Vitznau On Lake Lucerne.

The number of railroad bridges on the St. Gotthard aston-ished me. Their name is legion. Across them long trains make their way among the clouds like monster centipedes, creeping along the mountain-sides, or over lofty viaducts.

Here man's triumph over nature is complete. How puny seems at first his strength when measured with the wind and avalanche! But mind has proved superior to matter. The ax was made, and at its sturdy stroke the forest yielded up its tribute for the construction of this pathway. The caverns of the earth were also forced to surrender the iron treasured there for ages, and rails were made, along whose glittering lines a crowded train now glides as smoothly as a boat upon the waves. And yet these awful cliffs still scowl so savagely on either side, that the steel rail, which rests upon their shelves of rock, seems often like a thread of fate, by which a thousand lives are held suspended over the abyss.

A Portion Of The St. Gotthard.

The St. Gotthard Railway.

Amsteg.

The volume of freight transported along this route must be enormous. But why should tourists (unless compelled by lack of time) consent to be carried through this scenery like a bale of goods, in darkness rather than in daylight? The best way still to cross the Alps is to cross them, not to burrow through them. I should certainly advise the traveler to drive from Lake Lucerne over the St. Gotthard Pass, and then to take the train, if he desires to do so, on the Italian side, as it emerges from the tunnel. Thence, in a few brief hours one can embark upon Lake Como, or see the sunset gild the statue-laden spires of Milan's cathedral.

The Devil's Bridge.

Goschenen, On The St. Gotthari.

The finest scenery on the carriage-road of the St. Gotthard is in a wild ravine, through which the river Reuss rushes madly. Spanning the torrent in a single arch, is what is popularly called "The Devil's Bridge." Perhaps I should say bridges, for there are surely two of them, and though only the smaller one is attributed to his Satanic Majesty, it is probably by the newer, safer, and more orthodox one that Satan nowadays, like a prudent devil, prefers to cross. The legend of this celebrated bridge is extraordinary.

Some centuries ago, the mayor of the canton was one day in despair because the mountain torrent had swept off every bridge he had constructed here. In his vexation he was rash enough to use the name of the Devil, as some people will. Hardly had he uttered the word, when his door-bell rang, and his servant brought him a card, on which he read the words, "Monsieur Satan".

Driving Over The Alps.

"Show him in," said the mayor.

A gentleman in black made his appearance, and seated himself in an armchair.

The mayor placed his boots upon the fender; the Devil rested his upon the burning coals. The subject of the bridge was broached, and the mayor finally offered the Devil any sum that the canton could raise, if he would build them a bridge which would last one hundred years. "Bah!" said Satan, "What need have I of money?" And taking with his fingers a red-hot coal from the fire, he offered it to his companion. The mayor drew back aghast. "Don't be afraid," said Satan; and putting the coal in the mayor's hand, it instantly became a lump of gold. "Take it back," said the mayor sadly; "we are not talking now of politics!' "You see," said the Devil, with a smile, "my price must be something else than money. If I build this bridge, I demand that the first living being that passes over it shall be mine." "Agreed!" said the mayor. The contract was soon signed. "Aurevoir!" said the Devil. "Au plaisir!" said the mayor; and Satan went his way.

Peasant Girl.