“Yesterday, September 17th, I set out with Mr. Hobhouse on an excursion of some days to the mountains.
“Rose at five; left Diodati about seven, in one of the country carriages (a char-à-banc), our servants on horseback. Weather very fine; the lake calm and clear; Mont Blanc and the Aiguille of Argentières both very distinct; the borders of the lake beautiful. Reached Lausanne before sunset; stopped and slept at ——. Went to bed at nine; slept till five o’clock.
“Called by my courier; got up. Hobhouse walked on before. A mile from Lausanne, the road overflowed by
the lake; got on horseback and rode till within a mile of Vevay. The colt young, but
went very well. Overtook Hobhouse, and resumed the carriage, which
is an open one. Stopped at Vevay two hours (the second time I had visited it); walked to
the church; view from the churchyard superb; within it General Ludlow (the regicide’s) monument—black marble—long
inscription—Latin, but simple; he was an exile two-and-thirty years—one of King Charles’s judges. Near him Broughton (who read King
Charles’s sentence to Charles Stuart) is
buried, with a queer and rather canting, but still a republican, inscription.
Ludlow’s house shown; it retains still its
inscription—‘Omne solum forti patria.’
Walked down to the Lake side; servants, carriage, saddle-horses—all set off and left us plantés là, by some mistake, and we walked on after them towards Clarens;
Hobhouse ran on before, and overtook them at last. Arrived the
second time (first time was by water) at Clarens. Went to Chillon through scenery worthy
of I know not whom; went over the Castle of Chillon again. On our return met an English
party in a carriage; a lady in it fast asleep—fast asleep in the most anti-narcotic spot
in the world—excellent! I remember at Chamouni, in the very eyes of Mont Blanc, hearing
another woman, English also, exclaim to her party, ‘Did you ever see any thing
more rural?’—as if it was Highgate, or Hampstead, or
| A. D. 1816. | LIFE OF LORD BYRON. | 15 |
“After a slight and short, dinner we visited the Chateau de Clarens; an Englishwoman has rented it recently (it was not let when I saw it first); the roses are gone with their summer; the family out, but the servants desired us to walk over the interior of the mansion. Saw on the table of the saloon Blair’s Sermons and somebody else (I forget who’s) sermons, and a set of noisy children. Saw all worth seeing, and then descended to the ‘Bosquet de Julie,’ &c. &c.; our guide full of Rousseau, whom he is eternally confounding with St. Preux, and mixing the man and the book. Went again as far as Chillon to revisit the little torrent from the hill behind it. Sunset reflected in the lake. Have to get up at five to-morrow to cross the mountains on horseback; carriage to be sent round; lodged at my old cottage—hospitable and comfortable; tired with a longish ride on the colt, and the subsequent jolting of the char-à-banc, and my scramble in the hot sun.
“Mem. The corporal who showed the wonders of Chillon was as drunk as Blucher, and (to my mind) as great a man; he was deaf also, and thinking every one else so, roared out the legends of the castle so fearfully that H. got out of humour.—However, we saw things from the gallows to the dungeons (the potence and the cachots), and returned to Clarens with more freedom than belonged to the fifteenth century.
