from Paris, and the wide boulevards; and Louis XIV with his high heels and big wig; and the groups in front of the cafés, with smiles on their faces and spoons in their hands; and the glorious. company of cab-drivers, with their glazed hats and red vests; and the three armies that perpetually garrison Paris-the army of workmen in blue blouses, the army of soldiers in red trousers, and the army of priests in shovel hats.

No Pullman, no sleep, is the rule with your correspondent, and so it was a pleasure to see daylight again, and with it came a strange country, and a regiment of big men with helmets marching along a turnpike with the ponderosity and solidity and accuracy of a steam plow. We were out of France, and these soldiers were Germans, and not many hours after we were at Bale, "which the same" is in Switzerland.

An erudite gentleman of far-western origin long ago remarked, that a man must be a startling case of fool who could not spell a word more than one way, and Bale is one of the words he meant. It is spelled Basle, Basel, and, I believe, in other ways. I have selected the easiest—and, while the reader is at perfect liberty to call the name what he likes, I would remark that many respectable people in the neighborhood pronounce it "Bawl."

At Bale, then, in Switzerland, we “struck” a new country, and something new in the way of language. The people of Switzerland speak any language unknown to the particular traveler in hand. When addressed in German, they answer fluently in French. If you pride yourself on speaking the pure Ollendorf French, you will awake a storm of German which fairly sweeps you off your feet. The best way is to call two Swiss to your assistance: one will certainly speak French and the other Ger

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man-then address them both in English. By following these directions, even a deaf-mute may travel all over Switzerland with perfect safety.

Bale was "laid out" before that curse of our modern and artificial society-the "city engineer"—was invented. The word "grade" was unknown in the infancy of Bale. The necessity of digging down trees and leaving some houses high and dry and others low and wet, for the sake of getting things on the "established grade," was not apparent to the early Common Councils of Bale. Where the Creator had made a hill it was supposed to be intended as a permanent arrangement, and has been suffered to remain as such. If the hill ascends at an angle of forty-five degrees, that is the "grade." All the streets of old Bale are paved with what are called "cobbles" in New England; and very steep, and queer, and crooked, and "cobbly" are the streets aforesaid. The roofs, also, of Bale are as high and steep as practicable, and their surface is broken by numerous windows, which have steep little roofs also. Sunlight is not much of an object, as it costs nothing; and so there are many streets in the town that enjoy the luxury only for a little while in the middle of the day. Some of the houses are flanked with towers, and have a rusty and resolute appearance, being relics of those charming old days when battleaxes, crossbows, catapults, slings, and a kettle of Greek fire were conveniences in every well-regulated family.

At Bale there is a famous minster, built heaven knows when, and in it there was once held a council, which sat I do not know how many years, and decided I do not now remember what. I think they "shipped" one Pope and elected another; but my memory fails me now as to details. The minster is now in the

hands of the Protestants.

The guide, who spoke Franco-German-English, was very courteous, and took us into the armory, where are weapons from all the battle-fields in history. I inquired for relics of several lively conflicts, and he unhesitatingly produced them. I believe if I had asked him for a shield and javelin used at Bunker Hill he would have brought out the property. The guide pointed out to us a curious wooden head, which, if I correctly understood his polyglot remarks, was intended to indicate to the preacher when the congregation had had about enough. By concealed clock-work the eyes of the head are made to swing around and the tongue to protrude in a manner sufficiently awful, I should think, to make any preacher stop in the middle of his discourse and get "leave to print." I remember little of the minster of Bale except this wooden head, and a stone knight carved on the front of the edifice, who had run his spear lengthwise through a dragon. The dragon looked sick.

I should not omit to say that the Bale I have been describing is the old town. There is a new town, as smart and handsome as could be desired, with the usual boulevards and parks and statues; for Bale is a very rich town, made so, in part at least, by the manufacture of ribbons. St. Elizabeth's, a fine modern church, was erected at the expense of a single citizen. At Bale, one sees the Rhine, the "blue and arrowy" Rhine, a very fine stream, and deserving of all the verses which have been written about it.

Leaving Bale, we went by rail to Lucerne; and on arriving there, went to the Hotel des Cygnes, which hotel I selected because the name reminded me of the Marais des Cygnes. It was approaching sunset, and a slight shower was falling, when I looked out of a window and saw a rainbow which eclipsed all the other

rainbows of my life; for it stretched like an arch from mountain to mountain, and the bright Lake of the Four Cantons lay beneath. The mountain of the neighborhood is Mount Pilatus, named in honor of Pontius Pilate. It is a noble eminence, and why Pilate's name should be conferred on it, is an unfathomable mystery. I have known towns that might be named Pilateville, or Nerosburg, or New Sodom, with perfect propriety; but why this fine mountain should be named after a great historical criminal, is, as I have said, quite a puzzle to me.

We reposed in peace at the Hotel "Marais des Cygnes," and rose with the sun, the lark, the early bird that catches the wakeful worm, and all the other early-rising things, and looked out upon Lucerne and the lake. The former is a handsome town, and old, of course. In the old time, it was the gathering-place of those Swiss mercenaries who sold their swords to foreign powers. From thence they marched "over the hills and far away," to fight-perchance to die. The virtue of these men was fidelity; the bargain made, gold for blood, and they stood to the agreement to the bitter end: and to this virtue of theirs is erected at Lucerne the most poetical and impressive monument I have ever seen. In a quiet spot, a little out of the town, arises in the midst of surrounding trees a bold cliff, and in the face of this has been carved a gigantic lion, designed by the great Thorwaldsen. The poor brute has been mortally hurt-you see the broken spear in his side- but in his death agony he rests his great head and one mighty paw on the shield of the house of Bourbon, as if making one last convulsive effort to defend it. Thus is preserved the memory of the Swiss guards who were killed in Paris, upholding the cause of their adopted sovereign. But poor lion—

poor, brave old lion! thou mightst have found a better pillow for thy dying head than the shield of that false house.

We decided to take a voyage on the lakes—for what is really the same body of water is called in different parts by different names. I despair of giving any idea of the beauty of the scenery. The only American lake scenery I have ever seen approaching it in beauty is that of Lake George, but there the majestic mountains are wanting—at least such mountains. The voyage was a continuous delight. The last few miles were upon the waters of the Lake of Uri, famous for its connection with the history of William Tell. Every headland has some story connected with Tell- and yet people say there never was any Tell. At Fluelen we left the boat, and proceeded to Altdorf. We would like to hear anybody dispute the existence of Tell in Altdorf, for here is his image in plaster, standing on the spot where he stood when he let fly at the Ben Davis on his son's head, and, to "make assurance doubly sure," the spot is marked where the boy himself stood. A nice little village is Altdorf— Old Town— and at the inn of the Golden Key you may get a dinner which would have softened the heart of Gessler himself. The town is in a very narrow valley, the great mountains stretching away on either hand, and on one side the town has climbed up the hill a little way, and there are little vineyards and orchards and gardens, and the wood in which no man may cut a tree, because the trees stand between the people and the dreadful avalanche which would soon make an end of Altdorf; and high up amid the halfhidden stone walls and the maze of green trees and vines, is the monastery of the Capuchins. It was high noon when we clambered up to the little retreat, and the mellow light of the sun