“These 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 thunderbolt 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.” [Illustration: AMONG THE PEAKS.] After ascending Mount Blanc, I can but say, I have scaled thy heights, I have sniffed thy breeze, I have planted my feet upon thy glittering crown, but who, oh who, can comprehend thy glory! Oh thou monarch of mountains! I see thee in all thy majesty. Thy proportions are so vast and gigantic, thy form so regal and grand, that the eye in vain attempts to estimate them. Distance is annihilated by thy vastness, for thou art towering above us as if thou wouldst bear thy burden of virgin snow back to its native heaven. Yet above thy regal brow I see an eagle. For a moment he pauses with outstretched wings, as if to contemplate thy glory, and then screaming with delight and whirling himself in the air, he continues his onward, upward flight, as if he would clutch his talons in the fiery sun itself. “Wave, eagle, thy pinion Supreme in the air!” But leave, ah leave, me alone on the mountain top amidst the frozen wilderness. I love to roam among the mountains. I love their pure air, their jagged heights, their snowy peaks, and their foaming cataracts tumbling down. Yea, “For the lifting up of mountains, In brightness and in dread; For the peaks where snow and sunshine Alone have dared to tread; For the dark of silent gorges, Whence mighty cedars nod: For the majesty of mountains, I thank thee, O my God.” This little country of Switzerland, locked in by the Alps, and surrounded by Germany, France, Italy, and Austria, boasts the oldest republic in the world, its present form of government having existed half a thousand years. It is inhabited by 2,700,000 people, speaking three different languages. One million and a half speak German, one million French, and the remainder Italian. Unlike the people of other European nations, four-fifths of these Switzers are land owners. They love to sing “Home, sweet home, Be it ever so humble, there is no place like home!”