I read merely to understand their meaning, and they well repaid my labours.

Their melancholy is soothing, and their joy elevating, to a degree I never experienced in studying the authors of any other country.

When you read their writings, life appears to consist in a warm sun and a garden of roses,--in the smiles and frowns of a fair enemy, and the fire that consumes your own heart.

How different from the manly and heroical poetry of Greece and Rome! Summer passed away in these occupations, and my return to Geneva was fixed for the latter end of autumn; but being delayed by several accidents, winter and snow arrived, the roads were deemed impassable, and my journey was retarded until the ensuing spring.

I felt this delay very bitterly; for I longed to see my native town and my beloved friends.