The environs of Lausanne are almost equally attractive with those of Geneva, but the latter were impressed upon my memory in such bright and bewitching colours, that I could never think any other part of Switzerland quite so delightful.
We quitted Lausanne, Sept. 19, for Berne. Our road still led us through beauties innumerable. On the right was the lake, once more expanded into a breadth like the ocean, bounded, as usual, by mountains. On the left were vineyards, gardens, and hamlets. The grape ripens later here than in France, but is equally luxuriant and delicious in flavour. We frequently passed so near the glowing clusters of this tempting fruit, that we might easily have gathered as many as we chose from the windows of the carriage. There was a wonderfully fine growth of walnut trees also, stretching their long branches for many yards over the water. They are in such quantities that oil is made from the nut, for purposes of the commonest use.
We again saw part of the romantic rocks of Meillerie, so celebrated by Rousseau. We had been reading his _Nouvelle Heloise_ for the last few days (as we were passing through the same scenes which are so beautifully depicted there), and felt as if these rocks were our old acquaintance. I always feel, in reading his works, ready to exclaim,
A literary friend (in a long conversation which we had upon the subject of this author) thought better of his Julie (as a single woman) than I did, or ever can; but we perfectly agreed in admiration of her conduct as a wife and mother, mistress of a family, &c. The lessons of morality (which she there exhibits) are beyond every thing beautiful and impressive; but I never can forgive the disingenuousness of her conduct in consenting to marry Monsieur de Wolmar, without having previously told him her past story. All the reasonings, the arguments, the chain of entangling circumstances, which Rousseau has contrived to justify her for not doing so, I think false, perverted, and totally unsatisfactory.
The costume of the peasants in this neighbourhood is not at all remarkable, except for their straw hats, which are universally of the gipsy shape, with a very high crown, ending in a point like a Chinese pagoda, or the top of a parasol. We took a _dejeuné_ at Vevay, and went in a boat upon the lake, to view the Chateau de Chillon somewhat nearer than we had hitherto been able to do. The beauty of Lord Byron's affecting Tale of its Prisoner returned strongly upon my imagination. I certainly prefer his picture of Captivity to that of Sterne in the Sentimental Journey. It appears to me to be equally touching, and far more sublime. One or two of the minor incidents may probably have been founded upon the legends of the Bastile; but Byron's powerful genius stamps every line with the character of originality.