On Friday the 27th, we set out at an early hour, in a carriage called a _char_, resembling a sofa placed lengthways on wheels, with a curtained canopy over head, and an apron below, to protect the traveller from the weather, to visit my friend R⸺, whom I have before mentioned both at Toulouse and Montpellier, and who had since taken a wife, and fixed himself near Vevay. The road to Vevay throughout lies by the side of the lake, and is so narrow, being bounded by a wall on each side, that it is impossible that two carriages could pass each other. The sides of the mountains that bound the road on the left, and which are so steep as to appear inaccessible, are richly clothed with vineyards, artfully formed into terraces, rising in tiers, one above the other. These terraces are formed by strong and high stone walls, which preserve the soil from shelving down, and are ascended by flights of steps. The vineyards thus formed, are exposed to frequent injuries, and often to utter destruction, by the rapid impulse of the mountain torrents descending from above, and which occasionally sweep away wall, terrace, and vines, in one indiscriminate ruin. These natural visitations are, however, borne by the Swiss peasant with resignation; and notwithstanding he may have lost the whole harvest of his hopes, he immediately applies himself, to repair the injury, burying the past in the anticipation of the future. On arriving at Vevay, we found my friend on the look out for us, and were immediately conducted to his house two miles beyond the town, and introduced to his lady. After breakfast he took us to the famous prison of Chillon, the subject of one of Lord Byron’s eccentric poems, and which was three miles distant. Here, in the year 1530, the patriot Bonnivard was doomed, by the duke of Savoy, to a confinement of six years, in one of its most dismal dungeons. “Lake Leman lies by Chillon’s walls; A thousand feet in depth below, Its massy waters meet and flow; Thus much the fathom-line was sent From Chillon’s snow-white battlement, Which round about the wave enthrals. A double dungeon, wall and wave Half made, and like a living grave. Below the surface of the lake The dark vault lies⸺” We entered this celebrated vault, and examined the seven “pillars of Gothic mould,” but which, at present, retain only four of the seven rings described by our poet, three pillars being without them; the chains, said to have been connected with these rings, have entirely disappeared. After spending a very happy day, we were obliged, but with the greatest regret, to leave our kind friend at an early hour, as we had to prepare for our intended departure from Lausanne early on the following morning.