Captain Marryat (continued 5)

We know that the vegetable creation has a sort of instinct as well as the animal and it appears to me that there are different degrees of instinct in that portion of nature as well as in the other. A vine, for instance, I take to be a very clever plant, and both apple and pear-trees to be great fools. The vine will always seek its own nourishment, hunting with its roots through the soil for the aliment it requires; and if it cannot find it where it is planted, it will seek, in every direction and to a great distance, to obtain it. It is asserted that the famous vine at Hampton Court has passed its roots under the bed of the river, and obtains aliment from the soil on the other side; but an apple or pear-tree will take no such trouble—it will not even avoid what is noxious. Plant one of these trees in the mould three or four feet above the marl or clay; so long as the roots remain in the mould, the tree will flourish, but so soon as the tap root pierces down to the marl or clay below the mould, the tree will canker and die. To prevent this, it is the custom to dig first down to the marl and put a layer of tiles upon it, which turn the roots of the trees from a perpendicular to a horizontal direction, and then they do well; but leave the tree without assistance, and the fool will commit suicide, blindly rushing to its own destruction; while the vine will not only avoid it, but use every exertion to procure what is necessary for its continuing in health and vigour. The vine is therefore certainly the more intellectual plant of the two.

Chapter Thirty Four.

Strasbourg.

There certainly is an impulse implanted in our natures to love something; our affections were never intended to lie in abeyance, and if they cannot be placed upon the other sex or our own children, they still seek something as an object. This accounts for old bachelors being fond of their nephews and nieces, for blood relationship has nothing to do with it; and for old ladies, who have not entered into wedlock, becoming so attached to dogs, cats, and parrots. Sometimes, indeed, the affections take much wilder flights in the pursuit of an object, and exhibit strange idiosyncrasies; but still it proves by nature we are compelled to love something. I have been reflecting how far this principle may not be supposed to pervade through the universe, and whether we cannot trace it in the inferiors of the animal creation: whether we cannot trace a small remnant of Paradise in the beasts who enjoyed it with man, as well as in man himself. It is well known that animals will take very strong and very strange attachments towards other animals. It is, perhaps, more apparent in domestic animals, but is not that because they are more brought together and more under our immediate eye? in some instances, as in the case when maternal feelings are roused, the strongest antipathies and habit will be controlled. A cat losing her kittens has been known to suckle a brood of young rats, but in this case I consider instinct to have been the most powerful agent; wild beasts confined in cages show the same propensity. The lion secluded in his den has often been known to foster and become strongly attached to a dog thrown in to him to be devoured; but there never was an instance of a lion or any other wild beast, which had a female in the same den or even a companion of its own species, preserving the life of any other living creature thrown in to him. This feeling occasions also the production of Hybrids; which in a wild state could never take place. There is not, probably, a more ferocious or ill-tempered animal than the bear when it is grown up; it is subdued by fear, but shows no attachment to its keeper; yet, the other day I fell in with a remarkable narration proving the feeling I have referred to, actuating even this animal. A proof of the bad feeling of a bear is fully established by the fact that, although Martin, as the old bear is called in the Jardin des Plantes, at Paris, had been confined in his fosse nearly twenty years, during which time not a day passed that he was not well fed by the people who amused themselves in the gardens, when a man fell into his pit, he immediately destroyed him. It does, however, appear, that all bears are not so ill-tempered as Monsieur Martin. Leopold, Duke of Lorraine, had a bear confined by a long chain, near the palisades below the glacis. Some poor Savoyard boys, who had emigrated as they still do, with the hopes of picking up some money to take back with them, had taken shelter in an out-house daring a severe snow storm. One of them who was numbed with the cold, thought that he would try if he could not find some warmer berth, and in seeking this, as the snow fell fast, he at last crawled nearly exhausted into the kennel of the bear. Instead of tearing the lad to pieces, the bear took him in his fore paws, and pressed him to his shaggy warm coat till he was quite recovered. A bear generally receives you with open arms, whatever may be his ultimate decision; but in this instance it was favourable. The poor little boy finding himself in good quarters, went fast asleep; the next morning he sallied forth to obtain some victuals if he could, but without success. Cold and hunger drove him again to the kennel of the bear, who not only was delighted to see him, but had actually laid aside a portion of his supper for the boy’s use. The amicable arrangement continued for some days, and the bear, at last, would not touch his victuals till the boy’s return. This peculiar friendship was at last discovered, and the story narrated to the Duke, who sent for the boy, and took care of him, admitting him into his own household. The narrator observes that the boy died a year or two after this unusual occurrence had taken place. I have no doubt but that many more instances might be brought forward by others to establish my supposition. To us, all wild animals of the same species appear to be much alike in disposition, because we have not an opportunity of examining and watching them carefully, but I should rather imagine, that as we can perceive such a manifest difference in temper between individual horses and dogs and other animals who are domesticated, that the same difference must exist in the wild species, and that, in fact, there may be shades of virtue and vice in lions, tigers, bears, and other animals; and that there does exist in animals as well as in man, more or less according to their natural dispositions, a remnant of those affections which in the garden of our first parents were so strongly implanted as to induce the lion to lie down with the lamb. “God is Love,” says the Scriptures; before the devil found his way to this earth all was love, for God only was there. Now man struggles between the two principles of good and evil. When his nature was changed, so was that of animals; but the principle not being extinct in man, why should not a portion still remain in the rest of the creation, who with him were permitted to inhabit the garden of Eden, and whose savage natures were not roused until with man they were driven from that abode of peace?

The most affectionate animal that I know of is the common brown Mongoose: it is a creature between the squirrel and the monkey, with all the liveliness but without any of the mischief of the latter. Unfortunately they will not live in our country, or they would supersede the cat altogether; they are very clean, and their attachment is beyond all conception to those who have not seen them. They will leap on their master’s shoulder, or get into his bed, and coil their long bushy tails round his neck like a boa, remaining there for hours if permitted. I recollect one poor little fellow who was in his basket dying—much to the grief of his master—who, just before he expired, crawled out of his straw and went to his master’s cot, where he had just sufficient strength to take his place upon his bosom, coil his tail round his neck, and then he died.

Hares and rabbits are also very affectionate. One of my little girls had one of the latter, which she brought up in the house. He grew very large, and was domesticated just like a dog, following you everywhere, in the parlour and up into the bed-room; in the winter lying on the rug before the fire on his side, and stretching out his four legs as unconcerned as possible, even refusing to go away if you pushed him. As for the cat, she durst not go near him. He thrashed her unmercifully, for he was very strong; and the consequence was that she retired to the kitchen, where he would often go down, and if she was in his way drive her out. The hare and rabbit, as well as the deer tribe, defend themselves by striking with their fore paws, and the blow which they can give is more forcible than people would suppose. One day when I was in a cover, leaning against a tree, with my gun in my hand, I presume for some time I must have been in deep thought, I heard a rustling and then a squeak on the other side of the tree; I looked round the trunk, and beheld a curious combat between two hares and a stoat. The hares were male and female, and had their leveret between them, which latter was not above six weeks old. The stoat—a little devil with all its hair, from the tip of its nose to the end of its tail, standing at end—was at about two yards distance from them, working round and round to have an opportunity to spring upon the leveret, which was the object of its attack. As it went round so did the hares face him, pivoting on a centre with the young one between them. At last the stoat made a spring upon the leveret. He was received by the hares, who struck him with their fore feet such blows as I could not have believed possible; they actually resounded, and he was rolled over and over until he got out of distance, when he shook himself and renewed his attacks. These continued about ten minutes, and every time he was beaten off; but, at every spring, his teeth went into the poor little leveret; at last it gave its last squeak, turned over on its side, and died, the father and mother still holding their relative situations, and facing the stoat. The latter showed as much prudence as courage; for so soon as he perceived that the leveret was dead, he also walked off. The hares turned round to their young one, smelt at it apparently, pushed it with their noses, and shortly after, as if aware that it was past all defence, hopped slowly away; they were hardly out of sight in the bushes when back came the stoat, threw the leveret, twice as big as himself, over his shoulders, and went off with his prize at a hard gallop, reminding me, in miniature, of the Bengal tiger carrying off a bullock. All the actors in the drama having gone off; I walked off, and shortly after both barrels of my gun went off, so the whole party disappeared, and there’s an end of my story.

If an elephant were not so very unwieldy, and at the same time so very uncertain in his temper, he is the animal who has the most claims from affection and intelligence to be made a pet of; but an elephant in a drawing-room would be somewhat incommodious; and, although one may admit a little irritability of temper in a lap-dog weighing three pounds, the anger of an elephant, although he expresses himself very sorry for it afterwards, is attended with serious consequences. There is something very peculiar about an elephant in his anger and irritability. It sometimes happens that, at a certain season, a wild elephant will leave the herd and remain in the woods alone. It is supposed, and I think that the supposition is correct, that these are the weaker males who have been driven away by the stronger, in fact, they are elephants crossed in love; and when in that unfortunate dilemma, they are very mischievous, and play as many fantastic tricks as ever did any of the knights of the round table on similar occasions in times of yore.

I was at Trincomalee; an elephant in this situation had taken possession of the road at some leagues distant, and, for reasons best known to himself, would not allow a soul to pass it. He remained perdu in the jungle till he saw somebody coming, and then he would burst out and attack them. It is the custom to travel in palanquins from one part of the island to another, as in all parts of India. If some officer or gentleman was obliged to proceed to Colombo or elsewhere, so soon as the palanquin came towards him, out came the elephant; the native bearers, who knew that it was no use arguing the point, dropped the palanquin and fled, and all that the occupant could do was to bundle out and do the same before the elephant came up, otherwise he had little chance of his life, for the elephant immediately put his knees in the palanquin and smashed it to atoms. Having done this, he would toss the fragments in the air in every direction, at the same time carefully unfolding all the articles contained in the palanquin for the occupants use—shirts, trowsers, boots, bottles, books, undergoing a most rigid examination, and after that being rendered to fragments. If the cooley who had the charge of the bag of letters made his appearance, he was immediately pursued until he gave up the whole correspondence, official or private. The bag was opened, every letter was opened one by one, and then torn in fragments and tossed to the winds. In this way did he keep possession of the road, stopping all communication for several weeks, until it was his sovereign will and pleasure that people might receive their letters and travel across the country as before. Now what an unaccountable freak was this! It was like the madness of a reasonable being. If I recollect right, it was when Captain Owen was on the east coast of Africa, some of his party who landed were attacked by elephants, who threw them down on the ground and, instead of killing them, as might have been expected, and would have given them no trouble, they drew up a large quantity of mud in their trunks and poured it into their mouths so as to nearly to suffocate them, and then left them. On another occasion, they put their fore feet on their limbs, so as to pinch and bruise them severely in every part of their bodies, but avoided their bones so as not to fracture one. Now this was evidently two species of torture invented by the elephants, and these elephants in a wild state. There certainly is something very incomprehensible about these animals.

The lion has been styled the king of beasts, but I think he is an usurper allowed to remain on the throne by public opinion and suffrage, from the majesty of his appearance. In every other point he has no claim. He is the head of the feline or cat species, and has all the treachery, cruelty, and wanton love for blood that all this class of animals have to excess. The lion, like the tiger and the cat, will not come boldly on to his prey, but springs from his concealment. It is true that he will face his assailants bravely when wounded, but so will the tiger.

In my opinion, the horse is the most noble of all animals, and, I am sorry to say, the most ill-used, at least in England; for I do not recollect a single instance of having seen a horse ill-treated on the Continent. In fact, you hardly ever see a horse on the Continent that is not in good working condition: you never meet the miserable, lame, blind, and worn-out animals that you do in England, which stumble along with their loads behind them till they stumble into their graves. If any one would take the trouble to make friends with their horses, they would be astonished at the intelligence and affection of this noble animal; but we leave him to our grooms, who prefer to use force to kindness. At the same time, I have observed, even in colts, very different dispositions; some are much more fond and good-tempered than others; but let them be what they will as colts, they are soon spoiled by the cruelty and want of judgment of those who have charge of them in the stable. The sympathy between the Arab and his horse is well known: the horse will lie down in the tent, and the children have no fear of receiving a kick; on the contrary, they roll upon, and with him: such is the result of kindness. And I can now give a proof of the effects of the contrary, as it was, in this instance, what may be termed malice prepense in the animal. The horses used in the West Indies are supplied from the Spanish Main; they are from the Andalusian stock originally, partly Arab and barb. These horses are taken by the lasso from the prairies, and are broken in as follows:— They head them down to the sea beach, saddle and bridle them for the first time, and mount them with a pair of spurs, the rowels of which are an inch long. So soon as the animal plunges and attempts to divest himself of his rider, he is forced into the sea, and there he is worked in and out of his depth till he is fairly worn out and exhausted. This is repeated once or twice till they are submissive, and then they are sent off as broke-in horses to the West India Islands. A friend of mine had a very beautiful animal, which he had purchased from one of these ships. He had not bought him more than a week before he took the bit in his mouth, and ran away with the black boy who was exercising him. The boy lost his seat and fell, and the horse, for a hundred yards, continued his career; and then it stopped, turned round, and galloped up to the boy, who was still on the ground, and never ceased kicking him till the poor fellow’s brains were scattered in the road. Now this was evidently determination for revenge.

Chapter Thirty Five.

Strasbourg is full of the pomp and circumstance of war. Being one of the keys of France, it has a garrison of ten thousand men, and the drums and bands play from morning to evening, much to the delight of the children, at all events. It is a well-built town, although the houses are most of them of very ancient date, with three stories of mansardes, in their high-peaked roofs. I am rather partial to the Alsatian character; it is a combination of French, Swiss, and German, which make a very good cross. Not being in any particular hurry, I have remained here ten days, and I will say for Strasbourg, that it has many recommendations. It is lively and bustling; the walks outside the ramparts are beautiful, and living is very reasonable. It has, however, the reputation of being a very unhealthy place, and, I am afraid, with truth. It is singular that the beautiful cathedral, although it has already suffered so much by lightning, has not yet been fitted with a conductor. There was a meeting of the dignitaries some years back; some argued in favour and some against it, and it ended in neither party being persuaded, and nothing being done. I met another Englishman here, to whom the question might so properly be put, “What the deuce are you doing here?” An old worthy, nearly seventy, who, after having passed his fair allowance of life very happily in his own country, must, forsooth, come up the Rhine, without being able to speak a word of French, or any other language but his own. He very truly told me that he had just begun to see the world at a time that he should be thinking of going out of it. He honoured me with the office of interpreter as long as he stayed, and I was not sorry to see him booked for the steam-boat, all the way to the London Custom House stairs.

There is one remarkable point about the town of Strasbourg, which is, that the Protestants and Catholics have, I believe always, and do now, live in a state of amity which ought to be an example to others. In running over the history of the town, I do not find that they ever persecuted each other; but if they have not persecuted each other, I am shocked to say that they have not spared the Jews. At the time of the plague, they accused the Jews of having occasioned it by poisoning the wells, and only burnt alive two thousand of them at once! I wonder when the lightning struck the cathedral they did not drown two thousand more in the Rhine—strange Christianity! when smitten by the hand of God, to revenge themselves by smiting their fellow-creatures. I had to call upon a Professor here upon some business; he amused me very much; he fancied that he could speak English: perhaps he might have been able to do so at one time, but if so, he had forgotten it, but he did not think he had. I addressed him in French, and told him my business. “Sir, you speak English?”—“Yes,” replied I. “Then, Sir, I tell you that—” Then he stopped, pondering and perplexed for some minutes, without saying a syllable. “Speak French, Sir,” said I; “I perceive that you have forgotten a word in our language;” and I then put another leading question to him, to which he replied, “Yes, I recollect that very well, and I—” Then another dead pause for the verb. I waited a minute in perfect silence, but his memory was as treacherous as he was obstinately bent upon talking English, and then I again spoke to him, and he replied, “That is true, that you must—” Then he broke down again, and I broke up the conference, as I really could not wait until he formed English words, and he was evidently resolved that he would speak in no other language. Fortunately, it was no business of my own, but a commission from another, which ended in an omission, which, perhaps, did quite as well.

This morning I strolled into a small débit de tabac, to fill my box, and it being excessively warm, was not sorry to sit down and enter into a conversation with the young woman who attended upon the customers. I asked her, among other questions, if the shop was hers. She replied, “That she had hired the license.” This answer struck me, and I inquired if she could obtain a license for herself. She replied, “No, unless,” said she, laughing, “I should marry some old estropié who has been worn out in the service.” She then informed me of what I was not aware which is, that instead of giving pensions to the old militaires, they give them, and them only, the licenses for selling tobacco. They may either carry on the trade themselves, or may lease out their licenses to others, for as much as they can obtain for it per year.

I perceive that the Gallic cock now struts on the head of the staff, bearing regimental colours, instead of the eagle of Napoleon. They certainly have made the cock a most imposing bird, but still a cock is not an eagle. The couplets written upon this change, which was made by Louis Philippe, are somewhat sarcastic:—

“Le vaillant coq Gaulois, Grattant sur le fumier, A fait sortir le roi Louis Philippe Premier; Qui par juste reconnoissance Le mit dans les armes de France.”

Did not sleep very comfortably this night; there were too many of us in the bed, and all of us bits of philosophers. I am a bit of a philosopher myself, and surely fleas cannot be considered more than very little bits. All French fleas are philosophers, it having been fairly established by a French punster that they belong to the secte—d’Epicure (des piqueurs).

The English who go up the Rhine to Switzerland generally proceed on the German side. Few pass through Alsace or German France, and those who do, take the shortest route, by which they avoid Colmar. As I took the longest in preference, I shall in few words point out the features of the country. You pass through the valley of the Rhine, which is flat and fertile to excess, the only break in the uniformity of the country being the chain of Vorges mountains, distant about eight miles on your right, and the occasional passage of the dry bed of a winter torrent from the mountains. The cathedral at Colmar is well worth seeing. In outward architecture it is not very remarkable, but its painted windows are quite as fine as those of Strasbourg; and, in one point, it excels all the cathedrals I have seen, which is the choir, handsomely carved in oak, and with good pictures let into the panels. It is in better taste, more solid, and less meretricious in its ornaments, than any I know of. It has also a very fine pulpit, the whole of which, as well as the steps and balustrade leading up to it, is of fine marble. At Colmar, the eye will be struck with the peculiarity of architecture in some of the old buildings; it very often is pure Saracenic. The roads being excellent, we arrived in good time at Basle.

Once more in Switzerland; I have more pleasure now in revisiting a country which has left pleasant reminiscences in my mind, than in passing through one hitherto unexplored. In the latter case, I am usually disappointed. When we revisit those spots in which our childhood was passed, how invariably do we find that the memory is true to what the place appeared to us when children, and hardly to be recognised when our ideas and powers of mind have been developed and enlarged in proportion with our frames. Is it possible? thought I, when I returned, after a lapse of fifteen years, to the house of my childhood out of mere curiosity, for my family had long quitted it. Is this the pond which appeared so immense to my eyes, and this the house in my memory so vast? Why it is a nutshell! I presume that we estimate the relative size of objects in proportion to our stature, and, as when children, we are only half the size of men, of course, to children, everything appears to be twice the size which it really is. And not only the objects about us, but everything in the moral world as well. Our joy is twice the joy of others, and our grief, for the moment, twice as deep: and these joys and griefs all for trifles. Our code of right and wrong is equally magnified: trifles appeared to be crimes of the first magnitude, and the punishments, slight as they were, enough to dissolve our whole frame into tears until we were pardoned. Oh dear! all that’s gone, as Byron says—

“No more, no more, O never more on me, The freshness of the heart shall fall like dew.”

The cathedral at Basle is nearly one thousand years old, which is a ripe old age, even for a cathedral. I believe that it is only in Switzerland, and England, and Holland, that you find the Protestants in possession of these edifices, raised to celebrate the Catholic faith.

I met here a very intelligent Frenchman who has resided many years in the town. One of the first questions I put to him was the following:

For more than twenty years Switzerland has been overrun with English and other visitors, who have spent an enormous sum of money in the country: what has become of all this money?

He replied that I might well ask the question.

“They have no banks in Switzerland; and, although land exchanges owners, still the money does not leave the country. We have here,” he said, “a few millionaires, who do lend their money in France upon good securities; but except these few, they do nothing with it. The interest of money is so low, that I have known it lent by one of the rich people at two-and-a-half per cent; and the Swiss in general, in preference to risking what they can obtain for so small a premium, allow it to remain in their chests. There is, at this present moment more bullion in Switzerland than in any other country in Europe, or, perhaps, than in all the countries in Europe. A Swiss is fond of his money, and he does not use it; the millionaires that we have here, make no alteration in their quiet and plain state of living.” He then continued, “At this moment, those who can afford to spend their money at Basle are retrenching, not from motives of economy, but from feelings of ill will. The burghers, who have country seats, to which they retire during the summer, have abandoned them, and if any one wished to settle in this canton, they might purchase them for half their value. The reason is, that there has been a difference between the town burghers and the country people. The canton wanted a reform bill to be passed, in which they have not succeeded. They required a more equitable representation—the country people amount to about forty thousand, the town of Basle to only ten thousand; and the town of Basle, nevertheless, returns two-thirds of the council, which governs the canton, to which the people who live in the country have raised objections. Hence the variance; and to punish the country people by not spending their money among them, the burghers have abandoned their country houses.”

It may not, perhaps, be generally known, that at the time of the three days at Paris, there was an émeute in Switzerland, in which the aristocracy were altogether put down; and in Berne, and some other cantons, the burghers’ families, who, on pretence of preventing the aristocracy from enslaving the count, had held the reins of power for so long a period, were also forced to surrender that power to those who had been so long refused participation in it. This was but the natural consequence of the increase of wealth in the country: those who before had remained quiet, feeling themselves of more consequence, insisted upon their rights; and the usual results were, that the administration of the government changed hands; but although this might be considered as an advantage gained, still it was but a change, or rather an admission of those who had become wealthy to a participation of the advantages connected with the exercise of authority; a change beneficial to a few, but to the masse, productive of no real advantage. At Berne, to be a member of the government, is considered as a certain source of wealth, a convincing proof that the interests of those who hold the reins are not neglected; and that in a republic it is as difficult to insure to the people their legitimate rights, as under any other form of government. And so it will be as long as the world turns round; man is everywhere the same exacting, selfish, preying creature; and his disposition is not to be changed.

The Helvetic Republic is, in fact, nothing but an aggregation of petty despotisms—leniently administered, I grant; but still nothing but despotisms. Those who are in power, or connected with those in power, are the only portion of the community who can amass large sums; and thus the authority is handed down from one to the other within certain limits, which it but rarely transgresses, something very nearly approximating to the corporations in England.

In Switzerland, the working man remains the working man, the labourer the labourer, almost as distinct as the Indian castes the nobles are crushed, and the haughty burgh rules with all the superciliousness of vested right.

I have always held a “respublica” as only to exist in theory or in name. History has proved the impossibility of its retaining its purity for half a century. What the American Republic may be, it is impossible to say, until one has been in the country, and discovered what its advocates have been careful to conceal. The Americans had a great advantage in establishing this system of government; they had nothing to overthrow, nothing to contend with. They all started fair, and their half century is now nearly complete. Time will prove whether it be possible in this world to govern, for any length of time, upon such a basis. Mr Cooper, in his work on Switzerland, is evidently disappointed with his examination into the state of the Helvetic Republic; and he admits this without intending so to do.

At Soleure I saw nothing very remarkable, except a dog with a very large goitre on his neck, a sight which I never had witnessed before, during the long time that I wandered through Switzerland.

On our way to Berne, to divide the day’s travelling more equally, we stopped at a small village, not usually the resting-place of travellers, and I there met with a little bit of romance in real life, which Sterne would have worked up well, but I am not sentimental. The house, to which the sign was the appendage, struck me, at first entering, as not having been built for an hôtellerie; the rooms were low, but large, and the floors parquetté; here and there were to be seen remains of former wealth in pieces of marquetterie for furniture, and clocks of ormolu. There were some old prints, also, on the walls, very superior to those hung up usually in the auberges of the continent, especially in a village auberge. When the supper was brought up, I observed that the silver forks and spoons were engraved with double arms and the coronet of a marquis. I asked the female who brought up the soup, from whence they had obtained them? She replied, rather brusquement, that she supposed they had been bought at the silversmith’s, and left the room as if not wanting to be questioned. The master of the auberge came up with some wine. He was a tall, fine, aristocratical-looking man, about sixty years of age, and I put the question to him. He replied that they belonged to the family who kept the inn. “But,” said I, “if so, it is noble by both descents?” “Yes,” replied he, carelessly, “but they don’t think anything of that beer.” After a few more questions, he acknowledged that they were the armorial bearings of his father and mother, but that the family had been unfortunate, and that, as no tithes were allowed in the country, he was now doing his best to support the family. After this disclosure, we entered into a long discussion relative to the Helvetic Republic, with which I shall not trouble my readers. Before I went, I inquired his name from one of the servants, and it immediately occurred to me that I had seen it in the list of those twenty-six who are mentioned as the leaders of the Swiss who defeated the Burgundians, and whose monument is carved in the solid rock at Morat. Two engravings of the monument were in the rooms we occupied, and I had amused myself with reading over the names. I am no aristocrat myself, heaven knows! and if a country could be benefited, and liberty obtained, by the overthrow of the aristocracy, the sooner it is done the better; but when we see, as in Switzerland, the aristocracy reduced to keeping village inns, and their inferiors, in every point, exerting that very despotism of which they complained, and to free the people from which, was their pretence for a change of government, I cannot help feeling that if one is to be governed, let it be, at all events, by those who, from the merits of their ancestors and their long-held possessions, have the most claim. Those who are born to power are not so likely to have their heads turned by the possession of it as those who obtain it unexpectedly; and those who are above money-making are less likely to be corrupt than those who seek it. The lower the class that governs, the worse the government will be, and the greater the despotism. Switzerland is no longer a patriarchal land. Wealth has rolled into the country; and the time will come when there will be a revolution in the republic. Nothing can prevent it, unless all the cantons are vested into one central government, instead of so many petty oligarchies, as at present, and which will eventually tire out the patience of the people.

I parted from my noble host, and will do him the justice to say that his bill was so moderate, compared to the others paid in Switzerland, that I almost wished that all the inns in the cantons were held by the nobility—that is, provided they would follow his example. His wine was excellent, and I suspect was laid in long before the sign was hung up at the door.

From Soleure to Berne the whole road was lined with parties of troops ordered in that direction: every man of them was drunk, cheering, and hooting, and hallooing at us as we passed. As for the peasant girls they met on the road, I really pitied them. At last we have arrived at Berne. The Bernese have chosen a most appropriate symbol in their heraldic crests of the bear, and, as if they had not a sufficient quantity inside of their towns, they keep four in the ditch outside.

What a difference between the tables d’hôte in Germany and in Switzerland! I always prefer the table d’hôte when it is respectable, for nothing is more unpleasant than remaining in a hotel shut up in your own room; the latter may be more dignified and aristocratic, but it is not the way to see the world; one might as well be in England, and, indeed, had much better. A table d’hôte is a microcosm: you meet there all nations, people of all professions—some idle, some busy travelling on important matters, others travelling for amusement. You are unfortunate if you do not fall in with one clever man at least, and you are quite sure to meet with a fool, which is almost as amusing. When I survey a table d’hôte I often think of the calenders who had all come to spend the Ramadhan at Bagdad, and their histories; and I have thought that Grattan might make a very good series of Highways and Byways if he could obtain the history of those who meet at this general rendezvous. The tables d’hôte in Germany are excellent, properly supplied, and very moderate. I cannot say so of those in Switzerland. The fondness of the Swiss for money betrays itself in everything, and instead of liberality at the table d’hôte, we have meanness. The dinner itself is dearer than in Germany, and not half so good; but what is the most unexcusable part of our host’s conduct is, that he half serves his guests, as Sancho was served at Barataria; for instance, as is usually the case, the viands are put on the table and then removed to be carved; two ducks will make their appearance at one end, two chickens at the other; are removed, and only one of each is cut up and handed round, the others are sent away whole to be re-dressed for some great man who dines in his own room. This has been constantly the case since I have been here. It may be asked, why we do not remonstrate? In the first place, I prefer watching my host’s manoeuvres; and in the next, although I might get my duck, my host would charge me the whole value of it when he sent in his bill.

The French Ambassador could not have taken a better step to bring the Swiss to their senses than threatening them with a blockade. It would have been ruin to them. All the golden harvests would have been over, their country would have been deserted, and their Ranz des Vaches would have been listened to only by the cows. As the French minister expected, the councils fumed and vapoured, the officers drew their swords and flourished them, and then—very quietly pocketed the affront that they might not be out of pocket. What a pity it is that a nation so brave and with so many good sterling qualities, should be, as it would appear, so innately mercenary! There never was a truer saying than “Point d’argent, point de Suisse.”

Chapter Thirty Six.

Geneva.

Twenty years have made a wonderful alteration in the good sober puritanical city of Geneva. The improvement from the new buildings which have been erected is so great, that I could hardly recognise the old city of Geneva in her dress. It was an old friend with a new face, for as you enter the town, all the new buildings and streets meet your view. As far as it has proceeded (for there is much left yet to be finished), the new portion of Geneva is finer than any portion of Paris, upon an equal space of ground. But what surprised me more was to read the affiches of the Comédie. A theatre in Geneva! When I was last here, a theatre was considered by the good people as criminal to the highest degree. I inquired where the theatre was to be found, and it was all true—there was a theatre. I then made more inquiries. It appeared that Mammon had seduced the puritans of Geneva. People would not winter at Geneva; it was so dull—no amusements; and as soon as the snow was knee deep at Chamouny, they all ordered horses and flew away to Paris or Italy. This affected the prosperity of the good citizens, and they talked among themselves; but no one of the Town Council would propose a theatre, until it was discovered, by private communication, that they were unanimously agreed,—then the proposition was started and carried. But there are many concomitants attending a theatre, and with the theatre many other innovations have crept in; so that in a few years Geneva will be no better than Paris. When I was last here, Science was the order of the day. There were many celebrated men residing in the town, but they are all gone to their forefathers. Every branch of Natural History had its savant; but, above all, Mineralogy was the most in vogue. But Mineralogy has been superseded lately, by her eldest sister Geology, who, although not so pretty, has been declared more interesting and profound. Still Mineralogy is the more scientific, although Geology is the more speculative. In the education of children, I know no study which so enlarges the mind or gives a habit of research and application, as that of Natural History; it is amusement and instruction so happily blended, that it never tires. Perhaps, the natural cupidity of our natures assists, as the knowledge of every new specimen is for the most part accompanied by the possession of the specimen and an addition to the collection. Moreover, it is a tangible study; not a nomenclature of things, but each substance is in your hand to be examined. The arrangement and classification gives a habit of neatness and order, and children are taught to throw nothing away until its value is known. Every child should be made acquainted with Natural History; and where the specimens can be obtained, and there is room for them, they should be allowed to have a collection, such as minerals, corals, shells, and plants; for these sciences, amusing in themselves, will gradually impel them to the others more abstruse, as every branch of Natural Philosophy is intimately connected with them. The mind will ever be active, and if not interested in rational pursuits, it will fly off to the sensual.

They have a very excellent plan in Switzerland, in many of the boys’ schools, of all the scholars setting off together on a pedestrian tour of some weeks. You will meet a whole school of thirty or forty urchins, with their knapsacks on their shoulders, attired in blouses, trudging away from town to town, and from mountain to mountain, to visit all the remarkable peculiarities of the country.

This is a most excellent method of relaxing from study, and invigorating the mind at the same time that it is allowed to repose. Neither is it so expensive as people would imagine. One room will hold a great many school-boys, where the mattresses are spread over the floor: and I saw them make a very hearty breakfast upon bread and cheese and three bottles of wine, among about forty of them. Why should not the boys about London set off on a tour to the lakes or elsewhere, in the same way—every year changing the route. They then would see something of their own country, which few do before they are launched in life, and have no time to do afterwards. I have never seen the lakes; in fact, I know nothing of my country, although I have scoured the world so long. I recollect that my father, who had never seen the Tower of London, was determined every year that he would go and see it; but he never could find time, it appears, for he died without seeing it at last. I did, however, make the observation, that if Geneva had backslided so far as to permit a theatre, there was a feeling that this innovation required being carefully opposed. When I was at Geneva before, there was no theatre, but neither were there shops which dealt exclusively in religious tracts and missionary works. I observed on this my second arrival, that there were a great many to serve as a check to the increasing immorality of the age.

I have referred to the change of twenty years, but what a change has been effected in about three hundred years, in this very country. Read what took place in these cantons at about the date which I have mentioned. I have been reading the chronicles. Observe the powers assumed by the bishops of that period; they judged not only men but brutes; and it must be admitted that there was some show of justice, as the offending parties, being dumb themselves, were allowed lawyers to plead for them.

How the lawyers were paid, has not been handed down; and it appears that the judgments were sometimes easier pronounced than carried into execution.

At Basle, in the year 1474, it appears that a cock was accused of the enormous crime of having laid an egg: he was brought to trial and condemned to be burnt alive, as a warning to all cocks not to lay eggs, from which it is well known would have been hatched a cockatrice or basilisk.

In 1481, cockchafers committed great ravages in the Grisons. The Bishop of Coire condemned them all to transportation, and a barren valley was assigned to them as their future residence. Whether the cockchafers obeyed his Lordship’s orders, is not handed down to posterity.

Some years afterwards the river Aar was infested with leeches, who spoilt all the salmon. The Bishop of Lausanne excommunicated the whole tribe of leeches in a solemn procession to the river; and it is dreadful to reflect, that this excommunication remains upon their heads even unto this day. Also next door, in France, in 1386, a sow was arraigned for having eaten a young child, and condemned to be hanged; to add to the disgrace of her punishment, she was dressed in man’s clothes.

About the same period rats were extremely mischievous, and in consequence were summoned to appear before my Lord the Bishop. But the rats had a good lawyer, who first asserted that the rats, being dispersed in all the neighbouring villages, had not had time to collect together, and make their appearance; and that a second and a third summons would be but an act of justice. They were, therefore, again summoned after the performance of mass on Sunday in each parish. Notwithstanding the three summonses, the rats did not appear in court, and then their defender asserted, that in consequence of the affair having been made so public by the three summonses, all the cats were on the look-out, and therefore his clients dare not make their appearance without all the cats were destroyed. The consequence of this difficulty was, that the rats were not punished for contempt of court.

I have often thought that it is a great pity that agricultural associations in England do not send over a committee to examine into the principle upon which they build and load carts and waggons on the Continent.

It is a point on which we are very unenlightened in England. The waste of wood in the building, and the wear and tear of horses, is enormous. We have yet many things to learn in England, and must not be ashamed to profit from our neighbours. One horse will do more work on the Continent, especially in France and Switzerland, from the scientific principles upon which their vehicles are built, and the loads are put on, than three horses will accomplish in England. The inquiries of the committee might be extended much if they went to the Agricultural Association at Berne; they would discover many things which have not yet entered into their philosophy. I doubt very much whether the four-course shift of Norfolk, where farming is considered the most perfect, is not more expensive and more exhausting to the land, than the other systems resorted to on the Continent; that is, that it is not that which will give the greatest possible returns at the minimum of expense. I have before observed how very seldom you see a horse out of condition and unfit for work on the Continent; one great cause must be from their not being racked and torn to pieces by overloading; and notwithstanding which, the loads they draw are much heavier than those in England. I have seen a load of many tons so exactly poised upon two wheels, that the shaft horse neither felt his saddle nor his belly-band.

One great cause of the ill usage of horses in England is the disgraceful neglect of the public conveyances of all kinds. If an alteration was to be made in the regulations of hackney coaches and cabs, we should no longer have our feelings tortured by the spectacles of horse misery which we daily meet with. There are plenty of commissioners for hackney coaches, and it is a pity that they had not something to do for the money they receive, or else that they were abolished and their duty put into the hands of the police. It may appear a singular remark to make, but I cannot help thinking that there would be a good moral effect in the improvement of hackney coaches. There are a certain class of people in London, to whom these vehicles are at present of no use. I refer to those who have a sufficient independence, but who cannot afford to keep their carriages, and who, by the present system of social intercourse, are almost shut out of society, or are inclined to spend more money than prudence would dictate. In all other capitals, the hackney coaches are clean and respectable, and in some instances as good as a private carriage; and besides that, they have a superior kind of carriage for evening parties, which renders the expense of a private carriage unnecessary. There certainly may be some excuse made for those who dislike hackney coaches pulling up at their doors, when we look at the disgusting turn-outs of the London stands, at one time filled with drunken men and women, at others carrying diseased people to the hospital, or dead bodies to the Surgeons’ Hall. An English hackney coach is a type of misery, as regards the horses’ outsides, and a cloaca within; you know not, when you step into it, whether you are not to encounter disease and death. It may be said that there are such vehicles as glass coaches, as they are termed; but those are only to be hired by the day, and become very expensive. The arrangements of these vehicles should be under the police: every coach and cab should be examined, at the commencement of the year, as to its appearance outside as well as its cleanliness inside. The horses should be inspected, and if not in fair working condition, and of a certain height, the license should be refused. And there should be a superior class allowed at certain stands, who are entitled to demand a higher fare. This would not only be a boon to the public, but a much greater one to the poor horse, who would not drag out his lengthened misery as he does now. When there was no longer any means of selling a poor brute, to whom death was a release, he would be put out of his misery. It would also be a great improvement if the Numbers were put inside instead of out, as they are abroad; and if every description of vehicle, if well fitted, were licensed.

Chapter Thirty Seven.

The Hôtel des Bergues is certainly a splendid establishment; many people winter at this hotel in preference to going to a pension, which is, with the best arrangements, disagreeable, for you are obliged to conform to the usages and customs, and to take your meals at certain hours, hungry or not hungry, as if it were a pension of school-boys and girls, and not grown up people. The price demanded is the same as at the pensions, viz 200 francs, or 8 pounds per month, which includes everything but wine and fuel. The establishment is certainly very well conducted. There is a salon, next to the table d’hôte, large enough to hold 200 people, well warmed and lighted, handsomely carpeted, with piano, books, prints, newspapers, card tables, etcetera. Indeed, there is everything you wish for, and you are all independent of each other, I was there for two or three days, and found it very pleasant; I was amused with a circumstance which occurred. One of the company, a Russian, sat down to the piano, and played and sang. Every one wished to know who he was, and on inquiring, it was a Russian prince. Now a prince is a very great person where princes are scarce, as they are in England, although in Russia, a prince, where princes are plenty as blackberries, is about on a par with an English baronet.

He was a very honest off-hand sort of personage, and certainly gave himself no airs on account of his birth and rank. Nevertheless, the English ladies, who were anxious that he should sing again, made a sort of deputation to him, and begged the honour of his highness favouring them with a song, with every variety of courtesy and genuflexion.

“Oh yes, to be sure,” replied his highness, who sat down and played for an hour, and then there was so much thanking, complimentary acknowledgement of condescension on his part, etcetera, and the ladies appeared so flattered when he spoke to them. The next day it was discovered that a slight mistake had occurred, and that, instead of being a prince, he had only come to Geneva along with a Russian prince, and that the real prince was in his own room upstairs; upon which not only he fell himself at least 200 per cent, but, what was really too bad, his singing fell also; and many who had been most loud in his praises began to discover that he was not even a prince of musicians, which he certainly was.

We had a good specimen of the independence and familiarity of Swiss servants on the occasion of this gentleman’s singing; they came into the salon, and mixed almost with the company that they might listen to him; and had they been ordered out, would, in all probability, have refused. An American, with whom I was conversing, observed that in his country such conduct on the part of servants, notwithstanding what had been said by English travellers on the subject, would never have been permitted. I have fallen in with some odd characters here.

First, what would be considered a curiosity in England—a clergyman of the Church of England with mustachios! What would the Bishop of London say?—and yet I do not see how, if a clergyman choose to wear them, he could be prevented. He has good authority to quote; Calvin wore them, and so, I believe, did Luther.

Secondly, with a personage who is very peculiarly disorganised when he drinks too much. His wife, a most amiable quiet lady, is the party whose character is attacked. As soon as Mr — is in his cups, he immediately fancies that his wife is affected with the liquor, and not himself, and he tells everybody in a loud whisper his important secret. “There now, look at Mrs —, one of the best women in the world; an excellent wife and mother, and at most times as lady-like as you would wish to see: but look at her now—you see she’s quite drunk, poor thing; what a pity, isn’t it, that she cannot get over her unfortunate propensity; but I am afeard it’s no use. I’ve reasoned with her. It’s a sad pity, and a great drawback to my happiness. Well, hang sorrow—it killed a cat. Don’t notice what I’ve told you, and pass the bottle.”

I believe that the English are better acquainted with geography than other nations. I have been astonished at the ignorance on this point I have found in foreigners who otherwise were clever and well-informed men and women. When the Marquis de Claremont Tonnère was appointed to the office of Minister of the Marine and Colonies, upon the restoration of the Bourbons, a friend of mine had an audience with him, and it was not until a very angry discussion, and a reference to the map, that he could persuade the minister that Martinique was an island. However, in this instance we had nearly as great an error committed in our own Colonial office, which imagined that the Dutch settlement of Demerara upon the coast of South America, and which had fallen into our hands, was an island; indeed, in the official papers it was spoken of as such. A little before the French Revolution, a princess who lived in Normandy determined upon a visit to her relations in Paris; and having a sister married to a Polish nobleman, she determined to take Poland in her way. To her astonishment, instead of a day to two, her voyage was not completed under four months.

I have heard it often asserted, that you should not build your house so as to look at a fine prospect out of your windows, but so as to walk to view it at a short distance. This may be true with the finest prospects in other countries, but not so in Switzerland, where the view never palls upon the eye, from the constant changing which occurs in the tinting of the landscape. You may look upon the Lake of Geneva every day, and at no one day, or even portion of the day, is the effect the same. The mountains of Savoy are there, and change not their position: neither does the Lake; but at one time the mountains will appear ten miles nearer to you than they will at another. The changing arising from refraction and reflection is wonderful. Never did I witness anything finer than the Lake of Geneva at the setting of yesterday’s sun. The water was calm and glassy as a mirror, and it reflected in broad patches, like so many islands dispersed over it, every colour of the rainbow. I cannot attempt to describe it; the effect was heavenly, and all I could say was, with the Mussulman, “God is great!”

Chapter Thirty Eight.

In this world we are so jealous of any discovery being made, that innovation is immediately stigmatised as quackery. I say innovation, for improvement is not the term. The attempt to improve is innovation, the success of the experiment makes it an improvement. And yet how are we to improve without experiment? Thus we have quackery in everything, although not quite so severely visited as it formerly was by the Inquisition who would have burnt alive him who asserted that the sun did not go round the earth, but the earth round the sun. In medicine, quackery is the most frequently stigmatised. We know but little of the human frame as far as medicine is to act upon it. We know still less of the virtues of various plants which will effect a cure. We are acquainted with a few but there are hundreds equally powerful, the properties of which we are ignorant of. Could we add to medical science the knowledge of the African negroes and Indians, which they so carefully conceal from us, our pharmacopoeia would be much extended. When metallic medicines were first introduced into general use by a physician, an ancestor of mine, and the wonderful effect of them established by the cures, the whole fraternity was up in arms, and he was decried us a quack; notwithstanding which, the works he wrote have gone through twenty five editions, and the doses prescribed by him are to this day made use of by the practitioners.

The fact is, that although the surgical knowledge of the day is very perfect, the medical art is still in its infancy. Even the quackeries which fail should not be despised, for they have proved something, although they could not be perfected. Animal magnetism, for instance: it failed, but still it discovered some peculiar properties, some sympathies of the human body, which may hereafter give a clue to more important results. The great proof of the imperfection of medical science is the constant change made by the profession itself. One medicine is taken into favour, it is well received every where, until the faculty are tired of it, and it sinks into disgrace. Even in my time I have seen many changes of this sort, not only in medicine, but in diet, etcetera.

What medical men would have thought of prescribing fat bacon for delicate stomachs twenty years ago? Now it is all the vogue; breakfast bacon sold in every quarter of the metropolis. Either this is quackery, to use their own term, or twenty years ago they were very ignorant, for their patients received positive injunctions to avoid all fat and greasy substances.

Thus do the regular practitioners chop and change about, groping in the dark: but the only distinction is, that all changes made by the faculty are orthodox; but any alteration proposed out of the pale of MD, is an innovation and a quackery.

That we have every where ignorant men, who are de facto quacks, I admit; but still that term has been as liberally applied to the attempts of scientific and clever persons to improve the art of medicine. Even homoeopathy must not be totally rejected until it has had a fair trial. It has one merit in it, at all events, that you take less physic.

I consider the continual appearance of new quacks on the horizon a sure proof of the low state of our medical knowledge. The more so as these quacks, although they kill, do effect very remarkable cures. Do not regular practitioners kill also? or rather, do not their prescriptions fail? If a quack cures, they will tell you that it was by mere accident. I suspect that there is more of accident in the practice than the faculty are ready to admit; and Heaven knows they so change about themselves, that it is clear that they feel no confidence in the little that they do know; and it is because medicine is so imperfect that every half century we have a new quack, as he is termed, rising up, and beating the regular practitioners out of the field. I could tell a story about Morrison’s pills which would surprise not a little, and all the parties are now alive to prove it; but instead of that, I will tell another which occurred in France, in which a quack medicine had a most wonderful and unusual effect, for it was the means of the total destruction of a Banditti, who had defied the Government of the country for many years. About twenty years ago,—I am not sure whether he still lives,—there was an irregular practitioner in France of the name of Le Roi. He was, by all accounts, the King of all Empirics, and the Emperor of all Quacks. He was more potent than the sovereign, and the par l’ordre du Roi of Government was insignificant, compared to the par l’ordre du Roi of this more potent personage. He did not publish his cures in pamphlets, but in large quartos. I have seen them myself, larger in size than an Ainsworth’s dictionary. It so happened that an Englishman, who was afflicted with the indescribables, was recommended from every quarter to buy the medicines of Monsieur Le Roi. He did so, and his unknown complaint was removed. The consequence was, that the Englishman swore by Le Roi; and as he was proceeding on to Spain, he took with him a large supply of the doctor’s medicines, that he might be prepared in case his complaint should return. All quack gentlemen take care that their medicines shall be palatable; no unwise precaution. I do not know a better dram than Solomon’s Balm of Gilead. Old Solomon, by the bye, lived near Plymouth, and was very partial to the Navy. He kept an excellent table, and was very hospitable.

I recollect one day after the officers had drunk a very sufficient quantity of his claret and champagne, being a little elevated, they insisted upon Solomon bringing them out some Balm of Gilead as a finish, and they cleared off about two dozen one guinea bottles. The old gentleman made no objection to provide it as often as they called for more, and they separated; but the next day he sent them all their bills in for the said Balm of Gilead, observing, that although they were welcome to his wine and table, that he must be paid for his medicine. But to proceed.

The Englishman travelled with the king’s messenger; most of his baggage had been sent on, but he would not part with his medicine, and this was all in the vehicle with himself. As they passed the Pyrenees they were stopped by the banditti, who dragged them out of the carriage, after shooting the postilion, and made them lie with their faces on the ground, with guards over them, while they rifled the carriage. They soon came to the packages of medicine, and observing that Le Roi was upon all the bottles, and knowing that they had possession of a king’s messenger, they imagined that this was some liquor sent as a present to the King of Spain; they tasted it, and found that, like other quack medicines, it was very strong and very good.

Each man took his bottle, drank the king’s health, and mirth and revelry took place, until they had consumed all that the Englishman had brought with him. Now there is a great difference between taking a table-spoonful, and six or seven bottles per man; and so it proved, for they had hardly finished the last case before they found that the medicine acted very powerfully as a cathartic; the whole banditti were simultaneously attacked with a most violent cholera; they disappeared one by one; at last the guards could contain themselves no longer, and they went off too. The two prisoners, perceiving this, rose from the ground, mounted the horses and galloped off as fast as they could. They gave notice to the authorities of the first town they arrived at, not four miles distant, and a large body of cavalry were sent out immediately. The effects of the medicine had been so violent that the whole of the banditti were found near to the spot where they had drunk the king’s health, in such a state of suffering and exhaustion that they could make no efforts to escape, and were all secured, and eventually hung.

Chapter Thirty Nine.

Lausanne.

I recollect some one saying, that in walking out you should never look up in the air, but always on the ground, as, by the former practice, you were certain never to find any thing, although you might by the latter. So if you will not enter into conversation, you are not likely to obtain much information; whereas if you do, you will always chance to obtain some, even from the quarters the least promising. I was seated on the box of the carriage, with the Swiss voiturier—and asked him, “If it were not a lucrative profession?”

“It may appear so to you, sir,” replied he, “from the price paid for the horses, but it is not so. All we gain, is in five months in the year; the seven months of winter, we have to feed our horses without employment for them, that is, generally speaking.”

“But have you no employment for them in the winter?”

“Yes, we put them into the waggons and draw wood and stone, which about pays their expenses. If you are known and trusted, you will be employed to transport wine, which is more profitable; but that voiturier who can find sufficient employment for his horses during the winter to pay their keeping, considers himself very fortunate.”

“When you do make money, what do you do with it?”

“If we can buy a bit of land we do, but most people, if they can, buy a house, which pays better. I prefer land.”

“There is not much territory in Switzerland, and land is not often for sale. Everybody cannot buy land. What do the others do?”

“Lock the money up in their chests.”

“But do you never put your money in the foreign funds?”

“Yes, the rich do and those who understand it. We have a few very rich people in Switzerland, but, generally speaking, the people do not like to part with their money, and they keep it by them.”

“I was told by a Frenchman at Basle, that there was a great deal of bullion lying idle in Switzerland?”

“He told you very true, sir; there is an enormous quantity of it, if collected together. Those are Jews,” continued he, pointing to a char-à-banc passing.

“Have you many of those in Switzerland? I should think not.”

“No, sir, we do not allow them. One or two families are perhaps permitted in a large town, but no more. We are a small country, and if we were to allow the Jews to settle here, we should soon have too large a population to support. By their customs, they may marry at any age, and they never go into the field, and work at the plough.”

“But may not you marry at any age, and when you please?”

“No, sir; we have good laws in that respect, and it prevents the population increasing too fast. I belong to a commune (parish); if I wish to marry, I must first prove that all my debts are paid, and all my father’s debts, and then the commune will permit the Curé to marry me.”

“All your father’s debts as well as your own?”

“That is to say, all the debts he may have incurred to the commune. Suppose my father had been a poor man and unable to work, the commune would have let him want for nothing; but in supplying him they would have incurred an expense, that must be repaid by his family before any of the sons are allowed to marry. In the same way, when my father died, although he received no assistance from the commune, he left little or nothing. The commune clothed and educated me till I was able to gain my own livelihood. Since I have done well, I have repaid the debt; I now may marry if I choose.”

“But cannot you evade this law?”

“No, sir. Suppose I was at Berne, and wished to marry a woman who belonged to another commune as well as myself. The banns must be published three times in my parish, three times in her parish, and three times at Berne.”

“But suppose you married in a foreign country?”

“If a Swiss marries in a foreign country, and has no debts to prevent his marrying, he must write home to the heads of the commune, stating his intention, and his banns will then be published in the commune, and a license sent him to marry. But if, having debts of your own or your father’s, you marry without giving notice, you are then no longer belonging to the commune, and if you come back in distress, you will be conveyed to the confines of the republic, and advised to seek the parish of your wife in her country. If you are out of Switzerland with your wife, every child that you have born you must give notice of by letter to the commune, that it may be properly registered; and if you omit so doing, those children have no claim on their return.”

Such was the result of our conversation, and I repeat it for the benefit of those who occupy themselves with our internal legislation.

I have been searching a long while for liberty, but I can find her nowhere on this earth: let me be allegorical. If all the world are still in love with the name of Liberty, how much more were all the world in love with the nymph herself when she first made her appearance on earth. Every one would possess her, and every one made the attempt, but Liberty was not to be caught. How was it possible without her destruction? After being harassed all over the world, and finding that she never was allowed to take breath, she once more fled from her pursuers, and, as they seized her garments, with the spring of the chamois she burst away, and bounding from the world, saved herself in Ether, where she remains to this day. Her dress was, however, left behind, and was carried home in triumph. It is, however, composed of such slippery materials as its former owner, and it escapes as it pleases from one party to another. It is this dress of Liberty which we now reverence as the goddess herself, and whatever is clothed with it for the time receives the same adoration as would have been offered up to the true shrine. Even Despotism, when in a very modest mood, will clothe herself in the garb of Liberty.

Now there is really a sort of petty despotism in these free cantons, which would be considered very offensive in England. What would an English farmer say, if he was told that he could not commence his harvest without the permission of Government? Yet such is the case in Switzerland, where there is a heavy fine if any one commences his vintage before the time prescribed by the authorities. Your grapes may be ripe, and be spoiled; you have to choose between that alternative, or paying a fine, which reduces your profits to nil. The reason given for this is that there are so many petty proprietors holding half and quarter acres of vineyards mixed together and not separated by a wall or fence, that if one began first he would rob the vineyard of the other—not arguing much for the Swiss honesty, which has become so proverbial.

The case of the vintage laws is peculiarly hard this season upon the small proprietors. The vintage has been late, and winter has now set in, all at once. After weather like summer, we are now deep in snow, and the thermometer below the freezing point. Few of the small proprietors have wine-presses; they have to wait until those who have them have got in their vintage, and then they borrow them. The consequence is, that the small proprietors are always the last to gather their grapes, and now they have been overtaken by the weather, and they will lose most of their harvest. Had they been permitted to pick their grapes at their own time, they might have used the presses, and have finished before the large vineyards had commenced.

From the inquiries I have made, it appears that the vineyards of Switzerland pay very badly. Land is at a very high price here, in the Canton de Vaud; 300 or 400 pounds per acre is not thought dear (600 pounds have been given); and in the best seasons a vineyard will not yield 10 pounds per acre. The wine is very indifferent, and requires to be kept for years to become tolerable.

But the Swiss are wedded to their vineyards; and although, if they laid down the land in pasture, they would gain twice as much, they prefer the speculation of the wine-press, which fails at least three times out of four.

The office of public executioner or Jack Ketch of a canton in Switzerland, as well as in many parts of Germany, is very appropriately endowed. He has a right to all animals who die a natural death, with their skins, hoofs, etcetera, and this, it is said, brings in a fair revenue, if attended to. Executions are so uncommon in Switzerland, that Jack Ketch would starve if he was not thus associated with death. When an execution does take place he is well paid; they say the sum he receives is upwards of twenty pounds; but it must be remembered that he does not hang, he decapitates, and this requires some address: the malefactor is seated in a chair, not laid down with his head on the block.

An execution took place at Berne when I was last in Switzerland; the criminal, after he was seated in the chair, was offered a cup of coffee, and as he was drinking it, the executioner, with one blow of his heavy sword, struck his head clear off; for a second or two the blood flew up like a fountain: the effect was horrid.

An Englishman at Lausanne had a very favourite Newfoundland dog, which died. He was about to bury it, when the executioner interfered and claimed the skin; and it was not until he had submitted to the demands of this official gentleman, that he was permitted to bury his favourite in a whole skin. Only imagine, half a dozen old dowagers of Park Lane, whose puffy lap-dogs were dead in their laps, bargaining for their darlings with Jack Ketch, because they wish to have them stuffed; and Jack’s extortion raising his demands, in proportion to the value apparently placed upon the defunct favourites. Talking about lap-dogs, one of the best stories relative to these creatures is to be found in Madame de Crequey’s Memoirs. A Madame de Blot, a French dandysette, if the term may be used, who considered her own sex as bound to be ethereal, and would pretend that the wing of a lark was more than sufficient for her sustenance during the twenty-four hours, had one of the smallest female spaniels that was ever known. She treated her like a human being, and when she went out to a party, used to desire her lady’s maid to read the animal a comedy in five acts, to amuse it during her absence. It so happened that a fat priest, who was anxious for the protection of Madame de Blot, called to pay his respects. Madame de Blot made a sign to him, without speaking, to take his seat upon a large fauteuil. No sooner had the priest lowered down his heavy carcass into the chair, than he felt something struggling under him, and a little recollection told him that it must be the little spaniel. That it was all over with the spaniel was clear, and that if her mistress had discovered his accident, it was equally clear that it was all over with him, as far as the patronage of Madame de Blot was concerned. The priest showed a remarkable degree of presence of mind upon this trying occasion. He rose himself up a little from his chair and plumped down, so as to give the poor little spaniel her coup de grâce, and then entered into conversation with Madame de Blot. During the conversation he contrived by degrees to cram the dog, tail and all, into his capacious coat pockets. As soon as it was fairly out of sight, he rose, bade adieu to Madame de Blot, and backed out of the room with as great respect as if he was in the presence of royalty, much to the satisfaction of Madame de Blot, who was delighted at such homage, and little thought why the good priest would not turn his back to her. The story says, that the Madame de Blot never could find out what had become of her little dog.

Chapter Forty.

Lausanne.

What a continual strife there is between literary men! I can only compare the world of authors to so many rats drowning in a tub, forcing each other down to raise themselves, and keep their own heads above water. And yet they are very respectable, and a very useful body of men, also, in a politico-economical sense of the word, independent of the advantages gained by their labours, by the present and the future; for their capital is nothing except brains, and yet they contrive to find support for themselves and thousands of others. It is strange when we consider how very few, comparatively speaking, are the number of authors, how many people are supported by them.

There are more than a thousand booksellers and publishers in the three kingdoms, all of whom rent more than a thousand houses, paying rent and taxes; support more than a thousand families, and many thousand clerks, as booksellers alone. Then we have to add the paper manufacturers, the varieties of bookbinders, printing-ink manufacturers, iron pens, and goose quills. All of which are subservient to and dependent upon these comparatively few heads.

What a train an author has! unfortunately for him it is too long. There are too many dependent upon him, and, like some potentates, the support of his state eats his whole revenue, leaving him nothing but bread and cheese and fame. Some French writer has said, “La littérature est le plus noble des loisirs, mais le dernier de tous les métiers;” and so it is, for this one reason, that according as an author’s wants are cogent, so he is pressed down by the publisher. Authors and publishers are natural enemies, although they cannot live without each other. If an author is independent of literature, and has a reputation, he bullies the publisher: he is right; he is only revenging the insults contumely heaped upon those whom the publishers know to be in their power, and obliged to submit to them. Well, every dog has his day, and the time will come when I and others, having swam too long, shall find younger and fresher competitors, who will, like the rats, climb on our backs, and we shall sink to the bottom of the tub of oblivion. Now, we must drive on with the stream; the world moves on so fast, that there is no stopping. In these times, “Si on n’avance pas, on recule.”

How the style of literature changes! Even now I perceive an alteration creeping on, which will last for a time. We are descending to the homely truth of Tenier’s pictures.

Every work of fiction now is “sketched from nature;” the palaces, the saloon, all the elegancies of high life are eschewed, and the middle and vulgar classes are the subjects of the pencil. But this will not last long. It is the satiety of refinement on the part of the public which for a short time renders the change palatable.

I was yesterday informed that a celebrated author wished to be introduced to me. I was ashamed to say that I had never heard his name. The introduction took place, and there was a sort of patronising air on the gentleman’s part, which I did not approve of. I therefore told him very frankly that I was not aware of the nature of his literary labours, and requested to know what were his works. He had abridged something, and he had written a commentary upon another thing!—just the employment fit for some old gentleman who likes still to puddle a little with ink. One could write a commentary upon any thing. One of my children is singing a nursery song, now I’ll write a commentary on it in the shape of notes:—

Pussy cat, pussy cat, where have you been? I’ve been to London to see the new queen. Pussy cat, pussy cat, what did you there? Hunted a titty mouse under the chair.

Now for a commentary:—

This simple nursery rhyme is in the familiar style of question and answer, which is always pleasing; and it is remarkable that two excellent moral lessons are to be found in so few words.

The child who sings it may be supposed to repeat the words without comprehending their full meaning; but although such may be the case, still it is most important that even the rhymes put into the infantine lips should afford an opportunity to those who watch over their welfare to point out to them on a proper occasion the instruction which they contain. In the first line, the term pussy cat may be considered tautological, as pussy and cat both refer to the same animal; but if so, it is allowable, as pussy may be considered as the christian name and cat as the surname of the animal. It is to be presumed that the cat addressed is young, for it evidently was at play, and old cats do not play. Otherwise it would not have been necessary to repeat her name, to call her attention to the question. The cat answers in few words, as if not wishing to be interrupted, that she has been to London to see the new queen. What queen of England may be referred to, it is impossible to positively ascertain; but as she says the new queen, we have a right to suppose that it must refer to the accession of a queen to the throne of England. We have here to choose between three,—Elizabeth, Mary, and Anne; and for many reasons, particularly as the two last were married, we are inclined to give the preference to the first, the word new having, for the sake of the metre, been substituted for virgin. Certain it is that a married woman cannot be considered as new, although she may not be old. We therefore adhere to our supposition that this rhyme was composed at the accession of the great Elizabeth. And here we may observe, that the old adage “that a cat may look at the king” is fully corroborated, for pussy says expressly that she has been to see the new queen, pointing out, that as the sun shines upon all alike, so the sun of royalty, in a well-administered government, will equally dispense its smiles upon all who approach to bask in them; and that even a cat is not considered as unworthy to look upon that gracious majesty who feels that it is called to rule over so many millions, for the purpose of making them happy.

It would appear as if the cat continued to play with her ball, or whatever else might have been its amusements, after having answered the first question; for, on the second question being put, her attention is obliged to be again roused by the repetition of her name. She is asked what she did there, and the reply is, that she hunted a titty mouse under the chair. There is a wonderful effect in this last line, which fully gives us at once the nature and disposition of the cat, and a very excellent moral lesson. The cat calls the mouse a titty mouse, a term of endearment applied to the very animal that she was putting in bodily fear. It is well known how cats will play with a mouse in the most graceful way; you would almost imagine, from the manner in which it is tossed so lightly and so elegantly, allowed to escape and then caught again, that it was playing with it in all amity, instead of prolonging its miseries and torturing it, previously to its ultimate destruction.

It is in reference to this peculiar character of the cat, that she is made to use the fond diminutive appellation of titty mouse.

The moral contained in this last line hardly needs to be pointed out to our intelligent readers. A cat goes to court, she enters the precincts of a palace, at last she is in the presence of royalty, not as usual in the kitchen, or the cellar, or the attics, or on the roofs, where cats do most congregate, but actually stands in the presence of royalty; and what does she do? Notwithstanding the awe which it may be naturally supposed she is inspired with, notwithstanding the probable presence of noble lords and ladies, forgetful of where she is, and in whose presence she stands, seeing a mouse under the chair, she can no longer control the powerful instincts of her nature; and forgetting that the object of her journey was to behold royalty, she no longer thinks of any thing but hunting the titty mouse under the chair. What a lesson is here taught to the juvenile sexes that we should never attempt to force ourselves above our proper situations in society, and that in so doing we soon prove how much we are out of our place, and how our former habits and pursuits will remain with us, and render us wholly unfit for a position to which we ought never to have aspired.

Chapter Forty One.

Lausanne.

After all, there is more sympathy in this world than we would suppose, and it is something to find that, in the turmoil and angry war of opinion and interest, nations as well as parties can lay down their weapons for a time, and offer one general and sincere tribute to genius. In these exciting times, we hear of revolutions in Spain and Portugal, deaths of crowned men, with indifference, but a shock as astounding as that of an earthquake in the city of Peru was felt throughout Europe when the numerous periodicals spread the unexpected intelligence that the gifted Malibran was no more, that in the fulness of her talent and her beauty, just commencing the harvest ripe and abundant, produced by years of unremitting labour, in which art had to perfect nature, she had been called away to the silent tomb, and that voice which has electrified so many thousands was mute for ever. Poor Malibran! she had had but a niggard portion of happiness in this world, although she procured so much pleasure to others. A brutal father, from whom she received but blows, who sold her to a dotard, who would have sold her again would she have consented! until her late marriage, toiling for others, without one object in the world on whom to throw her warm affections. I remember one day when we were talking of seasickness, I observed that the best remedy was beating the sufferer: she shook her head.

“No,” said she; “that will not cure it, or surely I should have been cured when I crossed the Atlantic with my father.”

Those who knew Malibran only as a performer did not know enough of her; they should have known her in society, and in domestic life. She was the ne plus ultra of genius in a woman; one moment all sunshine, the next a cloud would come over her expressive features; changeable as the wind, but in every change delightful, for she never disguised a thought. Six weeks—but six short weeks, and I saw her at Brussels at her country house, whither she had retired after the fatigues of the season. How impressive must be her death. Had she sickened and died at Brussels, the shock would have been great, for it is a shock when youth, beauty, and talent are so suddenly mowed down; but she died, as it were, on the stage. Admiring and applauding thousands had been listening to her magical powers, thousands more waiting to hear her at the other festivals; all eyes were upon her, all expectation upon tiptoe, when death, like a matador, comes in, strikes his victim, bows sarcastically to the audience, and retires. A thousand sermons, and ten thousand common deaths could not have produced so effective a moral lesson as the untimely fate of Malibran. There is but one parallel to it, and the effect of it was tremendous. It was that of Mr Huskisson, on the opening of the Manchester Railroad. This is the second homily read to the good people of Liverpool and Manchester. Peace be with her, although her body is not permitted to be at rest.

The more I see of the Swiss and Switzerland, the more is my opinion confirmed as to the strongest feature in the national character being that of avarice. The country is poetry, but the inhabitants are the prose of human existence. Not a chalet but looks as the abode of innocence and peace; but whether you scale the beetling rock, or pause upon the verdant turf which encircles their picturesque habitations, the demon appears like Satan in the garden of Eden. The infant, radiant as love, extends its little hand for money; the adult, with his keen grey eye, searches into you to ascertain in what manner he may overreach you. Avarice rules over the beautiful country of Helvetia.