Excerpt from Recollections of the Last Days of Shelley and Byron

IN the summer of 1819 I was at Ouchy, a vil lage on the margin of the lake of Geneva, in the Canton de Vaux. The most intelligent person I could find in the neighbourhood to talk to was a young bookseller at Lausanne, educated at a German university. He was familiar with the works of many most distinguished writers, his' reading was not confined, as it generally is with men of his craft, to catalogues and indexes, for he was an earnest student, and loved literature more than lucre.

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