avery in Virginia is not like slavery
in the other States," continued the proud son of the Old Dominion.
"Their right to be free, Mr. Linwood," said Jerome, "is taken from
them, and they have no security for their comfort, but the humanity and
generosity of men, who have been trained to regard them not as brethren,
but as mere property. Humanity and generosity are, at best, but poor
guaranties for the protection of those who cannot assert their rights,
and over whom law throws no protection."

It was with pleasure that Clotelle obtained from her father a promise
that he would liberate all his slaves on his return to Richmond. In a
beautiful little villa, situated in a pleasant spot, fringed with hoary
rocks and thick dark woods, within sight of the deep blue waters of
Lake Leman, Mr. Linwood, his daughter, and her husband, took up their
residence for a short time. For more than three weeks, this little party
spent their time in visiting the birth-place of Rousseau, and the former
abodes of Byron, Gibbon, Voltaire, De Stael, Shelley, and other literary
characters.

We can scarcely contemplate a visit to a more historic and interesting
place than Geneva and its vicinity. Here, Calvin, that great luminary
in the Church, lived and ruled for years; here, Voltaire, the mighty
genius, who laid the foundation of the French Revolution, and who
boasted, "When I shake my wig, I powder the whole republic," governed in
the higher walks of life.

Fame is generally the recompense, not of the living, but of the
dead,--not always do they reap and gather in the harvest who sow the
seed; the flame of its altar is too often kindled from the ashes of the
great. A distinguished critic has beautifully said, "The sound which
the stream of high thought, carried down to future ages, makes, as it
flows--deep, distant, murmuring ever more, like the waters of the mighty
ocean." No reputation can be called great that will no endure this test.
The distinguished men who had lived in Geneva transfused their spirit,
by their writings, into the spirit of other lovers of literature and
everything that treated of great authors. Jerome and Clotelle lingered
long in and about the haunts of Geneva and Lake Leman.

An autumn sun sent down her bright rays, and bathed every object in her
glorious light, as Clotelle, accompanied by her husband and father set
out one fine morning on her return home to France. Throughout the whole
route, Mr. Linwood saw by the