"
Thus did he resolve to devote himself to the tremendous task, and at
Lausanne twenty-three years later it was at last fulfilled. He recorded
the event in a few pregnant sentences that are strangely memorable:--
"It was on the day, or rather night, of the 27th of June, 1787,
between the hours of eleven and twelve, that I wrote the last
lines of the last page, in a summer-house in my garden. After
laying down my pen I took several turns in a berceau, or covered
walk of acacias, which commands a prospect of the country, the
lake, and the mountains. The air was temperate, the sky was
serene, the silver orb of the moon was reflected from the waters,
and all nature was silent. I will not dissemble the first
emotions of joy on the recovery of my freedom, and perhaps, the
establishment of my fame. But my pride was soon humbled, and a
sober melancholy was spread over my mind, by the idea that I had
taken an everlasting leave of an old and agreeable companion, and
that, whatsoever might be the future fate of my History, the life
of the historian must be short and precarious."
In June, 1888, just one hundred and one years after that pen had been
finally laid aside, I searched in Lausanne for the summer-house and
covered walk, and could find no very authentic record of its site.
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