SEVENTH STATION.
In Geneva—Countess de Gasparin—Merle d'Aubigné. The Arve and Rhone—Mont Salève—The Hero of the Scene—Visit to the Workshops of Watch-makers—Women's Work—A Female Worker—Churches and Ecclesiastical Affairs—Intellectual Life—Geneva, the Paradise of Unmarried Women—Calvin's “Institutions”—Jargonaut—“The Living Water”—Domestic Life—A New Flower—An Old Calvinist—Old and New Geneva.
An old author writes; “Geneva had become the rendezvous of reform, its Rome, its Jerusalem. And when the pilgrims coming through the pass of the Alps or the Jura Mountains beheld ‘the City of the Lord,’ they united in singing the hymn of praise and victory.
“It is she, the little city, the new Bethlehem, where God has been pleased to let his Son be born anew, the city which he has prepared as a refuge for righteous men!”
But of this I was not thinking, when, on the 15th of March, I hastened towards Geneva, across Lake Leman. The magnificence of the scene occupied both soul and mind. It was a glorious day, cold, but of inimitable brightness. Lausanne gave me the most friendly glance at parting, and I replied to it with all my heart as I saw its magnificent old cathedral, surrounded by masses of gray-brown houses and still leafless woods, vanish in the distance. I had been happy there.
After a journey of three hours, the steamboat approached Geneva; sweeping to the left into its broad bay. The lake shimmered as from millions of diamonds, and the great white lady—Mont Blanc—elevated herself on the northern shore, in shining white attire, in great state with all her court of ice-shapes, pyramids, walls, and towers, under the bright blue heaven, in the blazing sun it was splendid!
An hour later I was sitting in a light and handsome room, up three flights of stairs, in the Bourg du Four, with a view of Mount Saleve and the Botanic Garden. A kind and educated lady, the widow of one of the distinguished teachers of the University, provided me there with a quiet and friendly home.
The Countess de Gasparin, known as a clever authoress, and especially for her work on marriage, paid me a visit the day after my arrival. This was amiable of her. She is an agreeable blondine, still young, with refined features—on the whole, a lovable person, with French ease of demeanor and facility of expression, very loquacious, and somewhat decided in manner. We were soon disputing on more subjects than people can discuss in many conversations. But it mattered not. One may like, and even become attached to, those with whom one cannot agree. And I liked the Countess of Gasparin for her candor and amiability, and I accepted with sincere pleasure her invitation to her country-house near Geneva. I was also rather curious to become acquainted with the Count de Gasparin, the man who had made her an enthusiast for marriage. For such she is; maintains that all women ought to be married, and asserts that statistics are wrong when they show that there are more women than men in the world. In the mean time, la couple parfait, as the married pair Gasparin are called, is always a beautiful sight on the earth.
I transcribe the following from my diary:
Geneva, March 18th.—Yesterday I visited the celebrated historian, Merle d'Aubigné, at his country-house near Geneva, by “the living waters”—murmuring brooks—children of the river Arve, or of its Alpine spring—which never freeze or dry up, and which water this region in many directions. The historian of the Reformation, Merle d'Aubigné, is a man of a vigorous and splendid frame, with brilliant eyes under black, bushy eyebrows, a handsome and worthy representative of old Geneva, of the militant, Protestant city. His conversation is animated and rich in imagery, like a living chronicle. “The living waters” murmur cheerfully through his grounds—also the home of his childhood—watering its wonderfully beautiful trees. Death, however, has lately visited his house, robbing him of his wife, and, with her, of much of the cheerfulness of his life. But he has another wife in the Goddess of History, and he begins again to listen to her inspiration. He is now employed upon the fourth part of his History of French Reformation, in which he has a great work before him.
Over the door of his house is inscribed, Tempus breve.
Merle d'Aubigné is strictly orthodox as an historian, and adheres to the doctrine of literal inspiration. There may be a more profound theologian than he, but scarcely a more living narrator of history. His descriptions live. Persons, natural scenes, transactions—all are called forth plastically under his master hand.
The climate is almost as changeable here as in America. The day of my arrival at Geneva was cold but lovely; the next day, gray, windy, and disagreeable in the highest degree; and the day following that was a regular summer day, only too warm. In the evening, a little rain fell, then it became again clear, and the evening star, Venus, beamed forth in indescribable beauty. This is one of those periods which is said to recur every eighth year, when she receives and reflects the light of the sun, with an intensity which causes it to become to us, during some months, like a moon. Its most extreme splendor is said to occur in April and in June.
I make solitary excursions in and about the city, that I may make observations. This is a great enjoyment to me. Yesterday, the 22d of March, I took a glorious ramble along the banks of the Arve, to see its junction with the Rhone: Arve flows from the icy sea at Chamouni, and is here a tolerably broad, very cold stream, which winds, roaring with gray, turbid waters, now through sandy fields, now through fertile highlands, around which it forms for itself deep bays and curves. I followed the windings of the Arve for about an hour, from the handsome stone bridge at the little village of Carouge—formerly Savoyan, now a kind of suburb to Geneva—when, all at once, I saw standing up before me, in an oblique direction, the lofty ridge of a brown, precipitous earth-wall, on which stood beautiful trees and country-houses, and below which flowed the powerful Rhone, clear and of a metallic green-blue color; no longer like the little, milk-white stream, which I saw issuing from the cradle of the snow-field at Grimsel, neither like the furious river which comes down later from the highlands, bearing along their melting snows and masses of earth, rolling stones and timber, upon its agitated, turbid waters, down to Lake Leman at Villeneuve. For there, at the close of the Rhone valley, the clear lake receives the wild mountain wanderer into its deep bosom. An extraordinary combat then ensues; the waters of the Rhone and Lake Leman struggle together for mastery, but the earth-weighted waves are vanquished; they sink below the clear waters; the clear waters become uppermost and the Rhone disappears in the embrace of the victor. There he reposes long in the depths; is freed from the foreign elements which he has taken up during his wandering, which have disturbed his character and his life, and—who can tell what takes place down in the depths of the clear lake? The Rhone has vanished there; but he re-appears on the other side of the lake, at Geneva, and then so clear, so crystal-pure and beautiful! He has been born anew; baptized in a pure element. The coloring of the woods and the sky have melted together into his clear water.
This day was cloudy and heavy, yet at the same time the coloring of the Rhone was unspeakably translucent and lovely. When the rapid, gray waters of the Arve hurl themselves into the Rhone, the Rhone adapts the more rapid career of that river, but rarely changes its color and brightness. The Rhone does not become the Arve, but the Arve becomes the Rhone. The Rhone is the more powerful nature; besides which, he has passed through a purifying bath,—a new baptism. He is calm and clear. Thus he hastens on to meet the new destiny on the soil of France, and receives into his bosom the Leuth, the Saone, and the wild Durance, fertilizing vineyards along the French Rhone-valley, to Avignon, where he abruptly turns south, hastens on to the Mediterranean, and
Speeds on, without tarriance, till he casteth
Himself into his father's breast, and dies.[1]
March 24th.—A glorious day, after some clouds. Read, amongst other books, Père Girard's excellent “Methode Maternelle,” and in the afternoon took a long ramble in the direction of Mont Salève and the highlands on the Arve. The whole of this side, between Geneva and Mont Salève—the boundary between Switzerland and Savoy—is cultivated like a garden, full of beautiful plantations, country-villas, and small farms. The air was warm, the sky deep blue, the larks sang, and many little flowers were out upon the verdant meadow-turf. Yellow auriculas are here common brookside flowers. Arve roared loudly, and numbers of little becks hastened along, singing, to increase his waters. It seemed to me that the earth was indeed beautiful!
And the hero of the scene—hast thou, my R——, ever heard speak of Mont Blanc? In that case, thou hast heard that it is a snow-covered mountain of Savoy, near fifteen thousand feet high, and thou hast in spirit, if thou hast not seen Mont Blanc in reality, beheld an icy giant raise his crown towards the stars. But from Geneva and the district around, from which the most beautiful view of the giant-mountain is obtained, it seems merely like an immense snow-hill, with many terraces. Its mass, its dazzling whiteness, its soft, rounded form, rivets the glance with an imposing power, which has, at the same time, a something tranquilizing and agreeable in it, especially when, in an evening, the giant is tinted by the light of the descending sun. The beautiful profile of Napoleon, which is seen portrayed in the highest outline of the mountain, and which it is impossible to avoid seeing, when you have once become aware of it, adds also to the grandeur of its physiognomy. From the Quai-Mont-Blanc, and from Rousseau's Island, one sees it, together with the whole chain of the Savoy Alps, very perfectly.
I spent yesterday afternoon and evening on Rousseau's Island, sitting in and wandering about the lovely groves around his statue, contemplating the Alps. They stood out splendidly, in the golden sunset, especially Napoleon's image, which was latest illumined by its beams. They seemed to me to shine, with the peace of God, upon the hero.
He soundly sleeps on his bed of snow,—
A calmer the world hath none—
He will die no more; he hath struck his last blow;
And his sentinel watch is the sun!
People talk a great deal about the rapid change which the sunset produces amongst the Alps. But this moment, their summits shone in gold and crimson; and the next, they pale, become ashy-gray, and stand, so to speak, a corpse. And this is true. But I have never heard any remark made about that which, however, is in the highest degree worthy of observation, namely: of the after-glow—the second brightness which lights up these snow-covered summits a short time after they have been observed,—a transfiguration which, during clear evenings, increases gradually, and illumines the heavens above them, to the very zenith, till one is sometimes ready to question whether the sun is not about to rise again; whether it is not the crimson of a new morning. The contemplation of this spectacle is a great enjoyment to me. I have sometimes seen this second brightness, such as to remind me of “that second light” of which our northern sages speak, which extends on to the midnight.
In order not to weary thee, my R——, by talking about these eternal mountains, their height, and their beauty, I will, once for all, tell thee what they told me, that is to say, when I became well acquainted with them. Because, often enough, I have felt myself more oppressed than elevated by their immensity and immovability. But I am now on good terms with them, and have come to understand their silent language to mankind.
They stand in nature, like the prophets of the Old Testament, or more correctly speaking, like the old wise men and teachers of the Pagan world, and point us to a greatness high above that in which we, the children of the valleys and the plains, have our being.
For these pyramids are not the pleasant things of earth; they are not the fragrance of the flowers; not the singing of the birds, not the changing life of the seasons. Imperishable in their eternal peace, they are moved alone by the sun. The sun alone, causes them to glow or to become pale, and to paint for us images of life or of death. But they alone, receive its earliest beams in the morning, and retain its light in the evening long after it has departed from us. It is in their bosoms that spring feeds the great rivers, which fertilize the earth, foster the life of cities, and extend themselves, beautifying, benefiting, even to the smallest blade of grass.
I spent about two months in my lofty house in the
Bourg-du Four, visited the watch-making work-shops
for women; read Calvin's Institutions; made acquaintance
with the latest great Swiss educators, Pestalozzi,
Père Girard, Von Fellenberg, and Mme. Necker de
Saussure, as well as with various of the thinking and
amiable citizens, male and female, now living, of
Geneva. My kind hostess and her children, all
married, but who often meet at their mother's house,
were amongst these. Her son, the young Pastor
Bouvier, married to a daughter of Adolphe Monod, is one
of the most beloved young preachers of Geneva, and,
according to my opinion, the only man of genius
amongst them.
I was introduced into the watch-maker's work-shops by M. Viande, one of the merchants of Geneva, a man of great humanity, and also of rare amiability of disposition and character. I could not have had a better guide, even with regard to the moral inquiries which I wished to make.
We began with the schools of pupils, where young girls learn, for a term of three years, to make every part of a watch. After this time, they select that particular part for which they have most inclination, or in the doing of which they are most expert. The perfected pupil may be sure, on leaving the school, of obtaining immediate employment amongst the watch-makers. Young girls from twelve to eighteen years of age appear very healthy and well cared for. Each one has her own little table and her own window-niche for her work.
The manufacture of pocket-watches is, at the present time, carried to a great extent at Geneva. An immense number are required for the Chinese market. A well-equipped China-man, I have been told, carries a watch on each side of his breast, that he may be able to regulate the one by the other. Wealthy Chinese cover the walls of their rooms with watches. These watches are of a more ornamental character, and have more filigree-work upon them, than those made for Europeans. Long live the Chinese!
At one of the greatest and best-conducted manufactories of Geneva, nothing but watch-faces are prepared, and elderly, well dressed, and well looking women, sat by twenties and thirties in clean, well-warmed rooms, working upon——watch-faces.
“Do you not get tired of always doing the same work?” I inquired from some of them.
“Oh, no!” replied they, and showed me that each little dial had to pass through fifty different operations before it was finished. This kept the attention awake, and prevented any sense of monotony. They work here from eight o'clock in the morning, till six or seven in the evening, and thus earn about fifty francs a month.
“Are you able to lay by any thing for old age, or in case of sickness?" I inquired from a mother who had worked there with her daughter, side by side, for ten years.
“Oh, no!” they replied, “we have no longer been able to do that, since provisions have been so dear.”
“Nor yet for a little journey of pleasure, or holiday the summer?”
“We never think of such a thing. We should by that means lose, not only money, but also our time, and possibly our place.”
“Is not such a life as this heavy and void of interest?”
“We have Sundays for rest and refreshment, and the evenings for reading, or occupation of another kind. Besides which, we need not during our work be continually thinking about it!”
They seemed perfectly satisfied.
The workwomen who are able to execute certain more difficult parts of the watch, get higher wages, and can earn from five to ten francs a day.
In the mean time, this great division of labor causes the great part of the women not to earn much more than their maintenance.
“My grand-mother made whole watches!” said an old woman, with a sigh, who was now sitting at home with her daughter, employed in one single operation in a little cog, for the great manufactory, “and at that time, women were much higher in the work than they are now, and also got higher payment. They were few in number, but extremely dexterous. Now they are innumerable, but their dexterity is employed upon a mere nothing—a very crumb.”
And this was true, as far as the old woman was concerned, for the whole of her work consisted in drilling one little hole in a small steel plate, with a little machine which resembled a tiny spinning-wheel. Her daughter was seated at another little machine, and was merely making a little alteration in the hole which her mother had drilled; and six hundred of such holes must be made before they could earn three francs.
The old woman, who came of a race of watch-makers “from time immemorial,” and whose grandmother had made whole watches, seemed to me, as she sat there, reduced to making one single little hole, a little portion of the watch, like a dethroned watch-making queen. You saw plainly that her fate grieved her, but she bore it worthily, and with resignation, acknowledging that numbers now lived by that work, which, in her grandmother's days, belonged to a few privileged persons, and made them rich. Her daughters were both agreeable young girls, with fresh courage for life. The one had learned her mother's calling,—the other had prepared herself for the occupation of a teacher.
Enamel-painting is a kindred class of work, which, as well as watch-making, affords a good and safe means of support to a great part of the female population of Geneva, in more than one class. The work is done at home, or in work-shops; many well-educated young girls work for the manufactory at their parents' houses, and thus contribute to the prosperity of the family. The little watch-making shops, the little work-table, are to be met with in every village and small farm-house in the neighborhood of Geneva. The daughters of the peasants work at these.
I have seen and heard enough of the lives of these female workers, as well in their homes as in their work-shops, to thank God that so great a number of women here, are able, by means of a good and inexpensive branch of industry, to provide for themselves, and acquire an independence—which may lead to great good; and many beautiful examples can be given of these young female workers, applying their earnings to the support of their aged parents, or for the education of younger sisters or relatives.
For the greater part, they seem to become principally the means of the indulgences of vanity, or even of less allowable independence.
The female worker, in the full and highest meaning of her vocation, in the complete fullness of her life, is a character which I have not met with here, as I have done—in Sweden.
I remember there, a little work-table, at which is seated a woman, still young, working from early morning till late in the evening—sometimes even till late in the night—because work is her delight, and her perseverance and power of work are astonishing,—her eye continually fixed upon her work, even during conversation, whilst her skillful hand guides the graving-tool, and engraves letters, numbers, or tasteful ornaments, on articles of gold or silver—chronometers, pocket-watches, rings, &c. But the inner life is not occupied therewith; it gazes clearly around, and comprehends, with love, every work and every transaction which tends either to the advantage of the fatherland, or the honor of humanity. She is near-sighted at her work, but far-sighted as regards the great work in society; her heart beats warmly for this, and the little work-table has a place in its realm. How distinguished a place this is, her numerous friends know,—but not she herself,—the unpretending artist, the good citizen and friend, the noble worker—Sophie Ahlbom!
There is no want, here in Switzerland, as elsewhere, of female workers who are able to conceive of work as a means to a higher end, and who know the true place of the work-table in society. The sisters Rohrdorf, of Zürich, are noble laborers in this spirit; but that which is wanting in general, is an awakened sense, and an education for this higher view of labor and of life.
Another thing is also wanting,—a literature for the workshops, of an improving and entertaining character at the same time. Books are often read aloud during the silent, quiet work, but—not the best books. Good biography ought especially to be read in these rooms, where young men and young women prepare, as it were, their own future.
The remarks which I have made against the generality of female workers here, may be applied, with a still graver emphasis, to the male population of the work-shops. I know that, amongst these, honorable exceptions occur, but—I will allow a member of this class himself to make his naïve confession.
My good hostess, Madame Bouvier, related to me the following:
“I went,” said she, “yesterday afternoon, up to the bastion, for a little fresh air, and seated myself upon one of the benches under the trees. A well-dressed and respectable-looking young man was sitting just by, and throwing bread-crumbs to the birds.
“After we had sat a little while in silence, I said, ‘You are fond of birds, sir?’
“ ‘Yes, very; but there are so few now, to what there used to be; people take their nests.’
“ ‘You are from the country?’
“ ‘No; I live in the city, but the country is now very beautiful!’
“ ‘Yes, and they say that there is an unusual promise of a good harvest.’
“ ‘Yes; the prices of wine have already fallen.’
“ ‘It is always a good thing when the prices of the means of life fall; but as far as wine is concerned, it is better when the price continues somewhat high, because, then, people drink less of it.’
“ ‘Ah! what, indeed, could the workman do without wine! Believe me, he requires it; I know it. He has not always a great deal to eat, and then a drop of wine gives him strength and courage.’
“ ‘But it gives a false strength, which leaves him afterwards all the weaker. If, instead of wine, he bought good meat, would he not be the better for it?’
“ ‘Yes, that is quite true. But you see, it is in this way;—things don't always go on pleasantly in life;—one has anxiety—sorrow,—and then one takes a drop of wine to cheer one's spirit.’
“ ‘But—are you suffering from sorrow then, sir?’
“ ‘Yes, madam; I have sorrow; I have had words with one of my acquaintance.’
“ ‘And this is a young woman?’
“ ‘Yes, madam.’
“ ‘Oh, but that will soon be all over, and every thing will soon be right again between you!’
“ ‘No, no—it will not be right again between us; because she will have me mettre les pouces,[2] and that is what I neither can nor will do! No, no, it is all over between us!’
“ ‘But if you are in the wrong, you ought not to be unwilling to confess it.’
“ ‘Yes, but you see all women are coquettes; they will have men to flatter them, make them fine speeches, tell lies—but that is what I never could do, nor would! Perhaps I may learn one of these days!’
“ ‘But if she whom you love is unworthy, you must endeavor to forget her.’
“ ‘That's not so easy to do—not so easy! And I am now in that state of mind that I could throw myself into the trench yonder!’
“ ‘All this comes because you of the working class—for I can see that you are one of them—are without religion.’
“ ‘That is true, very true, madam. One does not think about such things. I have been shooting all day at a mark, to console myself.’
“ ‘And that has not, certainly done you much good?’
“ ‘Not the least! But this is what it is; one must divert, cheer one's self up;—that is what we call civilization. One must always have a pleasure before one as an object.’
“ ‘But yet, you cannot always have pleasure as an object of life?’
“ ‘Oh, yes, madam; it is really so; one must always think of the enjoyment; one styles it civilization. But after all, it has little enough to do with it; the girls put on fine clothes, and have a craving after pleasure; the men go to the clubs and amuse themselves, whilst their wives stay at home with the children, sometimes in trouble and want. But so it is—one thinks above every thing else about amusing one's self, and does not think upon much else.’
“ ‘You are a journeyman?’
“ ‘Yes, but I am well off; my earnings are good.’
“ ‘You seem to me to be well off, and also to have good abilities; and I plainly perceive that you know how you ought to employ them. I wish with all my heart that you would act according to such knowledge, because then you would not seek for consolation and strength in vain. Fare you well!’
“ ‘Adieu! I thank you, madame!’ ”
I read through Calvin's great work, Institution Chrétienne, during the present week, or rather I should say, fought my way through, because the reading of this work is an actual fight. And the work itself is a fight, an incessant engagement in phalanxes of twenty or thirty paragraphs and arguments, as many objections and still more answers with regard to all kinds of doctrines, dogmas, and sects. Manicheans, Arians, Servetus, (ce mechant homme, cet èsprit impur!) first and last the Pope, who is roughly handled. The strength of the book lies in the polemic against the doctrines of the Catholic Church from the doctrines of true Christianity. The style is everywhere powerful, clear, and excellent. There are beautiful thoughts and passages; in certain parts, great logical ability, as for example, in the dogma regarding the Trinity; equally great sophistical art in the treatment of the baptism of children, and as dark and strong a onesidedness in the treatment of “Grace;” a similar want of human conscience and human kindliness in his manner of stating the doctrine of predestination—which Calvin bases upon detached passages of Scripture—and such a self-complaisant absorbtion in his portraiture of the seemingly good cast into eternal perdition and eternal torment, that the leap from Calvin to Helvetius, Diderot, & Co., seems to me quite natural. Between these men and Calvin, Rousseau is a salutary shining beacon. And he well deserves his beautiful monument at Geneva, upon his verdant, solitary island.
After I had combated for a couple of hours with Calvin's flint-like logic and his contradictions in this absurd doctrine, I grew weary and melancholy, and went out to breathe the soft, fresh, vernal air, and God's goodness in it. To what frightful absurdities does not the blind worshiping of the letter of the Scriptures lead! The letter killeth, but the spirit maketh alive; was said by the Lord.
Calvin's letters, lately published by the young Professor, J. Bonnet, are equally indispensable for the right understanding of Calvin's character. They have, to a certain extent, reconciled me with him. One sees in them a soul actually possessed by one only thought and one object—the honor of God.[3] This gave to him the same calm, assured bearing in the presence of kings and queens, as before the meanest of the people. He acknowledged merely one worthiness in all, namely, that of being worthy to serve in God's work which was, in Calvin's estimation, the progress of the reformation. All were reprimanded and admonished accordingly. The Prince of Condè was gravely rebuked, “because he made himself agreeable to the ladies, whereby he became ridiculous, and in consequence thereof, injured the interests of God.” The noble and pious Duchess René of Ferrara, was obliged to hear, that she “must now suffer for the pusillanimity which she showed in her youth towards her service of God.”
As regards the bloody sentence of the unfortunate Servetus, Calvin is evidently not free from private malice. But so dark were those times and so much were people accustomed to the heretic perishing in the flames, that very few voices in Protestant Switzerland and Germany were raised in protest against the doom of Servetus. The greater number approved of it; even the mild Melancthon. So little was, even then, understood the sacredness of conscience and the right of honest opinion. Calvin has impressed his stamp on Geneva, both as regards good and evil, and the city which protested against Rome, is still intolerant, stern, and diplomatic, the Rome of Protestantism. But the strict Calvinists are now, however, few and—the age of Calvinism is past. Thank God!
Much dearer than my acquaintance with Calvin, has been the acquaintance which I have made with the great instructors of Switzerland, for the words of the past are true:
“Aux autres nations offrant un grand example;
De l'education l'Helvetie est le temple!”
And no people has given greater teachers of this class to humanity. Pestalozzi is known throughout Europe. His heart contained a heaven of kindness and love.
That which is peculiar in his method—with which I am too little acquainted—appears to me to consist in his manner of quickening the attention of the scholar, of developing his faculties of observation, and changing lessons learned by heart into lessons of objects. As for example. He used, in his Institution at Yverdun, to assemble the scholars round a little representation of the city, and let them tell him what they observed in it; then he would take them up one of the mountains round the city, and let them see the same image in its actual proportion and relationship to the surrounding country. Pestalozzi's Institute fell to pieces after a short success; his scholars were dispersed, and he himself, half insane with sorrow, ended his days in a cottage on the Jura. His method is no longer spoken of, but like the sap, which, though unseen, circulates through all the branches of the tree, his mode of instruction, and the devotion he gave to every branch of the work of education, still continue. Many a one has to thank the fact of having come in contact with him, for the good development of their whole lives. It was in a conversation with Pestalozzi, that C. F. Bitter received the impulse which determined his subsequently noble scientific activity—and which presented to us the earth and different parts of the world, in a plastically visible and conceivable form. In many respects, the spirit of Pestalozzi was obscure, impractical, simple, and even childish, but he had mother-thoughts—(idées Mères).
Such too had Père Girard, who desired to make the influence of the mother the principal means of the child's inner development, and the mother the child's principal instructor also.[4] No man, and no woman either, has more profoundly comprehended the vocation of the mother, or has spoken more beautifully on the subject, than this monk of the Franciscans in Freyburg. It was owing to the fact that his own mother stood forever before the eyes, even of the gray-haired father, as an ideal of all excellence.
“I have seen her,” wrote he, “surrounded by fifteen children, embracing all with the same love, the same care, and even in the midst of her domestic occupations finding time to give them instruction in so lovely a manner, and so productive of results, that the most learned educator might have taken a lesson therefrom. Her instruction became really education.”
This type of the mother was so precious and so exalted in his mind, that he applied it to Providence, who was not spoken of by Père Girard as “the fatherly” but as “the motherly.” “La Providence Maternelle” is a favorite expression of his.
It is this, his mother's natural method, which he considers himself to have merely developed and systematized in his “Cours de langue Maternelle.” His method of instruction he calls, “The motherly method.” This work, which received the prize of the French Academy, deserves to be studied by all mothers. Girard's motto as educator, was
“Words for thoughts, thoughts for the heart and for life.”
The most novel and important part of Père Girard's motherly method, seems to me to be the Grammaire d'idées, in which he enables the mother, or the teacher, to introduce the child into the realm of thought and social life, through an organized grouping of ideas, and an explanation of the words which indicate them. This lesson of ideas, or the higher grammar, has not been so much perfected, as indicated by genial hints and examples; but, nevertheless, sufficiently so to encourage the more fundamental thinker to take up the thread. This, if properly handled, would afford young people, and even older ones also, an invaluable assistance in working their way through the labyrinth of the world, and appears to me to be a requisite in education.
His excellent method, his amiable manners, his love for children, in all of which he was another Pestalozzi, but with more beautiful plans, and a more lucid mind, attracted to him a great number of pupils. In a short time, his school numbered five hundred children. But Père Girard talked much about nature, and the “Maternal Providence,” and not at all about the infallible Catholic church, and the holy father in Rome. The Jesuits got wind of all this, and—one fine day, Père Girard was removed from his convent, and his beloved, flourishing school at Freyburg, to another convent, in a remote Canton of Switzerland, where he could not busy himself with the education of children. His school in Freyburg was soon after broken up, and his pupils dispersed.
I have obtained a portrait of the fatherly monk. Heart and genius beam from those dear eyes, and from the honest, cheerful countenance. Père Girard lived till within the last two years, and was often visited by traveling strangers.
Von Fellenberg, the third in order in this triumvirate of the Swiss schoolmasters, was the founder of the great educational institution of Hofsvyl, near Berne. His idea was an all-sided and harmonious development of the human being, yet with especial regard to each individual's particular disposition or talents. His institution is still in existence, carried on according to his principles, by one of his best pupils.
Madame Neckar de Saussure has written only on the education of women; a great work, universally read and esteemed, as well in Switzerland as France. She seems to me to base her doctrine of education upon a deeper and more general foundation, than any of the other spiritual architects. This is the impulse towards perfection which she finds in every human breast; and this impulse must be guided and satisfied by the means which it furnishes. It is affecting to observe how willingly she would open to women all the means which could satisfy this highest, noblest need, and how she secretly grieves because these cannot be conceded in their present circumscribed social condition. She does not say, nor yet does she see, how this can be otherwise; but she gives beautiful and noble hints to parents and educators, and she is the best and the pleasantest comforter of the life-wearied and aged. The last chapters of her work produce upon me the same effect as “the after-glow,” on the peaks of the Alps. It is evening, and the sun has set, but nevertheless, one enters into “the second light,” and looks for the flush of a new dawn.
They have now all departed into the silent unseen, those light-bearers on the path of the younger generation. But “good heads still talk after death,” says the proverb, and it is true in the highest sense, as regards these genii of education. Publicly or privately, their labors for the young still go on, and instruction becomes, more and more, education. The large school of Professor Naville, in Geneva, is based upon the method of Père Girard; and who can calculate the homes in which Madame de Saussure's book has not awakened new life, and nobler views of life, and of the vocation of woman?
Many courses of lectures have been given this spring, in Geneva. Amongst these, I have been most interested by those delivered by the amiable and Christian archæologist, Troyon, on the remains of the dwellings and mode of life on the lakes, of the most eminent inhabitants of Switzerland. For the rest, it seems to me difficult to live in Geneva, without every day learning something new. The city is full of intellectual life, of many kinds,—ecclesiastical, political, and scientific, of interests and questions, of lectures, exhibitions, and sermons,—from which one can almost always learn something; and if it be true that Geneva is, as I have been told, the paradise of unmarried women, le paradis des vieilles filles, it is so, in fact, because they can there so easily satisfy that hungering after the food of intelligence, which is being awakened more and more in the women of the present time, and which the unmarried have more time to satisfy than they who have husband, and children, and housekeeping duties, to occupy them. Besides which, women, in this Canton, attain to a legal majority at the age of twenty, and by this means, whether in or out of the paternal house, to a certain degree of independence. This is also the case in other of the Swiss Cantons, and, indeed, as I believe, in all of them. Yet have I never anywhere heard of such heart-felt, perfect relationship, between parents and daughters—especially between fathers and their daughters, as here. I have nowhere else seen daughters so fully devote their whole life to their fathers, and become their helpers, not merely in the home, but also in their work and scientific labors. Madame de Staël's eloquent pen has made the world acquainted with the reverence which she entertained for her father. Thus was the great Haller beloved by his daughter; thus the celebrated Saussure by his.
Amongst other beautiful instances of this relationship, at the present time, I have heard Professor Navillé and his daughter Rosa mentioned, who, being companions in life, have been also companions in death; and the author of La Theopneustie, M. Gaussin, and his daughter, at the same time his faithful companion and helper.
This does not surprise me. These relationships are, in a high degree, natural, and they would be more frequently met with, if fathers were more frequently really good, just, unselfish educators of their daughters, and if the laws of the country were equitable and promotive of freedom and independence. There are eternal laws, as well as eternal covenants.
I mentioned sermons in Geneva, and I must say a few words about these and the preachers. In many of the latter, I found talent, and good qualifications, but as combined with genius, only in one instance—the young Bouvier. In the Church, la Polissêrie, which is also called the Layman's Church, the preaching consists of free discourses by various of its members, partly clergy, and partly laymen. I once heard the text of the Canaanitish woman treated with a psychological profundity, and living power, which affected me in the highest degree. Each new speaker went deeper than his predecessor into the heart of the narrative. Amongst these, a Colonel Tronchisi distinguished himself. I listened and wept, as though I myself had been the woman of whom they were speaking. On other occasions the discourse and edification would be meagre enough. Too much latitude is given to the impulse of the moment.
I heard again, more than once, the gifted preacher to whom I had listened in the high-valley of La Lechevette, and always with great pleasure, though not so great as in the pine wood, under the open heavens. Count de Gasparin, also, gave religious discourses, and that to an immense number of hearers. I was present on one of these occasions, and I most heartily thanked the noble, gifted speaker, because he combated the Calvinistic doctrine of predestination. I cannot adopt his view of the mechanical inspiration of the Bible, nor believe the words of the Bible quand meme, according to his advice; neither do I find it edifying. But the man himself, I like.
The representative of the strict Calvinistic doctrine of predestination at the present time, in Geneva, is properly, the venerable C. Mallan, who built his own church there. His uncommon talents—his handsome person also, and his personal dignity, have gained for him a not inconsiderable number of hearers and—blind adherents. I had heard so much about him that I wished to become acquainted with him, and went, one day, to his church. He spoke merely about grace in Christ. His discourse and his noble, dignified exterior affected me. I desired to hear him again, and see more of him. A day was fixed for this purpose, and M. Mallan sent me, as the “theme and preparation,” a little treatise entitled, “Le Libre Arbitre d'un Mort.” By this, I found that neither I nor any human being had the slightest free-will. I was as dead as a stock, a corpse, but that I must be full of rejoicing at the same time, that without any merit of my own, I had been received into eternal bliss, whilst my brother, without any fault of his, had been thrust down into eternal perdition. After I had read this work, I declined the meeting with him.
I can, for many good reasons, excuse a person who holds narrow views on certain subjects, but I cannot forgive any one who rejoices in a doctrine which makes God the most unjust of fathers, and mankind as his blind, heartless instruments.
People here are coming, gradually, to perceive the one-sided doctrine of predestination is based upon such a view of the divine character. Mallan's church is now attended by but few; its condition is become dilapidated, and he, himself, is like Marius in the ruins of Carthage.
One topic, and one protest, occupies the whole of Protestant Geneva, at the present time, and that is against Catholicism and its encroachments. More and more Catholics are continually flying hither from Savoy, and are now building themselves here, a magnificent cathedral. The Catholic bishop attracts an ever-increasing audience to his sermons. All this is a great grief to the true Genevese, and they speak violently against the encroaching church, which they, in the mean time, assure themselves they need not fear. The polemics against it, either written or spoken, are really extraordinary. But I would first ask these learned, protesting gentlemen, whether it would not be better to inquire what it is in Catholicism which is the cause of its present progress, and which leads so many noble-minded, so many thinking, earnest individuals to be attracted to this church? Because, to attribute it merely to error and delusion is an injustice at once to probability and to human nature. Ought they not to inquire whether there are not doctrines in this church which the reformed church has too hastily abandoned, and which it must resume and elucidate, before it can overcome the Roman Catholic Church, by itself becoming Catholic, in the higher significance; that is, universal, all-embracing? I have long had a presentiment of there being such treasures to be found, both for the heart and mind, in the old church; but I will seek more decided knowledge on these subjects. I will inquire in Italy!
With the perfect married couple, Husband and Wife Gasparin, I have become earnestly well acquainted. They invited me to dinner-parties and soirées. I begged them to afford me “hospitality of the soul,” which it is not in the power of all to give, but which was not difficult to them, if—they would. They most kindly understood my desires, and permitted me the enjoyment of quiet hours in their domestic circle—quiet, earnest conversation. We did not agree—it was not possible for us to agree—upon many topics; but I learned from them the better to understand how much good there may be even in the view which faithfully attaches itself to the Divine inspiration of the letter of the Scriptures. I learned to have esteem, in this respect, for noble natures.
The Count de Gasparin is a nobleman, a gentleman, in the last and fullest meaning of the word, and is well worthy of the entire, devoted love of a gifted woman. In conversation and discussion, he is infinitely agreeable. Both husband and wife labor for the good of the people, partly as writers, partly as helpers and counselors in their temporal needs, especially on their own estate—for they are wealthy, and employ their wealth in a noble manner. Would that there were many who resembled them!
I must now say a few words about a citizeness of Geneva, who does not bear the slightest resemblance to Countess de Gasparin, nor yet to any other handsome Genevese lady, but who rules there with more arbitrary sway than any of these, namely, La Bise noire. Ha! a cold shudder goes through both soul and body when I merely think of her, and remember her severe government during the last fourteen days which I spent in Geneva. The heavens were leaden, the earth gray, the wind icy-cold; the air dry, like pulverized arsenic, and about as wholesome. The little, green buds on the trees stopped their growth. People kept in-doors, or went out with blue noses, and came in again with colds in their heads. The universal temper fell under the dominion of la Bise, and I became convinced that it is la Bise noire, to which must be ascribed that contentious, critical contrariness of temper which the Genevese themselves acknowledge to, which they comprehend in the word Avener. Le Genevois est avener! is an accepted expression. But it most certainly arises from the fact of la Bise, that hideous Xantippe, being a fellow-citizeness of Geneva.
The old Genevese has been more than ever avener during the last few years, because the government of the Canton, during this time, has been in the hands of a faction, which, under a show of working for the public good, labors to put an end to its old manners and usages, and vails an actual libertinism under the beautiful name of liberalism. The leader of the faction, and the present Governor of Geneva, James Fazy, keeps a public gambling-house, and enriches himself in various less reputable ways. The favor which he shows to the Catholic party, and the Catholic influence within the city, give him a majority at the election, which the honest Protestants of the city are not able to withstand; besides which, when they go up to the state-house to vote on questions of government, they are so violently attacked by a low rabble, brought together for the purpose, that the greater number decline to vote at all. In the mean time, the Philistines rule, and the truly loyal sigh over the humiliation of the city of Geneva. The handsome, new electoral palace has received a name indicative of the prevailing spirit, and the adherents of the government are called libertines.
In many outward measures, however, it seems to me that the immoral government has really the best interests of the people at heart; and that ought to be the reason why it maintains its hold. It is, at the present time, carrying out great works in the city, which find employment for a great number of persons, and will, in the end, essentially alter many portions of it.
“It provokes me,” said an honest old Genevese to me, “but—I cannot bear to think, after all, that it will be—for the best interests of the city!”
If this spirit of improvement will but leave
untouched the old Rhone island, with its picturesque
buildings and memories from the time of Julius
Cæsar! It presents a remarkable contrast with the
adjacent, well-built, new quarter of the city.
Geneva is at the present time, together with Basle, the wealthiest city of the confederation. Millionaires are reckoned there by hundreds. I have, however, heard say that that the millionaires of Basle have ten times more millions than the millionaires of Geneva.
On the fourth of May the sun again acquired
his power; the air became delicious, and I removed
from my good home upon the heights in Geneva, to a
country parsonage in the neighborhood, beside the
“living waters,” at Jargonaut.
Eaux vives de Jargonaut, from May 6th to June.—It was evening when I arrived here. A young girl, whose lovely eyes beamed with heartfelt kindness, silently conducted me to my room. I heard the plash of a fountain; the nightingale was pouring forth his clear, abruptly-varying song in the groves; the fragrant lilacs waving their leafy branches outside the window, and the great walnut-tree stretched up, towards the evening heaven, its young, red-brown leaf-buds upon its yet naked branches, whilst above the quiet, verdant grounds stood the new moon in the hour of twilight. It was wonderfully tranquil and fresh; wonderfully pleasing! It produced at once a soothing and solemn effect upon my mind. Home, sweet home!
Those “living waters,” these fresh streams from the great ice-fountains in the bosom of the Alps, which murmur through the whole neighborhood of Jargonaut,[5] are now nearly dried up on this little property, but I feel the breath of the living waters in the atmosphere, in the domestic life, within which my own life is now flowing on quietly. The cheerful piety and affection, the silent activity, the inner life which prevails there, like a blooming spring-time, and united together all its members, the good, old parents, the young daughters, who are eyes to the half-blind mother and hands to the aged father, whose hands are crippled by rheumatic pains; the one servant of the family, so pleasant and so clever at the same time; the hours of worship, morning and evening, which assemble all; the cheerful meal-times—all were good!
How good it was for me to be there; how precious and agreeable to become acquainted with a family at once so excellent and so happy! For, as yet, no sorrow had approached this home; no adversity. The infirmities of the old people were not treated as sorrows. They were borne by them so cheerfully.
The aged pastor Coulin is a patriarch in appearance, as well as in life and disposition. The short periods which he consecrates to prayer morning and evening, are genuine pearls of their kind. A pearl of heavenly dew, which fructifies one and all.
I lived here for about a month; how peacefully the days passed! The weather was charming; I saw the trees come out into leaf, the lofty walnut-trees, unfolding by degrees their ruddy-brown, as it were, not yet awakened, leaf clusters; listened to the song of the nightingale in the thick lilac hedges under the blossoming fruit-trees. Every day I spent some time in a grove, upon a little hill in the grounds, and nearly always found the nightingale there, seated upon a bough, sometimes quite near to me, and singing so deliciously that it was a perfect joy to listen. For this enchanting little bird seems to love human beings, and its song is, as it were, a conversation with its hearers. Its separate sentences have each separate meanings, and one has time between each to have one's own thoughts. The nightingale replies to them; it encourages; it consoles; and its pearl-like trills are irresistibly refreshing; one drinks in with them the purest champagne of nature. I sometimes went thither, into the grove of the nightingale, when the visits of strangers had wearied me, and there is no weariness so great as that which human beings experience from their own kind—and the nightingale then came and sang peace and freshness into my spirit. There, too, I sat, more than once, with friends whose conversation made my life richer. I especially remember amongst these one man—Professor Amiel—and one woman, whose name I will not mention—but this, however, I will say, that more refreshing to me than the song of the nightingale, was my intercourse with that spirit which glanced around with such freshness and freedom, with that heart which devoted itself so entirely, so fully, to the work of the joy-giver and the comforter. It is this heart, rich in love, this soul with its clear power of organized activity, that Geneva has to thank for the new impulse which has been given of late years to her youthful female population of all classes, in the good work of progress and Christian activity.
We read aloud in the evenings,—Louise's and
Mary's fresh, youthful voices, making the reading
doubly agreeable. The two young sisters had each
their own peculiar gifts, with which they beautified
life for themselves and others. I read much with
Louise, and we made long excursions together. I
made acquaintance with the great Swiss naturalists,
Haller and Bounnet, through their writings and
correspondence; for these two scientific men were friends,
and were united, not merely by science, but by
religious convictions. It is very interesting to notice,
in their letters, during Haller's long, last sickness, the
observations which both of them make on the power
of prayer. They analyse it as it were a natural
production.
“It allays my sufferings,” writes Haller; “it gives me rest during my sleepless nights, and peace in the bosom of an infinitely loving Father.”
Bounnet's Palingénésia became a valuable treasure to
me. I had hitherto never seen an explanation,
according to natural philosophy, of those words,
which have ever been so precious to my mind, the
command “to preach the gospel to all creatures,”—not
an interpretation thoroughly applicable to the animal
races of the doctrine of St. Paul, in the Epistle to
the Romans.
Bounnet became early blind, in consequence of
overstraining his sight in his observations on the mode by
which the species of some of the minuter animal races
were continued; but how much more insight did he
not remain possessed of, than most persons, with their
healthy eyes! His Palingénésia is an answer to many
a deep, silent, anxious question of the soul.
Maine de Binan's biographical sketches, edited by Ernest Naville, were published during this time. I have seldom read a biograph which furnishes more material for thought, or a more edifying introduction, than the preface of the author. The young sisters and I read till midnight, in order to finish it. The aged parents always retired early to bed, and generally recommended us to do the same; but we were not always obedient.
Sometimes, the young son of the house, one of the
most beloved preachers of Geneva, now pastor of
Genthod, the former home of Bounnet, the naturalist,
came, with his handsome young wife, to the paternal
abode, and, so doing, enhanced its cheerfulness.
Sometimes, interesting acquaintances came from the
city, or from some of the neighboring residences.
I have never, at any time, enjoyed more deeply instructive conversations, than here and at Geneva.
I value the women of Geneva, especially for their domestic and Christian virtues. They are indefatigable in good works. But these virtues belong, principally, to the Swiss reform.
One of the most beautiful blossoms of this country, and which I never met with anywhere else, are a kind of Homes of Health, Maisons de Santé, which persons of wealth have established in the country, near the city, partly for children, partly for aged persons of the poorer classes. I saw one of these children's homes, in which frequently may be found a dozen pale, sickly little ones, under the care of a young teacher; and also one of those intended for elderly people. This latter had been established by Colonel Trouchin, on his estate. These homes are open merely for the summer months. The little children played amongst the flowers; the elder invalids sat or walked about, under shady trees, in beautiful grounds. How good it was to see them, and to hear them say that since they had been here, they found themselves much, very much, better. The fresh air, good nursing, proper and wholesome food, the unanxious life which they spent for several weeks—because they enjoy all this free of cost, or at a very trifling expense, if they can afford it—gives to many a one life and new courage.
One peculiar gift possessed by the women of
Geneva, is their talent for drawing, and especially for
sketching, which is done by them with great firmness and accuracy. With good schools for drawing,
Geneva ought to produce distinguished female artists.
But of these, there is an utter deficiency. Geneva
possesses some male artists of note, especially
landscape painters; and Swiss scenery has no better
painter than her own sons. M. Calame occupies the
first place, at the present time, amongst the Swiss
landscape painters.
In the beginning of June, I left my beautiful, hospitable home, near Geneva, for my last great flight into Switzerland; but I must yet once more return to my home, and my young sisters, by “the living waters,” before I cross the Alps and enter Italy.
- ↑ The River, by Tègner.
- ↑ Mettre les pouces, an expression which implies taking the first step, giving one's self up.—Author's Note.
- ↑ One proof of this is also Calvin's express prohibition, that any other monument should he raised to him after his death, excepting a stone upon his grave. It is no longer known in Geneva what spot of ground contains his dust.—Author's Note.
- ↑ Pestalozzi desired to do the same, and has aimed at this object in his beautiful little book for the people, Lienhardt and Gertrude.—Author's Note.
- ↑ Naut signifies, in the old language of the country, a little stream, or beck.—Author's Note.