manded of the council, on pain of the Pope's indignation, to add the penalty of confiscation to that of banishment, to take away all the property of the exiles, and to separate from them their children also, in order to have them educated in the Romish faith. The Romish deputies, to their praise be it spoken, would not listen to these cruel persuasions on the part of the Priests and his Holiness, but made answer that they never reversed a sentence once pronounced.

CHAPTER LXI.

SCENERY ON THE LAKE OF ZURICH.-POETRY FOR PILGRIMS. GRANDEUR OF THE LAKE OF WALLENSTADT.

THE scenery on the Lake of Zurich resembles that upon Long Island Sound, and upon some of our New-England rivers. It is of a quiet beauty, with an air of neatness, freedom, and content in the villages, which appear to great advantage, rising with their church steeples and tiled roofs up the hill-sides from the lake. The day we left for Wallenstadt and Coire, the steamer was crowded with pilgrims for Einseidlen. Most of them landed at Richtensweil, for a walk of bead-tellings and aves over the mountains, to the shrine of their faith, the "Star of the Sea." God grant they may one day find in Christ that "rest unto their souls," which they will seek in vain at the sooty image of Mary in Einseidlen. Neither age nor infirmity can move them from their purpose. Dr. Beattie, in his excellent work on Switzerland, tells us that while he and his friends were spending the month of September near the Lake of Zurich, they saw among the pilgrims a venerable matron a hundred and eight years old, who had walked every step of the way from the remotest corner of Normandy in France, for the performance of a vow to Mary of the Swiss Mountains! What singular energy of superstition, at a time when all the faculties of life wear out! The vesper hymns of the pilgrims rose impressively upon the air in the still autumnal evenings, and one idea, one principle, seemed to govern and absorb them all.

Many of them, Dr. Beattie remarks, looked sickly, wan, and exhausted, the health which they came sadly to beg of Mary at Einseidlen, being lost still more hopelessly by the fatigues and fastings of the way.

Poor, deluded pilgrims! Is it not sad to see them wandering the world over after health and peace, but never coming to the Great Physician! Rest, rest, rest;-this is the object of all their toils, toils, toils;-but no toils of the body can ever give inward quiet, or allay sin's fitful fever in the soul, or prevent the remorseful tones in the depths of our fallen being, that are ever and anon rushing up with wild prophecies from the soul's inner chambers, like the sound of a gong in subterranean dungeons. Alas, what a mistake, to wander so far, so sadly, so wearily without, for that which is to be found only within, and only in Christ within. These angel will-worshippers, and voluntary humilitarians, and body-punishers, are the strangest quacks that ever meddled with disease. Physical blisters to soothe an irritated conscience, to lull the mental anxieties into forgetfulness, to draw forth the rooted sorrow of a wounded spirit, to quiet the feverish apprehensions of a coming judgment; O for a word from Christ, a look, to unseal the fountain of tears, a whisper, I AM THE WAY, THE TRUTH, THE LIFE. All the cantharides of penance, sackcloth, and ashes, stripes on the body, pebbles in the shoes, rough pilgrimages over desert and mountain, fasts and aves and orisons in arithmetical progression,-did ever one of them or all together put a man at peace with his conscience, or extract the thorn, or charm the serpent in one of his sins?

What a simple thing is the Gospel! How all heaven, in knowledge and blessedness, is comprehended in that one precious word, I am the Way, the Truth, the Life! The Gospel, applicable to all, the same in all places, in all times, in the cottage and the palace, in the city and the wilderness, in caves and dens of the earth and great houses, with rich tables, or the crumbs from them, in fine linen or in sheepskins and goatskins, with rich and poor, with bond and free; the Gospel, the same simple all-sufficient food and remedy, Christ all in all, the supply of all wants, the recompense for all evils, the healing of all

diseases, the world's medicine, happiness and transfiguration! Here and here only you have the impulse and soul of all lasting reforms the reformation of all reformers, the beginning and the end of all true pilgrimages, the consolation and support of all pilgrims. Must I forsake the soil and air," said Baxter,

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"Must I forsake the soil and air,

Where first I drew my vital breath?
That way may be as near and fair,
Whence I may come to Thee by death.
All countries are my Father's lands;
Thy Sun, thy Love, doth shine on all;
We may in all lift up pure hands,
And with acceptance on Thee call.
What if in prison I must dwell,

May I not there converse with Thee?
Save me from sin, thy wrath, and hell,
Call me thy child, AND I AM FREE!
No walls or bars can keep Thee out,
None can confine a holy soul;

The streets of heaven it walks about,
None can its liberty control."

Now, because it is suitable to this part of our pilgrimage, and fine in itself, though rude and plain, I shall add Baxter's Valediction, so faithful and bold in its rebuke of that vain show, wherein all men naturally are not so much pedestrians, as they are ambitious runners and wrestlers. With this we will leave our Einseidleners, and proceed to Wallenstadt.

"Man walks in a vain show.

They know, yet will not know,
Sit still when they should go,

But run for shadows;

While they might taste and know

The living streams that flow,
And crop the flowers that grow,

In Christ's sweet meadows.

Life's better slept away,
Than as they use it;
In sin and drunken play
Vain men abuse it.

They dig for hell beneath,
They labour hard for death,
Run themselves out of breath
To overtake it.

RAPPERSCHWYL.

Hell is not had for naught,
Damnation's dearly bought,
And with great labour sough.,
They'll not forsake it.

Their souls are Satan's fee,
He'll not abate it;

Grace is refused, that's free,
Mad sinners hate it.

Is this the world men choose,
For which they heaven refuse,
And Christ and grace abuse,
And not receive it?
Shall I not guilty be,
Of this in some degree,
If hence God would me free,
And I'd not leave it?
My soul from Sodom fly,

Lest wrath there find thee;

Thy refuge-rest is nigh,

Look not behind thee."

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From Zurich to Schmerikon, at the other end of the lake towards Italy, is about twenty-six miles, the greatest width of the lake being only three miles, and generally much narrower. The banks are beautifully sprinkled with white cottages, farmhouses, and thriving villages, the abodes of industry and peace. Over the verdant wooded mountains, with such a green and richly cultivated base, rise up the snowy peaks, like revelations of another world, calling you away to its glory. If you are familiar with the writings of Klopstock, Zimmerman, and Gessner, you probably know something of the inspiration which such scenery tends to kindle and keep burning in a sensitive mind. Gessner was a native of Zurich; Zimmerman's residence was on the borders of the lake at Richtensweil.

At Rapperschwyl, you are in the Canton of St. Gall, opposite the longest bridge in the world, and probably the worst, taking into consideration the vast extent of its qualities, four thousand eight hundred feet. It is a singular feature on the lake, when viewed from the mountains. The village of Rap

perschwyl is a place to put an artist with his portfolio in good humour; a feudal old town, an ancient gray castle, an old church, old walls, and fine picturesque points of view overlook

ing the water. Thence we proceeded to Schmerikon, where we embarked on board the Diligence for Wesen, and then found ourselves at the western extremity of the Lake of Wallenstadt, suddenly in the midst of some of the grandest, most glorious, most exciting scenery in the world.

There is no describing it; at least no possibility of justly conveying its magnificence. The Lake of Wallenstadt, about twelve miles long, is pre-eminent in beauty and grandeur. It is inferior only to the Lake of Lucerne, and that is saying much. There is the greatest majesty and glory in the forms of the mountains that rise out of it, while the side gorges that open off from it are picturesque, rich, and beautiful. We felt in going from the scenes of open luxuriance around Zurich, that it was good to get again among the mountains, it was like going back into the fortress of the soul. Those mighty towering masses seem to prop and elevate the inward being. They look down upon you so silent, so awful, so expressive; you have the same feelings on entering among them that you have in going beneath the dome of some vast religious temple, the same that you have in walking on the shore of the ocean. We dined on deck on board the steamer, but it really seemed incongruous to be eating amidst such grand and solemn scenery; the table of a restaurant set in the middle of St. Peter's would have seemed almost as much in keeping. Nevertheless, men must eat, drink, and sleep, though the scenery be ever so beautiful. In the midst of our dinner we came opposite the point, where in a mountain more than seven thousand feet high, an immense cavern pierces entirely through the summit, so that even from the lake you can look through it and see the sky, though you would think it was a patch of snow you were looking at.

After a few hours from Wallenstadt through the beautiful scenery of the vale of Scez, we arrived at Ragatz, for a visit to the astounding black glen of the Baths of Pfeffers. The evening threatened a storm but we had enjoyed a day of great grandeur, and for the night were in good time at the comfortable shelter of an inn, which the guide-books tell you was an old summer residence of the Abbots.