had carried a pathway formed of pieces of timber, stones, branches which—did not resemble anything, but along which people to their astonishment could walk quite safely, and without the least difficulty, if they steadied themselves with one hand against the rock wall. Only a few days ago he had carried a path over the stream fifty feet higher up. At the point where it ceased we found ourselves near to an immense round block of stone which had fallen into the chasm and become fixed, so that it formed above it a kind of curtain. Beyond the gloomy gorge, which looked almost black, we saw up aloft the stream hurl itself from the left hand into the mountain chasm, in a strong stream, clear as crystal. Whence came it? That was impossible to say, but the sun shone brightly upon it, and over it a little birch-tree waved its soft, light green branches. The source of the dark river lay in light. It gladdened me, and all the way louder than that singing waterfall, sang and sported within my soul scenes and conversations which I will relate to you at home.
All this scenery and this country are refreshing, wild, and picturesque. There are many “lions” among the mountains, and a printed card which I received from our host of La Fayette House, promises—
“An echo from the cannon every evening on the lake.”
But I have already described sufficient.
We shall now proceed from the White Mountains of New Hampshire to the green hill, Vermont.
I now write to you from a beautiful house on the shores of the Lake Champlain, which has one of the most glorious views over the water and the mountain region which I have ever seen since the Lake of Geneva,
