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Coat of arms for the Gell family
Vocatus Obedivi
Philip Lyttelton Gell
(In pencil)
Diary of Eleanor Anne Porden
Wife of John Franklin
[LH page] (In pencil)
No 2 of this journey
Sep 12 1818 in continuation
…a steep and lofty slope like the battlement of some ruined castle and indeed it was a place in which one might well have been built. We regretted, as usual, that we did not see this country by daylight, but perhaps it gained in grandeur, what it lost in distinctness.
We entered Dijon by a fine arch with a triumphal Chariot at the top. The gate was shut when we arrived, and the Concierge probably asleep, for he was slow in answering our calls for admittance. We drove to one of the Hotels of the house of Condé – the Clôche but neither liked the prices nor the accommodation – so we got the carriage backed with some difficulty out of the narrow gateway, and went to the other hotel de Condé, the Chapeau Rouge. This Inn we understood was kept by the same master as the Clôche but he was here more moderate in his charges, & we got pretty good rooms. I believe report had run before us from La Clôche. The Concierge of the gate followed us here for a gratuity for letting us in. He had been very active in pushing us out of La Clôche and seemed much pleased with half a franc.
About Dijon we could not help remarking the size and beauty of the poplars. With us they are not a beautiful tree and we are apt to look upon them with more contempt than they perhaps deserve – but here they grew to a great height above the other trees, like steeples, and were of a better form than ours. One avenue in particular was entirely composed of poplars, remarkably tall, yet of a breadth and beauty of form which I should not imagine they had ever possessed. Their trunks were thick and I should fancy that they were very aged.
Sunday September 13 1818
We found Dijon one of the cleanest & best built towns in France – there is a very pleasant walk on the ramparts. The Cathedral is interesting and there seemed more decorum and piety in the worship than in other parts of France. Indeed since we had entered Burgundy the character of the people seemed changed, and I should say for the better, though it may not want something of the polish and gaiety of the Parisians. At Dijon we lost the chevet of the church and saw it no more after. The Lady Chapel was on the right, and I suppose the vintage was begun, for the Madonna and all the principal saints bore the most fruitful branches of the vine. I suppose the prémices [a large platter of fruit offered yearly] of the Season. At our second visit to the Church after the Mass was over we met a man who shewed us the curious specimens of antique carving in wood, made for Philippe le Hardi. He called them the antient Chapels of the Dukes of Burgundy which they took with them in their campaigns. The upper part of each was rich Gothic work, exquisitely carved, and a variety of figures below, representing scripture subjects. The whole richly painted and gilt, and folding like the case of a picture. The largest when open must have been at least 12 feet long.
While we looking [sic] at these, a little man with a harelip came up, and began talking to our Conductor about some repairs to the Arc boutans [sic] of the Cathedral. He then entered into a conversation with us, on the carvings we were looking at, and asked if we had seen the Museum. No.. Might he then have the honour of conducting us. We should be much obliged. He turned out to be the architect of the Cathedral who had observed us sketching about and therefore come up to us, and during the rest of our stay at Dijon attached himself to our services and shewing us the greatest civility, but without allowing us to offer any in return. We asked him to dine, to drink tea, to breakfast but in vain. He had always some excuse.
The Museum contains some good pictures, many casts from the Marbles in the Louvre. Some examples of what may rather be called Marble pictures than Mosaic, some bronzes, etc etc. But Millin has described its curiosity in his work so I will not dwell on them.
We found more amusement in a house just finished by M. Saintpere the architect. It is entered by a pretty garden from the ramparts – and has a good Doric portico in front. The plan also which he sketched for us seems very handsome but the Lady to whom it was let was out of town and he could not enter. M. Saintpere himself lives below it – his apartments descending by two stories, and then again by a Court to the Street, so that they are literally built in the rampart. The way by which we entered them from above seemed curious enough, and reminded me of going down to the peasants house at Knaresborough, thro’ the Chimney, but from the street there is nothing very remarkable and the apartments seemed tolerably convenient. M. Saintpere was alone in them, without even a servant, having walked from the country house at which his wife and family were, the night before on business. He shewed us several valuable French works of architecture, and when we left his abode took us to see the Church of Notre Dame, which is very old and curious and the front particularly striking – but my journal has been so long neglected that I cannot pretend to recollect it with sufficient distinctness for description. M. S.Pere took us also to another Church almost equally interesting, and promised my father to get him the details of both drawn out.
I ought here to notice that since our entry into Burgundy the Madonna seemed in less veneration, and Notre Dame and the Cathedral were no longer synonymous. At Sens and Auxerre the principal Churches were dedicated to St. Stephen; and at the latter place the second was to St. Germain. At Avallon it was the Church of St. Martin and at Dijon while Notre Dame was only secondary.
We returned home somewhat fatigued with our walk & wrote letters till bedtime.
Monday September 14 1818
Monsieur Saintpere was with us again at 8 o’clock. We were at breakfast, but he would not taste. He was however of use to us in abating the claims of Maréschal who like his brother Marechaux Davoust and Murat had no objection to plunder strangers, and shewed a greater affection for the Napoleons than we in our regard for the existing gover<n>ment thought right to indulge. The hills of Avallon and Dijon had revealed to us the real injury done to our carriage by the wrench at St. Denis – viz the breaking the flêche which supports the pole. We had always thought it went oddly after but could not make out what was the matter, till the day before when the end of the pole got higher and higher, and at last was up to the horses heads. We feared it would have broken entirely and perhaps left us short in the middle of a stage. Our Marechal charged us 70 francs for mending this, and talked about having to give his workmen double wages on a Sunday, which St.Pere said was a great fib and beat him down to 55. It was amusing to hear the contest – for Saintpere could not speak one word plain on account of his harelip.
Saintpere took us after breakfast to the Bureau de poids et mesures – now of hay but formerly the Church of St. Jean and remarkable for a curious cieling [sic] of flat wood work. It has been spacious and lofty but is entirely gutted and contains nothing but a stone which professes to cover the tomb of its founder. He died, I believe about the middle of the fifth Century.
In seeking after some maps and books which we wanted, Mr. Saintpere continued to lead us to a house much in the stile [sic] of that which we had seen out the Rue Bourdonnais in Paris only more interesting. On the outside to the Street, as with that, there was nothing that appeared different from its neighbours, but the quadrangle of the Court was of rich and whimsical gothic and there was a staircase of the same kind as that at Paris. At the top was the figure of a gardener bearing a flower-pot, out of which sprung a tree whose branches formed all the ramifications of the cieling [sic]. It was ingeniously and elegantly managed. M. Saintpere informed me that this house was one of the Courts of the Ancient palace of the Dukes of Burgundy; and in his conversation on the subject, as well as that held with other persons incidentally on our journey through Burgundy, I could not help remarking that its inhabitants seemed to have a pride distinct from the vanity of France – a pride not as being Frenchmen, but as being Burgundians, and at every turn of the conversation their ideas seemed to revert to the ancient kings and Dukes of Burgundy. The disputes which are said to arise at every meeting about superiority of the different vintages of the province is perhaps another remnant of the former glory of the “proud Burgundians” when the Vassal was deemed greater than his Lord.
We were later in leaving Dijon than we ought to have been, yet we left it with regret. From the mountainous character of the country as we approached it, and the known vicinity to the Jura we had conjectured, little perhaps to the credit of our geographical knowledge that the hills would become more and more lofty as we advanced, and we were surprised on leaving Dijon on the other side, to find ourselves in a dead willowy flat, remarkable for nothing but the great quantity of Turkish (?) wheat there cultivated, which was the first time we had seen it in any abundance, though in our subsequent journey it became common enough; and we saw its large ears slung by their stacks which seemed like bunches of ribbons under the broad parts of many a Swiss Cottage. The corn had been already gathered, and the plants seemed only left for the perfecting of a sort of spathe (??) one of which each plant seemed to bear, and which I supposed was destined to its reproduction the following year. In some places the women were collecting these and pulling up the plants.
Low and marshy as the land through which we were travelling appeared, I fancy it must have been a considerable elevation above the sea, for on ascending a low ridge, we saw full before us the Jura – and the snowy summit of Mont Blanc peeping over it. Distant as <was> the Chain and slight as seemed its elevation as it skirted the horizon, like many a humble English hill, I could not help fancying I distinguished something in its peculiar colouring which marked at once its height and distance and as I looked at the still more remote summits of Mont Blanc, I doubted if I really saw those stupendous masses, every summit of which I had already studied in [Saussure?] or whether it was still only the dream of my imagination which had so often pictured them all.
We did not see them long, for we descended into the pretty village of Dôle situated on the river which bears its name. It appears to be a clear and not unprofitable stream, for there were many vessels upon it – and the town, as we looked back upon it from our calêche, seemed pleasingly and romanticly [sic] situated. We pushed on another stage and crossed the Douche, but were too late to get to Poligny, the regular stage from Dijon, so we stopped at an Auberge in the village of Mont Sous Vaudrey. It proved more comfortable than it looked. An Englishman and his son whom we met at the Table D’Hote, were not much worth remembering, but mine Host, also the maitre des postes, was a pleasant conversible man, who gave us some useful hints about the road, and the wines which we ought to chuse [sic] in the different places where they were most likely to be met with in perfection, particularly the Vin Blanc d’Arbois ou de Poligny a pleasant light wine which sparkles like Champagne, but which I believe is too delicate to bear long journeys. We found it very good at Servoz – near Chamonix (?).
Tuesday September 15 (1818)
We got off about 1/2 past 8 – and were told as we got into the Caleche by two English gentlemen, that we ought to have been off at 7 if we meant to get on to Moret (the regular sleeping stage) as it was a shocking road in the Jura. So Poligny, our first stage I remember nothing remarkable, except the gradual nearing of the Jura, which however diminished in grandeur, and seemed only like one steep high hill – a sort of curtain. At Poligny, on leaving the Inn, we turned along a narrow street, in which to our misfortune we encountered an uncommonly long string of single horse waggons, which I thought would have carried off our wheels in spite of every precaution. We passed them however, and began immediately to ascend the Jura by a deep glen, beautiful and romantic as one could desire. We had climbed along one side, and there appeared no way for farther progress, when suddenly the road turned straight back along the opposite hill, shewing all the country we had left, and a ruined Church which we had just past [sic], below us, at a much greater distance than we seemed to have ascended. We wound round again, and reached a mountain height whose sublimity was tempered by the beauty of its vegetation, though it was less luxuriant than it became afterwards. Chalky stones, whiter, but otherwise not much unlike our old friends the grey wethers peeped up on every side and sometimes gave us a jolt, but on the whole, the road, not withstanding its occasional steepness was excellent, and the scenery beautiful. We had soon a fine view of Mont Blanc, flaming like a volcano in the sunshine, but we lost him again and he appeared no more till we descended the Jura.
The real beauties of Jura began about Champagnole – a little before we reached it we entered into the region of pines, which were here of uncommon size and beauty, entirely covering many a tall round hill, and descending into many a deep glen, or giving variety to rugged crags or the velvet turf which clothed the softer surfaces. The verdure was so fine, so different from the sunburnt fields of France that we scarcely knew how enough to admire the round slopes picturesquely studded with Chalets (the summer huts of the peasantry) who were guarding their flocks and herds. No longer held by a string as in France, but seeming free and happy. The large flat hats and broad sturdy form of the women gave also a new character to the picture. Champagnole is itself romantically situated in a mountain valley watered by streams and with a remarkable pineclad hill rising just before it. From here to Maisonneuve all was beauty, except where it deepened into sublimity. One long and profound glen in particular long fixed our admiration, as we passed along its side by a terrace road cut in the rock which frowned naked and precipitous above us, or looked into its abyss of pines which only sometimes allowed us a peep at the stream which foamed and brawled below. At both ends of this glen we had fine views, but indeed we had a succession of them for the whole 60 miles of our passage, and it is memory rather than description that must particularize them. A brilliant and almost too fervid sun gave its most riant effect to every scene, and to none more than the neighbourhood of Maison Neuve, where we walked for some time while waiting for a postillion. We gathered nere [sic] the elegant grass of Parnassus, the universal harebell and scabious, and a species of Euphorbium (as I believe) which I do not remember to have seen before, and which at first sight resembled the Marestail. There was also a great deal of white Hellebore and of a plant which I took to be the Athamanticum, the infusion of which Sir James Smith believes to give its peculiar taste and smell to the Chapzigar [sic] cheese. It grew rather taller than the wild Valerian, with an umbelliferous flower of a whitish hue but which I had no opportunity of examining, as wherever the plant was obtainable it was already in fruit, and the berries as well as leaves resembled those of the elder. I think there was only one stem to each plant terminated by one bunch of flowers or of fruit. The mountain loving Marjoram was everywhere abundant, of the brightest colours and most elegant form.
We enjoyed a glorious sunset about the time that we attained a sort of mountain plain. The moon was in her wane, but had still sufficient light to guide us well, and the road by which we drove on to St Laurent seemed to have less beauty than any other part of the chain so we could afford to lose it. It was certainly too late to proceed to Moret, & we were happy when we found an excellent Inn at St Laurent.
* (Written on the left page)
On descending the Jura on the Swiss side I noticed a good deal of the tall, purple, Monkshood but I do not think its region was very extensive.
<left-facing page against the entry for Weds Sept 16>
At Vattay we were stopped by the Douane and a man asked us if we had anything to declare – any lead – a strange question to put to so light a carriage. We answered that we had none except in our heads, and I believe he thought he should gain nothing by appropriating that. The question was only asked as a matter of form.
Near St. Laurent we saw some patches of barley and oats which were still green, and I should think would hardly ripen, for the potatoes in the vicinity were already frozen and proved that the night frosts of Autumn had commenced on the Jura.
<flowers pressed in the book>
Wednesday September 16
We had an excellent breakfast, and the best honey I ever tasted – liquid and pellucid as if it were but just pressed from the comb. A neat and remarkably well behaved damsel, who seemed the sister of the mistress, officiated as fille, and gave us reason to be pleased with her attendance.
We were off betimes – another day in the Jura, but no longer in warmth and sunshine. The white mists, and oftener still the black ones, hung on the brow of every summit, and rolled like smoke down the sides. We drove into clouds and out of them, and were in every respect as uncomfortable as weather could make us, often in violent rain, and always in a sort of Scotch mist, but the grandeur of the view compensated for all.
The road to Moret is very fatiguing on account of its rapid ascents and descents but with very few exceptions the way is good, and we had certainly nothing of the “shocking road” which we had been made to dread. Indeed we thought it as good as it could well be made in such a country. It is to be sure generally a ledge pratiqué in the side of the hill, a perpendicular crag above, and a precipice below, with no defence, except where occasionally the pines that clothed <it> reared their heads above the path. But the horses seemed to take the hills completely as matters of course, and to know their way as well as their drivers. Our best postillions however walked the greatest part of the stage, and generally on the side next to the precipice.
Before reaching St. Laurent the night before, we had observed that the pines diminished in size as we got higher; and they now were evidently much inferior. The light Birch, the Beech, the Oak & the Mountain Ash now mingled with them, but <the last> more rarely than I expected. It was not a day to go out of our track for the Lac des Rousses, so we contented ourselves with making our best speed to Vattay, only regretting that the mists intercepted the Dôle, the highest summit of Jura which we ought to have seen a little after passing Les Rousses. After we came near Vattay we were sensible of our descent, from the pines which now rivalled their brethren on the opposite ascent. We drove for sometime thro’ a grove which almost hid the hills and crags from us, and on turning sharp round, found ourselves above a long valley which we had not even peeped at before, with the sun breaking on some of the hills, a fine effect and a novel one. Our track during the whole of the passage had varied to every point of the compass but on passing Vattay, we again seemed to depart from our general direction, and on passing a knoll, suddenly found ourselves in view of the Alps. The sun had made a strong effort in our favour, and the Mole, the Warrin, and many of the nearer summits were distinctly visible, but Mont Blanc could only partially peep thro’ the clouds, which as many of them rivalled his snows in whiteness, were very provoking for they often deceived us. We just saw the tops of St. Bernard and Mont Cenis, and [writing obscured by dry flower on the scan] others, but on the whole, we had but a very imperfect taste of that grand view which so many travellers ascend from Geneva to enjoy. The lake however with all its towns and circumjacent plains was mapped out before us, and looked so small that Papa asked if that were what he was come to see.
From this spot we began a rapid descent of nine miles, which we performed in an hour and a half, with a drag on our wheel. The horses trotting briskly along, and the postillion either remaining by their side or riding on the pole, and passing in and out among the horses with great dexterity. Above us was the dark and beetling crag which we had just left, while the pines below or on a hill which seemed close to us, looked no bigger than tufts of furze. It was 1/2 past 5 when we reached Gex – and the delay in fitting out our horses made us sensible that this was a post étrangere. Our driver too seemed both from appearance and manner to be more used to waggons than carriages and when it grew suddenly and deeply dark on the populous road which announced the vicinity of Geneva, we were more alarmed than among the precipices of Jura. I think I have never seen anything as beautiful as these 60 miles among the mountains. The union of beauty of grandeur, of the naked crags and sable pines with the velvet lawns, the sleek cattle and numerous picturesque cottages and villages, which announced plenty and fertility.
The road to Geneva seemed close and woody. Geneva as we entered, looked as little pleasant by night as we afterwards found it by day. The Balance which we passed, was not inviting and the Crown with its entrance thro’ the kitchen seemed little so, but we found the people attentive and the feeding excellent. We had an immediate proof that we had left France for though the Table D’Hôte was just served when we entered, the party, of 6 or 8 gentlemen, had the politeness to wait for us. The head of the table was reserved for us, and no one touched a single dish till it had been tendered to our choice. How different from the French scrambles, where a stranger who is delicate in snatching at what he wants or waits till it be handed to him, may go without his dinner. We had another proof of Swiss good will, for when our postillion bolted in on us in the middle of supper, and we had some dispute with regard to the payment, everyone took our part, and the general anxiety seemed to be that we should not be imposed on.
The gentlemen seemed to have a good deal of intelligence and humour, and had much sprightly conversation among themselves. I did not hear the beginning of it, but a young man (who by the bye was very handsome and spoke very good English,) was relating several wonderful escapes he had had in his travels. He was sleeping in the same bed with another young man. Their heads touched yet the lightning had killed his friend, and left him unhurt. He had been on board a vessel when it was wrecked. There were very good swimmers on board, yet they perished, while he who could not swim at all, and waited on the vessel till the next day was fetched off safe.
Another gentleman who was travelling with his son, and who we afterwards met at Chamouny now took up the tale. He had been speaking of the descent of the mountain of Les Echelles, where the road runs zig zag and turns sharp at every instant, and of the great cleverness of the boys who are there used as drivers. He told the story of a lady and gentleman whom he named, and who had to descend this pass. The Dame had dreamed a dream, and she besought her Lord to stay at home that day as she was sure that something fatal would befall. *
* (on left page, added) Was it a Thursday? asked one gentleman. Ou un treize de mois, said another.
Her lord, like other lords derided female fears and dreams, and they pursued their journey. Already had they past [sic] all the seeming dangers of the way, and were entering Chambery, where some workmen were pulling down a house at the entrance of the town, when the horses took fright; dashed into the breach in the wall, and the Lady was tossed out and killed.
(Sketch on left page of a building)
Thursday September 17 (1818)
<Having got pleasant letters from home & dispatched our own> We walked out into the ugly town of Geneva, as dirty and black a looking place as one might wish – built on a beautiful <lake> and a fine river without one spot from which one can get a tolerable view of either, with narrow, ice built, ill paved streets filled with a hot, damp, oppressive air that made me never feel well one instant in it. The manner in which many of the houses were built with tall dark miserable looking wooden arcades projecting from the upper story, so as to afford a dry walk below, marked a fear either of wind or rain, and hot as the day was, the cold Birze or North East wind, rushing past us to the gulf of Lyons, proved the violence of the former. In one respect however we rejoiced at its presence for it never rains with the Birze, and as we were determined to be off to Chamouny the next day, in spite of a ball to be given by Geneva to the English and the Duke of Gloucester, dry weather and a clear sky were our first objects.
We commenced the day with an attempt to deliver several letters of introduction from Mr. and Mrs. Pictet, in which Papa was designated as a very interesting person, and I as also being one of the most interesting works of nature. Our letters were merely directed to Geneva, and we had to enquire the residence of the Parties. Geneva seems to be like Scotland – a few names predominate <there are for example at least 28 Pictets>, and as it would be difficult to distinguish one from another by the Christian name alone, it is the custom for a man, on marriage, to add the name of his wife to his own. Our first letter was addressed to Mr. Pictet Diodati and we climbed the hill of St. Pierre (so called from the Cathedral which stands there) to the Court end of the town which is better and more modern than the rest of the town many of the houses as we afterwards found commanding a fine view over the ramparts (of the?) Grand et Petit Saleve, the windings of the [pressed flower hiding the text] and the distant Jura. But a desperate attempt it is to reach it and carriages are obliged to go round by the ramparts. To our sorrow, we found Mr Pictet was at his campagne, so we left the letter at a stationer’s where he sent every day, and enquired for Colonel Bramer. He also was out of town, and we could not learn where. Mrs. Duppa Hopton. She was with her husband at their country House. We however found out a Mr. Charles Lullin, who received us with politeness but turned out not to be the right one – so he gave us the address of his namesake, also in the country but we understood at no great distance (so that we might take a Char to him) and a little note from himself, explaining the circumstance. We were almost in despair – for fearing that we might even then be too late for Chamouny we wished to consult some one not interested in our going. As a last resource we went to Mr. Hentsch the banker. He was at home, and what was more he told us in what direction lay the Country house of M. Charles Lullin, and informed us it was even within a walk. You must descend the town, go all thro’ the city cross the two bridges of the Rhone, to the gare de Cornavin, by which you entered last night. Then follow the high road, and take the second road to the left. Is it very far? said I – terrified at such a length of direction. Oh! oui – bien loin – perhaps a mile from here. So ho! thought I, the people of Geneva are no great walkers, if a stout active young man calls a mile a great distance. A Parisian belle would have said, mais no! c’est un bon quart de lieue. To Mr. Lullin’s we went accordingly admiring as we crost it the deep blue colour and rapid rushing of the Rhone; and were surprized to find that Geneva has no suburb – we were at once and completely in the country and found Mr. Lullin’s house delightfully situated, and though on no fatiguing hill commanding a noble view. The best, of the City of Geneva, which it overlooks, indeed I might say the only one in which it appears to advantage tho’ it was easy to see even from that, that it had not one good building in it. On the right, the Rhone swept by to meet the Arve and the 2 Saleves rose above it. Geneva occupied the middle. To the left was the lake with the Alps behind – the Mole The Warrin in front – nay the Cime de Buet, and Mont Blanc himself with all their ices. Behind us was the valley and the long curtain of Jura now diminished by distance.
Mr. Lullin is one of the most gentlemanly and intelligent men I have ever met, and almost an Englishman, having resided 22 years in England. His wife is English – also very intelligent and speaking French very well, but I thought her a little more stately than her husband. She reminded me sometimes of Mrs Oviatt – and they both shewed us every attention, now, and on our return to Geneva.
From Mrs. Lullin’s we went to Mr. Duppa’s which we found was on our way home. He is an Englishman – with a frank though sometimes rough kindness, [and?] did the civil thing before he announced his intention. His wife is a Genevese, rather pretty and speaking English well – and their daughter rather younger than Bella, the most elegant little fairy I have ever seen. Seeming to have naturally all the courtesy of the French but without affecting the woman or thrusting her little self into notice. Under as little apparent control as Bella, but not seeming to require it. In short, indulged but not spoiled. Mr. Duppa’s House is I think rather pleasanter than Mr. Lullins, in itself and its grounds. The view is perhaps not quite so fine.
We now returned home. The Table D’hôte throughout all Switzerland is at 1 oclock, so we were compelled to dine apart – which is much more expensive. Indeed the difference is so great that I thought the Swiss meant it to mark their wish of not being troubled with separate dinners. The general price of the dinner or supper three francs, wine included, but apart it is five francs, sometimes 6 without wine. The Hotel de la Couronne is however more moderate than any other, as it is only four francs and a half, a bottle of very good wine included. Indeed I do not think we ever drank the vin ordinaire at any other place. We arranged with a woman to furnish us with a Char to Sallenche the next morning – for 30 francs. That is 15 going and 15 returning, the return being always paid in Switzerland. We understood that most travellers started at 6 in the morning, but as we did not want to get to Sallenche before 1/2 past 5 or six <as we could get no farther> we decided to start at 8.
Friday Sbre. 19th (crossed out – replaced with 18th)
I had been so unwell all the day before, and had so uncomfortable a night, that nothing but the extreme desire I had to see the Monarch monarch throned on all his snows, and the fear that even one day more would be too late, would have prevented me from begging Papa to defer his journey. But the weather had been hot, and I always suffer from heat. I relied for strength on the fresh air of the mountains, and I relied not in vain. I never perhaps in all my life have undergone so much fatigue as in week’s journey, yet I never felt in better health or spirits, and though I was often completely exhausted, I recovered with a rapidity that astonished myself. At 8 our Char was at the door, and to those who had never seen a charabanc, an extraordinary conveyance it seemed. We had stared at two or three that were driving about the town the day before, but little thought we were to exhibit in one. A charabanc is a carriage with one side seat, and without a door, most like a sofa. Many of them are quite open, but this of ours had an awning supported on poles and leather curtains to unbuckle. Those who have a driver have a seat for him in front, indeed the seat is general, but many of the gentlemen of Geneva drive themselves, sideways as they sit in the car. The peculiar advantage of this species of vehicle is that one can see only side of the road, and not well straightforward, and as it is a point of honour to turn the back of the Char to the object of greatest interest in the road, one must either twist one’s necks off, or make one’s tour without seeing it. The back of our Char was now of course turned to Mont Blanc and when we returned from Martigny, those which we got into were adjusted to the opposite side to exclude the Lake, so that we were in danger of emulating two Irish Ladies who are reported to have made the tour of the Lake in a Charàbanc, with their backs to it, so that they saw it only when they stopped. Those who have never felt the mortification of travelling in one of these delectable vehicles thro’ a beautiful countryside, will not easily conceive our amusement in finding in the large Album at Chamouny, a caricature of our situation. Two characters in a Charàbanc with their backs to Mont Blanc which rises majestically behind them – one of them is exclaiming “Où est donc le Mont Blanc – Morblen! On ne trouve jamais le Mont Blanc.”
But to return. We were soon out of Geneva, and soon entering the road which leads between the Mole and the Warrin. Here we overtook a gentleman travelling alone in a car similar to ours, and which belonged to the same good woman. At first he seemed as far as possible to avoid any acquaintance, but afterwards grew very civil after a fashion, so that we christened him Civil Sulky, a name which he never forfeited. For two hours we continued approaching the Mole and the Warrin, and though the length of our ride gave us an idea of their magnitude, yet as the scene varied little we did not find it very interesting. But at Bonneville, where we arrived about 12 Mont Blanc was in fine prospect, and the milky but powerful Arve roaring finely over his stony channel. Though now that the <waters from> glaciers began to fail he did not fill above one fifth of his summer channel. When swelled by heats or rains he must roll down a mighty torrent. Bonneville is a pretty considerable village, and we found the Hotel des Balances a rendezvous for all who were going our road. We were almost forced into dining at the Table D’Hote, and an extraordinary dinner it was. 2 gentlemen – and elderly gentleman and his wife – who was vulgar enough, and a magnifico and his wife, who gave themselves all imaginable airs of incivility, and turned out to be, by the book at Chamouny “Lord Cringletie, one of the Judges of the supreme court of Justice in Scotland” ie Lords of the Session “et Madame son épouse [???].” Madame very politely turned her back on me all dinner time – scarcely deigned to answer a question whither I should help her to a duck I was carving, and finally would not answer to a question about something which she had in a tin box with holes to it, and which I took at first for a Chaufpied [??]. Her “Lord” said it was a squirrel, but I believe it was a red parrot, as I afterwards saw such a bird sitting on the top of the said tin cage in the garden.
Well – we were as I said 8 persons – and the dinner was served.
1st Course – Millet soup with no meat in.
2d. 2 dishes of walnut sized potatoes in their skins.
3d. a Sav??? and a lump of butter.
4th a large bone of beef stewed for 12 hours till meat and fat had left it in despair, or fretted themselves to strings.
5th three veal cutlets and an old duck of which I heroically sawed off one wing but attempted not a second. It ought to be observed that we were all served round with plates & knives and forks, and waited a proper time between each course.
6th a cauliflower and a baked rice pudding which we supposed had finished the business. Lord Cringletie and his lady had retired with the remainder of his bottle, when they returned, saying something more is coming – and lo! in came the Dinner, consisting of fish a leg of mutton, 2 fine roast fowls, Woodcocks, Grieves, etc, in fact more than would have satisfied us from the beginning, but our appetites were cloyed with the indigestible food we had commenced with, and they passed almost untouched. There was besides plenty of wine which nobody drank, & a desert which nobody staid for.
At 2 oclock we all left Bonneville – as well those which had left Geneva 2 hours before us – and those who had left at the hour we did. The country improved as we advanced for we were now among the mountains and we had one fearful proof of it in the number of Goitres and even Cretins that were collected round our carriage to beg. Some of them I think the ugliest of the human race that ever I beheld.
We past between two mountains which seem entirely to close they valley – and stopped a little while to rest at Cluse, which takes its name from the circumstance. Cluse is a small town, partly built with arcades like Geneva, partly on piazzas – but let not architectural terms deceive the imagination. It is even uglier than Geneva.
Here the drivers brought bread to feed their horses. The poor beasts seemed to feel it a treat, and to be encouraged to finish their labour. We walked on a little before thro’ the truly alpine valley which now commenced. The Arve which we had scarcely lost sight of since leaving Bonneville now filling all the hollow with his ample channel, and sometimes seeming (as Pictet observes in his guide book) to dispute the way with the traveller. Sometimes the road was on a ledge – the river below, and overhanging rocks above, once we drove thro’ a part of its channel, and sometimes we got among fine Walnut trees, for which these valleys are celebrated. We passed three Cascades, one of them I believe the famous Nant d’Arpenaz, but they were all short of water, & disappointed me. I believe their height to be considerable, but from the large scale of every thing around us even that loses its effect, and the Alps look less than they are from the want of a scale to measure them by. It is only by the length of time and the many weary steps that are necessary to pass an object that one becomes really sensible of its magnitude.
But the Warrin which we were passing grew more and more picturesque in its form and everywhere Mont Blanc reared his snowy head behind us. The postillions canvassed on the way for a house at Sallenche but we took the advice of Saussure, and stopped short at St. Martin’s on this side of the river. Saussure speaks but ill of the inns at Sallenche, but I fancy they have been mended since his time, and all the other carriages decided to try them. We found at St. Martin’s the Son of the Landlord who built the Inn, and who was very ready to show the little Cabinet of Natural History of which Saussure speaks so favourably. I fancy that it was the first that was begun in the neighbourhood, but there is now one at every inn. I saw many of the fine crystals so abundant in one place near Mont Blanc, many beautiful examples of Asbestos and Amianthus, and of course many fine examples of granite, quartz, &c. Here we improved our acquaintance with Civil Sulky by dining together, and interest fixed us as sharers in a Car for the morrow.
The night proved cold at St. Martins though the day had been sunny but the beds were well provided, and we slept soundly on our first night among the mountains.
Saturday Sbre 19
We had an easy day’s journey before us so we did not hurry in the morning. Following the recommendation of Saussure we had talked to our landlord rather as a friend, and asked his advice as to our farther/further? conduct on our excursion – and he repaid our confidence by cheating us most unmercifully. In fact, he bears a very bad character in the neighbourhood, and somebody had told him a few days before, that he was, un petit homme – mais un grand fripon. He is indeed little, and with some disposition to Goitre. He professes, however, some mineralogical knowledge, and on my father’s styling himself architect in the book, informed us that he was also a geometrician. Papa bade me ask him if he could demonstrate the 47th proposition of Euclid but he seemed not to understand the question. He told me that Euclid was not studied there, but they had little books in French, which they thought better. Nevertheless he informed us that he had been employed in the topographical survey of Switzerland, taken by order of the French government. But I think it probable his office was not much above that of a measuring Clerk.
His impositions on us were the following: 1st making us pay 30 francs for our Char when other travellers had got them from Sallenches for 18 – tout compris – the distance to Chamouni being only 6 leagues. Next the abonnement du postillon, which is usually demanded as an extra charge of 3 francs but which we had told him we would not be liable to – and which was nevertheless demanded at Chamouni. 3d a guide for which there was no necessity whatever – though he was a return guide of Chamouni – so we had only 6 francs to pay him instead of twelve – the regular price of a guide being 6 francs a day – which with six for returning amounts to 12. We had in fact no reason to be displeased with Marie Coutet. He told us from the beginning that we had no occasion for him, but we might take him if we pleased. Some travellers did take a guide, but it was not necessary.
The Char which we mounted was ugly and clumsy, but strong and well calculated for the road it had to pass, which from St Martins became narrower, with steeper ascents and descents and crossing the bed of many a torrent, which explained what Mr. Lullin had told us, that after three days rain in the mountains, the way to Chamouni became impassable. There are no bridges & from the size of some of the streams, even in so dry a season we thought that less time might render them too deep to be conveniently fordable. Most of them were however slender rills, wandering thro’ a formidable width of channel <which was> filled with stones whose size bore fearful witness of their wintry fury – and which would have threatened a better carriage with destruction, but our Char made its way thro’ them uninjured, and with less jolting than could have been conceived. They are in fact exactly what Scott so well describes
The Mountain flood
Which swelled by wintry storm & shower
Rolls down in turbulence of power
A torrent deep and rude
Theft (?) of these aids a rill obscure
Creeping unnoticed, mean and poor
Whose channel bears displayed
The wrecks of its impetuous course
Without one remnant of the force
By which those wrecks were made.
I would have born with the delay, to have seen some of them roaring in their glory.
Our backs were of course turned to Mont Blanc, but we regretted this the less as the Warrin which was on our other side, assumed a form more and more picturesque, and its three needles – de Warrin, de Servoz, and du Promoutoir forever varying yet the same, excited much interest. Indeed we thought we should never lose this mountain, for we had it all the way from Bonneville to Chamouny, and the points that were opposite to us continued opposite so long that we learned their great magnitude and distance from experience rather than from vision.
About halfway to Servoz we stopped to visit on the left the Cascade de Chede which is but imperfectly seen from the road, and walked some distance up a green to a seat which would be delightful for summit study. It is on a slope opposite to the Cascade. Trees fill the glen between and at times particularly veil the fall, which pours from the steep cliffs beyond, breaks into two streams, and dashes at last into a black abyss. It was by far the best Cascade we had seen, and a beautiful rainbow was dancing over it, but still I thought it wanted water. *
* (written on left page) I had absolutely forgotten the Lac de Chede which we saw soon after and which the people seem to make about. Its situation is certainly pretty among the pines and mountains, and the water is beautifully clear, and in some spots of a remarkable blue like the Rhone – but in England it would only be reckoned a moderate sized pond, and among the Alps to call such a piece of water a Lake is ridiculous.
Our road continued much the same to Servoz, where our horses rested and we regaled on Cold Ham – a novelty & a treat. We afterwards walked to see the tomb of the Devilles, and of another gentleman who fell victim to their imprudence among the mountains within the last few years. One ventured on a glacier without a guide, and fell in – and the other missed his footing on a mountain at the moment his guide called to him not to attempt another step. The monument is little more than a pillar to receive the inscription, but its situation above a torrent is romantic, and it is a useful warning to those who are about to commence a journey in the mountains.
We observed a little beyond this monument a quantity of slag, and understood that there were lead and iron mines in the mountain. Farther we found a heap of the refuse ore and furnished ourselves with specimens. It is contained in a beautiful silvery gypsum, and many pieces from their weight, appear to have been hastily rejected. In descending we unexpectedly found ourselves before a hut, so hid by a projecting screen of the slate rock which composes the mountains, as to be invisible from every situation but one – and those who were not to quit the path, might remain for ever in ignorance of its existence. It has been scooped or built in the rock, and I believe is a tool house for the miners and smelters but it would be an admirable place of concealment.
On leaving Servoz we soon bade adieu to the black slates thro’ which we had been for some time travelling, and still more, to the Chain of the Warrin as we turned round the Mont Servoz into the long valley of Chamouny, among walnuts and oaks. Above us was the place where the mountain fell some 40 years ago on the Mont Servoz and did much mischief in its fall. Before us, we looked up the long and verdant Valley of Chamouny, Mont Blanc to our left and the Glaciers of <Taconay (this is now written as Taconnaz)> Bosson, and the Mer de Glace descending from his sides. We passed the little Glacier de Taconay but got out to visit that de Bosson which disappointed me. I knew that the glaciers are always fenced by the large stones which are left by the dissolution of the waters, and that the outer ices are generally dirty, but I expected to have seen the pyramids beyond clear like crystal, shining with the golden light of the sun, and reflecting the azure of the heavens. But I found all the ice opaque, scarcely to be known from the sun but by the less perfect whiteness, and the fine blue about which so much has been said, only a dull indigo colour that appeared in the cracks. I thought that the Glacier de Bosson must be an unfavourable specimen, but it proved the best of those which I saw.
About half past 4 we got to Chamouny which proved a better town than Papa expected, and a smaller than I believed it – in short a pretty good village. The Hotel de L’Union was full, but we got rooms in a second house which the master has recently taken. Mr Brooks and I sleeping in two little rooms looking on the Arve, with Papa as guardian in three beds in the outer room. But what was my astonishment, on coming out after settling for the Chambers, to meet my father arm in arm with Miss Thomson & Dr (??) following. We had hoped to have met them at Geneva but heard to our sorrow that they had left La Couronne the day before we arrived, for Lausanne, on their way to Italy, so we expected to meet no more for years, but Eliza had caught a terrible cold in her eyes in crossing the Jura, which had not only deprived her of all enjoyment at Geneva, but forced her to come on to Chamouny without ever looking at Mont Blanc and finally detained them there. She was now better but I believe had not left her room, till we persuaded her to come down to meet us at tea.
* (added here on the left page) Miss Thomson and her brother were just descending from the Aiguille de la Flesiere when Papa met them. (I can’t find Flesier online?)
At dinner we met all we had seen on the road, except Lord Cringletie who dined in another room. The dinner was so, so, but we were not inclined to be squeamish and we passed a very pleasant Evening, in conversation, and in turning over the Album, which contained the record of all the Travellers for 1817 & 18 with many anecdotes and quotations – some good verses, much French sentiment, and several good caricatures besides the one I mentioned of the Charàbanc. In one place were the different countenances of travellers who had come to see Mont Blanc. One man stands in stupid wonder, the second wears a face of rueful length, and the third seemed to have put on his spectacles to look for the mountain.
In another place was a memorandum of a party of Frenchmen who had opened the campaign of 1818, at the end of April and who complained of the incivility of the rain and the Aquilons. Below was the illustration – the party on horseback, or rather muleback – one umbrella turned inside out by the wind, the 2d split thro’ and the third might have been represented flying away. There was also a dancing master, on one leg on the inaccessible Aiguille de Dru, with his card, begging for scholars. A Mr. Turner had written some verses which we thought worth copying – and under the flowery extasies of a lady who had climbed the Alps alone with her guide someone had written “Yond’ is the last, & Juliet is the sun.”
There was also a record, by an English gentleman of a Polish Count Mareschi who had ascended Mont Blanc and returned to Chamouny between the 1st & 6th of August. Marie Coutet had been of the party, as well as of one which had climbed the yet untrodden Pic du Midi.
Mr. Brooks had engaged Marie Coutet for his journey to Martigny the next day. So we secured Joseph Tissay, Miss Thomson’s guide – with two mules for the Montanvert.
Sunday Sbre 20
We were told the Montanvert was only a six hours business so we would not start till near 10 oclock. Indeed Papa wanted to have gone to Church first, but Miss Thomson told him he must be content to say his prayers on the mountain. Little did we think what a holiday job we had undertaken – but we mounted our Mules & rode off merrily. The first part of our way, after fording the Arve, was principally among fields, but we soon began to ascend the mountain by what looked at first like the bed of a torrent and afterwards like a rude staircase. I wondered how the Mules got along – but they were used to it, and took us on patiently and without flagging. I understood that it is only within this few years that this path has been made and that it was a work of some labour. I wonder that those who took the pains to make it at all should not have made it better, for it looked more like a goat track than the work of human hands <but I fancy the torrents spoil it in the Spring>. Indeed we afterwards found reason to be more satisfied with it, when we had ascended the first half of the mountain, and were compelled to make the rest of the way on foot. We had been warned against cold, and were therefore prepared with an extra quantity of flannels, but we were certainly mistaken in our calculation for I never felt heat more than during our ride, and when we began to walk the exertion was such as would have made any weather warm. The hoar frost was still on the grass when we went to the North, and it blew cool for a few minutes, but when we turned again into the sun it was scorching. The fatigue of climbing from stone to stone soon made me sick, but the guide gave me a little wine, and I think I was afterwards stronger than Papa, who ought to have had a guide to himself. Our way was sometimes thro’ the pines which covered part of the Mountain and sometimes only a little ledge on its bare side, but always stepping from stone to stone, generally mounting of course, but sometimes descending, and altogether very fatiguing to those who like us were not used to climbing the Alps, though the guides made nothing of it, and the children who were wandering from idleness or pleasure ran about like Cats. We sate down frequently to rest when we came to a larger stone than usual, but the guide would not allow us to stop for long, for fear of taking cold. We frequently saw the goats at a distance, and letting us approach them without shewing signs of fear, and one while we were resting, a herd that was passing along a path which crossed ours, came close to us, and many of them stopped to be carest, and held out their mouths to be fed. Indeed all thro’ France and Switzerland the animals seem remarkably tame. Many a sheep has come up to me to be stroked, and even the birds and poultry scarcely think it necessary to get out of the way till one is in danger of running them over. The tameness of the dogs and Cats is remarkable and they seem to be much carest. At the Couronne at Geneva was a remarkably large sandy coloured dog, who perhaps might be more alert in the night, but he was generally lying near the door all day and the extreme sheepishness of his looks appeared ridiculous in so large a beast.
It is reckoned two hours and a half’s journey from Chamouny to the hut on the Mont Anvert, but we were full three hours. A little before we reached it we saw a pretty good Avalanche on the Mer de Glace – but the sound was finer than the sight. It was only what might be called a breaker – namely the slip of one of the pyramids or waves of ice which being raised a little above their brethren are loosened by the sun. These Glacier Avalanches are frequent during the hot hours of the day, and we afterwards saw many in our descent, but I do not think much of them. I have no doubt that the Spring Avalanches from the Cliffs, must be as grand in their appearance as they are often fatal in their effects – but these are as uninteresting as they are harmless. The only thing worth remarking was the blue colour of the newly broken ice.
We found a pleasant air at the hut on the top of the mountain; but not cold. The Thermometre was only at 47o. The hut itself, consisting literally of one room was wretched enough but it was reserved for the accommodation of travellers who <might> there find a bed of hay on their way to Mont Blanc or Le Jardin and seemed a palace to one a little below which was the summer habitation of the people who took care of it. The Swiss seem to be contented with a very little in the Chalets from which they watch their flocks on the Alps or summer pasturages, but if we may judge from appearances they have much of comfort in their winter dwellings, and poverty is as little known as what we call wealth. In Savoz, land is portioned out among the different families. Each person has a little allotment for which he pays a slight tax, rather than a rent to the king of Sardinia, his Allodial Lord. The mountains are in common, and wood is only worth the labour of cutting. But to return. able (?? – this seems separate to the words before and after??> It is however 2000 feet higher than the Montanvent, and we regretted afterwards that we had not taken the advice of the man who shewed us the relief of the Alps at Paris and ascended about two thirds of its height to the Aiguille de la Flésiere, for a fine view of Mont Blanc, instead of wasting our strength on the Mer de Glace, which we could have seen nearly as much of from thence or from below. – Above us to the West was only a higher summit of the Montanvent, veiled with pines, which effectively excluded Mont Blanc – before us we saw the fine Aiguilles de Charmoz, and occasionally the unrivalled and unconquered Aiguille du Géant. To the East below us, was the Mer de Glace, and above us on the other side frowned the inaccessible Aiguille de Dru.
The descent to the Mer de Glace was sufficiently difficult, along the mighty belt of stones which skirted it, but we gained a better idea of the mighty waves of this frozen sea, and can now believe that some of its needles are 40 or 50 feet high – but the walking on it without an object, has nothing to reward the danger and we did not go far. The ice when I was near it, I found clearer than I expected and we saw a small specimen of those tremendous cracks which are so deep and dangerous. In striking the ice with my pole, I also found a smaller one which was covered only with thin flake of ice. It would not have done to have ventured here without first trying the ground but here as in the whole of my ascent and descent I trusted much to my pole and never found it fail me. I believe I have omitted to mention it but it is a long stout stick pointed with iron with which every traveller is furnished on commencing his walk, and which I found of the greatest service.
I could not feel it cold, even on the Mer de Glace – the Thermometre would scarcely sink below 40 till I placed it in a crack, when of course it fell to 32O but it was not safe to remain long in one place as the heat of the foot made the Ice at once slippery and sticky. We were not going to crop it, so we soon returned – and began our descent, and with our descent began the labours of the day, the ascent was nothing to it. Let no one who has not strength to spare descend by the Filia, it has not an object of interest but the Mer de Glace he has seen enough of before, and whose Avalanches growing smaller & smaller as the Evening advances become less worthy notice. He will do better to return the way he came and afterwards go by the Valley to the source of the Arveiron – but that is no longer an object of interest. The magnificent Arch of Ice thro’ which the river formerly poured was destroyed by a traveller who foolishly fired a pistol close to it – and perished by his imprudence. The Ice, always extremely sensible to violent sounds, gave way, and either whelmed him in falling or left him to be carried off by the water. The stream now only soaks out under the Glacier.
I think we were longer in descending than ascending. I was much fatigued but I had still some strength left. My father seemed to have lost both strength and courage, and got on so ill that I feared we should have been benighted. I had often begged him to take the guide and he had refused, but at last it became a matter of necessity and he proceeded somewhat better. We had however been a little refreshed by the Milk and Eau de Vie with which we were besieged by a number of children who climbed the mountain like Cats in the hope of a few sous. There was also an <old> woman who brought strawberries and raspberries to whom my guide gave me in charge, and I found her of great use to me, tho’ I slipped twice but I was behind and Papa knew nothing of it. I could not help thinking how much we are creatures of habit for I was certainly stronger and more able than the poor old woman on whom I was leaning for support, but I had not like her been accustomed all my life to climbing the Alps.
The sun sets even at this season, at a little past five in the Valley of Chamouny but we looked back, and saw the Aiguilles de Charmoz, and above all the Aiguille de Dru, clothed in flame. It was a sight to give us courage, at least the courage of despair for we must either get down or sleep on the rocks; glad were we when we found ourselves again on our mules who awaited us at the bottom, and rode thro’ a pleasant grove of Larches to Chamouny – fording twice the Arveiron and once the Arve. It was half past six when we got to the Inn & found all the world at dinner. They had waited near an hour for us, and had just commenced. We joined them of course, and I was surprized to find my fatigues vanished almost by the time I sate down, and that instead of being silent and stupid, I could talk and laugh with those around me as if I had only taken an agreeable walk, but Papa was too tired to eat, and did not so soon recover himself. The Thomsons had been that day to the Glacier de Bossons and as they had examined it more at leisure were better pleased than we had been. Its pyramids certainly appear to be larger than those of any other we saw, but I repeat the Glaciers are more curious than beautiful.
The Gentleman and his son, of whom I have before spoken joined us this day from Geneva, and added much to the gaiety of our dinner party. They had a great deal of humour, and no objection to give us a laugh at their expense. The younger complained sadly of his head on the Mountains c’était une mauvaise chose de perdre la tête, and when he read in the Album an account of the exploits of former travellers declared they might enjoy their glory in quiet but he would not imitate them. The younger Bourrit had given a sentimental account of a visit to Le Jardin where he had first been with his father. Eh bien, said he, je n’y vais pas avec mon pere -, and his father then called on me to give him courage for the descent to the Mer de Glace, and afterwards gave a humourous caricature of their visit to the Cascade de Chede. An old woman had come out and offered them poles – Oh no! said he, if you can walk without I think I can, but the young man had taken two and even caught hold of the woman’s petticoat behind to help him on.
We had before laughed at the English half of the book. They gave us the enjoyment of the French, but the humour was more in their admirable reading and comments than in the original, and I was vexed that we met no more. Their civility and attentions were as pleasing as their intelligence.
Monday Septr 21st
We started about half past 8 with the Thomsons, for Martigny, by the Tete Noire. Our day’s journey was nine leagues – but we performed the two first, to Argentiere in two Chars à banc. In passing we saw I think more of the Mer de Glace than we had done even on the Montanvert – but the tackle of four Char was execrable and we came to pieces three times. The last time was even somewhat dangerous, for we were going up a steep hill with the Arve brawling below us, when something gave way, the Mules got their legs over the (traces?) and I was afraid something would happen to us even before we could get out. We agreed with Saussure that however the people of Geneva may exult in the Rhone, and despise the Arve for its muddy waters, those who have traced it nearly to its source, as we had now done, and seen it foaming and fretting (frothing?) thro’ its ample channel, and nearer to its springs contending with enormous rocks, will be inclined to think more respectfully of it. I had now been lulled for two nights by the roaring of its waters – for it foamed immediately under my window at Chamouny, and I think I never heard so noisy a river.
We had a good view of the Glacier d’Argentiere, and its Aiguille, which is there reckoned the highest summit to Mont Blanc – and soon after quitted our Chars à banc to commence the passages of the Tête Noire. Our mounting would have furnished a good subject for a painter. The party consisted of two Miss Thomsons papa and self on Mules, Dr. Thomson and 3 guides on foot, and an old horse for our sumpter Mule. On passing the foot of the Col de Balme we quitted the Arve now diminished almost to its rivulet but soon found its place supplied by another stream which forms what is reputed a fine Cascade into the Glen below us. From this part we had noble views of the Aiguilles d’Argentiere, de Dru, et de Charmoz and of Mont Blanc himself who here asserts his superiority over the Dome de Goute [Dôme de Gôuter] which at Chamouny appears the summit. As we proceeded the Aiguilles rouges which terminate the Mont Brevent, and which from Chamouny appeared very inconsiderable increased in size and grandeur, and by their colour vindicated their name. We had ridden about an hour, and were in a beautiful shady path – with moss grown rocks above and around us, the shaded stream below, and rugged cliffs on the farther side. I was leading the van (for Mules are unsociable animals and will go in a string) when Dr. Thomson came up and asked me how I did. Very well but very hungry. Alas! said he, Eliza is fainting and we have nothing to eat. But we have some eggs said I, and we cannot stop in a better place. I alighted directly – spread a sheet of paper on a moss grown rock for a tablecloth and mustered half a loaf, nine eggs, <a Cake of Chocolate>, half a bottle of wine, and better still, a whole bottle of Brandy. The stock was not great, but I served out the rations with great impartiality, and Eliza was so invigorated by the first nourishing food she had taken for a week, as to be for some time the stoutest of the party. I understood we should all have to descend in a few minutes, so I walked on till we came to the place, which was a very steep and narrow descent, very like a rude staircase, but I think we afterwards rode over some as bad. We were now entering the valley of Valorsine and bade adieu to Mont Blanc whom we exchanged for the Aiguille de Couterets and the Cime de Buet. The Valley is a fine one – I believe what is called a transverse valley, but of considerable extent, with bold mountains on each side, and closing the ends, a stream winding of course thro’ the flat at the bottom, and pines clothing each side to a certain height. The villages picturesquely scattered in the hollow, and many a house perched on heights which would suppose were only to be reached by the goat or the Eagle. The Children there were all pretty and ruddy, a contrast to the ugly race we had seen all along our road to Chamouny, but I know not what these might be at a maturer age.
On leaving Valorsine our prospect became more confined, and what papa called more savage. The glens grew narrower, and of more tremendous depth. [NOTE: There are lovely pressed flowers on the left page, and you can still see the yellow colour and the ‘veins’ of the petals.] Enormous blocks of naked stone reared themselves far above us or descended into our path – which became every moment more fatiguing. In England I should have feared to contemplate many of the places we climbed and descended – but to attempt to describe them is only multiplying words without ideas – but in no place were the blocks and crags larger and more terrible or the road more difficult that (sic – than?) near the remains of an old fortress, the only existing arch of which we passed under. The Tête noire itself which we reached soon after is of the same character and abounding with pines which are rendered doubly gloomy by the blackness of the rocks & the soil. We had directly after to alight for descent called the Malpas. It is not so steep as several others, but as the path is very narrow with a deep precipice below, it is reckoned better to be on foot, for fear of an accident. We now entered the valley of Trient of which I remember nothing particular but the river of Trient foaming finely below. It runs to join the Rhone near Martigny. The valley I have described at once in giving a general character of an Alpine valley, for as I said before in description there is little difference. It was past three when we reached the hamlet of Trient and we looked forward with some impatience for our dinner – for a broiling sun and an Alpine air are great awakeners of hunger and thirst, and a ride of five leagues to those who are not accustomed to it, is no trifle, and though the Mules be faithful easy creatures, it is more fatiguing to ride on staircase rocks than level roads. Great then was our dismay on entering what was called an Inn, to find rooms that could not be entered for the stench – and on enquiring after provisions to hear that there was one egg in the house and they could perhaps get another <but that the wine was so sour they could not drink it>. Two eggs among five hungry persons, without counting the guides was somewhat scanty fare – but we got a table and Chairs on a knoll a little above the Inn, and it was soon set out with bread, <brown?> honey, <tough> Cheese, plenty of milk that was the cleaner for skimming, and the two eggs which as they had no fire to boil they had manufactured into something like Curds and cream. With this and our brandy we did tolerably, but everything was so cold on this mountain that after our baking we felt the want of warmer if not more nutritious fare, and we could only console ourselves with hearing we had only one hill to climb, & then it was all descent to Martigny. But the hill was a climb indeed. Miss Thomson had been chief pioneer, but my mule who had not drank when the others did, was now very thirsty and I suppose smelt a well known stream, for she got there before the rest – and I furnished matter of amusement to my companions for the path wound about so to all points of the compass, that it looked as if I was mad, and riding backwards and forwards on the same track, and indeed I could not help laughing as I turned my face to them one moment and my back on them the next. Miss Thomson was also much entertained with my guide who held my mule up by the tail he supposed to prevent it from falling, but it is a habit of the guide to help himself on in a difficult ride, when the poor beast has not only himself and his rider to drag up, but half the weight of the guide also.
Dr. (?) Thomson, who did not seem otherwise at all fatigued with his walk, complained much of this ascent, and it gave us no view that atoned for the labour but the descent was worse – a descent of 2 hours. Let no one who travels in the Alps rejoice to hear that his way lies down hill, or think that the laws of gravity will avail to make it more rapid than a climb. It is not a pleasant sensation when a mule heaves you up a great stone but it is worse when she puts her fore feet together and plumps down one – and 2 hours of this had we – till we felt quite exhausted. The side of the hill was covered with pines, oaks and other trees, but about half way on our descent a broad stripe was only marked by their dead trunks, half buried with the slime which had been left by the torrent that poured from the Lac de Bagnes [Lac de Louvie nowadays] on the 5 of July. A broad track of desolation marked its way from here thro’ the whole valley of Martigny to the Rhone. It had swept away the little town of Bourg, and made the centre of Martigny only a mass of white sand. Half a house, or a wall, or part of a garden were left on the sides, as if a knife had cut them through. A chapel which was marked with [sand?] for about [5?] feet high, shewed how far the torrent had risen and the trees that had remained standing at the sides were all covered with slime. The Lac de Bagnes was a quantity of water which had accumulated in a valley, in consequence of a mass of ice having stopped up the course of the Dranche, or the river de Bagnes. The neighbourhood had anticipated danger, and even dug some trenches to carry off the water – but they proved insufficient and it burst forth all at once. 52 persons were known to have perished, and it was supposed that many more who lived among the mountains must have been victims also.
Our guide had left Martigny that morning with his mules, and the Inn where he had stabled them, and its inhabitants existed not at noon. A mule displayed great sagacity on this occasion. A party who were going from Martigny had passed out of danger before the torrent came, but a Mr. Dover who lingered behind was full in its way. His mule heard its roar, and saw its foam at a distance. She stood stock still for a few seconds as if to consider, and then rushed up a hill which no one had ever tried to ascend or may perhaps ascend again. Her foresight saved herself and her rider, and he was ungrateful if he did not take care she had a good feed as a reward.
But this dismal picture did not come upon us all at once. We rode for a long time thro’ pleasant lanes shaded with Walnut trees, and the finest Spanish Chestnuts I have seen any where. We then entered the ruins of Bourg, and rode along the straight path of the torrent to the desolate Martigny, & stopped at the “Maison Grande” or Hotel de la Poste. After a journey of nine leagues, 7 of which we had performed on Mules thro’ a mountain pass, we might well be tired, and I in particular who had not ridden so much in all my life before, it was therefore no pleasant thing to be obliged by the impertinence and extortion of the Landlord to change our quarters, & remove to the Tower of Martigny. Here we were well accommodated and our guides advised us to bathe our feet when we went to bed, to prevent us from feeling fatigue.
Tuesday Sbre 22d
Our guide’s prescription succeeded so well that I felt neither sore nor stiff the next morning, but I was the best of the party, for Miss Thomsons were much indisposed, and Papa sorely fatigued. The Tour de Martigny, was in full sight from the window. It was one of those built by the inhabitants of the Bas Valais to defend themselves against the Haut Valais with which they had eternal struggles – but a plain round tower was all that now remained. We had a squabble with a man who wanted to overcharge us for a Charàbanc to Geneva and preferred going post though it cost us more – but I am inclined to think he would have contrived to make the other full as expensive besides wasting us a day.
We had only a few minutes to take leave of Miss Thomsons but we parted from them in the fallacious hope of meeting again at Milan. It was the fête of St. Maurice & and the people at Martigny were in their habits de fête, going in and out of Church. The sun shone brightly and we had a delightful ride along the valley of the Rhone, among dark and savage rocks which rose on each side. The Dent de Morgue or Shark’s tooth finely closing the valley at the end, and some of the snows of St. Bernard and St. Goth and peeping occasionally over its side. We had seen the Dent de Morgue long ere we arrived at Martigny, but it was not till we saw it from this side that we found how appropriately it was named. It is a beautiful mountain, and not one of the furrows which torrents have worn in its side but contributes to the general resemblance. About 2 leagues from Martigny we past the Cascade of the Pisse Vache, the most abundant in water, and the best I have seen. I was very well contented with it, and should not object to see it again. The rocks among which it falls are black and tremendous.
On entering St. Maurice, we met the militia of the country parading through the town. A company discharged their musquets at every 20 steps, and as they were passing us put us in train for the steadiness our horses, but their sangfroid was not to be disturbed.
At St. Maurice, St. Maurice should be the most respected, and all the Country seemed assembled to do him honour. It was just dinner time and it would have been impossible to count the gay lads and lasses who were thronging into the Inn. The military too threw aside their musquets & hastened to exercise themselves more agreeable. Many of the damsels who thought themselves somewhat superior were drest in white, but all wore a small round hat tied with gold or silver ribband and flowers round the Crown.
A few drops of rain had fallen just as we entered the town and as the fête caused us to wait some time for horses it increased during our stay, and the effect on the mountains was fine. One opposite seemed suddenly cut down to half its height, and then the top got above the clouds which held as a belt around it. The Dent de Morgue became a shadowy giant, and some of the hills were completely hidden.
We had come from Martigny in a Char à Banc – but in travelling post in Switzerland without a carriage you hire one every stage and pay 30 sous a post for it. The one which was now prepared for us was literally a post waggon – being one of the narrow waggons of the country, with 2 seats tied on for us and the driver – while the luggage danced in the body. A more uncomfortable jolting conveyance can be conceived nor less adapted to withstand the rain, which after giving us hopes of better things began again soon after we left St. Maurice and wet us quite thro’ ere we got to the end of the stage. I was vexed to be travelling along a fine country without seeing it, but most of the mountains were hidden by the mist.
Our landlady at the little Inn where we stopped lighted a fire to dry us, while another waggon was rolled out and accommodated to <our> use. Shortly after we entered on the bank of the lake, and as the rain stopped had a gloomy but not unpleasant ride to St. Gingoulph [St Gingolph nowadays], which stands finely under the steep rocks which bears its name. This part of the road along the lake, to Evian, has only been made since Buonaparte opened the passage of the Simplon, and is said to have been a work of much labour and expense – a sort of covered seat, like the body of a gig was here tied on to our waggon. We thought it unnecessary, for we had even sunshine as we passed under the dark crags of Meillere but that was but a fading gleam.
[On the left: “Our neat post waggon trotting in.” – unsure where this should go in]
The sun set, and it became almost immediately and totally dark, for we were again in one of the most pouring rains I ever remember, and felt our journey to be as dangerous as it was uncomfortable for we were close to the Lake and could hardly tell where the road finished or the water commenced. For some time we could not see the Postillion who was seated on a chair close before us – and we thought he had got off to lead his horses. Of course we were afraid to go very fast, and it was past 9 when we got to Evian and our supper.
Wednesday Sbre 23d
To our surprize the Lake was shining in the sunshine. So as we had an open waggon in the rain, we were now placed in a covered Char à Banc <which stunk abominably after its wetting, for no one thought of putting it under cover in the Night>. It had however its face to the Lake, and we could contemplate it and its opposite shores – but not one peep did we get of that along which we were travelling. We thought of the caricature at Chamouny, and laughed off our vexation. I didn’t immediately discover that I had gained a bad cold by my last night’s wetting, but on arrival at [Orsay?] we found that we had lost our umbrella and our Brandy bottle. We were here put into an open Char with its back to the Lake, and wished our covered one back for there was no shade, and the sun was even more scorching than at Chamouny. It was now that we again saw Mont Blanc and the Cime de Buet, rising behind our old friends the Mole and the Warrin and looking grander than when we were nearer. At [gap deliberately left] we had again to change horses and as no two of our carriages were to be exactly alike, were here put into a large square one with two seats like an english sociable but still without doors and so little in the spirit of that word that Papa and I were forced to enter at opposite sides while our bags filled a trough in the middle and the unoccupied seat before us wanted to dance out every minute. [There is a faint sketch of the Char on the left page with a pressed flower.] It was covered by a square awning with curtains that came unbuckled continually. Nevertheless it was the best carriage we had for we sate straight and could look what way we pleased – and from it, on a hill about a league from Geneva we got our finest view of Mont Blanc and his dependent needles at far as the Buet. [she might mean ‘as’ far as here?]
We reached our quarters at the Couronne about 4 – and found abundance of Cards – one from Mr. Lullin, Mr. Wyatt, & Mr. Pictet Diodati had called 3 times, once on the morning of our departure for Chamouny, to answer the letter and offer us tickets for the Ball – again to bring us a ticket for a Ball at a Monsieur Favrès that very night, and again that morning to ask us to drink tea at his [campagne?] the next day. We wished much to go to the Ball – and he had meant to have taken us with him. We wrote him word of our arrival, but not being well aware of the habits of Geneva, sent it to his Town House instead of his campagne so that he did not get it till the next day – and as we did not like to present ourselves unintroduced at the Ball, we staid at home and wrote letters.
Thursday Sbre 24
I felt much opprest by the cold I had caught, and when Mr. Lullin came to take papa to see a house now building by his brother in Law Mr. Eynard, I would not accompany them. Soon after they were gone, Mr. Pictet Diodati called and I found him pleasant and speaking a little English, but not remarkably intelligent. He renewed his invitation, for the Evening, and regretted having twice lost the opportunity of shewing us a little of Geneva society.
In the Evening we hired a Char à banc accordingly, and drove to the Chatelaine his country residence which we found was only just beyond Mr. Duppa’s. The town of Geneva is so small and ceases so immediately on passing the barriers that all the better inhabitants seem to have their summer retreats within a mile of the town, and to have almost as much intercourse as in the winter. For the rest I did not find much pleasure in the Evening. Mr. & Mrs. Lullin were there, and about a dozen others, all of the family – for all the family almost seem connected. I was not perhaps in spirits on account of my cold, but on the whole it reminded me much of some of those York Evenings, where as Cards are excluded, dancing is never thought of, and nobody can play conversation becomes the only resource and that degenerates into gossip and scandal. The younger people talked much of the last Night’s ball, and by all accounts it was the most splendid private ball that had been given for a long time. About half an hour after our arrival we adjourned into another room for tea and fruit and separated at nine – papa played one rubber.
I had been surprized to see 7 oclock put on the Ball ticket, but I learned that there are sumptuary laws in Geneva that forbid any amusement to be continued beyond midnight, except at Weddings, when leave is generally asked – after 8 oclock every one pays an increasing price for entering the town, and beyond eleven the gates are not to be opened, nevertheless many had staid at Monsieur Favrè’s till 2, tho’ it was out of town. Mrs. Pictet had the air of a Parisian, and Miss Pictet tho’ short and fat and with features that did not promise much had a good deal of pleasant humour.
I was observing to her how well every one seemed acquainted and connected in Geneva, and she answered me that it was not to be wondered at, as the society that could visit was very small, and consequently met continually – and that the distinction of ranks was very much attended to – in fact that they condescended to hold no intercourse with the Bankers and Merchants, who were however she believed more gay than they, and had as many balls, tho’ with less of luxury. I did not expect to have found so much aristocratic pride in a republic – and I afterwards heard that notwithstanding Miss Pictet’s boast Mr. Hentsch the Banker, was reckoned to give the most splendid balls of any one in Geneva.
I was surprized to find that every one in the room appeared to know our names to have been in some degree prepared for our reception; but Mrs. Lullin said that it was not as in England, where one continually met strange faces, and concerned oneself but little about them. A Genovese who met at a party any one he was unacquainted with, was positively uneasy till he had learned all about them.
Friday Sbre 25
Nothing occurred worthy of notice, except that I was shopping a little while with Mrs. Lullin. I wanted to have got a shawl for Mama, and went with her into the ruesbasses or covered streets, where almost all the shops were – and tho’ I had been informed that I should meet what I wanted much better than at Paris I found every article of silk considerable dearer, and the stock seemingly very small.
Saturday Sbre 26th
I would not get rid of the cold and the oppression on my Chest, which I believed I owed to the vicinity of the Lake and the hot close air of the town. I did not therefore rise very early, and was surprized to hear from Papa that Mr. Bond was in the Salle. When I went into my father’s room I found Mr. Duppa there, who sate some time, and gave us many scraps of information. He settled that we were to go with him to the Library on tuesday [sic] – and afterwards dine at his campagne at 4 oclock. Mr. Brooks came in before he went, and told us of his journey to Martigny by the Col de Balme. His excursion to the Vallée de Bagnes and return by the Tête Noire. His guide, Marie Coutet had taken him from Chamouny to St. Martin’s, in a Char à Banc, and would have brought him on to Geneva, the next day, for 18 more – but the Innkeeper at St. Martin’s, who of course had him much in his power, would not permit it. So Mr. Brooks walked on to Sallenche, hired a Car there, and returned in it to fetch his goods from St. Martin’s – a proper punishment to the man for his impositions. Mr. Bond next came in, and I found him looking thin and ill and old – much altered from what he had been formerly – but his manner was kind as it has always been to me, and left me more than ever at a loss for his reasons in withdrawing from [our?] acquaintance. The loss of his Society has indeed been a great one to me, for I owe more to him than to anyone but my parents – and however oddly he may have apparently behaved I cannot help thinking he has some reason for his conduct which we should never know – and for my own part I shall always meet him with the same feelings of regard and gratitude as formerly, and with some of very painful regret.
We dined this day <with> Mr. Lullin – and met Mr. Eynard and Mr. Professor Pictet, alias Mr. Pictet Tourtin. I need not say we found him agreeable and intelligent, but he has been often in England, and speaks English remarkably well. In one respect this was a disadvantage to us, for he was employed as interpreter between my father and Mr. Eynard, who were both eager on the subject of the house he was building to the prejudice of any other conversation. After dinner, Mrs. Eynard and Mrs. Lullin her Mother called – and took me home in their Carriage as well as Mr. Pictet who was still very pleasant. We descanted as we past on the blueness of the Rhone which he attributed to its depth and purity, an idea which I think my father treats with rather too little respect, though it is possible that other causes may cooperate.
Sunday Sbre 27th
We wished to go to the Cathedral – the morning service we were told finishes at ten, but as Madam at the Inn said there would be another at half past two, we did not plague ourselves to get ready. I was in fact too unwell to have done so with<out> a great exertion. About 2 we went out and climbed St. Pierre but there was no service there. We were directed to another <Church> but with as little success. We therefore took a walk on the ramparts but found it too hot to continue long. We however enjoyed the fine view which they present, of the Alps, the Saleve, and the misty Jura, with the windings of the Rhone, and our old friend the Arve who hurries to meet it. But there seems to be no place in Geneva from which one can get a good view of the Lake. As we were turning homeward we heard a bell ring and followed the sound, with the assistance of an old woman, but it led us only to a Catholic Church, which we merely peeped into. Near our Inn we met Mr. Bond and a gentleman who had travelled with him, they were going to the Lake and we had agreed to accompany them, but afterwards papa feared it would be too cold for me and we did not go - !
Monday Sbre 28
We took a ride with Sir Francis D’Ivernois in his Char à Banc to a country house on the banks of the Lake. It is a pretty little place, and he has made a sort of English garden of the Lawn which scopes down to it. I think it was the finest view of the Lake that we ever got, and that of the Alps and Mont Blanc was almost equal to the one on the other side of it. A few years will improve the trees and make it really delightful. It reminded me much of some of our prettiest spots on Banks of the Thames, and Sir Francis was not much wrong when he recalled it his [marine?] view. We were introduced to Lady D’Ivernois who was very pleasant and begged us to take a family dinner with them but we were engaged to Mr. Eynard and Sir Francis, who had hitherto driven his one horse, sideways from the Car, now ordered out a pair with his Coachman, that we might go quicker to his other estate so as to return in time.
[This is on the left page – unsure where it is meant to go within the text on the right:]
The road to the House along the Rhone and thro’ the Bocage I thought more pleasant than the situation of the place itself. Sir Francis said that all the English preferred the situation on the Lake for its beauty, and the Scotch that in the Bocage for its wildness.
[End of left page]
It was at some distance farther from Geneva <on the other side> looking to a reach of the Rhone and commanding the Jura. I did not like the situation so well, but Sir Francis who perhaps was tired of the Lake seemed to prefer it. His house at present was only fitted up for a farmer, but took Papa’s advice with regard to preparing it for his dwelling.
We were only just in time for Mr. Eynard and had a tolerably pleasant Evening, but it was entirely a family party. Mrs. Lullin, her son and his wife, Mr. Pictet their father in Law, and the two sisters of Mrs. Eynard with their husbands. Mr. Pictet complimented me about the Arctic Expeditions, but said he was much more sure of the success of the poem than the Expeditions.
Tuesday Sepr 29 –
Mr. Duppa took us to the Library, where we saw the portraits of many of the great reformers, and could not help remarking what a Calvanistic nose most of them had. Lavater might have drawn a confirmation of his theory from the inspection of them. We were also much entertained with a magnificent work on the Ottoman Empire, published by one of the Envoys from Sweden – a part of <the engraving > which has been copied in England.
He then led us to a part of the ramparts where we had not yet been, but which is by far the prettiest walk about Geneva – and has for a wonder a view of the Lake. He then took us to his house in his Carriage, which more wondrous still was not a Char à Banc but a straightforward carriage, like that which brought us into Geneva on our return from Martigny. I had forgotten that we had previously been at his town house the highest in all Geneva and one of the best. His little girl was there at her lessons, and we took her home.
The only company, were a [blank here – potentially for Eleanor to fill in information later?] who knew Dr. Thomson and Made. Patry Duppa’s Mother, who returned that morning from a residence of some weeks in a valley between the Grand et petit Saleve which is reckoned remarkable mild and wholesome. I thought this dinner, the best we had in Geneva. Tho it had less pomp than that at the stately M. Eynards. We had not the eternal trout from the Lake, of which we were now almost sickened, but the famous Ombre Chevalier or Shade of a Knight, reckoned by many the best fish from the Lake, and to my taste certainly so – and a very fine duck which as it was Michaelmas day we christened a Goose – geese not to be had in Geneva. At Mr. Eynard’s we had ordered our carriage at 7 and found we had been too late for the custom in Geneva is only to sit about 10 minutes after dinner, swallow a cup of coffee and depart, which reduces it to a mere matter of eating and drinking. Mr Duppa, an Englishman, was I believe as much disappointed by our going away at 7, that we might walk home before it was dark.
Wednesday Sbre 30
Was rainy and I believe we did little besides shopping for watches &c. Captains Marshall and Cooke Miss Thomson’s fellow travellers to Geneva were returned from the Simplon and brought us letters from Miss Thomson at Lausanne and information on Mr. Bond’s arrival there. We found them remarkably pleasant and intelligent, and <they> whetted anew our desire of seeing the Simplon. Mr. Bond’s fellow traveller, a partner in the house of Smyth’s perfumer’s Bond Street, brought us <also> a letter from him in the Evening.
[on the left page – not sure where she intends this to sit]
We found Botte or Boffe the man to whom we were recommended, extravagantly dear, so we made all our purchases at Godémars, where the fashions were more elegant and the prices lower – in both we should equally have trusted the goodness of the works to report.
N.B. Cptn. Marshall and Cooke were with us 2 days instead of one – I have made a little jumble of dates in my journal, but none of any consequence.
Thursday Octr. 1st
The wetness of Wednesday had lost us a day and as the rain still continued we were forced to take a covered Char to wind up our affairs at Geneva. We went first to Mr. Pictet Diodatis. The Ladies only were at home, and were very pleasant but if I had not thought them drest on the night of the party, I was still more surprized at the slovenly figures which they were at home. Miss Pictet was playing with the Cat – and when I said that animals seemed much petted in Switzerland “Oui, c’est une partie tres interessante d’une famille Suisse, les chiens et les chats.” I had noticed that after dinner at Mr. Lullin’s Mr. Pictet begged to have the Cat brought in, but she had not been bred in a thorough Swiss family and was glad to run away. This at Mr. Pictet Diodatis’ was very gentle and Miss Pictet asked me if I would take one of her kittens to England, as they had two. I declined and she said they would be nice travelling companions, for their mother had littered them in the roof, and they were so fierce they flew at everyone. I always found in travelling hereabouts or in France that my best way to ingratiate myself at the Inns or elsewhere, was to begin stroaking the Cats.
The Lullins were not at home which we thought extraordinary in such bad weather, so we drove a little farther on, to see the confluence of the Arve and the Rhone, which we had always been prevented from visiting before. We stopped at a house belonging to Mr. Matthieu a wine merchant, and asked permission to walk on the terrace. The rain was less violent than at other times this day and the trees partly protected us. The terrace seemed the best possible place for what we came to see, but I had no idea that the difference of colour in the two rivers was so decidedly marked. The Rhone was a deep indigo – the Arve a complete mud colour, and they seemed to be contending together with all their might. I should have been sorry had we left Geneva without seeing this, certainly one its finest sights.
We were determined to peep into St. Pierre and were surprized to find that only the front is new. The interior is of fine Gothic and the middle [ails? – should be aisle?] spacious and lofty. We regretted not having seen it sooner. Papa left some plans and our adieus for Mr. Eynard and we returned home to pack. The Theatre was to be opened this night by special permission with an opera but we were too tired to go to it – and it was well we did not, for a waggon broke down on its way with part of the properties, and the representation was obliged to be deferred till tomorrow. I was amused to find the government had interdicted publick representations for some time, Mr. Lullin and Mr. Eynard had contrived theatricals in the winter, for the amusement of their friends, who included all the Society of Geneva. Mr. Lullin wished much to have translated some of Shakespeare’s plays, but doubted much whether he could fit any of them to tastes formed upon the french Model.
In Mr. Eynards town apartments, the drawing room had been for 2 years fitted up as a theatre, and the theatre was a principal feature of his new residence. This was certainly bringing the evil nearer home and I wonder that the government who forbid public entertainments or dancing after midnight, should not have put a stop to private theatricals. But Mr. Pictet Diodati was one of the 4 rulers of Geneva, Sir Francis D’Ivernois was another – and perhaps all the Council liked too well to be invited to the representations, to step out of their way to take cognizance of them.
Friday Octr. 2d
At half past 8 we were off for Lausanne as we believed on our way to Milan – but the weather was to decide, and the weather still continued so wet and hazy, as to spoil what would have been a very lovely ride. We stopped two hours at Moule [wondering if this might be Rolle – a small place on the lake] while the horses were resting, but could not stir out, tho’ the large projecting roofs of Switzerland, which were then new to us, sheltered us so completely as we leant out of the open windows, that we often fancied the rain had ceased. Our ride beyond this place would have been even more interesting than that to it, for the hills on the hither side of the lake, as well as the rocks of Meillerie, and the valley of the Rhone, grew into importance. The higher and more distant Alps had been all the way lost in the fog. We went to the Lion D’Or and found that the Thomsons had left it the night before, but Mr. Bond came from the Falcon to sup with us. I am sure he is not doing right for his health. He drinks water lest the wine should disagree with him, which the water is more likely to do, and I am sure from his looks that he really wants good wine to strengthen him. We would have taken him on with us (at least had we gone) but he had burthened himself with such a quantity of luggage and mathematical instruments – it was in vain to think of it.
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On the Night of Octr 2d a Swiss gentleman supped also at the Table D’Hôte with whom I had much interesting conversation on many subjects. The casual mention of Princess Charlotte’s death brought in the name of her mother – and I named our hopes for an heir from some of the recent marriages of our princes, as we did not wish for one from the Princess of Salms [sic?] on account of the indifferent character which she bears.
Oui <la conduit de> La Princesse de Salms a peut être été légère, mais pas à un tel point que la Princesse de Galles. Was her conduct then so remarkable asked I. “Aussi remarquable que possible. So remarkable that we pointed at her with the finger as she passed thro’ the streets. Before we saw her we blamed the Prince Regent. We thought her an injured woman we were ready to undertake a Crusade in her defence. We had only to see her, and to feel that her husband had spared her. Mais comme vous parlez de caractères des femmes, La sœur de Prince Leopold, l’épouse d’un do vos princes, vaut bien la Princesse de Salms.
The remaining pages of the diary are pencil sketches of architectural pieces of interest in churches/cathedrals. There is also a very good countryside sketch, though the name of the area is not stated.
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