“Oh, woman! lovely woman! Nature made ye to temper man—
We had been brutes without you.”
The road to Lausanne lies alongside the lake, through a delightful country abounding with vineyards, which produce the esteemed vin de la Côte. We passed through the little towns of Nyons, Rouge, and Morges, taking leave of our agreeable companions at the latter, and arriving at Lausanne between two and three o’clock in the afternoon. Before entering the town, we were amused with the economical ostentation of our driver, who threw off a shabby old travelling dress, and put on a fine red coat.
We found the Lion d’Or, to which we had been recommended, quite full; when recollecting that I had an old college friend, Dr. V⸺, residing at this place, we bent our steps to his house, with a view of requesting him to recommend us an hotel; accordingly he had the kindness to send his servant, to secure apartments at the Hotel D’Angleterre; at the same time insisting upon our dining with him. After dinner, Dr. V⸺ conducted us to the Jardin d’Arc, where a society of gentlemen archers assemble in the evening for their amusement: this is the spot from whence the panoramic view of Lausanne, lately exhibited in London, was taken.
On the following day we visited the cathedral, and walked over the town; the former is an ancient building, standing upon very high ground, but which by its commanding view, I am informed, fully repays the trouble of ascent.
In the evening we entered the circle literaire, an establishment furnished with a good library, and where the newspapers and many other periodical publications are taken in. One of the rules of this society is, that no stranger can be admitted twice.
On Friday the 27th, we set out at an early hour, in a carriage called a char, resembling a sofa placed lengthways on wheels, with a curtained canopy over head, and an apron below, to protect the traveller from the weather, to visit my friend R⸺, whom I have before mentioned both at Toulouse and Montpellier, and who had since taken a wife, and fixed himself near Vevay.
The road to Vevay throughout lies by the side of the lake, and is so narrow, being bounded by a wall on each side, that it is impossible that two carriages could pass each other. The sides of the mountains that bound the road on the left, and which are so steep as to appear inaccessible, are richly clothed with vineyards, artfully formed into terraces, rising in tiers, one above the other. These terraces are formed by strong and high stone walls, which preserve the soil from shelving down, and are ascended by flights of steps. The vineyards thus formed, are exposed to frequent injuries, and often to utter destruction, by the rapid impulse of the mountain torrents descending from above, and which occasionally sweep away wall, terrace, and vines, in one indiscriminate ruin. These natural visitations are, however, borne by the Swiss peasant with resignation; and notwithstanding he may have lost the whole harvest of his hopes, he immediately applies himself, to repair the injury, burying the past in the anticipation of the future.
On arriving at Vevay, we found my friend on the look out for us, and were immediately conducted to his house two miles beyond the town, and introduced to his lady. After breakfast he took us to the famous prison of Chillon, the subject of one of Lord Byron’s eccentric poems, and which was three miles distant. Here, in the year 1530, the patriot Bonnivard was doomed, by the duke of Savoy, to a confinement of six years, in one of its most dismal dungeons.