“Streams from the high, Steep, rocky wall, The purest fount; In clouds of spray, Like silver dust, It veils the rock In rainbow hues And, dancing down, With music soft, Is lost in air.” Wherever the sun can get at the naked rock of the mountain, from July to September, and find an open fissure, there vegetation climbs, and clinging, establishes itself, and flourishes, and blooms. Charming colonies of little flowers seem to have emigrated from the valleys, and come to hide themselves in the cold deserts, where the brevity of their life appears to enhance the beauty of their color. To better resist the hoar-frost, they grow in thick tufts closely pressed against each other. The rocks are velvet with lichens and mosses, that anchor their roots into a mass of granite, grappling with a substance which, when struck with steel, tears up its tempered grain and dashes out the spark. There are familiar pinks, blue-bells, a species of forget-me-not, a small star-shaped flower of a deep metallic blue shading upon green, that flashes through the grass with a moist, lustrous softness,--it is the smaller gentian, so dear to the poet’s heart and verse. Then great rose-colored beds of rhododendrons; azaleas of vivid carmine; golden arnicas, with their stately bearing, like rays of sunshine turned into flowers; in every direction, orchids, diffusing a strong odor of vanilla; and the narcissi, which are visible a great distance, and their odor wafted by the wind, is no less penetrating than that of an orange grove; the Alpine rose, of which Ruskin says, “when the traveller finds himself physically exhausted by the pomp of landscape, let him sink down on his knees and concentrate his attention on the petals of a rock-rose.” Against the cliffs are rich clumps of the peerless, delicately-cut _Edelweiss_; called by the botanists “_Gnaphalium alpinum_.” It is a peculiar plant of delicate construction that grows under the snow; containing very little sap, so that it can be preserved a long time; the blossom is surrounded by white velvety leaves, and even the stem has a down upon it. The possession of one is proof of unusual daring, and to gather it, the hunter, tempted by its beauty and by his love (for it is immensely valued by the Swiss maidens) climbs the most inaccessible cliffs on which it grows, and is sometimes found dead at the foot with the flower in his hand. No art can simulate its beautiful, ermine-like bloom, and experiments have been made to cultivate it in other places, but it changes its character and becomes transformed into a new species; in its Alpine home alone will it flourish, and there must it be sought, and adorn the hat as the badge of triumph for the Alpine climber. The mountain is really a botanical garden; the Swiss flora is the largest on the European continent, in proportion to the area it covers. The varied local influences and conditions resulting from such a broken surface,