ry, the tints and
embellishments that are wanting to complete the charm. I know little of
the history of Blonay, beyond the fact of its great antiquity, nor is it
a chateau of remarkable interest as a specimen of the architecture and
usages of its time; and yet, I never visited a modern palace, with half
the intense pleasure with which I went through this modest abode. Fancy
had a text, in a few unquestionable facts, and it preached copiously on
their authority. At Caserta, or St. Cloud, we admire the staircases,
friezes, salons, and marbles, but I never could do anything with your
kings, who are so much mixed up with history, as to leave little to the
fancy; while here, one might imagine not only time, but all the various
domestic and retired usages that time brings forth.

The Ritter Saal, or Knight's Hall, of Blonay has positive interest
enough to excite the dullest mind. Neither the room nor its ornaments
are very peculiar of themselves, the former being square, simple, and a
good deal modernized, while the latter was such as properly belonged to
a country gentleman of limited means. But the situation and view form
its great features; for all that has just been said of the terrace, can
be better said of this room. Owing to the formation of the mountain, the
windows are very high above the ground, and at one of them is a balcony,
which, I am inclined to think, is positively without a competitor in
this beautiful world of ours. Cardinal Rufo has certainly no such
balcony. It is _le balcon des balcons_.

I should despair of giving you a just idea of the mingled magnificence
and softness of the scene that lies stretched before and beneath the
balcony of Blonay. You know the elements of the view already,--for they
are the same mysterious glen, or valley, the same blue lake, the same
_cotes_, the same solemn and frowning rocks, the same groupings of
towers, churches, hamlets, and castles, of which I have had such
frequent occasion to speak in these letters. But the position of Blonay
has about it that peculiar nicety, which raises every pleasure to
perfection. It is neither too high, nor too low; too retired, nor too
much advanced; too distant, nor too near. I know nothing of M. de Blonay
beyond the favourable opinion of the observant Jean, the boatman, but he
must be made of flint, if he can daily, hourly, gaze at the works of the
Deity as they are seen from this window, without their producing a
sensible and lasting ef