We returned by the beautiful valley of Sallenches and St. Gervais to Geneva. I forgot to mention about a dozen cascades, one more beautiful than the other, and I thought of Ondine, which you hate, and _mon Oncle Friedelhausen._ We had left our carriage at St. Martin, and travelled in _char-à-bancs_, with which you and Sophy made me long ago acquainted--cousin-german to an Irish jaunting-car. We were well drenched by the rain; and as we had imprudently lined our great straw hats with green, we arrived at St. Gervais with chins and shoulders dyed green. The hotel at St. Gervais is the most singular-looking house I ever saw. You drive through a valley, between high pine-covered mountains that seem remote from human habitation--when suddenly in a scoop-out in the valley you see a large, low, strange wooden building round three sides of a square, half Chinese, half American-looking, with galleries, and domes, and sheds--the whole of unpainted wood. Under the projecting roof of the gallery stood a lady in a purple silk dress, plaiting straw, and various other figures in shawls, and caps, and flowered bonnets, some looking very fine, others deadly sick--all curious to see the new-comers. M. Goutar, the master, reminded me of Samuel Essington: [Footnote: An old servant.] full of gratitude to M. Pictet, who had discovered these baths for him, he whisked about with his round perspiring face, eager to say a hundred things at once, with a tongue too large for his mouth and a goitre which impeded his utterance, and showed us his douches and contrivances, and spits turned by water--very ingenious. Dinner was in a long, low, narrow room--about fifty people; and after dinner we were ushered into a room with calico curtains, very smart--a select party let in. Many unexpected compliments on _Patronage_ from a Dijon Marquise, who was at the baths to get rid of a redness in her nose. Enter, a sick but very gentlewomanlike Prussian Countess, _Patronage_ again: Walter Scott's novels, as well known as in England, admirably criticised. She promised me a letter to Madame de Montolieu. At Chamouni there is a little museum of stones and crystals, etc., where MM. Moilliet and Pictet contrived to treat their geological souls to seven napoleons' worth of specimens. An English lady was buying some baubles, when her husband entered: "God bless my soul and body, _another_ napoleon gone!" At the inn at Bonneville--_shackamarack_ gilt dirt, Irish-French. Pictet bought a sparrow some boys in the street threw up at the window, and said he would bring it home for his little grandson. It was ornamented with a topping made of scarlet cloth. He put it in his hat, and tied a handkerchief over it; and hatless in the burning sun he brought it to Geneva. _August 6._