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.
- Vol. I.—18
