f Meillerie. Take it for granted that Ferney is
burnt down, as it well might be without any harm to the picturesque; and
that Jean Jacques never wrote, played the knave, or existed. If I were a
Swiss Caliph Omar, I should make a general seizure, to be followed by a
general conflagration, of every volume that has ever touched on the wit
and wickedness of the one, or the intolerable sensibility of the other.
I should next extend the flame to all tours, meditations, and musings on
hills, valleys, and lakes; prohibit all sunset 'sublimities' as an
offence against the state; and lay all raptures at the 'distant view of
Mont Blanc,' or the 'ascent of the Rhighi,' if not under penalty of
prison, at least under a bond never to be seen in the territory again.
But I must make my _adieux_. _Apropos_, if you _should_ accidentally
hear any thing of your _pelerin-a-pied_ friend Lafontaine--for I
conjecture that he has gone to discover the fountains of the Nile, or is
at this moment a candidate for the office of court-chamberlain at
Timbuctoo--let me hear it. Madame Spiegler is really uneasy on the
subject, though it has not diminished either her weight or her velocity,
nor will prevent her waltzing till the end of the world, or of herself.
_One_ sentence--nay, one syllable--will be enough.

"This light _is_ delicious, and it is only common gratitude to nature to
acknowledge, that she has done something in the scene before my casement
at this sweet and quiet hour, which places her immeasurably above the
_decorateurs_ of a French _salon_. The sun has gone, and the moon has
not yet come. There is scarcely a star; and yet a light lingers, and
floats, and descends over everything--hill, forest, and water--like the
light that one sometimes sees in dreams. All dream-like--the work of a
spell laid over a horizon of a hundred miles. I should scarcely be
surprised to see visionary forms rising from these woods and waters, and
ascending in bright procession into the clouds. I hear, at this moment,
some touches of music, which I could almost believe to come from
invisible instruments as they pass along with the breeze. Still, may I
beg of you, Mr Marston, not to suppose that I mean to extend this letter
to the size of a government despatch, nor that the mark which I find I
have left on my paper, is a tear? _I_ have no sorrow to make its excuse.
But here, one weeps for pleasure, and I can forgive even Rousseau
his--'Je m'attendrissais, je soupirai