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Rh gloomy day, and we could scarcely see the lion, overhung as it is by the rock, and the shadow of the trees is heavy about it always. But as we were trying to spell out the inscription the clouds parted, and one last tribute of the dying day rested on the dying lion. We saw him at his best.

Here, again, the artist has proved himself the best historian, and no one has written the story of the Swiss Guard as has Thorwaldsen.

The ascent of the Rhigi and of Mount Pilatus afford work for two days each, and draw to Lucerne the greatest number of tourists. Here conversation is wholly of the picturesque. Your next neighbor on the right has been in the clouds all day. Your neighbor on the left has been up the lake, and can talk of nothing but the Blumenalp and the Bergenstock, or the vision he has had of the Bernese Alps; or your artist friend comes in with a sketch made just above Tell's chapel.

Here we met Mozier, the American sculptor, who passed his summers frequently at Lucerne. Nothing could exceed his enthusiasm for this delicious spot, and he bade it adieu with regret, having engaged to meet some friends at Lake Como. As we said farewell to this refined and delightful person we little thought it was for the last time, but in less than a year we heard of his lamented death. Here we met our American artist Mignot. He was full of work, full of hope, and sketching the mountain effects with great enthusiasm. He has gone in his early middle age, and works no more.

Here we saw the King and Queen of Belgium, wearing on their faces the imprint of their great sorrow — the loss of their only son.