gone by the regular post road, which winds among the mountains on the right-hand side of the lake, and which is said to be far more picturesque than the road on the opposite bank, but we went by the latter, because we wished to see Chillon and Vevai.

The voitures, which perform the short stages about Geneva, are so contrived, that the passengers sit sideways, and the back of the machine shuts out half the prospect; our blind was placed in such a position, that we could scarcely ever get a glimpse of the lake, but nothing intercepted our view of a dull succession of fields, hedges, and vineyards, closed in by low brown hills, and which, as it had begun to rain shortly after we lost sight of Geneva, were washed by a thousand trickling rills of mud, and presented every conceivable variety of puddle, slough, and gutter. When it grew dark, our conducteur hinted again and again, in the most obliging manner possible, that he was very willing to stop if we wished him to do so, even though it was not "in the bond;" we did not happen to wish any thing of the kind, having resolved to reach Lausanne that night, and he postponed, though with manifest reluctance, his evening's solace, rest and refection, until we arrived at Nyon, where we stopped to bait the horse. After having taken some slight refreshment, exactly, I apprehend, what Dinmont means by "nothing to speak of," we re-ascended the voiture, and proceeded through a pitiless storm to Lausanne: the rain rushed to the ground in heavy streams, the wind ploughed the bosom of the lake, and darkness folded round us like a veil; our dog, Lion, lay down in the bottom of the voiture, shivering with cold and apprehension, and no coaxing, no caressing could induce him to lift up his head. We arrived at Lausanne about three o'clock in the morning; knocked up an Aubergiste, and warmed ourselves by a fire of brushwood, which was hastily kindled: we then called in the conducteur in order to pay him; he had meanwhile taken into consideration the sufferings and privations which he had undergone in our service, and had consequently determined to cheat us out of three or four francs if possible; by taking advantage of our having incautiously

made use of the word Louis, he succeeded in his laudable intention; we paid his demand, bestowing upon him at the same time, gratuitously, a few-I should say, not a few-of those emphatic epithets drawn from our native language, which are so useful in expressing one person's opinion of another in all little affairs of that sort.

We stayed but a short time at Lausanne, as we wished to push across the mountains before the heavy snows should fall; we took advantage therefore of a fine morning, and set out on our way through this country, in which man continually maintains a hard, but honourable struggle with nature: the hills sloping down precipitously to the lake, would be washed bare by the autumnal rains, but that long lines of low walls are drawn across them, in every direction to sustain the lapsing soil, and the terraces thus formed are richly planted with vines. Houses are thickly scattered on the hills and in the thickets, and with their white walls, green windows, and red roofs, remind one of the view which Rousseau has so delightfully expressed in the Emile. "Sur le penchant de quelqu'agréable colline bien ombragée, j'aurais une petite maison rustique, une maison blanche, avec des controvents verts; et je la couvrirais magnifiquement de tuiles rouges parcequ'elles sont plus gaies que le chaume, qu'on ne couvre pas autrement les maisons dans mon pays, et qu'elles me rappelleroient un peu l'heureux temps de ma jeunesse.” Nothing in the landscape deserves so much remark, as the unceasing activity and unrepining laboriousness of the people. In the morning one sees herds of goats which cannot be pastured in the valley, proceeding up the mountains under the care of sl.epherds, to collect their scanty meal; in the evening they return to the villages for security, and also to pay their fragrant and delicious tribute to man. Boats are seen going incessantly to and fro, some to catch fish, some to convey merchandise, and others to collect the drift wood, as it floats in shore, which time has committed to the waters of the lake. The frothy streams that rush down through the gullies of the hills are conducted by shoots to the wheels of

mills in which corn is ground, wood sawn, paper made, and other mechanical processes carried on for the comfort or advantage of this hardy and happy people: villages are seen glancing in every glen, the fisherman, the shepherd, the carpenter, the vine dresser, all are seen exercising their various avocations, and every thing wears a face of activity and content. The barren mountains of Savoy on the opposite side, uninhabited, uncultivated and forlorn, present the most different picture imaginable. The disastrous cause of this difference, as some say, is to be found in the political degradation of the people others find it in the soil, the aspect, the elevation of the mountains; and others in the lazy, slavish, and worthless dispositions of the inhabitants. But to proceed: about noon we reached the picturesque town of Vevai, and at that place first had our wine brought in great pewter measures; this town is known through all Switzerland as the place where the celebrated "Feast of the Vines" is held every seven years, a festival but little spoken of out of Switzerland, although it is the main business of a whole population at the time of its occurrence, and draws so many strangers to assist as spectators at its celebration. But Vevai! who may hear thy name and not remember Rousseau? Vevai, the birth-place of Julie, that dear and darling child of his imagination, that vision of love, and beauty, and delight, that has turned the heads of thousands. Hard by is the bosquet of Clarens; ah, pauvre Julie, ta bouche de roses! Opposite are the dark rocks of Meillerie; unhappy St. Preux! It was the remembrance of these scenes which he had visited some years before, in his seven days' tour, which determined the eloquent and natureloving Rousseau, to lay the scene of his novel here in preference to the Lago Maggiore and the Isole Belle.

As the day declined, we drew near the Chateau of Chillon, now so well known as the scene of one of Lord Byron's Poems; we crossed the drawbridge and entered a court-yard overgrown with weeds; a few gens d'armes, some rusty balls, and five or six dismounted brass cannon, are all that remains of its former strength

and terror. A soldier, whom we had requested to show us the place, led us under a low arched door-way; we passed through several rooms, which appeared to be used as stores, and going down a pretty long and steep descent, at length entered the prison of Bonnivar. There is a range of

loop-holes at a great height, which can at best only admit a feeble light, and as at that time the day had nearly closed, the place was obscured in deep shade, a murky darkness reigned throughout, and added a superfluous horror to this gloomy spot; a row of massy columns passing from one extremity to the other, supports the ponderous roof, and as it were, divides the place into two; they are girdled with chains, which hang down from a good height, and which are furnished with braces to clasp the body: chains of the same sort hang from the walls on both sides, and the rocky floor beneath them is ground into sand, apparently by the tread of the miserable wretches whom they once bound. The sullen plashing of the lake is heard over-head as its waters are flung at intervals against the rock out of which this dungeon is dug in one corner is a sort of den, still more narrow and loathsome, partly built up with masonry, and partly chisseled out of the living rock: yet even from this place a man once escaped; the rent which still remains in the wall, and a heap of loose mortar and stones, attest the circumstance: it is supposed he clambered up to one of the loop holes, forced himself through, and jumping into the lake, swam ashore, and escaped. A scene like this which looks the home, the household, of filth, and misery, and despair, weighs heavily upon the heart, and every gracious feeling of our nature revolts from the authors of the misery which has been suffered here: a narrative of what men have inflicted and what sustained in this twilight dungeon, would undoubtedly affect us very sensibly, but would not equal that deep and solemn feeling which fills the breast as we walk to and fro in this haunt of sorrow, and muse upon its disgraceful history.---Our fancy peoples the gloom with prisoners, whom death long since dismissed to a prison far more dark and narrow: