APPARENTLY Geneva is prouder of being the Mother of Rousseau than of having adopted Calvin. Both were exiled—Calvin by his enemies; Rousseau by his worst enemy, himself. Calvin, having settled the basis of his theology, built himself on it, never shaken; Rousseau canted and recanted and rerecanted. He was a Protestant; he was a Catholic; he was a free-thinker; he was a deist.

Once, at Madame d’Epinay’s, Saint Lambert avowed himself an atheist. Rousseau exclaimed:—“If it is cowardice to allow anyone to say ill about an absent friend, then it is a crime to allow anyone to say evil of his God who is present, and, gentlemen, I believe in God.”

Saint Lambert indulged in still another sneering remark and Rousseau threatened to leave if anything more of the kind were said.

Curiously enough, Rousseau, who was a stickler for free speech, sided against Voltaire in his battle against Calvinism. He saw that the great scoffer wanted to upset the habits and customs of Calvin’s city, to introduce a love of pleasure and of luxury and especially of the theatre. He wrote:—

“So Voltaire’s weapons are satire, black falsehood, and libels. Thus he repays the hospitality which Geneva by a fatal indulgence has shown him. This fanfaron of impiety, this lofty genius and this low soul, this man so great through his talents, so base (vil) in his use of them, will leave long and cruel memories among us. Ridicule, that poison of good sense and of uprightness, satire, enemy of the public peace, flabbiness, arrogant pomp will henceforth make a people of trivialities, of buffoons, of wits, of commerce, who in place of the consideration once enjoyed by our literary men will put Geneva on the level of the Academies of Marseilles and of Angers.”

This letter was widely circulated. Voltaire, who might have been more offended by its lack of style than by its attack on him, henceforth used every opportunity to injure and insult Rousseau.

When “Emile” appeared it shocked the theologians. The City ordered it to be burned by the official hangman. The Church said to him:—“You extol the excellence of the Gospel yet you destroy its dogmas. You paint the beauty of the virtues yet you snuff them out in the souls of your readers.” He was even condemned by Parliament to be imprisoned. The pious Jacob Vernet, Pastor Mouton and Pastor Vernes wrote him letters expressing their admiration of his talents but criticizing some of his views. After he published his “Lettres de la Montagne,” which caused a terrible hubbub, Vernes, Chapuis and ClaparÈde publicly attacked him.

Voltaire wrote:—“Grand and edifying spectacle presented by the venerable Company of Pastors at Geneva! While the Government is burning Rousseau’s books, the clergy approves of them and finds itself very happy to be reduced to a natural religion which proves nothing and asks little.”

And those that stoned the prophets raise monuments to them. Calvin, whom Rousseau called “esprit dur et farouche,” has no monument, unless a street named after him may be considered as one; but Rousseau has a whole island with a big bronze statue on it and a street besides.

This is the substance of our breakfast-table conversation. When we had finished our coffee and rolls we started out for a long walk. Ruth, like a woman, wanted to look at the shops; Will and I would go hunting for Rousseau and Calvin.

For a long time a house in Geneva bore the inscription:—

ICI EST NE
JEAN-JACQUES ROUSSEAU
LE 28 JUIN
1712.

But that was a mistake. It is now known that he was born in his father’s house, Number 2, Grand’ Rue, and there he lived till 1719. Then he went to live at 73, Rue de Constance. His father, Isaac Rousseau, though of a family which had emigrated from Paris, where they had been booksellers, and had for two hundred years enjoyed a highly respectable position in the bourgeoisie of Geneva, was regarded as rather frivolous. Probably that was because he varied his trade of watch-making by giving dancing-lessons. Dancing in the city of Calvin, in spite of the illustrious example of King David before the Ark of the Tabernacle, was regarded with little favour. He engaged in a quarrel with the retired Captain Goutier and they fought a duel contrary to the law. Goutier was wounded. On investigation Isaac was found guilty and condemned to beg pardon on his two knees. He chose to expatriate himself, and Jean Jacques went to live with his Uncle Bernard at 19, Grand’ Rue, and at Bossey with Pastor Lambercie. His education was not wholly neglected. He himself says:—

“At the age of seven I used to read books of history with my father. Plutarch became my favourite study. Agesilaus, Brutus, Aristotle were my heroes; from the discussions which these readings caused between my father and me, grew that free and republican spirit, that proud indomitable character, impatient of any yoke or servitude, which has so tormented me all the days of my life. Born a citizen of a republic, son of a father whose patriotism was his strongest passion, I took fire by his example; constantly occupied with Athens and Rome, I became the very person whose life I was reading; the story of the acts of constancy and bravery which struck me, made my eyes sparkle, my voice grow strong.”

Whatever his training really was, for he is not always a reliable chronicler of his own actions, he contrasts what he considered the ideal up-bringing of children as conducted in Switzerland with that of the French children. His words were destined to bear fruit:—

“Is it not supremely ridiculous to educate boys like young girls? Ah, it is truly fine to see these little twelve-year-old fops, walking out, their hands plump, their voices delicate (flutÉes), with pretty green parasols to protect them from the sun. They were less finical in my country: children, brought up in rustic fashion, had no complexions to preserve; they feared no harm from the air. Their fathers took them out hunting and gave them all kinds of exercise. They were reserved and modest in the presence of their elders; they were bold, proud, even quarrelsome, among themselves; they were rivals in wrestling, running, boxing; they were skilled in fencing. They came home rugged; they were genuine little rascals; but they grew into men whose hearts were full of zeal in their country’s service and ready to give their lives for her.”

In April, 1725, he was apprenticed to an engraver, named Abel Ducommun, Rue des Etuves, Number 96, third floor. He liked the trade, for, as he says, he had a lively taste for drawing; but his master was brutal, and at last, on a Sunday evening in March, 1728, having been locked out of the city through returning too late from a long walk beyond the walls and having spent the night wretchedly on the glacis “in a transport of despair” he suddenly swore never to return to his master’s. Rogers, in one of his poems, thus refers to this inhospitality on the part of Geneva, which, of course, was possible only in a small city surrounded with walls:—

He wandered away till he came to the little Catholic town of Confignon, two leagues from Geneva, and became the guest and protÉgÉ of the vicar M. de Pontverre, who gave him delicious Frangi wine and attempted to convince him that the heresy of Geneva was ruinous to hopes of salvation.

“Though M. de Pontverre was a religious man,” says Rousseau, “he was not a virtuous man, but rather a bigot, who knew no virtue except worshiping images and telling his beads; in a word, a kind of missionary who thought it a supreme merit to compose libels against the ministers of Geneva. Far from wishing to send me back, he endeavoured to favour my escape and put it out of my power to return, even if I had been so disposed. There were a thousand chances to one that he was going to let me perish of starvation or become a rascal; all this was apart from his purpose: he saw a soul snatched from heresy and restored to the bosom of the Church: whether I were an honest man or a knave was immaterial, provided I went to mass.”

At Annecy was living Madame de Warens, who had robbed her husband of his forks, knives and spoons, involved him in debts, and deserted him for the sake of embracing Catholicism. She was earning a pension of two thousand francs a year from the King of Sardinia by using her new and fervent zeal in the work of propaganda. M. de Pontverre gave Rousseau a letter to the fair and frail baroness. This is what the vicar said:—

“I send you Jean Jacques Rousseau, a youth who has abandoned his country; he seems to me of a happy character. He spent a day with me; and God summons him to Annecy.

“Try to encourage him to embrace Catholicism. It is a triumph to bring about conversion. You will understand as well as I do that for this great work he must be kept at Annecy, for fear he may receive evil instructions elsewhere. Be careful to intercept all letters that might be written from his country, for if he thinks he is abandoned he will the sooner abjure. I put the whole matter into the hands of the Almighty and yours, which I kiss.”

“Madame de Warens at that time,” says Rousseau, “was young and charming; she was rich and noble; she had a naturally lively wit; she liked reading and pondering over what she read, devoting herself now to works of piety, now to the works of the learned Bayle, the Voltaire of his day; she was of a sweet disposition and her society was much sought; she had a good husband and they led an easy life together; her days were cast in a peaceful and prosperous epoch; she spent her best years in those enchanting scenes in the Pays de Vaud, where Lake Leman spreads its limpid waves, at the foot of the lofty mountains of Savoy, in a country fertile and productive.”

Not in too great a hurry to get there, sauntering along, stopping to earn a bite by singing under chÂteau windows, he finally, on Palm Sunday, met that paragon.

Years afterwards he asked himself why he could not enclose with a golden balustrade the happy spot where first he saw her and render it the object of universal veneration.

To many much of the spell of Switzerland comes from the magic of Rousseau’s love for the fair and facile deserter and from the immortal romance in which as Saint-Preux and Julie their idealized amour lived again. She must not escape us thus: we shall learn more of her in another place.

Rousseau declared that he expected to find a devout and forbidding old woman; instead he “saw a face beaming with charms, fine blue eyes full of sweetness, a complexion which dazzled the sight, the lovely lines of an enchanting bosom” and he was henceforth hers. She put him immediately at his ease and sent him a little later to Turin, where he felt himself constrained to sell his religion: it was at the price of his self-respect, but he did many things at that price first and last. More important in his development was his acquaintance with the AbbÉ Gaime, who, like so many abbÉs, was a deist and did not believe in supernatural revelation or in the miracles; but he seems to have been a man of high character whose principles often kept Rousseau from regrettable acts.

After his disappointing experiences in Turin, as draughtsman, footman, clerk, beggarman, thief, he returned to Annecy. Madame de Warens asked her cousin, M. d’Aubonne, “a man of great understanding and cleverness,” but an adventurer, to examine Rousseau as to whether it were best for him to be a merchant or an abbÉ or an engineer. Rousseau says: “The result of his observations was that, notwithstanding the animation of my countenance and promising exterior, I was, if not absolutely silly, at least a lad of very little sense and wholly lacking original ideas or learning.”

Later M. d’Aubonne lost his position through having paid too violent attention to the wife of the intendant, and out of revenge he wrote a comedy which he sent to Madame de Warens. “Let us see if I am as stupid as M. d’Aubonne insists I am,” cried Rousseau. “I am going to make a play like his.”

He did so. It was entitled, “Narcisse ou l’Amour de Lui-mÊme.” Eighteen years later he had it played at Paris but it fell flat. Rousseau left the theatre, went to the CafÉ Procope, the rendezvous of all the wits, and exclaimed—“The new piece has failed; it deserved to fail; it bored me; it is by Rousseau of Geneva and I am Rousseau.”

Perhaps, after all, the most comical episode in Rousseau’s life took place in Lausanne.

It was in 1732. He had been on a trip to Fribourg, on foot, for he was fond of walking, even when he was so troubled with corns that he had to step on his heels. Instead of returning by way of Nyon he proceeded along the north shore, wishing to revel in the view of the lake, which is seen in its greatest extent at Lausanne. Then the brilliant idea seized him to pass himself off for a music-teacher, just as his friend Venture had done on arriving at Annecy. He describes the adventure at some length in his memoirs as follows:—

“I became so much excited with this idea that, without thinking that I had neither his grace nor his talents, I took it into my head to play at Lausanne the part of a little Venture, to teach music, which I did not know how to do, and to say that I was from Paris, where I had never been.... I endeavoured to approach as near as possible to my great model. He called himself Venture de Villeneuve; I by an anagram converted the name of Rousseau into that of Vaussore, and I called myself Vaussore de Villeneuve. Venture understood composition, although he had said nothing about it; I, without understanding it, boasted of my knowledge of it to everybody, and although I did not know how to note down the simplest ballad, gave myself out as a composer. This is not all. Having been presented to M. de Treytorens, professor of law, who was fond of music, and had concerts at his house, and being anxious to give him a specimen of my talents, I set myself to composing a piece for his concert with as much effrontery as if I had known how to go about it. I had the perseverance to work for a fortnight at this precious composition, to make a fair copy of it, to write out the different parts, and to distribute them with as much assurance as if it had been a masterpiece of harmony.”

Imagine the discords! But his “executioners” made him beat time to the end, though they could see that sweat-drops of agony were pearling on his brow. That he escaped with his life is a wonder. I read somewhere that the house where this contretemps took place is still standing, but I could not find any one who might point it out to me. The fame which he thus won as a composer and kapellmeister did not bring him any pupils and he went on to Vevey of which he says:—

“I conceived for that town an affection which has followed me in all my travels, and caused me at length to place there the characters of my novel. I would gladly say to those who possess taste and sensibility, Go to Vevey, visit the adjacent country, examine the localities, go about upon the lake, and say if nature has not made this beautiful region for a Julie, for a Claire, and for a Saint-Preux; but do not look for them there.”

Rousseau returned to Geneva in 1739 to secure the inheritance which was due him from his mother’s estate. The City might have gobbled it up, since he had abjured the Protestant religion; perhaps it was too small to attract the attention of the authorities; he secured it, spent some of it on books and gave the rest to Madame de Warens. He met his father there, who also was unmolested, although the judgment against him, from the consequences of which he had escaped, was still on the black book. Rousseau intended to return to live in Geneva. He had become famous, and when he renounced the Catholic faith he was reinstated in his rights of citizenship, but once more his conflict with orthodoxy rendered it an unsafe place for him. There seemed to be no room for him anywhere. The peasants drove him out of NeuchÂtel, though Marshal Keith, who represented Frederick the Great there, made him welcome. Bern sought him out in his island home in the Lake of Bienne to lay heavy hand upon him. He was unhappy in England, and even his last home at Ermenonville witnessed his violent death, as it is now believed by some, at the hands of the ignorant and jealous ThÉrÈse.

Really, Geneva has little to show directly connected with Rousseau beyond the mislabelled place of his birth. Yet the whole Lake of Geneva is redolent of his glory. Not far from the haunts of his youth lived Calvin, who would have probably been as ready to burn Rousseau as he was to burn Servetus. La Grand’ Rue runs between the cathedral and the University, and almost parallel is La Rue Calvin where the great theocrat abode. Of course we went there and did our hommages to the shades of the departed.

There is a deal of individuality in the names of city streets—that is, there may be. One would expect monotony of architecture in those simply numbered or lettered. But Geneva has charming names, suggesting romance, theology and history. If it has its Rue des Eaux Vives, which might well suggest heaven, it has also its Rue de l’Enfer and its Rue du Purgatoire. Of course there is a Rue Voltaire. Pleasant things are suggested by the Rue du Montchoisy, or that of Beaulieu. But as cities change, once respectable or even fashionable thoroughfares lose their vogue and even become slums.

From Calvin’s old residence we went to the HÔtel de Ville, which has a commanding situation. It was interesting not alone because of its elegant Renaissance architecture, its ramp whereby an equestrian mayor might ride up to the third story—it was built between the sixth and seventh decades of the Sixteenth Century—or because of the ancient frescoes in the Council Chamber, but perhaps most of all, to an American or an Englishman, because in one of its rooms sat the epoch-making commission which settled for fifteen and a half millions, awarded to the United States the Alabama claims, and thus made the longest stride since the beginning of the world toward the sensible and feasible way of settling questions which would be likely to lead to war.

England was represented by her Lord Chief Justice, Sir Alexander James Edward Cockburn, with Sir Roundel Palmer as counsel; the United States sent Charles Francis Adams with William M. Evarts, Caleb Cushing and Morrison R. Waite; Switzerland’s arbitrator was her one-time president, Jacob Stamepfli; the other two judges were the Brazilian Minister to France and Count Federigo Sclopis of Italy, who was the chairman. The arbitrators sat from December, 1871, until September 14, 1872. Such vital interests were at stake that the world almost held its breath; for had both parties not honourably held by the decision—ignoring the dissatisfied extremists who would have preferred to fight rather than yield—there would have befallen the worst war of the ages. Where such enormous financial interests were at issue the fact that a question involving so many untried questions of international law could be settled peaceably was a triumph of civilization. Sacred then for ever be that upper room; it should be regarded as more worthy of pious pilgrimage than almost any other spot in this round world, for, if its precedent should be carried out, it would spell the emancipation of the world from the terrible incubus of militarism, from the needless crushing burden of enormous armies and wasteful navies.

From the City Hall we proceeded to the University. We were fortunate enough to fall in with a genial professor who, as soon as he learned that we were Americans, not only took the greatest pains to point out to us all the notable buildings but also told us a good deal about the history of the institution.

It seems that as far back as the middle of the Fourteenth Century the Emperor Charles IV proposed to found a university, but other affairs choked the good seed. The idea was revived by Cardinal Jean de Brogny, Bishop of Geneva, who died in 1462. Two years after his death the Conseil GÉnÉral passed an order for establishing a public school on the Place below the Monastery of the FrÈres Mineurs de Rive. There happened to be living at that time a rich and generous old merchant of a noble family, named FranÇois de Versonnex. He had already founded two hospitals, but the plan of a public school appealed to him, and, in January, 1429, he built an edifice ninety-four feet long and thirty-four feet wide, near the church of those FrÈres Mineurs and presented it to the city. Instructions in grammar, logic, rhetoric and the other liberal arts—philosophy, arithmetic, geometry, astronomy and music—was to be gratuitous: his only condition was that the pupils should every morning kneel before the altar and repeat an Ave Maria and a Pater Noster for the repose of the donor’s soul.

This became known as the “Grande Eschole.” It had an ample garden, stretching down to the lake, with plenty of room for the boys to play. After more than a century, in spite of repairs, it became uninhabitable, and in 1535, the year before Bonivard returned to Geneva, the Council ordered the school to be removed to the Couvent des Cordeliers de Rive (now commemorated in the Rue des Cordeliers), a building which since the Thirteenth Century had occupied a site on the shore. It was torn down in 1769 to make room for a granary.

There must have been much cultivation in those days in Geneva. Bonivard speaks about the learned men he knew personally or by reputation. He, himself, was versed in Latin, Italian and German. He was the founder of the University Library, which now contains more than one hundred thousand books and fifteen hundred or more manuscripts. Under Antoine Saulnier or Sonier, who was appointed to direct the school in 1536, at a salary of one hundred Écus d’or sol, equivalent to four hundred and forty florins, it made rapid progress and began to attract pupils from abroad. But Sonier was Calvin’s appointee and Calvin’s enemies were then in power; about that time they succeeded in banishing both Calvin and Farel, and they robbed Sonier of his two best assistants. Then Sonier summoned the famous Mathurin Cordier of Bordeaux, the author of a Latin book still in use. The Council went on heckling Sonier and he resigned and went to Lausanne. He helped found the University there.

Of course the school then degenerated. Some of the masters whipped children so brutally that it drew blood. When Calvin was recalled and again took command, he engaged SÉbastien Chatillon of Nantua, an elegant Latinist and possessed also of Greek and Hebrew, but soon quarrelled with him, causing him to resign. Chatillon afterwards taught Latin at BÂle but almost starved there.

In 1550, Calvin discovered Louis Enoch of Issoudun, in Berri. He was Regent for seven years. He was made a bourgeois and installed as a minister. When the school was reorganized as a college in 1559 he became its Regent. The buildings were deathly, however, and even Enoch could not live in them. Finally, when the Perrinists, Calvin’s bitterest enemies, were defeated, he saw his chance. At the top of the Rue Verdaine was the Hospital of the Bourg-de-Four, which as the domus hospitalis de foro veteri had been founded in the Thirteenth Century by a member of an ancient and noble family. Attached to it was a garden. Above the Hospital on the hill rising steeply from Rive to Saint-Antoine there were what were called Hutins Bolomier,—or hillocks,—on which the vines were cultivated. This was to be the new site. But just then war broke out between France and Spain. Geneva was in a panic, expecting to be attacked, because Philippe II had vowed that he would exterminate the heretics. Public prayers were offered and the citizens were encouraged to defend themselves to the last gasp. Bern, which had been unwilling to renew its alliance with Geneva at this common danger, hastened to join forces. Geneva was safe.

In 1558, at Calvin’s demand, a commission was empowered to study the question, and, after due deliberation, it was decided to make the change. The preliminary work consisted in reducing the height of the hill. The soil was carted down to the PrÉ de Rive. But to get the buildings finished was a heart-breaking undertaking. There were all kinds of delays. They even had a strike among the workmen: the carpenters demanded eight sous a day! But the Council refused to grant the increase, which they considered exorbitant, since victuals were cheap. There was lack of money. In 1559 the Republic had a revenue all told of only two hundred thousand florins. They decided that the product of all fines should be handed over to the College. A woman convicted of faux aunage (probably in measuring cloth of her weaving) was obliged to pay twenty-five crowns. The venerable former syndic Phillipin for having spoken evil of the Seigneurie had to pay twenty-five crowns. Jean Roche, for having printed at Lyon Calvin’s Institution contrary to the privileges granted to Antoine Calvin, was fined a hundred crowns. People were urged to remember the institution in their wills. In 1561 the Council by an act of heroic renunciation resolved to forego the annual banquet and devote to the fund the hundred florins it would cost. Just as happens now, materials were not forthcoming on time. One day tiles were lacking and there was great danger that the rains would come before the roof was covered. But it was finished in 1562, and four years later a fountain was installed as much to embellish the College as to furnish drinking-water. In 1569 elms and linden-trees were set out to shade the grounds.

The two big buildings, arranged as it was called À la mode de potence, that is at right angles, and surmounted by a big roof, all in Italian Renaissance style of architecture, were the pride of the City, and still not much changed reflect credit on the old Reformers.

Our friend the professor took us to the front of the main building and pointed out to us the peristyle colonnade, with its three massive pillars supporting the four arches in pure Roman style, and he called our attention to the ancient inscriptions over the principal entrance: the first in Hebrew, which he said meant “The Fear of the Lord is the Beginning of Wisdom;” the second in Greek, which I could almost make out myself though the letters were queer:—“Christ has become for us Wisdom by the Will of the Father;” the third indecipherable, but he said that it read originally “For the Wisdom that comes from on high is pure, peaceable and full of mercy.”

He showed us the external stairway leading to what was formerly the rooms of the principal and of some of the professors, and the admirable balustrade of wrought iron, and pointed with pardonable pride to the bas relief in yellow marble over the first floor door. He said it was attributed to the famous French sculptor Jean Goujon, who belonged to the Reformed Church and was in Geneva in 1560. It represents two winged women, one the Genius of Study, the other the Genius of War and between them the escutcheon of the City. During the French occupation it was mutilated, but the eagle and the key can be made out.

The professor took us up to the second floor of the main building, which offers a superb view of the lake, the Jura with their rock-ribbed summits, the snowy Alps of Savoy. In those days they did not much believe in light, physically or theologically; the windows are small and the big rooms seemed rather gloomy. He told us that at first the City was too poor or too penurious to furnish glass for them, and when the students petitioned for glass they were recommended to fit them out themselves with oiled paper panes. Neither was there any way of heating them, and the professors had to bring braziers filled with hot coals to melt out their lectures. Finally a violent bise came down the lake and blew the rooms inside out; it did so much damage that the Council, in self-defence, ordered glass put in.

The Seigneurie gratuitously lodged not only the professors and pastors but also such needy citizens as had been of public service. In 1561 FranÇois Bonivard petitioned to be granted quarters in the city logis where he might have a stove, and his petition was allowed. Then, as now (in other lands more particularly), self-defence was an expensive luxury. The erection, maintenance and strengthening of the city walls cost enormously, and the Council proposed to sell the houses of the Regents, but violent opposition arose and they were maintained until the beginning of the Nineteenth Century. Then the ramshackly old buildings were sold and the fine houses on the Rue Verdaine were built. The gardens were alienated in 1725 for twenty-five thousand florins; the purchaser agreeing not to erect any high building that would cut off the fine view. They at least appreciated their greatest asset. The purchaser was Jean Gallatin, whose house is still shown at Number Seven.

I was, of course, interested in the name Gallatin, for I remembered how Albert Gallatin, a graduate of Geneva University, came to America and taught French at Harvard College, and then entering politics, was elected Senator, though he was excluded; became Secretary of the Treasury and signed the Treaty of Ghent and was United States Minister first at Paris and then at London. Several towns in our country were named after him.

When the professors’ houses were taken from them, they were granted three Écus d’or extra salary.

The so-called Ordre du CollÈge—a term still in use—was worked out by Calvin himself, who would not have disdained regulating the size of mouse-traps. Fortunately he had associated with him the gentle, benevolent Theodore de BÈze, who was the oil to the vinegar of Calvin’s stern, uncompromising wisdom. Calvin wrote it in Latin; De BÈze in French. It is a document well worthy of study by all educators.

It was promulgated on the fifth of June, 1559, with impressive ceremonies. The venerable Company of Pastors, the Regents, the professors and a body of six hundred students, together with an immense throng of citizens, went to the cathedral where Calvin made an immensely long supplication. Then the secretary of the Council, Michel Roset, read the document. De BÈze, appointed rector of the Academy and principal of the College, made an impressive “harangue” in Latin, dwelling on the usefulness of schools and of “superior wisdom” and ending by thanking the Council for having permitted Geneva to receive instruction purged of all Papal superstitions. De BÈze having thanked the Council, Calvin thanked God for the same blessings. The next day the regular exercises of the new curriculum began. They were kept up without essential change for three centuries. The chief function of the College was practically the same as that of the primitive Harvard—to provide ministers: my nephew declared it was a “regular parson-factory.”

During Calvin’s life no theatrical representations were allowed; but just forty years after his death, in 1604, some of the students of one of the professors with his authorization learned a comedy by Garnier and proposed to enact it before a select company of guests. When the authorities heard of it they were in a panic and hastened to forbid it “for fear the students might take occasion for debauchery and waste time and lessons.” In 1681 “The Cid” was presented with scenery at the house of M. Perdriau. The performance ended with a farce. About three hundred spectators were present. Several students took part. It caused a terrible scandal. It was declared that if such a thing happened again the culprits should be whipped. They had the means to inflict this punishment. Discipline in those days was severe. The Regents were ordered to provide themselves with a sort of cat-o’-nine-tails, and they used it sometimes brutally. In 1676 a Sieur de Rochemont ordered his valet to thrash one of the Regents for having too severely punished his nephew. The valet carried out his orders with good will but was haled into court and condemned to languish in jail for a week, while his master, in spite of his rank, was punished even more severely—he was sent to jail for three weeks and had to pay a fine of two hundred crowns, after having begged pardon on his knees.

The University of Geneva, as at present constituted, is the outgrowth of that remarkable school. Its modern regeneration began in 1886. Many new buildings have been erected. It would take pages to give the names of the celebrated professors who have from the beginning helped to spread its fame and have attracted students from all over the world, especially from Russia. Out of the twelve hundred or more students registered a large proportion come from the empire of the Tsars. The institution is divided into a CollÈge infÉrieur and a CollÈge supÉrieur, the latter having four departments: the classic, the rÉal, the technical and the pedagogical.

We went with our guide into the Library, which, of course, we could only glance at; but later, when I spent a fortnight in Geneva, I found it most useful. We went to the Salle Lutin and looked at the fine portraits of Geneva celebrities, including those of many distinguished visitors, notably George Eliot’s. Here are also many fascinating manuscripts and books which would fill the heart of a bibliophile with hopeless envy. I had just time to look at the curious old map made in 1588 by a Genevan magistrate, the noble Duvillard, who was wounded in a battle and during his convalescence amused himself in tracing on paper “ce beau lac gÉnÉvois,” to which he said Christians flock without cessation:—

But the morning was passing, and we had to tear ourselves away. We had not intended to go into any of the public buildings of Geneva, tempting as they might be, but to walk across the Treille, along the Promenade des Bastions and then take a tram for the SalÈve, from which, on such a clear day, the view would have been superb. But it was too late; we had to hurry back to the hotel for an early lunch and then continue our journey around the lake.

As we went back I registered a vow to spend at least a fortnight in Geneva, and I am happy to say it was not a vow in vain. I came to know and love the fine old town with its splendid educational advantages, its museums and libraries, its fascinating parks and its wealth of glorious walks. More than once as we went down toward the lake I turned around to look at the bold escarpments of the limestone cliff against which the twin towers and the tall spire of the Cathedral stood out so proudly.

I went one day to the Voirons and had perhaps the same view as James Fenimore Cooper enjoyed so much, when on his journey southward he suddenly emerged on their heights and got his first glimpse of Geneva and the lake and all those parts of Vaud that lie between Geneva and the DÔle. Of course, Geneva nearly eighty years ago was much smaller than it is now. He describes it with enthusiasm, and his picture still glows with colour:—

“A more ravishing view than that we now beheld can scarcely be imagined. Nearly the whole of the lake was visible. The north shore was studded with towns, towers, castles and villages for the distance of thirty miles; the rampart—resembling rocks of Savoy—rose for three or four thousand feet, like walls above the water, and solitary villages were built against their bases in spots where there scarcely appeared room to place a human foot. The solemn magnificent gorge rather than valley of the RhÔne and the river, glittering like silver among its meadows, were in the distant front, while the immediate foreground was composed of a shore which also had its wall of rocks, its towns laved by the water, its castles, its hamlets half concealed in fruit-trees, and its broad mountain bosom thrown carelessly into terraces, to the elevation of two thousand feet on which reposed nearly every object of rural art that can adorn a picture....

“The beauty of the panorama was singularly heightened by the presence of some thirty or forty large barks with lateen sails, a rig particularly Italian, and which, to my eye, was redolent of the Mediterranean, a sea I had not beheld for twenty years. They were lying lazily on the glassy lake as if placed there by Claude himself to serve as models.

“I shall not affirm that this was the finest view we had yet seen in Switzerland, but I do think it was the most exquisite. It was Goethe compared to Schiller, Milton to Shakespeare, Racine to Corneille.”

Just about two centuries earlier Auguste de Sales in the life of his uncle Saint Francis, showed that he too loved the same view. Here is his picture, dated 1632:—

“Voiron is a very high mountain separating Le Chablais from Le Faucigny, looking east from Geneva. Toward the north the view embraces the great Lake Leman, and almost all the mountains of Burgundy and those of Switzerland in the distance distinguished by blue shadows. Nearer are the cities and lands of Geneva and Bern, an infinity of villages, churches, castles, rivers, ponds, forests, meadows, vineyards, hills, roads, and the like in such variety that the eye receives from it a wonderful recreation and nothing in the world can be seen more beautiful. Toward the south one sees with a sudden horror the mountains of Le Faucigny and at their extremity the haughty summits (cimes sourcilleuses) of Champmuni, covered with eternal ice and snow, so that the eye of him who looks now one way now another, receives an unequalled satisfaction.”

I shall never forget the first expedition that I made to Les Treize Arbres and the CrÊt de Grange Tournier, the highest point of the SalÈve, with their superb view up the lake and far into the valley of the RhÔne. Yet the SalÈve is not a part of Geneva; it is not even Swiss; it belongs to France. If Switzerland and Savoy should at the present time have a war it would be easy enough for big guns to be mounted on those heights and batter down the helpless city; compared with what war is now the most dramatic event in Genevan history seems rather ludicrous; but the Fountain of the Escalade commemorates an heroic achievement.

Quietly around the city were gathering the hostile armies. Duke Charles Emmanuel of Savoy was planning to strike a final blow; he had more than six thousand men—Savoyards, Spaniards, Neapolitans and Piedmontese—collected in various places within convenient distance. On the night of December 12, 1602, a storming party of two hundred men marched up to the Corraterie rampart carrying fagots, hurdles, ladders, and implements for breaking and smashing things. Each man also had an amulet warranted to keep him from trouble in this world or the world to come; it was given to each one by a Scotch Jesuit named Father Alexander. They filled the moat with their hurdles and fagots; they fastened their ladders to the walls. They killed the one sentinel on guard, for the Genevans had no thought of such a treacherous attack upon them, and they annihilated a small body of the watch, all except one man, a drummer, who escaped and gave the alarm. The battle was on.

The Genevans at La Porte Neuve happened to fire off a gun loaded with chains and iron scrap; the discharge smashed all the scaling ladders and swept them off the walls; the army of four thousand men led by General d’Albigni, who was expecting to follow up the success of the two hundred, was helpless in the moat outside. All able-bodied citizens got out their guns and swords and gave battle. Hot soup and other scalding fluids and a rain of deadly missiles were flung down on the unhappy invaders, who finally fled, leaving thirteen prisoners and a large number of dead. The Genevans themselves had seventeen killed and a score wounded. Duke Charles Emmanuel is said to have called his defeated general a booby (misÉrable butor) and expressed himself in somewhat the same kind of vulgar language as Victor Hugo attributed to Marshal Ney in “Les MisÉrables.”

Geneva was saved, and the next morning the venerable Pastor de BÈze, who had slept all through the tumult, having learned of the battle, went to the cathedral and helped to conduct a thanksgiving service—the last public appearance which his failing health permitted him to make. And ever since the Genevans celebrate the day of the Escalade.

Rousseau wrote of this rather grandiloquently:—“The generous nation received its baptism of blood; this night put our ancestors beside the men of Sempach and Morgarten; they defended their freedom like men who could not understand how life could be separated from liberty.”

That very year the Landgrave of Hesse was visiting Geneva incognito and he composed a Latin epigram beginning:—

which has been Englished in the quaint old style of long ago:—

One more attempt was made to capture Geneva. On September 21, 1792, without any declaration of war, the French entered Savoy, seized Mont-MÉlian and ChambÉry and overran the whole duchy with the result that it was incorporated with France as the DÉpartement du Mont Blanc. Etienne ClaviÈre, banished from Geneva in 1784 because of his writings, had become one of the six Ministers of the French Republic, and being full of animosity against Geneva urged his colleagues to attack that city. Orders to that effect were issued by Servan, Minister of War. Geneva appealed to ZÜrich and Bern for aid and prepared for defence. But no attack was made. ClaviÈre committed suicide the following year.

Gibbon wrote to Lord Sheffield:—“The terrors which might have driven me from hence have in great measure subsided. Our State prisoners are forgot; the country begins to recover its old good humor and unsuspecting confidence and the last revolution of Paris appears to have convinced almost everybody of the fatal consequences of the Democratical principles, which lead by a path of flowers into the abyss of Hell.” After Savoy became a part of France Gibbon wrote:—“My noble scenery is clouded by the Democratical aspect of twelve leagues of the opposite coast which every morning obtrude themselves on my view.” In February, 1793, he wrote again:—“The new Constitution of Geneva is slowly forming without much noise or any bloodshed and the Patriots who have staid in hopes of guiding and restraining the multitude flatter themselves that they shall be able at least to prevent their mad countrymen from giving themselves to France, the only mischief that would be absolutely irretrievable.”

He predicted that the Emperor and the French would compound for the neutrality of the Swiss. His prediction was very nearly fulfilled. But the penchant of the Genevans for France may possibly be explained by the fact that it is so Parisian in its modern brightness and gayety. That is why I like it.