I left Besancon at eight in the morning of the 30th
June, and arrived at Pontarlier at six the same evening. Pontarlier is a
dreary, melancholy looking place, consisting of a very long street and
several offsets of streets, situated in the midst of mountains, eternally
covered with snow. Winter reigns here during nine months of the year. At
Pontarlier the whole garrison were under arms, when I arrived, to pay the
last duties to a most respectable and respected officer, whose death was
occasioned by falling into the river, while at the _necessary_, by the
under board giving way. This officer had served in almost all the campaigns
of Napoleon and had greatly distinguished himself. What a cruel death for a
warrior who had been in fifty battles! That death should have shunned him
in the field of battle, to make him fall in a manner at once inglorious and
ridiculous! yet such is destiny. Pyrrhus fell by a tile flung from a house
by an old woman, and I am acquainted with a gallant captain in the British
Navy who lost his leg by amputation, having broken it (oh horror!) by a
fall from the top of a stage coach.
I left Pontarlier on the 2d July, and arrived at Lausanne the same evening
at five o'clock.
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