Zermatt, September 3d.—We are seated in the valley, at the foot of Monte Rosa; and whilst we are resting here, so that in the morning we may be able to ascend to the celebrated rock-rose, we are writing, the youthful sisters to their parents, and I to thee, my R——.
On the 1st of September we left Geneva. The morning was warm, the lake like a mirror; but the old “Helvetia,” soon made its waters foam and roar. The sun had not yet risen; dark, purple-tinted clouds hung above the heights in the direction in which it would rise; it looked like a chamber-alcove, behind the curtains of which the glimmer of the night-lamp, contended with the light of day, and where all is silent and mysterious.
But not for long. The sun came forth “like a bridegroom out of his chamber; and like a giant who rejoices to run his course.” The day was beautiful, although not perfectly clear. A soft, misty vail rested upon the heights; not a breath of wind stirred. But Lake Leman had never been more animated; steamers came and steamers went, saluting one another in passing by lowering their great red flags, with the white cross of the Confederation, down to the blue waves, which they seemed to kiss. Life upon Lake Leman and its banks, at this moment is a daily festival. The numbers of travelers either of great celebrity or high rank greatly increase it; the King of the Belgians, the Grand Dukes of Russia, Marshal Pellissier (the conqueror of Sebastopol), the French philosopher Cousin, and I know not how many other celebrities from foreign lands. The region where formerly the
