Ticino. 
A MOUNTAIN LAKE. 
and the town—a threefold prospect—afforded me 
a magnificent ight at all hours. From morning to 
evening the sun remained faithful to me, and revolved 
around my microscope, set in the middle of the cham- 
ber. The beautiful lake, shining in front and on every 
side, is not that which afterwards, when hemmed in 
by the heights, and furious and violent, will be called 
the Lake of Uri. But the firs which everywhere over- 
hang the Jandscape warn you not to place too much 
reliance on the season,—inform you that you are resid- 
ing in a cold country. In numerous things, moreover, 
you find a certain barbarous savagery prevailing. It 
is from the very south the breath of winter blows. 
In front of me, and my constant companion, arose, on 
the farther shore, the gloomy Pilatus, a barren moun- 
tain with keen razor-like edges; and over its black 
shoulder gleamed, at ten leagues distant, the snow- 
white Virgin and the Silver Peak (the Jungfrau and 
the Silberhorn). 
_ The country is very beautiful and very fresh in 
July, but frequently, in September, is already cold. 
You perceive above and behind you, at an enormous 
elevation, an ocean of water suspended. This is the 
main reservoir whence issue the great European reser- 
voirs ; the mass of St. Gothard, a table-land measuring 
ten leagues in every direction, which from one ex- 
tremity pours out the Rhine, from another the Rhone, 
from a third the Reuss, and towards the south the 
do not see this reservoir—except a little of its out- 
line—but you feel it. Do you wish for water? Come _ hither. 
