vese. Hentsh was very civil to me, and I
have a great respect for Sismondi. I was forced to return the
civilities of one of their professors by asking him and an old
gentleman, a friend of Gray's, to dine with me I had gone out to sail
early in the morning, and the wind prevented me from returning in
time for dinner. I understand that I offended them mortally.

"Among our countrymen I made no new acquaintances; Shelley, Monk
Lewis, and Hobhouse were almost the only English people I saw. No
wonder; I showed a distaste for society at that time, and went little
among the Genevese; besides, I could not speak French. When I went
the tour of the lake with Shelley and Hobhouse, the boat was nearly
wrecked near the very spot where St Preux and Julia were in danger of
being drowned. It would have been classical to have been lost there,
but not agreeable."

The third canto of Childe Harold, Manfred, and The Prisoner of
Chillon are the fruits of his travels up the Rhine and of his sojourn
in Switzerland. Of the first it is unnecessary to say more; but the
following extract from the poet's travelling memorandum-book, has
been supposed to contain the germ of the tragedy

"September 22, 18 16.--Left Thun in a boat, which carried us the
length of the lake in three hours. The lake small, but the banks
fine; rocks down to the water's edge: landed at Newhouse; passed
Interlachen; entered upon a range of scenes beyond all description or
previous conception; passed a rock bearing an inscription; two
brothers, one murdered the other; just the place for it. After a
variety of windings, came to an enormous rock; arrived at the foot of
the mountain (the Jungfrau) glaciers; torrents, one of these nine
hundred feet, visible descent; lodge at the curate's; set out to see
the valley; heard an avalanche fall like thunder; glaciers; enormous
storm comes on thunder and lightning and hail, all in perfection and
beautiful. The torrent is in shape, curving over the rock, like the
tail of the white horse streaming in the wind, just as might be
conceived would be that of the pale horse on which Death is mounted
in the Apocalypse: it is neither mist nor water, but a something
between both; its immense height gives a wave, a curve, a spreading
here, a condensation there, wonderful, indescribable

"September 23.--Ascent of the Wingren, the dent d'argent shining like
truth on one side, on the other the clouds rose from the opposite
valley, cu