SUMMER SKETCHES IN SWITZERLAND.

BY MISS COSTELLO.

I KNOW not why it should be, but it certainly always happens with me that any place with which I feel particularly well acquainted by means of pictures and descriptions, comes upon my eye as altogether a stranger. It was so with Venice, whose charms are far beyond all I had imagined and been led to imagine, and now I found that Chillon was as new to me as if I had not seen countless drawings of its towers, and the beautiful waters from which they rise.

The castle of Chillon, like all Swiss castles, has lost a great deal of its exterior romantic beauty, having been much rebuilt to make it habitable. The heavy round towers, with their pointed roofs, are, however, not without a certain grace; the strong machicolated walls and turrets are well and firmly built, and the carved ornamental work is still sharp and fine.

I crossed the slight wooden bridge over the corner of the lake, and was admitted to the court by a good-tempered lounging warder. The chief care of this officer seemed a favourite cat, whose gambols he was encouraging. He accompanied us through the chambers of the castle, and became eloquent in the right, or rather the wrong place, for his incessant information, oracularly delivered, was, it must be confessed, particularly destructive of sentimental enjoyment in the immortal dungeon where the feet of Bonivard,

"Have left a trace,"

not less than the undying memory of the prisoner and his sons, whose individual pillar, of course, one naturally insists on recognising.

The name of Byron is nearly effaced from the column on which he scratched it, it is the third of the seven; but that of the illustrious poet, Victor Hugo, is conspicuous on the fourth.

in such company?

"What business has it there,"

As the dimness of the dungeon wears away, when the eye becomes accustomed to it, a fine effect is slowly developed, which the struggling light, streaming in from the barred window, produces. The cheering rays play upon the paved floor, and twine round the finely-carved capitals of the supporting pillars; but, when captives were here confined the darkness was probably not so dispelled, for the bars were thicker, and the gloom was more intense.

The chapel is in excellent repair, and parts extremely well restored; it reminded me in its form and architecture of the beautiful chapel of the Beaumanoirs, near Dinan in Brittany, so elegant are the slight pillars, and the vaulted ceiling. There is a door, now blocked up, which led, by a private stair, to the chamber of the redoubted lord of the castle in former days, Count Pierre, called Le Petit Charlemagne, who is said to have completed the building in 1238. His room is as much like a dungeon as that in which his prisoners were placed; but the great lords of those days do not appear to have been very much like "carpet

knights." It assuredly required much tapestry, and a great many rushes, to make a comfortable boudoir for lord or lady out of rough stone cells, with walls twelve feet thick, and windows of extreme minuteness.

We followed the guide, now reinforced by his lively young wife, who was very communicative, to a most dismal spot, which they showed as the burial-place of Count Pierre, who seemed to hold a high place in their regard.

We found ourselves, after groping along several dark passages, and descending a flight of steps, in a vaulted chamber, the floor of which is much decayed, and the stones overgrown with dank grass: beneath this is a large vault, which was the receptacle of the family's dead in bygone times; and here Le Petit Charlemagne's bones were laid: whether they remain there still is probably unknown, as much so as himself or his deeds.

The grande salle of the castle is a splendid chamber, with pretty, ancient, pointed windows in pairs, supported by slight, graceful pillars, and having in the embrasures stone seats, from one of which I looked out upon the beautiful lake glowing with burnished gold, crimson, and purple, as the magnificent sunset sent the scene through all its dolphin changes,

The fireplace of this room is fine, and the groups of small pillars on each side of it very beautiful.

In a lower salle, also with fine ranges of windows, is exhibited a torture-pillar, which suggests hideous imaginings. It is fearfully close to the probably daily inhabited rooms, and the groans of the sufferer must have been awfully distinct in the ears of the lords, knights, and retainers, who, "in the good times of old," were perhaps carousing close by.

Tippoo Saib was accustomed at his banquets to indulge in the luxury of a sort of barrel-organ of a peculiar construction, which imitated the groans of a tiger, and the shrieks of a British soldier whom the beast was devouring as represented, the size of life, by this singular instrument of music.* Count Pierre, the lord of Chillon, was apparently content with Nature in all her unassisted force, and, as he sat at meat, enjoyed his victim's groans fully as much as the semblance of them pleased the mind of the Eastern tyrant.

The roof of the hall is of fine carved wood-work, and in this spacious chamber are collected the arms of the Canton in formidable array. The garrison of the castle, for it is a military depôt, consists at present of four soldiers, whose duty does not seem very distressing, for three of them were out on business, or seeking amusement, and the hero remaining at home to guard the fortress, we found busy picking a sallad for the daily meal, as he sat on the parapet of the drawbridge, with his legs dangling over the wall, by no means in a state of hostile preparation.

On our return to Vevey we met another of the garrison, heavily laden with viands which he was carrying to the castle, no doubt having duly provided for the chances of a siege.

The kitchen, which once was put in requisition for a somewhat more formidable party, is a spacious place, with fine pillars, and a gigantic fire-place.

* It is to be seen at the Museum of the India House.

The oubliette is, of course, not forgotten: a horrible hole is still shown, which one looks cautiously down, with shuddering and loathing. It is fifty feet deep, and sufficiently secure to prevent the refractory from giving any more trouble to those who caused them to be transferred from the torture-pillar to this resting-place, where they need

"Fear no more the heat of the sun."

Our guide and his lively wife had a dispute, though they must have told their story often before, about the actual depth of the lake. One said it was four hundred, the other insisted upon the fact of its being eight hundred feet deep. As they were very warm on the subject, I contented myself with repeating the lines of the poet, with which I was quite satisfied, in every way.

"Lake Leman lies by Chillon's walls:

A thousand feet in depth below
Its massy waters meet and flow:
Thus much the fathom-line was sent

From Chillon's snow-white battlement."

Murray says the lake is here only two hundred and eighty feet in depth : all I cared for I beheld, that it was deep, and blue, and clear, and lovely: "A mirror and a bath for beauty's youngest daughters."

The deathless island, with its "three tall trees," rose out of the transparent waters, like a beacon pointing to a spot of glory: to me it seemed that the whole scene, lake, islands, castle, mountains, shore, belong to England, through one of her most unapproachably gifted bards, before whose sun the whole host of scattered stars troop away, and are remembered only in his absence.

It appears to my enthusiasm to be as useless to compare any other poet of the day, however good, with Byron and Moore, as it would be to name any of the minor mountains, splendid though they be, with Mont Blanc.

Our drive back to Vevey was much more agreeable than our approach to Chillon in the bright and betraying sunlight all the villages looked vulgar, flaring, and dirty, and the hot stone walls white and weary; but now that the day was fast declining there was a soft grey tint spread over every object, and the deep shadows gave much beauty to the scene. No one in travelling should venture to judge of any appearance that meets the eye on a first view, the second appreciation is generally that which does most justice.

I had thought the greatest part of the road ugly on my way, and now all seemed changed into grace and beauty. Countless stars were scattered over an intensely blue sky; flashes of harmless summer lightning revealed the distant peaks, and played over the surface of the wide calm lake; and, as it grew yet darker, the lights in the villages of the opposite shore sparkled and flickered, like glow-worms in the grass. A huge furnace at Meillerie threw up its broad flames into the gloom, and its bright red reflection cast down into the dark waters at its feet, produced a singularly wild and startling effect, as if a solemn sacrifice were going on in honour of the "spirit of the place."

That night at Vevey was magnificent, and most enjoyable did I find the charming room I occupied in the finest of all possible hotels on the

edge of the glorious lake. I had so often, during my rambles this summer, luxuriated in the splendours of

"Night with all her stars,"

that this was only one of a series of enjoyments which I fully appreciated, and, although the Lake of Como is, in my mind, unique in love liness, yet it has certainly a powerful rival in Lake Leman; and, though by day the latter, except when Mont Blanc is visible, is not equal, yet at night it may compete with the most charming spot in the world.

From Vevey the whole drive to Geneva is a garden all bloom, riches, and luxuriance, improving as the great town of the lake is approached: in the neighbourhood of Lausanne the scenery is beautiful, and, scattered in all directions are such charming country houses that they seemed to throw into shade all my memories of delightful English residences.

On the banks of this famous lake are sites unequalled probably in Europe, for where besides can be beheld a whole range of glorious mountains, with their monarch rising above all, their feet in the blue waters, and their snowy heads in the sky? And in the midst of majestic scenes like this exists rural beauty in all its pastoral perfection,-parks, lawns, and meadows,-gardens, groves, and glades, all combining to make the poetical Lake of Geneva the beau ideal of the romancer and the painter.

The cathedral of Lausanne has an imposing appearance, and possesses several features of interest, and the walks and terraces surrounding the town are all delightfully situated.

I strained my eyes to discover, below the road on the borders of the lake, the little inn at Ouchy, where Byron is said to have written rapidly his affecting "Prisoner of Chillon:" the new road does not descend to the lake, as was the case formerly.

There is a venerable, gloomy-looking castle at Morges, said to have been built by that mysterious lady, Queen Bertha, of whom historians and poets have recorded both good and evil, and whose real story, and even existence, is by no means clearly designated.

We paused at Coppet, and, guided by an animated and talkative old woman, went up to the house, and walked about the formal grounds; but there was no means of seeing the cemetery in a grove where Neckar and his daughter lie enshrined. The house is in good repair, and neatly kept, the floors of beautiful inlaid wood, and the furniture extremely simple. Madame de Staël herself never cared about the repairs or beautifying of her abode; she only professed to have an excellent cook and plenty of room for her friends. Her hospitality was genuine, and her heart all warmth and kindness: her memory seems tenderly cherished by all those to whom she was known. Our old guide was very mysterious in her hints about Benjamin Constant, Madame Recamier, and several other accustomed guests, and told us a variety of stories of her having been employed to convey billets from one to the other of the devoted friends of Coppet, concluding every anecdote with exclamations in praise of the unbounded generosity, kindness, and goodness of " la meilleure des femmes et des maîtresses."

The well-known portrait of Madame de Staël by David hangs in the principal room, together with that of her father by Gérard, and a very interesting likeness of her mother, who was a pretty woman, by an artist whose name seems forgotten. The desk and

inkstand of Corinne are shown; but they are no longer in the study where she was accustomed to write, which is a circumstance to be regretted indeed, it struck me that there was more of the lovely Recamier at Coppet than of her distinguished friend, who declared that she would give all her genius for the other's beauty, so inconsistent is human reason and wisdom. The chamber occupied by the admired lady is still decked in its faded tapestry, and one almost expects to see her scantily clothed form glide forth from some nook shrouded by brocade curtains. An immense tulip-tree waves its large leaves at the entrance of the garden court, and a luxuriant clematis has climbed all over the iron gates and rails, throwing its perfumed wreaths on every ornamental projection. There is no beauty in the architecture of the house, nor are the grounds attractive; but there is quiet, and repose, and a pleasant memory, lingering round, that makes an hour pass deliciously in the haunts where the inimitable Corinne regretted Paris, and charmed her guests.

We were much amused by our chattering and communicative guide drawing us aside as we entered the house after strolling with her, and as she handed us over to a housekeeper whose department was the interior, "Prenez bien garde," said she winking significantly, " de ne pas même prononcer le nom de Benjamin Constant ici, car ja jaseuse que voici se formerait l'idée que j'ai été tant soit peu babillarde à l'égard de cette pauvre chère madame. Moi, qui ne parle jamais des affaires d'autrui. Ces sortes de gens ne sont pas a même de comprendre la delicatesse de l'amitié, voyez vous."

Poor Corinne! the petty scandals of a village, or a world, can annoy her no more, and none of those who shared her counsels and her affections are left to be affected by tales which have ceased to gratify rivals, or interest admirers.

I can conceive few situations more agreeable than to have obtained, as we did at Geneva, good apartments overlooking the lake, at the handsome Hôtel des Bergues, which is one of the best of the good which abound in Switzerland. When it became quite dark in the evening, the clear water, and the ranges of bright lights along the shore reminded me strongly of the Canale Grande at Venice, and it was difficult for any thing to be more enjoyable than the spot and the moment.

I understood that Mont Blanc had not been visible for some time; to us it had not yet appeared throughout our journey in its neighbourhood, and I trembled that, like many a traveller, I should be forced to leave Geneva without a glimpse of the giant form which sometimes shows itself clearly for weeks, and at others is shrouded in impenetrable clouds, as it was now. I entreated to be awakened if at daybreak the monarch deigned to appear, and, having left my curtains open in expectation, I was able to sleep.

The next morning, however, was dim and unpromising; and though the sun became bright and powerful during the day, yet the canopy of clouds which veiled the distance did not disperse, and I was fain to turn away my eyes from the space between the Mole and Mont Salève, where the haughty sovereign of these regions-was not.

But, even though Mont Blanc is invisible, there is much round Geneva to compensate in some degree for his proud sullenness. First, there is the purple Rhone, with sparkling waters, so rich in colour, and so impetuous in career, that it yields to no river in Europe.

Furious and wild rush along the headlong waves, as if the whole city