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!"