The Life and Letters of Maria Edgeworth, vol 2 | Page 4

truth. At this moment the
servant announced a stranger, "Monsieur Rumford," the name sounded
like as the man pronounced it, and they thought it was Count Rumford
come to life. M. Prevost went out and returned with Mr. Dornford, one
of the Englishmen who had been of Dr. Hamel's party, who came, he
said, to beg permission to state the plain facts, as he heard they had
been told to Dr. Hamel's disadvantage. He, Dr. Hamel, Mr. Henderson,
and M. Lelleque, a French naturalist, set out: the guides had not
dissuaded them from attempting to go up Mont Blanc--only advised
them to wait till a threatening cloud had passed. When it was gone,
they all set out in high spirits; the guides cutting holes in the snow for
their feet. This it is supposed loosened the snow newly fallen, and a
quantity poured down over their heads. Mr. Dornford had pushed on
before the guides; he shook off the snow as it fell, and felt no
apprehension: on the contrary, he laughed as he pawed it away, and

was making his way on, when he heard a cry from his companions, and
looking back he saw some of them struggling in the snow. He helped to
extricate them, saw a point moving in the snow, went to it, and pulled
out Marie Coutay, one of the guides: he was quite purple, but recovered
in the air. Looked round--two guides were missing: looked for them in
vain, but saw a deep ravine covered with fresh snow, into which they
must have fallen.
To MRS. RUXTON. LAUSANNE, _Sept 14, 1820_.
Ages ago I promised myself the pleasure of dating a letter from
Lausanne to my dear aunt, and now that I am at the place of which I
have so often heard her speak, which I have so often wished to see, I
can hardly believe it is not a dream. A fortnight ago we were here,
returning from our tour through les Petits Cantons; but at that time we
could not enjoy anything, as we had heard from Sneyd, whom we met
at Interlaken, of Lucy's [Footnote: Youngest daughter of the fourth Mrs.
Edgeworth.] terrible illness. What a comfort to my mother to think that
she was saved by your Sophy's steadiness and presence of mind, and by
Lovell's decision and Crampton's skill and kindness!
Yesterday we began our tour round the Lake of Geneva--Dumont,
Fanny, Harriet, and I--in one of the carriages of the country, a mixture
of a sociable and an Irish jingle, with some resemblance to a hearse,
from a covered top on iron poles, which keeps off the sun. It was late
when we arrived here, and so dark, with only a few lamps strung across
the street here and there, we could scarcely see the forms of the great
black horses scrambling and struggling up the almost perpendicular
streets. How could you ever have borne it, my dear aunt? You must
have been in perpetual fear of your life! Lord Bellamont's description
of the county of Cavan--all acclivity and declivity, without any
intervention of horizontality--I am sure applies to Lausanne. I am sure
travelled horses from all parts of the world say to each other when they
meet in the stable, "Were you ever at Lausanne? Don't you hate
Lausanne? How could men build a town in such a place? What asses!
And how provoking, while we are breaking our backs, to hear them
talking of picturesque beauty! I should like to see how they would look

if we let them slip, and roll down these picturesque situations!"
Lausanne is, nevertheless, so full that we could scarcely find room; and
after Dumont and his servant had gone back and forward to Le Faucon,
the Lion d'or, Les Balances, etc. etc., all full to the garrets, we were
thankful at finding ourselves in the worst inn's worst room, where,
however, the beds were clean and good. We are not grumblers, so we
drank coffee and were all very happy; and while the rooms were
preparing Dumont read to us a pretty little French piece, _Le faux
Savant!_
_Sept. 15_.
Our first object this morning was to see Madame de Montolieu, the
author of Caroline de Lichfield, to whom I had a letter of introduction.
She was not at Lausanne, we were told, but at her country house,
Bussigny, about a league and a half from the town. We had a delicious
fine morning, and through romantic lanes and up and down hills, till we
found ourselves in the middle of a ploughed field, when the coachman's
pride of ignorance had to give up, and he had to beg his way to
Bussigny, a village of scattered Swiss cottages high upon rocks, with
far-spreading prospects below. In the court of