reading, and active benevolence, occupy their life, and make it good and happy. My young hostess was a rich heiress, but not on that account any the less humble and amicable. She, as yet, lives alone at her beautiful “Sommerhause.” Here I met a Swiss lady, who has become a Swede, by marriage. I cannot say how agreeable it was to me to become better acquainted with Baroness Raumel, née Dardel, now on a visit to her native country, and to spend a few days in her society.
My young hostess drove me to the island of St. Pierre. Hundreds of islands, larger and more beautiful than this, lie in the Mäler Lake, but none so celebrated. Its unequaled environment of lofty Alps, and Rousseau's memory, have made it a place of pilgrimage to tourists. It resembles a smaragdus, set in gray-stone, for the Bernese government has allowed a low stone wall to be built, upon which people can walk round the island. Beautiful ancient trees crown its lofty plateau. The only building on the island, the old convent, erected a thousand years ago, and dedicated to St. Peter and St. Paul, is now a farm-house, where strangers are also entertained, and where, at the present time, one could be splendidly regaled with strawberries and cream. Here it was that Rousseau dwelt; his room is held sacred, that is to say, is not inhabited. It has four bare walls, quite covered with the names and inscriptions of visitors. There is said to be one line, under which appears the name Pitt, as follows:—
“Conquer—no matter how!”
And not far off, another, signed Emanuel Kant, consisting of those words:
