We passed some time in Switzerland, wandering from place to place, and never remaining for above a few months in any. Though not very rich, we were never in want of money; but it seemed to me that Father Bonneville protracted his stay occasionally in different towns, waiting the arrival of letters, and I concluded—having now acquired some knowledge of the general affairs of life—that these letters contained remittances. Whence they came, or by whom they were sent, I did not know; for Father Bonneville transacted all his money affairs himself, but at the age of sixteen he began to make me a regular allowance, too much for what is usually called pocket-money, and enough to have maintained me in a humble mode of life, even if he had not paid the whole expenses of housekeeping. With this money, at first, I committed, as I suppose all boys do, a great number of follies and extravagancies. I bought myself a Swiss rifle, and became a practiced shot, not only in the target-grounds, but upon the mountains, and Father Bonneville, seeming now to judge that the education of my mind was nearly completed, encouraged me to pursue that education of the body in which the good old man was unable himself to be my instructor. The Swiss hunters, however, were good enough teachers, and I acquired powers of endurance very serviceable to me in after life. About this period, however, although I was full of active energy, and fond of every robust exercise, a new and softening spirit seemed to come into my heart. Vague dreams of love took possession of me, and pretty faces and bright eyes produced strange sensations in my young bosom. I became somewhat sentimental, bought Rosseau’s _nouvelle Heloise_, and poured over its burning, enthusiastic pages with infinite delight. The beautiful scenery, which before had only attracted my attention by the effect of the forms and coloring upon the eye of one naturally fond of the arts, now seemed invested with new splendor, and the very air of the mountains fell with a sort of dreamy light, streaming from my own imaginations. I peopled the glens and dells with fair forms. I walked over the mountain-tops with beautiful creations of fancy. My daily thoughts became a sort of romance, and many a strange scene was enacted before the eyes of imagination in which I myself always took some part, as the lover, the deliverer, or the hero. Was my little Mariette forgotten all this time? Oh no! Although I could not give her features or her look to the pretty girls of the Canton with whom from time to time I dallied, yet I pleased myself by fancying that there was some trait of Mariette in each of them, and I do not recollect fancy ever having presented me with a heroine for my dreams in whose fair face the beautiful, liquid eyes of Mariette did not shine out upon me with looks of love.