contents of her basket, which, exactly suiting my taste, I requested to partake of.

"Your lemonade, fair one; I should like some of that. I have so often heard of its refreshing and delicious qualities when met with in your country, that above all things I am desirous of tasting it. This, I am sure, I shall now do in perfection."

"Ah! yes, monsieur; I always keep the best; ask any one, ask my brother there. Jacques! do you not hear?"

"It needs no words to assure me that I shall find the best, while I deal with you," returned I, interrupting the boy, who, obedient to his sister, was about to recommend. "And to have

it served by so graceful a Ganymede, makes it nectar worthy of the gods."

The fair ones seldom dislike a compliment, however much they may conceal it under the semblance of disapprobation, and my pretty "limonadière" was a true child of nature, foreign to all the tricks of worldly young ladies, and testified her pride and acceptance of the compliment as she felt it, and without concealment. She hastily proffered me a glass of the liquor which, sparkling in a state of effervesence, showed it to be the real limonade gazeuse; and I drank her a thousand fortunes in the bumper. It is said, that an Italian sky in summer time possesses a blue of such surpassing loveliness, that its equal in hue can nowhere be found; a saying which, immediately I saw Lake Leman, I put in question: and this, although I had never stood beneath the former. The waters I now gazed upon were of a deep blue, and yet so clear that my eye could distinctly fathom their depth, which even at the shore was not inconsiderable. This led me to reflect how the placid surface of the lake, resembles the regards of a maiden in the morning of life and beauty; its mirrored bosom, without the ruffle of a sigh, reflecting in its depths, goodness and purity of soul; and while so engaged, my eyes wandered and met those of "la belle limonadière." Italian skies, Tyrian dyes, nay, not even the lake before me, mentally cried I, can after all compare with blue eyes-else may I never again behold them!

With a further purchase, this time of grapes and melons-I like being minute-and an adieu, I sorrowfully returned to the detested diligence, and found myself once more beside my Genevese friend, and travelling fast towards his native city. The prospect of a speedy termination to our journey infused a spirit of cheerfulness among my fellow travellers: each seemed to grow more intimate with his neighbour, and found a subject for conversation at every fresh turn of the road; all was courtesy and good humour. Our road, too, was of no ordinary beauty. It skirts the northern shore of the lake, from which it is separated

by Diodati looking villas, pretty looking spots; the houses with a drawing-room, Swiss-cottage-look about them, seem more for ornament than for ordinary wear and tear. I can imagine them delicious summer residences and fit for a poet.

"Lord Byron's house, have we passed it yet?" inquired I.

"Ah! monsieur, we shall not go near it. It is at the other end of the lake, near Chillon, full fifty miles distant," responded

the conductor.

I remembered that the poet used to walk to Geneva, although not often, as he was no admirer of its citizens, whom he thought democratic-while they were quite the reverse, being cold and exclusive-so I turned to my companion and repeated the question to him. He exclaimed, "Monsieur le conducteur misunderstands you. He alludes to the 'Hôtel Byron,' and says truly that it is far distant; your great poet's villa is situated upon the south shore of the lake, and we are opposite to it now. There," continued he, as an opening allowed us the view, "see, there is Diodati."

This villa, famous in having been the retreat of Lord Byron on his first exile from England, consists of a large mansion facing the lake, surrounded with gardens terraced out in the Italian style. In general appearance, it reminded me of a scene from Antoine Watteau, or rather, of one which that artist would select as suitable for the representation of his fêtes-champêtres; but its present deserted grounds would first have to be peopled with dames and cavaliers, and a total renovation of the exterior take place, before the fancy could obtain such a comparison in its full bearing: for Diodati is, at the time I write, neglected and tenantless. What souvenirs, even the glimpse I had, raised in my mind! Foremost, poetry, "Childe Harold," "Manfred," "The Prisoner of Chillon,"-Shelley-Mrs. Shelley with the "fearful Being," "Monk Lewis," and the romantic and persecuted authoress of "Delphine." Byron and Shelley, on their return from Coppet, where they visited Madame de Staël, used to row across the lake by moonlight, and to these excursions are we probably indebted for some of the grandest inspirations of the two poets. Once they were surprised by a storm, and Shelley nearly lost his life; but the waters were reserved for him elsewhere, and later in life. Polidori, a physician, was Byron's inseparable companion at this place; it is well known how misapplied the poet's confidence in him proved to be.

I could not restrain a smile as I pondered on all these things, at the romance of Shelley, though he had never been out of England at that time, being only an Eton boy; the fact of his having laid the scene at Geneva and its vicinity, is, as Medwin remarks, curious enough. The title of the book is indicative

of its contents, "St. Irvyne; or, the Rosicrucian." Mysterious subjects like this were continually uppermost in his mind at this time. The romance is short, but full of horrors; he published it anonymously, as a gentleman of the university of Oxford. Among other words the following are of frequent occurrence:-"coruscations-scintillations-enhorrations." He introduces his hero, Wolfstein, in a storm on the Jura. An exile, he meets with some banditti and joins them. Solid rocks fly open at the chieftain's touch, and disclose spacious caverns. They waylay an Italian count and his party, and the lovely "Megalena di Metastasio" is the prize. But the plot is too intricate and lengthy for these pages. For the book, itself, we refer the gentle reader to some old circulating library of the Radcliffe school.

At the gates of Geneva, two or three fiery whiskered German mercenaries ascended the diligence, and with a pon chour to all its inmates, bade us point out our baggage for their inspection. This done, a pack of vultures in the shape of hotel agents, who had been hovering about ever since we stopped, seeking whom they could devour," closed in and almost smothered me with their cards, but at the recommendation of my Genevese friend, who here bade me adieu, I engaged rooms at "Les Balances ;" and following the example of the great commander on his arrival at Paris, after that sad affair at Moscow, I took a warm bath.

Both in a local and historical view, Geneva possesses greater attractions than almost any town of similar extent in Europe. In the former, few can command such an object as its magnificent lake, bosomed in a valley bounded by the Jura on one side and the Alps on the other, and reflecting at times on its mirrored surface, though forty miles distant, the eternal peaks of Mount Blanc, a circumstance which Byron has immortalised in verse; in "Childe Harold," if I mistake not.

The approach either by land, as we came, or by steamer, gives one a favourable impression of Geneva in an architectural point of view; but this is dispelled the instant we cross the new bridge and reach the town. The exterior elegance, and imposing altitude of the mansions upon the quays then give place to ill paved streets, lined with booths; lanky and ricketty houses; filthy alleys streaming with gutters; all indicating the same want of cleanliness, so evident in even the first cities of France. The Corraterie, of which the citizens are so proud, is the best street in Geneva, and it has only one side good: the other is irregular and but half finished. Like Paris, Geneva was originally upon an island formed by the Rhine; but in these days it has, like its great prototype, burst its bounds, and now extends

by Diodati looking villas, pretty looking spots; the houses with a drawing-room, Swiss-cottage-look about them, seem more for ornament than for ordinary wear and tear. I can imagine them delicious summer residences and fit for a poet.

"Lord Byron's house, have we passed it yet?" inquired I. "Ah! monsieur, we shall not go near it. It is at the other end of the lake, near Chillon, full fifty miles distant," responded the conductor.

I remembered that the poet used to walk to Geneva, although not often, as he was no admirer of its citizens, whom he thought democratic-while they were quite the reverse, being cold and exclusive-so I turned to my companion and repeated the question to him. He exclaimed, "Monsieur le conducteur misunderstands you. He alludes to the 'Hôtel Byron,' and says truly that it is far distant; your great poet's villa is situated upon the south shore of the lake, and we are opposite to it now. There," continued he, as an opening allowed us the view, "see, there is Diodati."

This villa, famous in having been the retreat of Lord Byron on his first exile from England, consists of a large mansion facing the lake, surrounded with gardens terraced out in the Italian style. In general appearance, it reminded me of a scene from Antoine Watteau, or rather, of one which that artist would select as suitable for the representation of his fêtes-champêtres; but its present deserted grounds would first have to be peopled with dames and cavaliers, and a total renovation of the exterior take place, before the fancy could obtain such a comparison in its full bearing: for Diodati is, at the time I write, neglected and tenantless. What souvenirs, even the glimpse I had, raised in my mind! Foremost, poetry, "Childe Harold," "Manfred," "The Prisoner of Chillon,"-Shelley-Mrs. Shelley with the "fearful Being," "Monk Lewis," and the romantic and persecuted authoress of "Delphine." Byron and Shelley, on their return from Coppet, where they visited Madame de Staël, used to row across the lake by moonlight, and to these excursions are we probably indebted for some of the grandest inspirations of the two poets. Once they were surprised by a storm, and Shelley nearly lost his life; but the waters were reserved for him elsewhere, and later in life. Polidori, a physician, was Byron's inseparable companion at this place; it is well known how misapplied the poet's confidence in him proved to be.

I could not restrain a smile as I pondered on all these things, at the romance of Shelley, though he had never been out of England at that time, being only an Eton boy; the fact of his having laid the scene at Geneva and its vicinity, is, as Medwin remarks, curious enough. The title of the book is indicative

of its contents, "St. Irvyne; or, the Rosicrucian." Mysterious subjects like this were continually uppermost in his mind at this time. The romance is short, but full of horrors; he published it anonymously, as a gentleman of the university of Oxford. Among other words the following are of frequent occurrence:-"coruscations-scintillations-enhorrations." He introduces his hero, Wolfstein, in a storm on the Jura. An exile, he meets with some banditti and joins them. Solid rocks fly open at the chieftain's touch, and disclose spacious caverns. They waylay an Italian count and his party, and the lovely "Megalena di Metastasio" is the prize. But the plot is too intricate and lengthy for these pages. For the book, itself, we refer the gentle reader to some old circulating library of the Radcliffe school.

At the gates of Geneva, two or three fiery whiskered German mercenaries ascended the diligence, and with a pon chour to all its inmates, bade us point out our baggage for their inspection. This done, a pack of vultures in the shape of hotel agents, who had been hovering about ever since we stopped, seeking whom they could devour," closed in and almost smothered me with their cards, but at the recommendation of my Genevese friend, who here bade me adieu, I engaged rooms at "Les Balances;" and following the example of the great commander on his arrival at Paris, after that sad affair at Moscow, I took a warm bath.

Both in a local and historical view, Geneva possesses greater attractions than almost any town of similar extent in Europe. In the former, few can command such an object as its magnificent lake, bosomed in a valley bounded by the Jura on one side and the Alps on the other, and reflecting at times on its mirrored surface, though forty miles distant, the eternal peaks of Mount Blanc, a circumstance which Byron has immortalised in verse; in "Childe Harold," if I mistake not.

The approach either by land, as we came, or by steamer, gives one a favourable impression of Geneva in an architectural point of view; but this is dispelled the instant we cross the new bridge and reach the town. The exterior elegance, and imposing altitude of the mansions upon the quays then give place to ill paved streets, lined with booths; lanky and ricketty houses; filthy alleys streaming with gutters; all indicating the same want of cleanliness, so evident in even the first cities of France. The Corraterie, of which the citizens are so proud, is the best street in Geneva, and it has only one side good: the other is irregular and but half finished. Like Paris, Geneva was originally upon an island formed by the Rhine; but in these days it has, like its great prototype, burst its bounds, and now extends