"It was on the day, or rather night, of the 27th of June, 1787, between the hours of eleven and twelve, that I wrote the last lines of the last page, in a summer-house in my garden. After laying down my pen, I took several turns in a berçeau, or covered walk of acacias, which commands a prospect of the country, the lake, and the mountains. The air was temperate, the sky was serene, the silver orb of the moon was reflected from the water, and all nature was silent. I will not dissemble the first emotions of joy on the recovery of my freedom, and, perhaps, the establishment of my fame. my pride was soon humbled, and a sober melancholy was spread over my mind, by the idea that I had taken an everlasting leave of an old and agreeable companion; and that, whatsoever might be the future date of my history, the life of the historian might be short and precarious."

But

There is something in these reflections, that appeals to the hearts of all; but they are still more touching when one stands on the spot where they were made. The country, the lake, the mountains, all remain as when he saw them, but he has passed away. We are but actors on the busy stage of life. The scenes of the drama remain unchanged;

but the actors, after a brief stay, give place to others, to be in turn replaced. Happy are they who, when the curtain drops, can feel they have well played their parts, and leave behind them a name that dies not!

If any ambition be excusable, it is that of wishing to leave a name which will endure. All that genius, valour, or wisdom ever achieved, or dreamt of achieving, has had but this object for its incentive; for all know that, constituted as the world is, not the possession of all three, were they ever united, could win the world's suffrage. Yes, it is for posthumous fame, that genius wastes the midnight lamp, and in wasting it, consumes too quickly the lamp of life; it is for it, that wisdom governs each quick impulse, and controls every passion; and that Valour braves a thousand times the death that opens to him its portals:

-Che seggenda in fiuma

In fama non si vierso, ne sotto coltre,
Sanzu la qual ché sua vita consuma

Cotal vestigio in terra di se lascia

Qual fummo in aere, ed ìn acqua la schiuma.

23d. We visited the residence of our old and valued friend Mr. Kemble, who is at present at

Rome. It is a most comfortable abode, commanding a view of the lake and surrounding scenery, and is admirably calculated for a retirement after a life of exertion; long may he live to enjoy it! Mr. Kemble is much, and deservedly, beloved and respected at Lausanne, where his amiability of manners, cultivation of mind, and unostentatious charities, have been justly estimated, and have already made him many friends. We viewed, with interest, the study of our old and absent friend, and the writing-table; on which more than one cordial proof of remembrance has been addressed to us since his residence here. No one has done more to elevate the character of his profession than Mr. Kemble; whose honorable conduct, through life, has won the respect of the good and wise, and whose dignified simplicity of manners has rendered him a welcome guest in the highest circles. I hope we shall meet in Rome; where he, who has so often and admirably personated Roman characters, will find himself identified with old associations. John Kemble, in the Forum, or at the Capitol, could hardly be looked on as a stranger.

24th. Though prepared by the panorama of Lausanne, which was exhibited in London, for beholding a beautiful spot, the place surpasses my expectations; and though willing to avoid descriptions of scenery, which always fall short of the reality of what is really fine, it is difficult to repress the expression of the admiration this spot excites. How flat, stale, and unprofitable are words, to convey a sense of objects, that the eye takes in at a glance, and that the imagination delights to dwell on!

Nature, all powerful, beautiful nature, that makes herself felt in a moment, can never be so described, as to give to others the impression it has made on the beholder; and I must be content with hoping to retain in the "mind's eye," some faint pictures of the glowing landscapes, which have delighted me, to cheer me when condemned to dwell amid less picturesque scenery. How mistaken is the notion, that the eye may become so accustomed to beautiful objects, as to cease to dwell on them with pleasure! As far as I can judge by personal experience, this is not the case; for, although it has been my lot to live in various residences, remarkable for the beauty of the views they have commanded,

custom never palled their attractions, or rendered me insensible to them. It only made me more fastidious in my taste, as the habitude of contemplating beautiful objects, whether in nature or in art, invariably does.

BERNE, 25th.-Of Berne, with its arcades, fountains, and statues, I shall say little, as they have been frequently described by every tourist who has visited it; and to its walks, terraces, and views, no description could render justice. Nowhere is the Swiss costume seen to greater advantage than here and most picturesque is its effect, when worn by good-looking women, who, passing beneath the arcades, look like moving bouquets; as the gay and varied colours of their dress, the bright ribbons mixed with their plaited tresses, and floating from their straw hats, ornamented with large bunches of the richest-hued flowers, meet the eye. The

young men, too, with their collars turned back, their throats bare, their long hair, and those coats or frocks with full plaits, which remind one of the dresses seen in old pictures, add to the charm of this effect. Half the beauty of Switzerland would