Miss B——, one of the American ladies at Monsieur W——'s, has resided four years in Italy. Among other anecdotes, of which she has an entertaining and extensive fund at command, she was telling us one, illustrating the reputation of our great republic with the common people of Europe. Near the Hotel de Secherons, on the banks of the lake, one mile from Geneva, she met a small boy at the gate of a cottage, and amused herself by a little talk with him. He seemed much surprised on learning the two facts, that she was an American lady, and that she boarded at the Secherons, 'where they paid more money for one dinner than he ever had in his life.' 'Did you ever hear of America?' 'Oh yes, father told me all about it. There was a famous Frenchman, Monsieur Lafayette, went there once, and conquered the country.' 'Indeed!' well, what did he do then?' 'Why, they wanted him to become king, but he wouldn't.' 'Why not?' 'Because,' said the boy, hesitating, lest he should give offence, 'because the Americans are so poor!' And thus he marvelled that one of them should be rich enough to patronize the Hotel de Secherons.
Sunday.—Attended the English Episcopal chapel, to hear the celebrated Rev. J. W. Cunningham, author of the 'Velvet Cushion,' etc. He enjoined upon his audience, mostly English travellers or residents, to conduct themselves abroad as best became 'British Christians.' There are chapels of this kind for the English, in nearly all the large cities of Italy, and throughout Europe.
Chamouni, (foot of Mont Blanc,) August 23.—Those who describe Swiss scenery, with a feeling sense of its beauty and grandeur, are apt to incur the charge of coloring the picture under the influence of an inflated imagination; but I am sure of one thing, that no mere words ever did or could give me a correct and full impression of the scenes I have passed to-day, or of the one now before me. To say that I am in the valley of Chamouni, at the very base of the stupendous Mont Blanc and his gigantic neighbors, on a moonlight evening, is to say enough for your own imagination to fill up the picture. Well does Rogers remark of the distant view of the Alps from the Jura, where they are scarcely distinguishable from the vapors:
'Who first beholds those everlasting clouds,
Seed-time and harvest, morning, noon and night,
Still where they were, stedfast, immovable;
Those mighty hills, so shadowy, so sublime,
As rather to belong to heaven than earth,
But instantly receives into his soul,
A sense, a feeling, that he loses not,
A something that informs him 'tis an hour
Whence he may date henceforward and for ever.'
It certainly is a school, where the egotist may learn humility.
Our party, (Mr. and Miss M——, and myself,) left Geneva in a 'carry-all' yesterday morning at five o'clock. It was another clear and brilliant day, and the ride, of course, was delightful. Lake, hill, mountain, valley, cascade, river, in their happiest combination, presented a splendid panorama, during the whole distance to this place, fifty-four miles. By way of variety, I must tell you my troubles, also. About five miles from Geneva, we were made aware of having left the Swiss, and entered the Sardinian territory, by a summons, at a little frontier bureau, for our passports. When lo! it was discovered that mine was minus the signature of his Sardinian majesty's consul at Geneva,[5] and I was politely requested to return for it! This was particularly pleasant! For to do it, would be to lose the whole day, and the party beside. After some useless debate, the carbinier kindly permitted me to send back the document by a loafer who happened along, knowing that I could not go far without it; and the next day I received it at Chamouni, and had the pleasure of paying five dollars for not heeding Madame Starke's directions.
We breakfasted at Bonneville, a little village on the Arve, worthy of its name; and we were soon ushered into a region of sublimer scenery than we had as yet visited. The craggy summits, even of the minor mountains, literally touch or rise above the clouds, while their sides, up to a fearful height, are covered with verdure, and studded with cottages: and the valleys below are laid out in squares of varied green. At St. Martin, we changed our vehicle for a char-banc, better suited to the rough and narrow path, for we were now coming where nature displays some of her wildest scenes:
——'Above me are the Alps,
The palaces of Nature, whose vast walls
Have pinnacled in clouds their snowy scalps,
And throned eternity in icy halls
Of cold sublimity, where forms and falls
The avalanche, the thunder-bolt of snow!
All that expands the spirit yet appals,
Gather around these summits, as to show
How earth may pierce to heaven, yet leave vain man below.'