George Ticknor, Life, letters and journals of George Ticknor
George Hillard, Ed.

[156] shows his wealth only in his hospitality, his fine library, and the good use he makes of his leisure; and what perhaps is an instance absolutely unique in the world, M. de la Rive, the chief magistrate of the state, and a man of fortune, is a very distinguished chemist, and actually gives lectures on the science as sedulously and thoroughly as if he were earning his bread by it. This is really not an unfair specimen of the state of letters in Geneva, where they certainly form the first caste in society, and where no man can hope to distinguish himself in private intercourse, or even in the state, without being to a certain degree a literary or scientific man. A man who is either of these needs nothing else to procure him estimation and deference. I do not believe there is another city of twenty-five thousand inhabitants in Europe or America of which this could be said.

But I forget my story. Five days ago I went to see Mont Blanc and the great glacier of Chamouni. I dare not attempt to tell you what I saw and felt in these strange solitudes, where the genius and power of ages and generations might be wasted in vain to obliterate or change the awful features of nature, or divert or disturb her more awful operations. The Falls of Niagara, where one sea precipitates itself into another, may surpass it; but I have never seen Niagara, and the Mer de Glace remains solitary in my recollections of the stupendous works and movements of nature.

Farewell, my dear father and mother,—farewell from the beautiful shores of the Lake of Geneva; from the birthplace of Rousseau, and the tomb of Mad. de Stael; and what is more, from the country made classical by the traces their genius has everywhere left in it.

Day after to-morrow, Brooks and I set forth for Venice and Cogswell.

Dictated, 1854.

One of the persons who was kindest to me in Geneva was M. de Bonstetten, of an old Bernese family much valued in Switzerland, whose correspondence with Gray the poet has been published, and who seemed to bring me into relations with the times of Gray and those of Madame de Stael, to whose family I owed my introduction to him.

He was seventy-two years old at this time, but very fond of society, and mingled much with it. His appearance was very venerable, but, for his age, his vivacity was remarkable. Among his kindnesses to me, he drove me one afternoon to see M. Huber at his country-place, where he lived through the year, and which was prettily laid