of landscape, with a still wider view of the lake and an unbroken circle of mountains. It is not more than eight or ten miles from this point to the base of the Jura. The frontiers of France are almost within cannon shot of Geneva; and the city is completely within the power of the Bourbons, whenever they please to use it. Contiguity, as well as the ties of language, trade, and daily intercourse, will always leave the destinies of the Genevese at the control of the French. The frontier village is Ferney Voltaire, which was built by the philosopher, whose name it has assumed, and was settled by mechanics, chiefly watch-makers from Geneva. Its interests appear to be on the decline. All the houses are uniform, leaving no room for envy or jealousy, in the little community. It is a pretty idea in theory; but when did not such a project prove a Utopia in practice?

Not far from the village stands the Chateau of Voltaire, occupying a moderate eminence, which commands an enchanting view of all the great features of the country-Mont Blanc, the long line of Alps, distant glaciers, and the lake spreading below. A handsome court-yard, planted with box of a large growth, leads to the mansion, which itself exhibits neither architectural simplicity nor elegance. It is two stories high: the upper one has seven windows, while the basement contains but four, giving the front a most fantastic appearance. Two Doric pillars form the portals. The edifice is upon a small scale; too diminutive for a chateau, too large for a cottage; exhibiting all the eccentricities of its former tenant, with little or nothing of that taste, which a man of such literary eminence might be supposed to possess. It appeared to me the baby-house of his second childhood.

We examined the two apartments in the basement, which remain precisely in the state he left them. The floors are composed of wooden pannels; and instead of neat hearths, such as a recluse would choose to cheer his solitude, are substituted gloomy earthen stoves, crowned with small terra-cotta busts of the philosopher, which looked as if they might have been baked in the same kiln, that spread its noxious fumes through the room. A profusion of brass and tawdry gilt ornaments render the pottery still more uncouth in its appearance.

The paintings and decorations of the walls are in much the same character, as the other ornaments. Over the door is a picture, designed and composed, though not painted, by the philosopher of Ferney. It is as little creditable to his taste, as it is to his judgment and common It represents himself, in the attitude of presenting his Heriade to Apollo, who descends from Parnassus, attended by the Muses and Graces, to receive the offering of the self-complacent poet, and bear it to a temple which is seen in the back-ground. The heroes and

sense.

heroines of the Epic stand astonished at the scene, and at their own immortality, as well they might. Besides these divinities and great personages, the figures are innumerable, embracing the enemies and friends of the author, drawn up rank and file, prepared for a regular combat, in which his reputation is the stake. His partisans of course outnumber their opponents, and the infernal regions are open in readiness to swallow up the latter. The picture bespeaks the most consummate vanity, and must have been the plaything of his dotage. Other paintings, consisting of winged Loves and nude Venuses, shockingly executed, form strange ornaments for the secluded retreat of an octogenary philosopher.

In the adjoining apartment is his bed, just as he left it, previous to his departure from Ferney, never to return. It is far from being a couch of state, having neither canopy nor curtains, with an elevation suited to decrepitude. The old chairs stand about, as if to accommodate the garments of the former occupant for the night. Another earthen stove bears a small bust, and a little black urn in front, which once contained the heart of the philosopher, (since removed to the Pantheon at Paris,) and which is still inscribed with the following sentiment: "Mes manes sont consolès, puisque mon cœur est au milieu de vous." On the lower part of the vase are the words, " Mon esprit est partout, et mon cœur est ici." The location of the urn, not less than the inscription, would seem to indicate a warm heart, which must have been effectually cooked in a few hours, if the fire was kept up in the oven.

The same apartment contains a portrait of Voltaire, which was taken at the age of forty-four. He was then a handsome man, if the artist did not belie his face. Here also are likenesses of Washington, Franklin, Frederic the Great, Sir Isaac Newton, Milton, and some of the distinguished men of France, intermingled with queens, actors, mistresses, and favourite servants. In one corner is an odd piece of sculpture, representing a pretty woman, who died, or was supposed to have died in an accouchement; but who was in fact buried alive. It is in the form of a tomb, opening at top, and disclosing the mother and her babe. Who but Voltaire would have conceived such an idea, as a tribute to the memory of a female friend?

The exterior appendages of the Chateau are in much better taste. In its rear is a beautiful garden, looking upon the Jura Alps. The grounds are laid out in the style of English parks; shaded with groves of maple, beach, elm, limes, and other stately forest trees, overhanging walks for exercise and meditation. In the midst of the woods is

a pretty fountain, filled with gold-fish, that came up in swarms at the whistle of the old valet, who says they know him, and will eat bread from his hand. He pointed out a large maple, which was planted by the hand of the philosopher. At its foot once stood his bust, which the Austrians dashed to pieces, while on their way to demolish the pillars and bridges of the Simplon. To this villa belonged a thousand acres of excellent land, finely wooded, well cultivated, and productive. Such a tract, bordering upon the lake, and in the vicinity of Geneva, was of itself a fortune more splendid, than literary men generally realize.

We went to the tomb, which Voltaire caused to be constructed for himself. It is a Gothic, misshapen pyramid, daubed with stucco, standing by the side of the public road, naked of foliage, instead of being hidden, as it ought to have been, among the woods, at the side of his fountain. It is of course a cenotaph, as he died at Paris; but there has been no loss of brick and mortar, as the rude structure is much fitter for a hen-coop, than for the sepulchre of a man of taste.

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Last of all, we were invited into the humble residence of the aged valet, who was for many years in the service of Voltaire, and has a little cabinet of curiosities, given him at sundry times by his old master, and preserved with religious care. Among the rest are the morning cap and walnut cane of the philosopher. Also the seals of all his correspondents, pasted in rows on the leaves of an album, with the characters of some of them briefly expressed beneath-such as, dunce in Lyons," "a fool at Paris," "a German coxcomb." He was in correspondence with nearly all the great men of the age. The gallery of the servant clearly surpasses that of his master. We recognised the portrait of Madame Duchesnois; though it is quite too pretty for her coarse, ugly, yet expressive face. The most amusing article in this collection is a print, representing a comic scene, in which Voltaire appears in the attitude of introducing a guest, at one of his dinner parties, and saying to the company, "Gentlemen, this is Mr. Adam-though not the first man in the world." Even the waiters seem to relish the joke, and are smothering their laughter, like Diggory and his associates, at the stories of Mr. Hardcastle.

The Library of Voltaire all fell into the hands of the Empress of Russia, whose portrait still hangs near his bed. I have been more particular in a sketch of his chateau, than its intrinsic importance would justify; because he was in all respects a remarkable man, and one of those characters, about whom the world likes to quarrel. Had an opinion merely been given, that his residence exhibited no taste, or was worthy of his literary eminence, my readers might he e ranked

me among his partisans or the persecutors of his memory. They now have facts, and can draw their own conclusions.

On the following morning, we set out on another excursion up the northern shore of the lake, making a pilgrimage to the tombs of Necker and his daughter, Madame de Staël, at the village of Copet. On our way thither, we passed a large palace, which once belonged to Josephine, Empress of Napoleon; and the modest mansion of Desaussure, who ascended to the summit of Mont Blanc in August, 1787.* His scientific and philosophical eminence, and his illustrations of the natural history of the Alps, are well known to the world. His family still reside in the house. We also examined the chateau belonging to one of our countrymen and fellow-citizens. It is prettily situated, upon the borders of the lake, and affords a wide view of its enchanting scenery. The grounds are rich and extensive, with orchards in front of the mansion, which was closed at the time of our visit. Its proprietor, whom we met at Paris, was so kind as to give us letters to Switzerland.

On arriving at Copet, we hastened with eager steps up the broad avenue, bordered with lime-trees, and leading from the village to the palace, in which Necker and Madame de Staël once resided. It was ascertained on inquiry, that their tombs were in a garden, in front of the house. Admittance was sought in vain. It could not be obtained for love or money. With Corinne in our hands, we begged permis

sion to look but for a moment at the tomb of its authoress. Two special messages were sent to the house; but the Cerberus, who holds the keys of the garden, was inexorable. Word came back, that not even the most intimate friends of the family are allowed to look at the sepulchre.

This was the first repulse of the kind, that had been met in the course of our travels. The splendid saloons of the English nobility, in which even the tables for breakfast were spread-the crowns, sceptres, and robes of empire-the tombs and sarcophagi of the great, had in all other instances been thrown open for our inspection; while here it was not permitted us to trample the alleys of a baronial garden. The servant had the impudence to say, that the palace and its other appurtenances might be examined; as if any favour would be accepted at the hands of a Goth, who was deaf to the ordinary claims of hospitality, and had refused a reasonable request from strangers. Madame de

* Dr. Paccard and Jacque Balmat had for the first time succeeded in reaching the top, in the summer of the preceding year.

Staël's tomb is a sort of public property, which no liberal man would secrete from the world.

Repulsed in this object, we continued our excursion to Nyon, a pretty village on the shore of the lake, a few miles above. It has a large old castle, in the French style, occupying an eminence, and rearing aloft four Gothic towers upon its corners. At 10 o'clock, one of the half dozen steam-boats, plying upon the lake, picked us up and took us to Vevay. Mr. Church has wrought the same wonders here, as upon the waters of France and Italy; and the improvements, which he has introduced, have greatly facilitated the commercial and social intercourse between the different cantons and towns, bordering upon the lake. His boats though not large, are fleet and fitted up with much neatness and comfort.

The deck and cabins were filled with passengers of both sexes, who would be taken for French, from their language, dress, manners, and customs. In the habits of the ladies, one striking peculiarity was ob served, which formed a strong contrast to the indolence of the country, that had just been left. Every female on board was employed in knitting or sewing. Even the cabin-maid, who provided us an excellent dinner, sat down by the table, and was engaged with her needle, in the little intervals, when her menial services were not required. This fact alone speaks volumes in favour of the industry of Switzerland. In the busy group was a beautiful young woman, working lace; while her husband was sitting near, admiring alternately the delicacy of the fabric and the sweetness of her face. Their honey-moon was apparently just at the full; and seemed in a slight degree to have maddened his brain. His doting fondness attracted the attention of all the passengers. They were on their way to Clarens, where I hope they may be happier than Rousseau's lovers.

In coasting along the northern shore of the lake, and in touching at several places, we had a fine view of its borders, which are here too thickly settled, to afford any peculiar charins of natural scenery. It is a rich country, every foot of which is cultivated, and rendered highly productive. From Nyon, the towns of Rolle, Morges, Lausanne, and Ouchy, rise successively along the slopes, and upon the green eminences. The last mentioned is the port to the capital of the Pays de Vaud, and drives an active trade with Geneva. From this point onward, the coast becomes more rugged, precipitous, and solitary.

Late in the afternoon, we made the harbour of Vevay, which is small, but neat and much frequented. The town stands low, and does not appear well from the water. Its size, business, bustle, and the aspect of its streets much exceeded my expectations. It has an active