remainder of the way. We had now, however, left Germany, and travelled
at about the same rate as an English post-chaise. The country was
entirely flat, and the roads so sandy, that the horses proceeded with
difficulty. The only ornaments of this country are the turf
fortifications that surround the towns. At Nimeguen we passed the flying
bridge, mentioned in the letters of Lady Mary Montague. We had intended
to travel all night, but at Triel, where we arrived at about ten
o'clock, we were assured that no post-boy was to be found who would
proceed at so late an hour, on account of the robbers who infested the
roads. This was an obvious imposition; but as we could procure neither
horses nor driver, we were obliged to sleep here.
During the whole of the following day the road lay between canals, which
intersect this country in every direction. The roads were excellent, but
the Dutch have contrived as many inconveniences as possible. In our
journey of the day before, we had passed by a windmill, which was so
situated with regard to the road, that it was only by keeping close to
the opposite side, and passing quickly, that we could avoid the sweep of
its sails.
The roads between the canals were only wide enough to admit of one
carriage, so that when we encountered another we were obliged sometimes
to back for half a mile, until we should come to one of the drawbridges
which led to the fields, on which one of the _cabriolets_ was rolled,
while the other passed. But they have another practice, which is still
more annoying: the flax when cut is put to soak under the mud of the
canals, and then placed to dry against the trees which are planted on
either side of the road; the stench that it exhales, when the beams of
the sun draw out the moisture, is scarcely endurable. We saw many
enormous frogs and toads in the canals; and the only sight which
refreshed the eye by its beauty was the delicious verdure of the fields,
where the grass was as rich and green as that of England, an appearance
not common on the continent.
Rotterdam is remarkably clean: the Dutch even wash the outside brickwork
of their houses. We remained here one day, and met with a man in a very
unfortunate condition: he had been born in Holland, and had spent so
much of his life between England, France, and Germany, that he had
acquired a slight knowledge of the language of each country, and spoke
all very imperfectly. He said that he understood English best, but he
was nearly unable to express himself in that.
On the evening of the 8th of August we sailed from Rotterdam, but
contrary winds obliged us to remain nearly two days at Marsluys, a town
about two leagues from Rotterdam. Here our last guinea was expended, and
we reflected with wonder that we had travelled eight hundred miles for
less than thirty pounds, passing through lovely scenes, and enjoying the
beauteous Rhine, and all the brilliant shews of earth and sky, perhaps
more, travelling as we did, in an open boat, than if we had been shut up
in a carriage, and passed on the road under the hills.
The captain of our vessel was an Englishman, and had been a king's
pilot. The bar of the Rhine a little below Marsluys is so dangerous,
that without a very favourable breeze none of the Dutch vessels dare
attempt its passage; but although the wind was a very few points in our
favour, our captain resolved to sail, and although half repentant before
he had accomplished his undertaking, he was glad and proud when,
triumphing over the timorous Dutchmen, the bar was crossed, and the
vessel safe in the open sea. It was in truth an enterprise of some
peril; a heavy gale had prevailed during the night, and although it had
abated since the morning, the breakers at the bar were still exceedingly
high. Through some delay, which had arisen from the ship having got
a-ground in the harbour, we arrived half an hour after the appointed
time. The breakers were tremendous, and we were informed that there was
the space of only two feet between the bottom of the vessel and the
sands. The waves, which broke against the sides of the ship with a
terrible shock, were quite perpendicular, and even sometimes overhanging
in the abrupt smoothness of their sides. Shoals of enormous porpoises
were sporting with the utmost composure amidst the troubled waters.
We safely past this danger, and after a navigation unexpectedly short,
arrived at Gravesend on the morning of the 13th of September, the third
day after our departure from Marsluys.
M.
LETTERS.
LETTERS
WRITTEN
DURING A RESIDENCE OF THREE MONTHS IN THE ENVIRONS OF GENEVA,
_In the Summer of the Year 1816_.
LETTER I.
Hôtel de Secheron, Geneva,
May 17, 1816.
We arrived at Paris on the 8th of this month, and were detained two days
for the purpose of obtaining the various signatures necessary to our
passports, the French government having become much more circumspect
since the escape of Lavalette. We had no letters of introduction, or any
friend in that city, and were therefore confined to our hotel, where we
were obliged to hire apartments for the week, although when we first
arrived we expected to be detained one night only; for in Paris there
are no houses where you can be accommodated with apartments by the day.
The manners of the French are interesting, although less attractive, at
least to Englishmen, than before the last invasion of the Allies: the
discontent and sullenness of their minds perpetually betrays itself. Nor
is it wonderful that they should regard the subjects of a government
which fills their country with hostile garrisons, and sustains a
detested dynasty on the throne, with an acrimony and indignation of
which that government alone is the proper object. This feeling is
honourable to the French, and encouraging to all those of every nation
in Europe who have a fellow feeling with the oppressed, and who cherish
an unconquerable hope that the cause of liberty must at length prevail.
Our route after Paris, as far as Troyes, lay through the same
uninteresting tract of country which we had traversed on foot nearly two
years before, but on quitting Troyes we left the road leading to
Neufchâtel, to follow that which was to conduct us to Geneva. We entered
Dijon on the third evening after our departure from Paris, and passing
through Dôle, arrived at Poligny. This town is built at the foot of
Jura, which rises abruptly from a plain of vast extent. The rocks of the
mountain overhang the houses. Some difficulty in procuring horses
detained us here until the evening closed in, when we proceeded, by the
light of a stormy moon, to Champagnolles, a little village situated in
the depth of the mountains. The road was serpentine and exceedingly
steep, and was overhung on one side by half distinguished precipices,
whilst the other was a gulph, filled by the darkness of the driving
clouds. The dashing of the invisible mountain streams announced to us
that we had quitted the plains of France, as we slowly ascended, amidst
a violent storm of wind and rain, to Champagnolles, where we arrived at
twelve o'clock, the fourth night after our departure from Paris.
The next morning we proceeded, still ascending among the ravines and
vallies of the mountain. The scenery perpetually grows more wonderful
and sublime: pine forests of impenetrable thickness, and untrodden, nay,
inaccessible expanse spread on every side. Sometimes the dark woods
descending, follow the route into the vallies, the distorted trees
struggling with knotted roots between the most barren clefts; sometimes
the road winds high into the regions of frost, and then the forests
become scattered, and the branches of the trees are loaded with snow,
and half of the enormous pines themselves buried in the wavy drifts. The
spring, as the inhabitants informed us, was unusually late, and indeed
the cold was excessive; as we ascended the mountains, the same clouds
which rained on us in the vallies poured forth large flakes of snow
thick and fast. The sun occasionally shone through these showers, and
illuminated the magnificent ravines of the mountains, whose gigantic
pines were some laden with snow, some wreathed round by the lines of
scattered and lingering vapour; others darting their dark spires into
the sunny sky, brilliantly clear and azure.
As the evening advanced, and we ascended higher, the snow, which we had
beheld whitening the overhanging rocks, now encroached upon our road,
and it snowed fast as we entered the village of Les Rousses, where we
were threatened by the apparent necessity of passing the night in a bad
inn and dirty beds. For from that place there are two roads to Geneva;
one by Nion, in the Swiss territory, where the mountain route is
shorter, and comparatively easy at that time of the year, when the road
is for several leagues covered with snow of an enormous depth; the other
road lay through Gex, and was too circuitous and dangerous to be
attempted at so late an hour in the day. Our passport, however, was for
Gex, and we were told that we could not change its destination; but all
these police laws, so severe in themselves, are to be softened by
bribery, and this difficulty was at length overcome. We hired four
horses, and ten men to support the carriage, and departed from Les
Rousses at six in the evening, when the sun had already far descended,
and the snow pelting against the windows of our carriage, assisted the
coming darkness to deprive us of the view of the lake of Geneva and the
far distant Alps.
The prospect around, however, was sufficiently sublime to command our
attention—never was scene more awfully desolate. The trees in these
regions are incredibly large, and stand in scattered clumps over the
white wilderness; the vast expanse of snow was chequered only by these
gigantic pines, and the poles that marked our road: no river or
rock-encircled lawn relieved the eye, by adding the picturesque to the
sublime. The natural silence of that uninhabited desert contrasted
strangely with the voices of the men who conducted us, who, with
animated tones and gestures, called to one another in a _patois_
composed of French and Italian, creating disturbance, where but for
them, there was none.
To what a different scene are we now arrived! To the warm sunshine and
to the humming of sun-loving insects. From the windows of our hotel we
see the lovely lake, blue as the heavens which it reflects, and
sparkling with golden beams. The opposite shore is sloping, and covered
with vines, which however do not so early in the season add to the
beauty of the prospect. Gentlemens' seats are scattered over these
banks, behind which rise the various ridges of black mountains, and
towering far above, in the midst of its snowy Alps, the majestic Mont
Blanc, highest and queen of all. Such is the view reflected by the lake;
it is a bright summer scene without any of that sacred solitude and deep
seclusion that delighted us at Lucerne.
We have not yet found out any very agreeable walks, but you know our
attachment to water excursions. We have hired a boat, and every evening
at about six o'clock we sail on the lake, which is delightful, whether
we glide over a glassy surface or are speeded along by a strong wind.
The waves of this lake never afflict me with that sickness that deprives
me of all enjoyment in a sea voyage; on the contrary, the tossing of our
boat raises my spirits and inspires me with unusual hilarity. Twilight
here is of short duration, but we at present enjoy the benefit of an
increasing moon, and seldom return until ten o'clock, when, as we
approach the shore, we are saluted by the delightful scent of flowers
and new mown grass, and the chirp of the grasshoppers, and the song of
the evening birds.
We do not enter into society here, yet our time passes swiftly and
delightfully. We read Latin and Italian during the heats of noon, and
when the sun declines we walk in the garden of the hotel, looking at the
rabbits, relieving fallen cockchafers, and watching the motions of a
myriad of lizards, who inhabit a southern wall of the garden. You know
that we have just escaped from the gloom of winter and of London; and
coming to this delightful spot during this divine weather, I feel as
happy as a new-fledged bird, and hardly care what twig I fly to, so that
I may try my new-found wings. A more experienced bird may be more
difficult in its choice of a bower; but in my present temper of mind,
the budding flowers, the fresh grass of spring, and the happy creatures
about me that live and enjoy these pleasures, are quite enough to afford
me exquisite delight, even though clouds should shut out Mont Blanc from
my sight. Adieu!
M.
LETTER II.
COLIGNY—GENEVA—PLAINPALAIS.
Campagne C******, near Coligny,
1st June.
You will perceive from my date that we have changed our residence since
my last letter. We now inhabit a little cottage on the opposite shore of
the lake, and have exchanged the view of Mont Blanc and her snowy
_aiguilles_ for the dark frowning Jura, behind whose range we every
evening see the sun sink, and darkness approaches our valley from behind
the Alps, which are then tinged by that glowing rose-like hue which is
observed in England to attend on the clouds of an autumnal sky when
day-light is almost gone. The lake is at our feet, and a little harbour
contains our boat, in which we still enjoy our evening excursions on the
water. Unfortunately we do not now enjoy those brilliant skies that
hailed us on our first arrival to this country. An almost perpetual rain
confines us principally to the house; but when the sun bursts forth it
is with a splendour and heat unknown in England. The thunder storms that
visit us are grander and more terrific than I have ever seen before. We
watch them as they approach from the opposite side of the lake,
observing the lightning play among the clouds in various parts of the
heavens, and dart in jagged figures upon the piny heights of Jura, dark
with the shadow of the overhanging cloud, while perhaps the sun is
shining cheerily upon us. One night we _enjoyed_ a finer storm than I
had ever before beheld. The lake was lit up—the pines on Jura made
visible, and all the scene illuminated for an instant, when a pitchy
blackness succeeded, and the thunder came in frightful bursts over our
heads amid the darkness.
But while I still dwell on the country around Geneva, you will expect me
to say something of the town itself: there is nothing, however, in it
that can repay you for the trouble of walking over its rough stones. The
houses are high, the streets narrow, many of them on the ascent, and no
public building of any beauty to attract your eye, or any architecture
to gratify your taste. The town is surrounded by a wall, the three gates
of which are shut exactly at ten o'clock, when no bribery (as in France)
can open them. To the south of the town is the promenade of the
Genevese, a grassy plain planted with a few trees, and called
Plainpalais. Here a small obelisk is erected to the glory of Rousseau,
and here (such is the mutability of human life) the magistrates, the
successors of those who exiled him from his native country, were shot by
the populace during that revolution, which his writings mainly
contributed to mature, and which, notwithstanding the temporary
bloodshed and injustice with which it was polluted, has produced
enduring benefits to mankind, which all the chicanery of statesmen, nor
even the great conspiracy of kings, can entirely render vain. From
respect to the memory of their predecessors, none of the present
magistrates ever walk in Plainpalais. Another Sunday recreation for the
citizens is an excursion to the top of Mont Salève. This hill is within
a league of the town, and rises perpendicularly from the cultivated
plain. It is ascended on the other side, and I should judge from its
situation that your toil is rewarded by a delightful view of the course
of the Rhone and Arve, and of the shores of the lake. We have not yet
visited it.
There is more equality of classes here than in England. This occasions a
greater freedom and refinement of manners among the lower orders than we
meet with in our own country. I fancy the haughty English ladies are
greatly disgusted with this consequence of republican institutions, for
the Genevese servants complain very much of their _scolding_, an
exercise of the tongue, I believe, perfectly unknown here. The peasants
of Switzerland may not however emulate the vivacity and grace of the
French. They are more cleanly, but they are slow and inapt. I know a
girl of twenty, who although she had lived all her life among vineyards,
could not inform me during what month the vintage took place, and I
discovered she was utterly ignorant of the order in which the months
succeed to one another. She would not have been surprised if I had
talked of the burning sun and delicious fruits of December, or of the
frosts of July. Yet she is by no means deficient in understanding.
The Genevese are also much inclined to puritanism. It is true that from
habit they dance on a Sunday, but as soon as the French government was
abolished in the town, the magistrates ordered the theatre to be closed,
and measures were taken to pull down the building.
We have latterly enjoyed fine weather, and nothing is more pleasant than
to listen to the evening song of the vine-dressers. They are all women,
and most of them have harmonious although masculine voices. The theme of
their ballads consists of shepherds, love, flocks, and the sons of kings
who fall in love with beautiful shepherdesses. Their tunes are
monotonous, but it is sweet to hear them in the stillness of evening,
while we are enjoying the sight of the setting sun, either from the hill
behind our house or from the lake.
Such are our pleasures here, which would be greatly increased if the
season had been more favourable, for they chiefly consist in such
enjoyments as sunshine and gentle breezes bestow. We have not yet made
any excursion in the environs of the town, but we have planned several,
when you shall again hear of us; and we will endeavour, by the magic of
words, to transport the ethereal part of you to the neighbourhood of the
Alps, and mountain streams, and forests, which, while they clothe the
former, darken the latter with their vast shadows. Adieu!
M.
LETTER III.
To T. P. ESQ.
MELLTERIE—CLAREN—SCHILLON—VEVAI—LAUSANNE.
Montalegre, near Coligni, Geneva,
July 12th.
It is nearly a fortnight since I have returned from Vevai. This journey
has been on every account delightful, but most especially, because then
I first knew the divine beauty of Rousseau's imagination, as it exhibits
itself in Julie. It is inconceivable what an enchantment the scene
itself lends to those delineations, from which its own most touching
charm arises. But I will give you an abstract of our voyage, which
lasted eight days, and if you have a map of Switzerland, you can follow
me.
We left Montalegre at half past two on the 23d of June. The lake was
calm, and after three hours of rowing we arrived at Hermance, a
beautiful little village, containing a ruined tower, built, the
villagers say, by Julius Cæsar. There were three other towers similar to
it, which the Genevese destroyed for their own fortifications in 1560.
We got into the tower by a kind of window. The walls are immensely
solid, and the stone of which it is built so hard, that it yet retained
the mark of chisels. The boatmen said, that this tower was once three
times higher than it is now. There are two staircases in the thickness
of the walls, one of which is entirely demolished, and the other half
ruined, and only accessible by a ladder. The town itself, now an
inconsiderable village inhabited by a few fishermen, was built by a
Queen of Burgundy, and reduced to its present state by the inhabitants
of Berne, who burnt and ravaged every thing they could find.
Leaving Hermance, we arrived at sunset at the village of Nerni. After
looking at our lodgings, which were gloomy and dirty, we walked out by
the side of the lake. It was beautiful to see the vast expanse of these
purple and misty waters broken by the craggy islets near to its slant
and “beached margin.” There were many fish sporting in the lake, and
multitudes were collected close to the rocks to catch the flies which
inhabited them.
On returning to the village, we sat on a wall beside the lake, looking
at some children who were playing at a game like ninepins. The children
here appeared in an extraordinary way deformed and diseased. Most of
them were crooked, and with enlarged throats; but one little boy had
such exquisite grace in his mien and motions, as I never before saw
equalled in a child. His countenance was beautiful for the expression
with which it overflowed. There was a mixture of pride and gentleness in
his eyes and lips, the indications of sensibility, which his education
will probably pervert to misery or seduce to crime; but there was more
of gentleness than of pride, and it seemed that the pride was tamed from
its original wildness by the habitual exercise of milder feelings. My
companion gave him a piece of money, which he took without speaking,
with a sweet smile of easy thankfulness, and then with an unembarrassed
air turned to his play. All this might scarcely be; but the imagination
surely could not forbear to breathe into the most inanimate forms some
likeness of its own visions, on such a serene and glowing evening, in
this remote and romantic village, beside the calm lake that bore us
hither.
On returning to our inn, we found that the servant had arranged our
rooms, and deprived them of the greater portion of their former
disconsolate appearance. They reminded my companion of Greece: it was
five years, he said, since he had slept in such beds. The influence of
the recollections excited by this circumstance on our conversation
gradually faded, and I retired to rest with no unpleasant sensations,
thinking of our journey tomorrow, and of the pleasure of recounting the
little adventures of it when we return.
The next morning we passed Yvoire, a scattered village with an ancient
castle, whose houses are interspersed with trees, and which stands at a
little distance from Nerni, on the promontory which bounds a deep bay,
some miles in extent. So soon as we arrived at this promontory, the lake
began to assume an aspect of wilder magnificence. The mountains of
Savoy, whose summits were bright with snow, descended in broken slopes
to the lake: on high, the rocks were dark with pine forests, which
become deeper and more immense, until the ice and snow mingle with the
points of naked rock that pierce the blue air; but below, groves of
walnut, chesnut, and oak, with openings of lawny fields, attested the
milder climate.
As soon as we had passed the opposite promontory, we saw the river
Drance, which descends from between a chasm in the mountains, and makes
a plain near the lake, intersected by its divided streams. Thousands of
_besolets_, beautiful water-birds, like sea-gulls, but smaller, with
purple on their backs, take their station on the shallows, where its
waters mingle with the lake. As we approached Evian, the mountains
descended more precipitously to the lake, and masses of intermingled
wood and rock overhung its shining spire.
We arrived at this town about seven o'clock, after a day which involved
more rapid changes of atmosphere than I ever recollect to have observed
before. The morning was cold and wet; then an easterly wind, and the
clouds hard and high; then thunder showers, and wind shifting to every
quarter; then a warm blast from the south, and summer clouds hanging
over the peaks, with bright blue sky between. About half an hour after
we had arrived at Evian, a few flashes of lightning came from a dark
cloud, directly over head, and continued after the cloud had dispersed.
“Diespiter, per pura tonantes egit equos:” a phenomenon which certainly
had no influence on me, corresponding with that which it produced on
Horace.