Bouquet of lilies and roses, which I have had in my room
all day.
To-night, after sunset, we rowed to Byron's "little isle," the only
one in the lake. O, the unutterable beauty of these mountains - great,
purple waves, as if they had been dashed up by a mighty tempest,
crested with snow-like foam! this purple sky, and crescent moon, and
the lake gleaming and shimmering, and twinkling stars, while far off
up the sides of a snow-topped mountain a light shines like a star -
some mountaineer's candle, I suppose.
In the dark stillness we rowed again over to Chillon, and paused under
its walls. The frogs were croaking in the moat, and we lay rocking on
the wave, and watching the dusky outlines of the towers and turrets.
Then the spirit of the scene seemed to wrap me round like a cloak.
Back to Geneva again. This lovely place will ever leave its image on
my heart. Mountains embrace it. Strength and beauty are its
habitation. The Saleve is a peculiar looking mountain, striped with
different strata of rock, which have a singular effect in the hazy
distance; so is the Mole, with its dark marked outline, looking
blacker in clear weather, from being set against the snow mountains
beyond.
There is one peculiarity about the outline of Mont Blanc, as seen from
Geneva, which is quite striking. There is in certain positions the
profile of a gigantic head visible, lying with face upturned to the
sky. Mrs. F. was the first to point it out to me, calling it a head of
Napoleon. Like many of these fanciful profiles, I was some time in
learning to see it; and after that it became to me so plain that I
wondered I had not seen it before. I called it not Napoleon, however,
but as it gained on my imagination, lying there so motionless, cold,
and still, I thought of Prometheus on Mount Caucasus; it seemed as if,
his sorrows ended, he had sunk at last to a dreamless sleep on that
snowy summit. This sketch may, perhaps, give you some faint idea of
how such an outline might be formed in one's imagination.
[Illustration: _of Mont Blanc in the distance._]
We walked out the other evening, with M. Fazy, to a beautiful place,
where Servetus was burned. Soft, new-mown meadow grass carpets it, and
a solemn amphitheatre of mountains, glowing in the evening sky, looked
down - Mont Blanc, the blue-black Mole, the Saleve! Never was deed done
in a more august presence chamber! Ere this these two may have
conferred together of the tragedy, with far other thoughts than then.
The world is always unjust to its progressive men. If one fragment of
past absurdity cleaves to them, they celebrate the absurdity as a
personal peculiarity. Hence we hear so much of Luther's controversial
harshness, of Calvin's burning Servetus, and of the witch persecutions
of New England.
Luther was the poet of the reformation, and Calvin its philosopher.
Luther fused the mass, Calvin crystallized. He who fuses makes the
most sensation in his day; he who crystallizes has a longer and wider
power. Calvinism, in its essential features, never will cease from the
earth, because the great fundamental facts of nature are Calvinistic,
and men with strong minds and wills always discover it. The
predestination of a sovereign will is written over all things. The old
Greek tragedians read it, and expressed it. So did Mahomet, Napoleon,
Cromwell. Why? They found it so by their own experience; they tried
the forces of nature enough to find their strength. The strong swimmer
who breasts the Rhone is certain of its current. But Ranke well said,
that in those days when the whole earth was in arms against these
reformers, they had no refuge except in exalting God's sovereignty
above all other causes. To him who strives in vain with the giant
forces of evil, what calm in the thought of an overpowering will, so
that will be crowned by goodness! However grim, to the distrusting,
looks this fortress of sovereignty in times of flowery ease, yet in
times when "the waters roar and are troubled, and the mountains shake
with the swelling thereof," it has been always the refuge of God's
people. All this I say, while I fully sympathize with the causes which
incline many fine and beautiful minds against the system.
The wife of De Wette has twice called upon me - a good, plain,
motherly, pious old lady as any in Andover. She wanted me to visit her
daughter, who, being recently deprived of her only little girl, has
since been wholly lost to life. The only thing in which she expressed
any interest was Uncle Tom's Cabin, and she was earnestly desiring to
see me. So I went. I found Mrs. De Wette in a charming saloon, looking
out upon the botanic gardens. A very beautiful picture of a young lady
hung on the wall. "That _was_ my poor Clara," said Mrs. De
Wette, "but she is so altered now!"
After a while Clara came in, and I was charmed at a glance - a most
lovely creature, in deep mourning, with beautiful manners; so much
interested for the poor slaves! so full of feeling, inquiring so
anxiously what she could do for them!
"Do ministers ever hold slaves?" she said.
"0, yes; many."
"0! But how can they be Christians?"
"They reason in this way," said I; "they say, 'These people are not
fit to take care of themselves; therefore we must hold them, and
educate them, till they are fit to be free.'"
"I wish," said she, looking very pretty and fierce, "that they might
all be sold themselves, and see how they would like it."
Her husband, who speaks only French, now asked what we were talking
about, and she repeated the conversation.
