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THE BROTHERS OF AUBONNE.

BY THE AUTHOR OF SELWYN.'

I was travelling (as Switzerland ought to be traversed by every young man of robust health and active habits) on foot, and at leisure, along the beautiful road between Geneva and Lausanne. I had thought the former place, during my sojourn in its environs, the ne plus ultra of lake scenery; and was equally astonished and delighted as every step of my approach to the latter added sublimity to beauty; as the silver crescent of the Leman widened before me into a magnificent expanse, whose crystal mirror reflected, instead of the tamely beautiful hills of Cologni, the bold rocks of Meillerie, and the fantastic peaks of the Valais. I half wondered, with the waywardness of youth, that I could ever have tolerated Geneva,-tasteless, flat, and unprofitable as its neighbourhood was hourly becoming in my eyes; how I could have vegetated amid the dust and heat of Sêcherons, while Nyon breathed freshness from

its castle-crowned height, and Morges bathed its white and primitive buildings in the long sweeping waves of no ignoble sea.

If, while pursuing the beaten road, slightly elevated above the level of the lake, comparisons began thus to be odious; how much more did Geneva, that city of philosophers and watchmakers lose in my estimation, when the promise held out in my guide-book, of a magnificent view from the Signal de Bougi, carried my wandering steps from the high road towards that lofty eminence, at no great distance from the flourishing village of Aubonne! My enjoyment in Switzerland, as elsewhere, has generally kept pace with my elevation, not on the topmost round of fortune's ladder,' but on the surface of the material world; and every step I took on this brilliant and beautiful afternoon, seemed to waft me into a region of purer breezes, brighter prospects, and more delicious sensations. I was, in short, quite primed for happiness; and only wanted human beings to share my exuberant joy, and sympathise with me in my admiration of the scene before me.

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I had been much struck, on nearing the village of Aubonne (which, however, I did not pass through), with its air of primitive neatness and substantial comfort. My Livre des Voyageurs,' had informed me that it was the chosen abode of rural wealth and plebeian prosperity; and truly this brief history was legibly written on every stone of its white cottages, and every terrace of

its flourishing vineyards. I was just pondering by what means I might (on my return from contemplating sunset at the Signal station), achieve billetting myself for the night on some rustic proprietaire or hospitable vigneron, when all was made easy by my rencontre with a group whose mood of mind as evidently harmonised with mine, as their condition and character coincided with my wishes.

The Signal de Bougi, or the verdant plain afforded by the summit of an isolated hill overlooking the finest part of the Pays de Vaud, which is from thence, to borrow a Scripture expression, as the Garden of the Lord;' with its dark back ground of the Jura, its glittering mirror of the Leman, and its Fata Morgana looking tracery of Alps and clouds, commingled in rosy loveliness in front of the spectator, is a favourite resort of the Swiss themselves for pleasure parties on festive occasions; and many a pic-nic repast, and a bottle of La Côte has derived double relish from being discussed with the pride of a Vaudois' heart, spread out for a feast before his eye.

If these sensations are experienced even by the denizens of the neighbouring villages, what emotions must swell the bosom of him, who, long expatriated by fate or necessity, has carried the Mal du Pays into the snows of Russia, or the bowers of Italy, or the corn fields of merry England; who, amid the syren songs of the northern enchantress, or the Eolian whispers of

the long mute, classic lyre-nay, even amid the cordial greetings, and, in many respects congenial feelings of a British fire-side, has listened in vain with indescribable yearnings for the sound of the Kuh Reihen, and felt that to his Swiss heart one rude blast of the Alpen horn were richly worth them all!

These were not here wanting: I was slowly proceeding up the acclivity, turning at every step to wonder and admire to see man and his works diminish, and those of the Creator expand before me,-when from the, as yet unseen, summit, a melodious voice began to chaunt the Vaudois (the most popularly known) Ranz des Vaches; and, often as its wild and touching harmony has soothed my morning or evening perambulations among its native echoes of les Ormonts, never did it sound sweeter, or seem to be sung with more feeling than now. It came, softened by distance, and the intervening brow of the hill, if not just like the sweet south o'er a bank of violets,' yet pure as the mountain breeze by which it was wafted, and pastoral as the scenes amid which it died away.

But the song itself was nothing to the burst of passionate nationality with which it was received; and the clash of glasses in pledge of amity that succeeded it, shewed that the Swiss exiles, if such they were, had not forgotten amid strangers, the land or the produce of the vine.

"Ma foi, Monsieur," said a peasant of Aubonne,

(whom I had picked up as a guide to the Signal)

des gens qui s'amusent de bon cœur!"

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"Do you know who they are," said I; "who are so merry?"

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"Ma foi, oui," was the ready answer; ce sont les frères Courtin," and, as if this was solution sufficient, my sturdy comrade walked on.

"Are they celebrating any family festival, these frères Courtin, my good friend?" said I; my curiosity whetted by his laconic reply.

"Si c'est une fête de famille? Mon Dieu que oui !— There are four brothers on that hill from the four quarters of the globe, and if that is not a fête de famille, I wonder what is!"

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"How did they come to be so disposed," asked I; was it necessity, or accident?"

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Pardi, neither," answered my companion; "for they could have staid at home had they chosen so to do, and their going away was all a piece of proper spirit and family pride. Nous sommes fiers, nous autres gens d'Aubonne !Maitre Jean Courtin, the father of these lads, had a belle maison and a joli coin de vigne as any man in the village; but, with his large family (for the daughters were as many as the sons, and bien mariées (Graces à Dieu! with a suitable dot) he could lay by no ready money for his boys, and just concluded (le pauvre homme !) that as the custom of our country is, the house and chattels which he had inherited from his great-grandfather,

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