n my first love, and of
several pleasant journeys I had made there in my childhood, mingled with
some nameless charm, more powerfully attractive than all the rest. When
that ardent desire for a life of happiness and tranquility (which ever
follows me, and for which I was born) inflames my mind, 'tis ever to the
country of Vaud, near the lake, in those charming plains, that
imagination leads me. An orchard on the banks of that lake, and no
other, is absolutely necessary; a firm friend, an amiable woman, a cow,
and a little boat; nor could I enjoy perfect happiness on earth without
these concomitants. I laugh at the simplicity with which I have several
times gone into that country for the sole purpose of seeking this
imaginary happiness when I was ever surprised to find the inhabitants,
particularly the women, of a quite different disposition to what I
sought. How strange did this appear to me! The country and people who
inhabit it, were never, in my idea, formed for each other.

Walking along these beautiful banks, on my way to Vevay, I gave myself
up to the soft melancholy; my heart rushed with ardor into a thousand
innocent felicities; melting to tenderness, I sighed and wept like a
child. How often, stopping to weep more at my ease, and seated on a
large stone, did I amuse myself with seeing my tears drop into the water.

On my arrival at Vevay, I lodged at the Key, and during the two days I
remained there, without any acquaintance, conceived a love for that city,
which has followed me through all my travels, and was finally the cause
that I fixed on this spot, in the novel I afterwards wrote, for the
residence of my hero and heroines. I would say to any one who has taste
and feeling, go to Vevay, visit the surrounding country, examine the
prospects, go on the lake and then say, whether nature has not designed
this country for a Julia, a Clara, and a St. Preux; but do not seek them
there. I now return to my story.

Giving myself out for a Catholic, I followed without mystery or scruple
the religion I had embraced. On a Sunday, if the weather was fine, I
went to hear mass at Assans, a place two leagues distant from Lausanne,
and generally in company with other Catholics, particularly a Parisian
embroiderer, whose name I have forgotten. Not such a Parisian as myself,
but a real native of Paris, an arch-Parisian from his maker, yet honest
as a peasant. He loved his country so well, that he would not doubt my