"Where not a beam, nor air, nor leaf is lost,
But hath a part of being, and of sense

Of that which is of all Creator and Defence."

We had intended to start early next morning, but being delayed several hours by something connected with our tiresome passports, we hired a boat and went upon the lake. There was more motion than I expected, or liked, so I believe in this, the greatest enjoyment to me was in the idea! However, we had a lovely view of Vevay, also of Gingough opposite, and Meillerie immortalized by Rousseau.

By the time we landed, the passports were forthcoming, so that we recommenced our journey. The road winds along the shores of the lake, through avenues of large chestnut trees, with clustering vines, luxuriant flowers, and peaceful little cottages. I was continually reminded of the scenes so early imprinted on my memory in "Pierre and his Family," a favourite tale of my childhood. In many a little white cottage, with trellised vine leaves, beneath the shade of a spreading chestnut, I pictured to myself the fondly cherished home of the Vaudois family. We passed "Clarens," so exquisitely described in Childe Harold: then " Montreux," even more beautifully situated: and very shortly stopped at the gate of the "Castle of Chillon." A remarkably intelligent Swiss girl conducted us to the various places of interest. Here, then, I actually stood on that spot whose associations had so impressed my imagination. We entered the dark vault "below the surface of the lake:" we counted the " seven columns deep and old,"

"Dim with a dull imprisoned ray,

A sunbeam which hath lost its way,
And through the crevice and the cleft
Of a thick wall is fallen and left,
Creeping o'er the floor so damp,
Like a marsh's meteor lamp."

On the third column Byron's name is engraved by his own hand, and passing onwards we came to Bonnivard's pillar. It makes the blood run cold to see the very ring which fastened a fellow-creature to the huge stone column, like a wild beast,-to stand on the very stone worn to some depth by the constant pacing of the unhappy man for six long weary years! Three steps were all that he could take, and this living death was inflicted by his fellow-men!

"Chillon! thy prison is a holy place,

And thy sad floor an altar-for 'twas trod
Until his very steps have left a trace,
Worn, as if the cold pavement were a sod,

By Bonnivard! May none those marks efface,
For they appeal from tyranny to God!"

The death of his two brothers in this living tomb adds almost a deeper melancholy to the mournful place. The only ray of comfort is the recollection, that, on the victory gained by the Canton, he was not only himself liberated but found his beloved country free. We saw some other places of torture, but they are too horrible to dwell upon. I could not help remarking to our little guide how thankful we should be that our lives were cast in such peaceful times, and that we should pray to God long to spare us from the power of a religion that could inflict tortures like these upon its opponents. She assented with much earnestness and apparent feeling. Continuing our way we passed

"The little isle,

Which in my very face did smile,
The only one in view,"

and entered the valley of the Rhone. Evening brought us to Bex. I walked to the windows of our room whilst awaiting such preparations for tea as the place afforded, and there so near as almost to cast its giant shadow on me, rose the mighty

"Dent de Midi!" It was one of those impressions which seem, one scarce knows why, to linger in the mind; and often has that dark mountain risen up before me when brighter scenes have been unthought of. Having got up early next morning, I was rewarded by seeing the sun rise on the stupendous heights all around the little village. First one snowy peak and then another was bathed in the golden beams of the breaking day. The scenery became wilder and more grand as we penetrated into the bosom of the pass. At one part where the valley suddenly narrows, is the remarkable bridge over whose arch "a key unlocks a kingdom." This is at St. Maurice, a small place, strongly fortified, being the frontier town between the Canton de Vaud and that of the Vallais. We were delayed on the bridge to shew our passports and pay the frontier duty, in the very best position for seeing the peculiar features of the strange wild scene. The bridge is literally supported by the base of the "Dent de Morcles" on one side, and on the other by that of the "Dent de Midi," whose bold rocks project so far as scarcely to leave room for the river which rushes impetuously in its narrow bed. An old castle crowns a precipitous crag above, and in the narrowest part of the defile are the fortifications on either side. For hours we travelled on, walled in by these stupendous mountains, assuming different forms at every turn. At a few miles' distance from Maurice are yet visible the awful and desolating effects of a torrent of mud, as it is well termed, which descended, in 1835, from the sides of the "Dent de Midi" into the valley. It forced a passage for itself through the pine forest, snapping the largest trees like twigs. The high road was covered for 900 feet, and fields and houses were overwhelmed by it. We saw, still lying on the top of the débris, enormous blocks of limestone of many tons' weight, which had floated like corks on the surface of the resistless avalanche. A fine object in this

part of our journey was the waterfall of Sallenche, which descends into the valley of the Rhone from a narrow black ravine. Its height is 280 feet, but the last part of the fall is not more than 120. It is a fine body of water, and the spray is bright and beautiful in the summer sun. Martigny was our mid-day resting-place, a spot so lovely we could well content have there pitched our tabernacle for a time, but we had not even a day to spare; and after exchanging many a friendly salutation with the peasants, whose kindly "Bonjour, bien, bien, bonjour!" was given with a pleasant smile as they passed, we were again en route, reaching the "Hôtel du Lion d'Or," at Sion, early in the evening. W walked out : I having sprained my ankle, could not accompany him, and therefore occupy myself in bringing up my Journal to this point. It seems like a dream to fancy that ere I write in it again, we shall have crossed the mighty Alps!

Milan, Monday.-Is it even so, that we have witnessed those unequalled scenes, and have been in the very bosom of the Alps? But I must continue from where I left off the day before we got to Brieg. We were off from Sion by seven. I was particularly struck with the situation of many of the villages scattered on the mountain's side, at a height so extraordinary, one marvels how the inhabitants have access to their eagle's. nests! Close to Tourtemagne, a pretty little town, is a fine waterfall: a romantic walk through lanes, overhung with fruit trees, leads to it from the inn, and you hear the roaring of the water before it comes in sight. In the centre of a huge basin of rocks is the fall. It is not so high as the Sallenche, but a larger body of water, falling in a most graceful curve, while the spray, glittering with a thousand colours in the sun's rays, is cast to a great distance. But its greatest charm is in situationthe only life-like thing amid those barren rocks. Just before

reaching the narrow turn to it, is a little cottage, from whence a nice looking young woman brought a plank of wood to put across a rivulet that must be passed; and on our return, as we had no silver, she sent a child, a little toddling thing, about four years old, with us to bring some back. She was a pretty little flaxen-haired girl, and looking up in my face with a smile, she put her little hand in mine with entire satisfaction. She could not understand a word of my French, but she smiled in reply as she trotted by my side with her wooden sabots, and in her funny little Swiss dress.

At two o'clock we left Tourtemagne, and proceeded on our way to Brieg-every now and then passing through scenes of desolation, caused by avalanches of mud and stone, and the consequent rise of the river. For miles together the bridges had been swept away, and the trees laid prostrate; and on both sides of the road immense piles of stones and rocks are heaped up which have been removed from it. Not long after we left Tourtemagne it began to rain, giving us some fears for the eventful morrow. As we approached Brieg, Ferdinando pointed out, amid the dark mountains, the route we were to take next day. It seemed truly as if we were to pierce the clouds. We reached Brieg early: a dirty gloomy hotel, the "Poste," in a narrow dark street. The rooms comfortless in a special degree, so that I listened with a feeling akin to despair to Ferdinando's account of some who had been detained, even days, in this wretched hamlet, by weather unpropitious for crossing the mountains. It would be difficult to say how often I got up through the first part of the night to ascertain, if possible, what our fate was to be!

Pefore daylight Ferdinando knocked at the door with the joyful intelligence that there was no rain, and by five o'clock we had actually commenced our long anticipated passage of the