CHAPTER XXI.

Geneva. The city contains thirty-two thousand inhabitants. It is divided into two portions by the Rhone, over which are many bridges. In the centre of the rushing river is the "Island of Jean Jacques Rousseau," built there by the Government to contain his monument, which is of bronze, in the midst of immense poplar trees. The view from this island is exquisite. Rousseau was a native of Geneva, son of a watchmaker. One night he reached the gates after they were closed, and fearing the anger of the stern master to whom he was apprenticed, he fled to France.

Geneva is singularly interesting from its associations. It has exercised the most powerful influence over Europe by the religious tenets of Calvin, the very same that drove our Pilgrim Fathers across the broad Atlantic. Calvin came to Geneva in 1536, an itinerant preacher, and such was the power of his eloquence, he became ruler over the people for the space of twenty-three years. In fact, through his influence Geneva gave laws to the whole Protestant world, as Rome does to the Catholic. John Knox fled to Geneva in 1558, to escape the cruelties of Queen Mary, and was made a citizen by Calvin. Necker, the father of Mme. de Stael, Saussure, the first who ascended Mont Blanc, Sismondi, the

historian, Decandolle, the botanist, and many other distinguished persons, were born in Geneva.

The city is on the southern extremity of the lake towards France. It is a busy, commercial place, with narrow streets and very tall houses; many are ten stories high. As it is built on several hills, from the windows of the upper town we looked down upon the roofs of the lower portion of the city. We stopped at the "Ecu de Genève," an excellent hotel; almost as good as those in America. It is just upon the bank of the dashing Rhone, and we dined at seven, to the accompaniment of the rushing waters.

We spent three or four days in a delightful manner, visiting the curiosities of the town, and driving amid the environs. We saw the church of Saint Pierre, commenced in the eleventh century. It contains the same pulpit in which Calvin preached. It is a simple and plain building, without ornament. In front of it is an old tree, called the “Oak of Calvin." The great reformer forbade the people of Geneva to erect over his body any monument. His grave has only a marble slab, with the letters "J. C." upon it.

We visited the ditch called "La Corraterie," the scene of the famous "Escalade" in 1602, when the town was nearly captured by the Savoyards. The anniversary of the night is still celebrated, and the iron saucepan shown, with which a woman killed the first soldier who scaled the walls.

The "Relief of Mont Blanc" is a curious work. It is carved out of wood by Sené, who was ten years in completing it. This "Relief" may be styled the model of Mont Blanc. It is one six-millionth part of the original. All the valleys, villages, trees, chalets, and glaciers are miniatures of the natural landscape.

Next we went to the "Musée Rath," a building given to the city by General Rath, whose bust adorns the entrance.

FERNEY- SAD ACCIDENT.

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There were several good paintings by native artists of Alpine scenery, and a picture of Jean Jacques Rousseau, said to be a remarkable resemblance. The "Death-bed scene of Calvin " was excellent, also the "Release of Bonnivard." The botanical gardens, laid out by Decandolle, are very fine, containing the rarest flowers, and most magnificent old trees.

We drove to the "junction of the rivers." The Rhone leaves the lake as clear as crystal. The stones and pebbles can be distinctly seen twenty feet deep. The Arve comes directly from the glaciers of Mont Blanc, and is like a stream of mud. The two rivers flow on side by side for a long distance ere they mingle into one. At last the dark overpowers the bright, and the clear blue waters of the Rhone are lost in the turbulent Arve. Thus the influence of the evil often overcomes the good in the natural as well as in the moral world.

From the Rhone and the Arve, we continued our drive to Ferney, once the dwelling-place of Voltaire, and thereby "made most classic ground." He lived there twenty years, and some relics of him are yet preserved. On a height near Ferney, we obtained an admirable view of the city and of Mont Blanc. In front of us were the Salène Mountains, where, only one month since, a sad accident occurred to two Englishmen. They attempted to scale the mountain, which presents an almost perpendicular wall of rock, and both fell into a dark chasm two hundred feet deep. One was instantly killed, and the other had his leg fearfully crushed. He remained twelve hours in this situation by the side of his dead comrade. Some peasants going out at early morning to their work, heard his shrieks of despair, and coming. to the verge of the abyss, they fastened ropes above to the rocks, and swung themselves down to the wretched sufferer; then they tied strong cords around him, and those above

drew him up and brought him to the city, where he still lingers in great anguish.

We went to the "Campagne Diodati," where Byron wrote his Manfred; also, the third canto of Childe Harold. In 1816 he lived there for some time.

We have met many agreeable people in Geneva, among whom we were glad to greet our excellent friends Major and Mrs. Porter, of America. The Rhone was a perfect enchantment to me. Upon its swiftly flowing waters I gazed for hours; they were singularly blue, as blue as indigo. This color is said to be produced by the admixture of iodine; at least, such was the opinion of Sir Humphrey Davy. When night came, the lights upon the islands, and in the city, reflected into the river, made a grand illumination beneath the waters. Long would we tarry at our parlor-window, looking out upon the novel scene, until the quietude of the midnight was around us, broken only by the dashing Rhone and the jingle of the bells of the diligence; then, often in the visions of the dream-world, the monarch mountain loomed majestically grand and sublime.

Aug. 30th.-By six this morning we were up, seated by the open window, writing letters to our dear ones at home. The soft light fell sweetly upon the winged Rhone, for it really seems the waters do not run, but fly with the swiftness of a bird. By eight we were on board a small steamer ascending the lake; the mists enveloped the mountains, but gradually disappeared, thus unfolding scene after scene of picturesque beauty. Along the shores were many elegant villas built by English people, who have a great affection for this lake.

Morges was the first town at which we touched. Near it is the "Old Castle of Wuffens." Tradition says it was built by Queen Bertha in the tenth century.

SCENES UPON THE LAKE.

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We coasted slowly along until we came to Laussane, on
We landed at Ouchey, the sea
Just on the shore we saw the

the north shore of the lake.
or lake port of the city.
"Hotel de l'Ancre," where Lord Byron wrote his "Prisoner
of Chillon," in the space of two days, while an Alpine storm
detained him within its walls.

From Ouchey, we drove one mile to Laussane, a singular-looking town, with streets as steep and winding as the road across the Jura. On the summit of the mountain, upon whose side the houses seem to cling, is the cathedral. It is the finest Gothic church in Switzerland, and was begun in the year 1000, and completed in 1275. The interior is cold, white, and unadorned by either pictures or statuary. There are, however, several mail-clad effigies of great men of the olden time; among them, that of Otho of Granson, and of Bernard de Menthon, the founder of the Hospice of the great St. Bernard. Curious pillars sustain the lofty roof; they consist of one large central column, with eight smaller ones clustering around it. There was no altar, but an elaborately carved pulpit, whence the faith of Calvin is preached. In front of the cathedral was a broad terrace, from which we looked down upon the roofs of houses seven stories high. To attain this height we climbed up six hundred steps, but were amply repaid by the magnificent view which met our eyes as we left the cathedral. The entire lake was revealed to us, while to the south, the Alps of Savoy loomed up like grand ramparts. In all directions were villages, vineyards, green meadows, and yellow grain-fields.

As we were gazing upon this lovely scene, afar over Mont Blanc came the black clouds, and we were warned a storm was approaching; so we hastened down the steps, and sought shelter in the "Hotel Gibbon," and thence into the garden to a pavilion, built upon the precise spot where stood the