely habitations through curiosity. The Hospice is a massive stone building, well adapted to its perilous situation, which is on a very high point of the pass, and exposed to the heavy storms of winter. The building is capable of accommodating more than one hundred persons comfortably; the monks are unremitting in their attentions, and charge nothing for their services—leaving it to the option of the guests to place what they choose in a small bag in the chapel. The room appropriated to visitors is large and convenient; it is hung with many drawings and prints, and is furnished with an excellent library and piano. About the house I saw several St. Bernard dogs, which are altogether different in their appearance from what I had supposed; instead of having long hair, it is short and thick, and their

general appearance is very like the large-sized cur of our countrythey are very heavy and strong, and capable of enduring more than any other animal. Near the Hospice is what they term the Morgue, or place where they expose the dead bodies found in the snow, which are placed in the frozen position in which they were found; it is a place of melancholy interest, containing the remains of the unfortunate victims for ages past. No one can visit the Hospice of St. Bernard without the satisfaction of being amply compensated for his pains.

Taking leave of the good old monks, we returned to the village of Martigny, and are now wending our way through deep snows over the celebrated Pass of Simplon into Italy.

This remarkable road was built by Napoleon soon after the battle of Marengo, with the view of facilitating the communication between France and Italy, and the ultimate subjection of the latter. It was the first carriage road constructed across the Alps, and now stands as one of the monuments of Napoleon's greatness. To give you some idea of the colossal nature of the undertaking, it may be mentioned that the number of bridges, great and small, constructed for the passage of the road, exceeds six hundred, in addition to the more vast and costly constructions, such as terraces of massive masonry, miles in length, of ten galleries, either cut out of the stone, or built of solid limestone, and of twenty houses of refuge to shelter travellers, and lodge the laborers constantly employed to take care of the road. The cost of this road is said to have averaged four hundred thousand francs per league. The travel over the Simplon road has gradually increased, and it is at present one of the greatest thoroughfares in all Europe.