Geneva was very full, and the difficulty of finding a lodging drove me to a little inn, called the Hotel des Trois Maures, where I had a good chamber, and nothing else good. The first, to me, was an important advantage, as I wanted to revise the sketches and memoranda of the south of France, before the subject had faded from my recollection. In fact, I wished to disburthen my mind entirely, and transfer it to paper; which was a great relief, for I felt a continual anxiety lest any thing should escape me after having once been observed. On the 17th of August I walked to Cologni, where our friend, Mr. W., has taken up his abode; he has a beautiful spot; his grounds command, on one side, the Lake of Geneva and the distant range of Jura; on the other, a rich valley opens towards the MÔle, a fine conical mountain, rising 4,800 feet above the lake; the Brezon, with its ragged summit crowning the hanging woods which creep up its sides; and beyond all, the brilliant summit of Mont Blanc.

A few days after, I rambled over the little Saleve. The greater Saleve is a limestone hill, with one precipitous face, very much, in character, like some of the limestone scars near Kendal. It is about 1,800 feet above the lake. The little Saleve is perhaps, 400 or 500 feet lower. It presents the most magnificent views over the Lake of Geneva, the Pays de Vaud, and of the range of Jura; and in the opposite direction, of the valley of the Arve, and of the mountains between that and the lake, and of the district of Chablais, famous for its wine. To the right of Chablais appeared the rugged rock D’Enfer, streaked with snow, the point of Agredon, the glaciers of the Siege Vert; and on the south, the Brezon and a long range of mountains, extending towards the Lake of Annecy. Mont Blanc only shone now and then from his throne of clouds; and even of Mont Buet I had only a transitory glimpse.

Another excursion was to Ferney, in order to see the chateau of Voltaire. The French government have insisted on retaining this village, as it is said, because it was the residence of the witty philosopher. The situation is fine, but it commands no view of the lake. The building is composed, to use the French terminology, of three pavillons and two corps de logis; the extent of the front may, perhaps, be about eighty feet. The bed-chamber, as I was told on the spot, remains just as it was in Voltaire’s lifetime; the same bed, the same furniture, the same prints, with the addition of one only, representing his monument; but I was assured at Geneva that other alterations had taken place. In the dining-room is a monumental stone, in a wooden frame, with this inscription: “Au chantre du premier des Bourbons, et au Fondateur de Ferney.” A wooden case, in the form of a pyramid, is put over the stone in order to preserve it, and in this a small hole has been made through which you are to peep. The whole has much the appearance of a showman’s box. The stone which contained the inscription on the church, “Deo Voltaire,” was taken down at the time of the revolution; the present possessor wished to restore it, but the curÉ opposes it. Returning from Ferney, I made a diversion towards the lake, by a road which runs on a sort of terrace, with the Alps on the right hand and Jura on the left; and afterwards descended through a pleasant wood, adorned with the showy flowers of Dianthus superbus, and the flowerless bushes of the Rosa pumila, to the edge of the water.

Geneva itself is a singular city, or at least two of the principal streets offer an arrangement, which is I believe, perfectly unique; the roofs of the houses project ten or twelve feet beyond the walls, and are supported across the foot ways by lofty posts. You thus walk in an open gallery, whose height is nearly that of the whole house.

In the Journal de GenÈve, for 1789 and 1790, are some researches into the history of the church of St. Peter, the cathedral of Geneva, by M. Sennebier, who quotes Besson, “MÉmoires sur le Diocese de GenÈve,” as saying that Frederic II. was consecrated here in 1025; but as the emperor Frederic II. died in 1250, there must be some mistake. Even Frederic I. was only born in 1121. In 1025 Geneva probably belonged to the kingdom of Arles, of which Rodolph III. (faineant) was then sovereign.

In 1206 we find an order for the appropriation of the revenues of vacant benefices to the building of St. Pierre, till the work shall be finished; an expression which seems to imply that it was then in a state of some forwardness. In 1219 we have complaints against the then bishop, for neglecting to complete the edifice, or perhaps, only to repair it: in 1300 the first year’s revenue of vacant benefices was again ordered to be applied to the use of the fabric: in 1334 it was damaged by fire, and again in 1349: in 1380 application was made to the Pope, “pour lui demander quelques subventions,” in order to repair the church. The chapel of the Maccabees was founded in 1406; in 1430 was a terrible fire, which entirely destroyed the west front, and left the church a heap of ruins. In 1441 Felix V. granted the first year’s revenue of all benefices becoming vacant, for twenty years; a similar grant of a half-year’s revenue, probably for the same term, was made by Julius II., in 1505, principally to erect the southern tower; but this not proving sufficient, Clement VII., in 1525, prolonged it for four years. The west front was not restored till 1749, and it is said to be in imitation of the portico of the Pantheon.

The building, however, of which the above is the history, was not the original church. The period of the erection of the first edifice is unknown, but it was destroyed by an enemy before the year 515, and rebuilt immediately afterwards on a more magnificent scale, by Gondebaud, king of Burgundy. A fragment of this second church is said to be still in existence; and there are some indications in the present church of a still older building, which some fancy was a temple of Apollo.

Thus, then, we have a fragment of wall still existing in the present church, built before 515.

The fragment of the second church, if it really exist, escaped my observation.

Rejecting the consecration of some monarch in 1025, as uncertain, we may fairly assume, that the choir, in which the style of work is decidedly Norman, was erected before 1206.

The body of the building was probably finished not much after that time, or about 1219. Its character much resembles that of Salisbury Cathedral.

The style of the architecture is nowhere of a later date, in any considerable erection, except the west front, which was begun in 1749.

In all this the history and the internal evidence agree very well. There is some pleasure in such coincidences; but at the same time, it is saying that one has learnt nothing new from the edifice; indeed it can hardly be said, that it affords any important confirmation of former results, for it seems to have been long in progress, and prosecuted without zeal or energy. The dimensions are as follows:

The arches are mixed, some round and some pointed; all of them have key-stones. The towers are at each end of the transept. The lower capitals are imitations of the Corinthian, or with grotesque figures. The bases have a deep scotia. There is some stained glass in the chevet, but it is of little consequence; and, for modern accommodation, there is a paltry gallery, and seats rising one above the other, instead of pews: a much finer building would fail to be impressive with such accessories. I attended divine service in it. There seems to be no kneeling, either here, or in the Protestant churches in France; but at Geneva the men take off their hats, which is not the case at Nismes.

I left Geneva on the 30th of August to walk to Chamouni, or as it is perhaps more properly written, Chamounix. The terminal x seems to belong to a peculiarity in the dialect of Savoy and the adjacent parts of Switzerland and France. Ferney ought to be Fernex; Gensey, Gensex; Gex, Bex, &c. still retain it, but it is never heard in pronunciation. The road offers a great variety of scenery; at first the views have the comparatively mild character of the immediate neighbourhood of Geneva; then the rocks of the Saleve grow upon you, but speedily diminish again, as you leave them, to advance to more magnificent objects. Afterwards the Voiron becomes a fine object; and when our back is turned upon these, the green slopes of the MÔle rise nobly in front, and the rugged and woody precipices of the Brezon appear to close the valley, as the traveller approaches to Bonneville. In England our high hills are generally very naked; here they are usually woody, and the MÔle, which is bare compared with his neighbours, is more covered with wood than any of the higher mountains of our own country: it is a conical hill, 4,730 feet above the Lake of Geneva, and retained, at this time, one patch of last winter’s snow. The Brezon is as high, or perhaps higher than the MÔle, but it is less insulated. The summit is bare rock, with here and there a spot of snow: the shoulders are dark with firs, below which is an ascending slope of cultivated land mixed with wood, and the lower precipices are mantled with deciduous trees. The Arve passes between these two mountains, but there is also a fine romantic valley on the east side of the MÔle, and the winding road sometimes presents one object, sometimes another; Mont Blanc, with his clouds and snows, overtopping the whole. At Soingi, Siongy, Siongir, or Scionzier, for I have seen it spelt all these ways, I turned out of the road to visit the Reposoir, a convent of Chartreux, high among the mountains; but though the route presents some very fine scenery, I did not, in this land of magnificent nature, think myself repaid for the delay. After leaving Siongy, the road continues along the valley to Cluse, whose name indicates its situation. The valley seems so completely shut up, that I could not imagine whence the Arve could issue. A sudden turn to the right exhibits the pass; where the mountains, rising in high and woody precipices on each side, leave hardly any space for cultivation on the sides of the stream. At Cluse the character of the scene alters, and becomes more magnificent, and more picturesque, yet still presenting scenes of great beauty and repose. In the former part of the walk we were coasting the mountains, we are now fairly among them. In this neighbourhood I first saw the triangular form which water assumes in falling from a great elevation: it flourishes off at the top in circles, but the heavier drops falling faster than the smaller, the circle changes into one or more parabolas; these become afterwards hyperbolas; at last the curve is lost to the eye, and we have rectilineal angles, not triangles, for the top line is never given, and the points rush down with great rapidity, while the slower sides are overtaken by the points of the succeeding portion. I am rather afraid that this appearance cannot be rendered intelligible by description; and the incessant motion is so essential to the effect, that the pencil is as inefficient as the pen. The road keeps in the valley, sometimes running along the bottom, sometimes rising over the lower eminences, while the valley itself, occasionally almost closing upon the stream, and at other times opening into a wide and cultivated space, presents the most varied and beautiful landscapes. The rocky and savage mountain, its base clothed with wood, its summit shooting into sharp points divided by tracery of snow, never fails to stamp upon the scene the impression of its own magnificence. The whole walk from Cluse to Les Ouches, is certainly one of the finest in the world; and one who has seen Mont Blanc illuminated by the setting sun, from St. Martin or Salenche, may be excused, if he thinks it impossible for inanimate nature to produce a more sublime scene. The instant change produced at sun-set is very striking. The moment before every thing glows with a life and beauty, of which neither the pencil nor the pen can give you any idea. The moment after, the vast extent of snow, which before exhibited the richest and warmest colouring, becomes pale and cold. It is the transition from life to death; from the exquisite animated form to a corpse.

From Les Ouches, the valley of Chamounix begins; an immense gigantic trough, which, though grand, and even sublime, from the immensity of its parts, is by no means so beautiful as the scenery I had just passed. Before reaching Chamounix I fell in with a returning guide, who conducted me to the glacier of Bossons; and, as no description of a glacier can be completely intelligible to those who have never seen one, mine, like those of preceding travellers, must be very imperfect; nevertheless it may furnish your imagination with some assistance. It is neither a plain, nor a valley full of snow. It is not a mountain of snow or covered with snow. It is more like a mountain of ice, or a valley filled with ice; and if you join these two apparently inconsistent ideas, you will have the best notion of it. Imagine some deep gill, such as you find on a smaller scale in Yorkshire or Westmoreland, filled with snow, and the snow half melted and frozen again, till the whole is reduced into large masses, composed of little lumps of ice, about the size of a pigeon’s egg; or, to speak more correctly, varying from the size of a pea to that of a hen’s egg, perfectly transparent in themselves, but forming a mass only imperfectly translucent. The snow, still increasing on the mountain, and throwing additional weight on this immense mass, pushes it bodily out of the gill, and half across the more open valley; so that what was at first included in the hollow, being thus forced out beyond the line of the hills, forms itself an inferior hill, while the gill behind, is filled up with new matter of the same sort, continually pushing forward to supply the waste below. This advancing hill of ice presents to us cliffs of ice at top, then a slope of fragments of ice, and below that a bank of earth, covered, here and there, with the pieces which fall from above. The weight of snow pushes out, not only the ice below it, but a great deal of the soil on which it lies, grinding it, as it proceeds, to powder; and hence the streams issuing at the foot of a glacier are always muddy, while the water on its surface is pure and transparent. At this glacier, the trees, which had been overturned in its progress, still lay about at its foot; but those which were untouched by its mechanical action, did not appear to be injured by the cold, and corn grew within a small distance. Part of the slope was covered with sand, and many of the blocks seemed mixed with sand. Where the ice is pure, it is shaded with the tenderest gray, verging very little, if at all, towards green; and it reflects a vivid blue green, or perhaps a greenish blue, from the deep hollows. I found several men stationed at the entrance to the glacier to offer their assistance, but I already had a guide, and wanted nothing further, for the passage was by no means difficult. The middle is firm, and pretty even; it is only towards the edge that the deep fissures are usually found: the ice is not so slippery as you would imagine; and the sand, or some little inequalities, give tolerable foot-hold, but it felt very cold to the feet. I ascended with my back to the setting sun, and turning to look again at the glacier, after having crossed it, enjoyed a new spectacle, the sun shining through the upper and thinner parts of the ice, and giving sometimes by transmitted light, the same beautiful colour I had admired in the reflected. This green or blue, is however, by no means general, and it is equally difficult to say why it exists at all, and why, since it does exist, there is not more of it. I observed here three sorts of light; the white of pure snow, the shining light, where the surface caught the rays of the sun in a particular direction and reflected them to my eye, and the transmitted light of the edges of the blocks; and two series of shade, the gray and the green; independent of that produced by impurities, and of the patches of dark sand, which sometimes occur. The clouds appeared quite purple against the glacier, yet that colour did not show itself amongst them in any other direction; whence I conclude that the whole mass of the ice had somewhat of a greenish hue.

Fog, rain, and snow, were very inimical to my rambles about Chamounix. I visited the source of the Arveiron, which issues from the foot of the Glacier des bois, itself a continuation of the Mer de Glace. It exhibited no picturesque accompaniments, but in a hot summer, it sometimes forms for itself a magnificent arch in the ice. I thence climbed to the Hospice on the Montanvert, 621 toises, or 3,980 feet above the inn at Chamounix, almost the whole of which is in one rapid slope, mostly covered with fir trees. In the upper part every thing was wet with the half-melted snow; and the fir trees were abundantly sprinkled with it. The Mer de Glace was also covered with fresh snow; but the Alpine plants peeped forth from their white covering, seemingly very little affected. The Aiguille de Dru rises immediately above the glacier, into one of those sharp rugged points, of which no English or Scotch scenery will give you any idea.^[25] I do not know its exact height, but comparing it with those that are known, it must rise in a broken pyramidal form, nearly 5,000 feet from the surface of the ice. The Jorass rises in a squarish form, furrowed with perpendicular lines, which were marked with fresh snow. On the right, the rude and lofty Aiguille des Charmeaux was lost in the clouds. In this view of the Mer de Glace, it is a large, branched, winding valley, filled with ice and snow, the surface of which is nearly horizontal, if the eye is directed on a line across the valley; but with a very irregular and broken descent, if applied on a line along the valley. It seemed almost everywhere bordered by the Moraine; that is, by a heap of fragments which it pushes up in its progress.

I found only one name inserted in the Album at Montanvert on that morning; this was of a person who had arrived there by six o’clock, to see the sun rise: he recorded that he was satisfied, but what he saw I know not; as from below, the whole atmosphere appeared at that time to be filled with dense clouds. One other traveller had been there, for I saw two descending the mountain as I went up, but he had not left his name; perhaps he was not satisfied.

The morning of Thursday, the 5th of September, was dark and wet; but the rain abating about ten, I proceeded towards Martigny, by the TÊte noire. The Col de Baume was enveloped in clouds, and offered me no temptation to pass that way. The road I chose passed down Valorsine, where I was delighted with the luxuriant bushes of Rosa rubrifolia, covered with flowers. The lower part of this valley is very beautiful. It often happens in the Swiss valleys, that the descent is finer than the ascent. At the upper part are a few noble masses, which remain almost unchanged in appearance during a day’s walk, while the lower parts are frequently bounded with broken rocks, whose composition varies at every stage of our progress; and sometimes the vallies are so nearly closed, that it is impossible to follow the stream, and we are obliged to pass over the hills to find an exit: this is the case at Valorsine, and the rocks and woods about the pass are magnificent and finely varied. There is also a beautiful waterfall among the woods, plentiful in such weather as I had, and still more so in hot dry weather, till the snows are melted which supply it, a circumstance not likely to take place this year. The spring rains bring down an immense quantity of water, by dissolving the snows and ice of the winter; but the wet which I experienced, became itself snow in the upper regions of the Alps. We leave Valorsine and ascend the vale of Trient, whose river gives its name to the united streams, though the smallest of the two. This vale is narrow and deep, but without any very fine features, except just where it unites with Valorsine.

The village of Trient is a dismal gloomy place, and the dark and dirty little ale-house is perfectly in unison with the scenery.^[26] The landlady was goitrous; I have seen many such persons, and when they are young it only produces a plumpness in the lower part of the throat, which is hardly disagreeable; but as the disease increases, two unequal protuberances are produced, which at length become loose and skinny, and are excessively disgusting. The people among the mountains are pale, and seem unhealthy and inactive; the women more so than the men. The children have little vivacity; and I have not seen a woman dancing an infant, or giving it any exercise, either in Savoy or Switzerland. From Trient I ascended the Forclaz. The valley, which descends thence to Martigny, was completely filled with a cloud at some hundred feet below me. The descent is long and tedious, but the upper part of the way is adorned with noble pines and larches, particularly the latter. Some enormous trees waved their wild branches over the road, in magnificent style; others, which had been broken by storms while yet young, assumed the most irregular shapes; but they were large trees, vigorous and flourishing, and would have been capital subjects for the pencil. About half way down, we emerged under the cloud, and saw the Vallais stretched out beneath us; but the stratum of vapour I had just passed, prevented all view of the summits, and communicated a dull monotony to the scene, which it probably would not have had in finer weather.

The next morning I left Martigny in the rain, which prevented me from making any sketch of the old castle, part of which is said to be of Roman work. A little farther, the Trient, which I had left yesterday to ascend the Forclaz, passes between lofty precipices into the valley of the Rhone, and lower down the Pisse Vache, a noble waterfall, descends close by the road. These are too fine not to call forth our admiration under any circumstances, but certainly I should have enjoyed them more in clear weather. The Vallais above Martigny seems to be bounded by sloping mountains, without much variety; but from Martigny to the Lake of Geneva, nothing can be more beautiful, or more finely varied. It is curious to observe here the different characters of the vallies, dependent on their direction. When the Arve runs from N. E. to S. W., it is through a trough valley with sloping sides; where it runs from S. to N., or nearly so, it is through a defile with broken and precipitous sides; and where its course is from S. E. to N. W., it is through a comparatively wide and irregular basin. Nearly the same disposition is observable in the Isere; and in the Vallais, the Rhone runs from the N. E. along an immense trough valley, and turning short to the north at Martigny, with occasional bendings to the west, passes alternately through wide defiles, with broken and precipitous sides, and small, irregular basins. At St. Maurice the valley is very much contracted; and here the road crosses the river, and we enter the Pays de Vaud. At Bex it is wider; and perhaps this is the most beautiful part of this charming valley. A hill almost covered with an open grove of chesnut trees, rises behind the town, and the views from this are truly enchanting: below is a rich valley and gentle slopes, cultivated with vines and maize, and well shaded with trees. The lower eminences are frequently covered with groves of chesnut, and a fine mass of oak spreads over one hill, which extends almost across the valley: above are woods of pine and larch; higher up, rocky pointed summits, and snow and ice. I continued over the lower hills to the salt mines, which are about three miles from the town. The supply is altogether from springs, as they have not yet met with the salt-rock. The natural issue was at a considerable elevation, and the directors first endeavoured to follow from this point the course of the water. Observing, however, that it came from below, a new work was commenced, which is now the great level, and nearly a mile in length; and this cut off the spring, 500 feet below its natural issue. Since this a still lower level has been carried to the extent of 1,718 feet, and in this a well has been sunk to the depth of 700 feet, which is below the level of the Lake of Geneva; but the salt-rock is supposed to lie still deeper. If this be fact, what a prodigious rise took place in the water of the original spring! No considerable quantity of water occurred in sinking the well, but it oozes in at the sides from several places, and is so salt, as to crystallize in the well. All the works are in successive strata of gypsum, black carbonaceous limestone, and schist; but the nearest summits are of grauwacke; no organic remains have been observed. This is the information I received on the spot, and having satisfied my curiosity, I returned to Bex.

The next morning the rain was even more steady and incessant than before; yet I left the high road to cut across the marshes to the ferry over the Rhone, and in so doing lost my way, and had to walk almost in the water. I crossed the Rhone at Chessel. In winter, I am told that the stream is bright and clear, but in summer always thick and muddy, from the glaciers which supply it; whereas at Geneva it always leaves the lake pure, and of a deep blue. Thence I walked along the new road to St. Gingouf. Whatever faults Napoleon may have had, he was certainly a capital road-maker; and here, had his object been beauty, instead of dry utility, he could not have chosen a finer line; the lake and its surrounding mountains are on the right; on the left, lofty hills shaded with chesnut trees, some of which are of the grandest size; and here and there the opening of a little valley exposes a pointed summit of the Alps. A Russian countess had engaged the whole inn at St. Gingouf; but the landlady very justly observed, that this order could not be understood to include her own bed, and she gave that up to me.

In the morning I walked to Meillerie, where the road has been cut out of the solid rock, and a wide and excellent road it is; no contrivances or make-shifts, but completely as it should be. An inconsiderable work of this sort, well done, excites more pleasure than a much larger one imperfectly performed. In the first case the power shows itself superior to the obstacle, and the mind is satisfied: in the latter the mind is not satisfied, because we seem to feel the limits of the power employed. After viewing the rocks, I took a boat, and crossed the lake to Ouchy, and from Ouchy walked to Lausanne, but the cloudiness of the weather injured the prospect.

From Lausanne there are some very fine views over the lake, but a long and almost unbroken hill opposite, in the Pays de Chablais, which in great measure shuts out the higher Alps, is a displeasing feature. Yet with this defect, there are few places in the world equal to Lausanne. Gibbon’s house offers nothing remarkable, excepting as a memorial of the Historian, I was rather surprised at the table d’hÔte, where several gentlemen of the neighbourhood were present, that his name was unknown to them.

The cathedral at Lausanne is much superior to that of Geneva; and indeed may fairly be esteemed both a beautiful building, and an interesting specimen of art. The nave alone is at present used, the remaining part being under repair. I have met with no history of the building; and the woman who shews it, points out the tomb of a St. Bertrand who lived in the tenth century, as that of its founder; but this is not admissible.

The style of the building, without being precisely like any thing in England, evidently classes with our early pointed architecture. It is anterior not only to tracery and trefoil heads, but to the introduction of roses in the upper part of the windows, and would with us be assigned to about the year 1200. A comparison with French buildings would induce me to place it in the first half of the twelfth century. The piers, or pillars of the nave, are very whimsical, and almost every pair is different. One pair is composed, each of two unequal columns, the little one before the other; yet the largest is only two feet four inches and a half in diameter, with a height of twenty-four feet, and the front one is no more than ten inches and a half in diameter, though as it goes up to the springing of the vault, it must be fifty feet high. In another pair, formed nearly in the same manner, modern improvers have had the courage to cut away the smaller pillar, to make room for some arrangements below. In another pair, each pier is composed of four columns, two large, and two small, entirely detached: the other piers are rectangular, but with small shafts variously attached. The original design evidently provided for two western towers, and an octagonal lantern at the intersection of the cross. One only of the western towers has been erected. The lantern has been carried above the roof, but not completed, and it is now covered with a make-shift roof of tiles, terminating in a wooden spire: the octagon was not carried down to the ground, as at Ely, but rests upon the four piers at the intersection of the cross. I regret much that this is imperfect, as I have met with no example on the continent of the original method of terminating this part, but it seems certain that our great towers, or spires, were not usual.

There is in this church a very singular rose window, composed of a capricious combination of squares and circles, which I imagined at first to be the freak of some architect of the seventeenth or eighteenth century; but my conductress assured me that it was ancient, and the painted glass favoured her assertion. The southern porch is a curious structure, which reminded me in some particulars of that of Chartres; and I think it was intended to be continued to a greater extent, and to form an open gallery, as in that building.

The western porch also exhibits some striking peculiarities, and is one of those anomalous productions to which it is difficult to fix a date; but it is certainly early Gothic: the external archway of this porch is a beautiful little addition of the fifteenth century.