BOOK I.

Produced by David Widger

THE CONFESSIONS OF JEAN JACQUES ROUSSEAU

By Jean Jacques Rousseau

(In 12 books)

Privately Printed for the Members of the Aldus Society

London, 1903

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[Illustration: rousseau]

BOOK I.

INTRODUCTION.

|Among the notable books of later times--we may say, without

exaggeration, of all time--must be reckoned The Confessions of Jean

Jacques Rousseau. It deals with leading personages and transactions of

a momentous epoch, when absolutism and feudalism were rallying for

their last struggle against the modern spirit, chiefly represented by

Voltaire, the Encyclopedists, and Rousseau himself--a struggle to which,

after many fierce intestine quarrels and sanguinary wars throughout

Europe and America, has succeeded the prevalence of those more tolerant

and rational principles by which the statesmen of our own day are

actuated.

On these matters, however, it is not our province to enlarge; nor is

it necessary to furnish any detailed account of our author's political,

religious, and philosophic axioms and systems, his paradoxes and his

errors in logic: these have been so long and so exhaustively disputed

over by contending factions that little is left for even the most

assiduous gleaner in the field. The inquirer will find, in Mr. John

Money's excellent work, the opinions of Rousseau reviewed succinctly and

impartially. The 'Contrat Social', the 'Lettres Ecrites de la Montagne',

and other treatises that once aroused fierce controversy, may therefore

be left in the repose to which they have long been consigned, so far as

the mass of mankind is concerned, though they must always form part of

the library of the politician and the historian. One prefers to turn to

the man Rousseau as he paints himself in the remarkable work before us.

That the task which he undertook in offering to show himself--as Persius

puts it--'Intus et in cute', to posterity, exceeded his powers, is

a trite criticism; like all human enterprises, his purpose was only

imperfectly fulfilled; but this circumstance in no way lessens the

attractive qualities of his book, not only for the student of history

or psychology, but for the intelligent man of the world. Its

startling frankness gives it a peculiar interest wanting in most other

autobiographies.

Many censors have elected to sit in judgment on the failings of this

strangely constituted being, and some have pronounced upon him very

severe sentences. Let it be said once for all that his faults and

mistakes were generally due to causes over which he had but little

control, such as a defective education, a too acute sensitiveness, which

engendered suspicion of his fellows, irresolution, an overstrained sense

of honour and independence, and an obstinate refusal to take advice from

those who really wished to befriend him; nor should it be forgotten that

he was afflicted during the greater part of his life with an incurable

disease.

Lord Byron had a soul near akin to Rousseau's, whose writings naturally

made a deep impression on the poet's mind, and probably had an influence

on his conduct and modes of thought: In some stanzas of 'Childe Harold'

this sympathy is expressed with truth and power; especially is the

weakness of the Swiss philosopher's character summed up in the following

admirable lines:

"Here the self-torturing sophist, wild Rousseau,

The apostle of affliction, he who threw

Enchantment over passion, and from woe

Wrung overwhelming eloquence, first drew

The breath which made him wretched; yet he knew

How to make madness beautiful, and cast

O'er erring deeds and thoughts a heavenly hue

Of words, like sunbeams, dazzling as they passed

The eyes, which o'er them shed tears feelingly and fast.

"His life was one long war with self-sought foes,

Or friends by him self-banished; for his mind

Had grown Suspicion's sanctuary, and chose,

For its own cruel sacrifice, the kind,

'Gainst whom he raged with fury strange and blind.

But he was frenzied,--wherefore, who may know?

Since cause might be which skill could never find;

But he was frenzied by disease or woe

To that worst pitch of all, which wears a reasoning show."

One would rather, however, dwell on the brighter hues of the picture

than on its shadows and blemishes; let us not, then, seek to "draw

his frailties from their dread abode." His greatest fault was his

renunciation of a father's duty to his offspring; but this crime he

expiated by a long and bitter repentance. We cannot, perhaps, very

readily excuse the way in which he has occasionally treated the memory

of his mistress and benefactress. That he loved Madame de Warens--his

'Mamma'--deeply and sincerely is undeniable, notwithstanding which he

now and then dwells on her improvidence and her feminine indiscretions

with an unnecessary and unbecoming lack of delicacy that has an

unpleasant effect on the reader, almost seeming to justify the remark of

one of his most lenient critics--that, after all, Rousseau had the soul

of a lackey. He possessed, however, many amiable and charming qualities,

both as a man and a writer, which were evident to those amidst whom

he lived, and will be equally so to the unprejudiced reader of the

Confessions. He had a profound sense of justice and a real desire for

the improvement and advancement of the race. Owing to these excellences

he was beloved to the last even by persons whom he tried to repel,

looking upon them as members of a band of conspirators, bent upon

destroying his domestic peace and depriving him of the means of

subsistence.

Those of his writings that are most nearly allied in tone and spirit to

the 'Confessions' are the 'Reveries d'un Promeneur Solitaire' and 'La

Nouvelle Heloise'. His correspondence throws much light on his life and

character, as do also parts of 'Emile'. It is not easy in our day to

realize the effect wrought upon the public mind by the advent of 'La

Nouvelle Heloise'. Julie and Saint-Preux became names to conjure with;

their ill-starred amours were everywhere sighed and wept over by the

tender-hearted fair; indeed, in composing this work, Rousseau may be

said to have done for Switzerland what the author of the Waverly Novels

did for Scotland, turning its mountains, lakes and islands, formerly

regarded with aversion, into a fairyland peopled with creatures whose

joys and sorrows appealed irresistibly to every breast. Shortly after

its publication began to flow that stream of tourists and travellers

which tends to make Switzerland not only more celebrated but more

opulent every year. It, is one of the few romances written in the

epistolary form that do not oppress the reader with a sense of languor

and unreality; for its creator poured into its pages a tide of passion

unknown to his frigid and stilted predecessors, and dared to depict

Nature as she really is, not as she was misrepresented by the modish

authors and artists of the age. Some persons seem shy of owning an

acquaintance with this work; indeed, it has been made the butt of

ridicule by the disciples of a decadent school. Its faults and its

beauties are on the surface; Rousseau's own estimate is freely expressed

at the beginning of the eleventh book of the Confessions and elsewhere.

It might be wished that the preface had been differently conceived and

worded; for the assertion made therein that the book may prove dangerous

has caused it to be inscribed on a sort of Index, and good folk who

never read a line of it blush at its name. Its "sensibility," too, is

a little overdone, and has supplied the wits with opportunities for

satire; for example, Canning, in his 'New Morality':

"Sweet Sensibility, who dwells enshrined

In the fine foldings

Sweet child of sickly Fancy!--her of yore

From her loved France Rousseau to exile bore;

And while 'midst lakes and mountains wild he ran,

Full of himself, and shunned the haunts of man,

Taught her o'er each lone vale and Alpine, steep

To lisp the story of his wrongs and weep."

As might be imagined, Voltaire had slight sympathy with our social

reformer's notions and ways of promulgating them, and accordingly took

up his wonted weapons--sarcasm and ridicule--against poor Jean-Jacques.

The quarrels of these two great men cannot be described in this place;

but they constitute an important chapter in the literary and social

history of the time. In the work with which we are immediately

concerned, the author seems to avoid frequent mention of Voltaire, even

where we should most expect it. However, the state of his mind when he

penned this record of his life should be always remembered in relation

to this as well as other occurrences.

Rousseau had intended to bring his autobiography down to a later date,

but obvious causes prevented this: hence it is believed that a summary

of the chief events that marked his closing years will not be out of

place here.

On quitting the Ile de Saint-Pierre he travelled to Strasbourg, where

he was warmly received, and thence to Paris, arriving in that city on

December 16, 1765. The Prince de Conti provided him with a lodging in

the Hotel Saint-Simon, within the precincts of the Temple--a place of

sanctuary for those under the ban of authority. 'Every one was eager

to see the illustrious proscript, who complained of being made a daily

show, "like Sancho Panza in his island of Barataria." During his short

stay in the capital there was circulated an ironical letter purporting

to come from the Great Frederick, but really written by Horace Walpole.

This cruel, clumsy, and ill-timed joke angered Rousseau, who ascribed it

to, Voltaire. A few sentences may be quoted:

"My Dear Jean-Jacques,--You have renounced Geneva, your native

place. You have caused your expulsion from Switzerland, a country

so extolled in your writings; France has issued a warrant against

you: so do you come to me. My states offer you a peaceful retreat.

I wish you well, and will treat you well, if you will let me. But,

if you persist in refusing my help, do not reckon upon my telling

any one that you did so. If you are bent on tormenting your spirit

to find new misfortunes, choose whatever you like best. I am a

king, and can procure them for you at your pleasure; and, what will

certainly never happen to you in respect of your enemies, I will

cease to persecute you as soon as you cease to take a pride in being

persecuted. Your good friend,

"FREDERICK."

Early in 1766 David Hume persuaded Rousseau to go with him to England,

where the exile could find a secure shelter. In London his appearance

excited general attention. Edmund Burke had an interview with him and

held that inordinate vanity was the leading trait in his character.

Mr. Davenport, to whom he was introduced by Hume, generously offered

Rousseau a home at Wootton, in Staffordshire, near the Peak Country; the

latter, however, would only accept the offer on condition that he should

pay a rent of L 30 a year. He was accorded a pension of L 100 by George

III., but declined to draw after the first annual payment. The climate

and scenery of Wootton being similar to those of his native country, he

was at first delighted with his new abode, where he lived with Therese,

and devoted his time to herborising and inditing the first six books

of his Confessions. Soon, however, his old hallucinations acquired

strength, and Rousseau convinced himself that enemies were bent upon his

capture, if not his death. In June, 1766, he wrote a violent letter to

Hume, calling him "one of the worst of men." Literary Paris had

combined with Hume and the English Government to surround him--as he

supposed--with guards and spies; he revolved in his troubled mind all

the reports and rumours he had heard for months and years; Walpole's

forged letter rankled in his bosom; and in the spring of 1767 he fled;

first to Spalding, in Lincolnshire, and subsequently to Calais, where he

landed in May.

On his arrival in France his restless and wandering disposition forced

him continually to change his residence, and acquired for him the title

of "Voyageur Perpetuel." While at Trye, in Gisors, in 1767--8, he wrote

the second part of the Confessions. He had assumed the surname of Renou,

and about this time he declared before two witnesses that Therese was

his wife--a proceeding to which he attached the sanctity of marriage.

In 1770 he took up his abode in Paris, where he lived continuously for

seven years, in a street which now bears his name, and gained a living

by copying music. Bernardin de Saint-Pierre, the author of 'Paul

and Virginia', who became acquainted with him in 1772, has left some

interesting particulars of Rousseau's daily mode of life at this period.

Monsieur de Girardin having offered him an asylum at Ermemonville in the

spring of 1778, he and Therese went thither to reside, but for no long

time. On the 3d of July, in the same year, this perturbed spirit at last

found rest, stricken by apoplexy. A rumor that he had committed suicide

was circulated, but the evidence of trustworthy witnesses, including a

physician, effectually contradicts this accusation. His remains, first

interred in the Ile des Peupliers, were, after the Revolution, removed

to the Pantheon. In later times the Government of Geneva made some

reparation for their harsh treatment of a famous citizen, and erected

his statue, modelled by his compatriot, Pradier, on an island in the

Rhone.

"See nations, slowly wise and meanly just,

To buried merit raise the tardy bust."

November, 1896. S. W. ORSON.

THE CONFESSIONS

OF

J. J. ROUSSEAU

BOOK I.

|I have entered upon a performance which is without example,

whose accomplishment will have no imitator. I mean to present my

fellow-mortals with a man in all the integrity of nature; and this man

shall be myself.

I know my heart, and have studied mankind; I am not made like any one

I have been acquainted with, perhaps like no one in existence; if not

better, I at least claim originality, and whether Nature did wisely

in breaking the mould with which she formed me, can only be determined

after having read this work.

Whenever the last trumpet shall sound, I will present myself before the

sovereign judge with this book in my hand, and loudly proclaim, thus

have I acted; these were my thoughts; such was I. With equal freedom and

veracity have I related what was laudable or wicked, I have concealed no

crimes, added no virtues; and if I have sometimes introduced superfluous

ornament, it was merely to occupy a void occasioned by defect of memory:

I may have supposed that certain, which I only knew to be probable, but

have never asserted as truth, a conscious falsehood. Such as I was,

I have declared myself; sometimes vile and despicable, at others,

virtuous, generous and sublime; even as thou hast read my inmost soul:

Power eternal! assemble round thy throne an innumerable throng of my

fellow-mortals, let them listen to my confessions, let them blush at

my depravity, let them tremble at my sufferings; let each in his turn

expose with equal sincerity the failings, the wanderings of his heart,

and, if he dare, aver, I was better than that man.

I was born at Geneva, in 1712, son of Isaac Rousseau and Susannah

Bernard, citizens. My father's share of a moderate competency, which was

divided among fifteen children, being very trivial, his business of a

watchmaker (in which he had the reputation of great ingenuity) was his

only dependence. My mother's circumstances were more affluent; she was

daughter of a Mons. Bernard, minister, and possessed a considerable

share of modesty and beauty; indeed, my father found some difficulty in

obtaining her hand.

The affection they entertained for each other was almost as early as

their existence; at eight or nine years old they walked together every

evening on the banks of the Treille, and before they were ten, could

not support the idea of separation. A natural sympathy of soul confined

those sentiments of predilection which habit at first produced; born

with minds susceptible of the most exquisite sensibility and tenderness,

it was only necessary to encounter similar dispositions; that moment

fortunately presented itself, and each surrendered a willing heart.

The obstacles that opposed served only to give a decree of vivacity

to their affection, and the young lover, not being able to obtain his

mistress, was overwhelmed with sorrow and despair. She advised him to

travel--to forget her. He consented--he travelled, but returned

more passionate than ever, and had the happiness to find her equally

constant, equally tender. After this proof of mutual affection, what

could they resolve?--to dedicate their future lives to love!

the resolution was ratified with a vow, on which Heaven shed its

benediction.

Fortunately, my mother's brother, Gabriel Bernard, fell in love with one

of my father's sisters; she had no objection to the match, but made the

marriage of his sister with her brother an indispensable preliminary.

Love soon removed every obstacle, and the two weddings were celebrated

the same day: thus my uncle became the husband of my aunt, and their

children were doubly cousins german. Before a year was expired, both had

the happiness to become fathers, but were soon after obliged to submit

to a separation.

My uncle Bernard, who was an engineer, went to serve in the empire and

Hungary, under Prince Eugene, and distinguished himself both at the

siege and battle of Belgrade. My father, after the birth of my only

brother, set off, on recommendation, for Constantinople, and was

appointed watchmaker to the Seraglio. During his absence, the beauty,

wit, and accomplishments of my mother attracted a number of admirers,

among whom Mons. de la Closure, Resident of France, was the most

assiduous in his attentions.

[They were too brilliant for her situation, the minister, her

father, having bestowed great pains on her education. She was taught

drawing, singing, and to play on the theorbo; had learning, and

wrote very agreeable verses. The following is an extempore piece

which she composed in the absence of her husband and brother, in a

conversation with some person relative to them, while walking with

her sister-in-law, and their two children:

Ces deux messieurs, qui sont absens,

Nous sont chers de bien des manieres;

Ce sont nos amis, nos amans,

Ce sont nos maris et nos freres,

Et les peres de ces enfans.

These absent ones, who just claim

Our hearts, by every tender name,

To whom each wish extends

Our husbands and our brothers are,

The fathers of this blooming pair,

Our lovers and our friends.]

His passion must have been extremely violent, since after a period of

thirty years I have seen him affected at the very mention of her name.

My mother had a defence more powerful even than her virtue; she tenderly

loved my father, and conjured him to return; his inclination seconding

his request, he gave up every prospect of emolument, and hastened to

Geneva.

I was the unfortunate fruit of this return, being born ten months after,

in a very weakly and infirm state; my birth cost my mother her life, and

was the first of my misfortunes. I am ignorant how my father supported

her loss at that time, but I know he was ever after inconsolable. In

me he still thought he saw her he so tenderly lamented, but could never

forget I had been the innocent cause of his misfortune, nor did he

ever embrace me, but his sighs, the convulsive pressure of his arms,

witnessed that a bitter regret mingled itself with his caresses, though,

as may be supposed, they were not on this account less ardent. When he

said to me, "Jean Jacques, let us talk of your mother," my usual reply

was, "Yes, father, but then, you know, we shall cry," and immediately

the tears started from his eyes. "Ah!" exclaimed he, with agitation,

"Give me back my wife; at least console me for her loss; fill up, dear

boy, the void she has left in my soul. Could I love thee thus wert thou

only my son?" Forty years after this loss he expired in the arms of his

second wife, but the name of the first still vibrated on his lips, still

was her image engraved on his heart.

Such were the authors of my being: of all the gifts it had pleased

Heaven to bestow on them, a feeling heart was the only one that

descended to me; this had been the source of their felicity, it was the

foundation of all my misfortunes.

I came into the world with so few signs of life, that they entertained

but little hope of preserving me, with the seeds of a disorder that

has gathered strength with years, and from which I am now relieved at

intervals, only to suffer a different, though more intolerable evil.

I owed my preservation to one of my father's sisters, an amiable and

virtuous girl, who took the most tender care of me; she is yet living,

nursing, at the age of four-score, a husband younger than herself,

but worn out with excessive drinking. Dear aunt! I freely forgive your

having preserved my life, and only lament that it is not in my power to

bestow on the decline of your days the tender solicitude and care you

lavished on the first dawn of mine. My nurse, Jaqueline, is likewise

living: and in good health--the hands that opened my eyes to the light

of this world may close them at my death. We suffer before we think; it

is the common lot of humanity. I experienced more than my proportion of

it. I have no knowledge of what passed prior to my fifth or sixth year;

I recollect nothing of learning to read, I only remember what effect

the first considerable exercise of it produced on my mind; and from that

moment I date an uninterrupted knowledge of myself.

Every night, after supper, we read some part of a small collection of

romances which had been my mother's. My father's design was only to

improve me in reading, and he thought these entertaining works were

calculated to give me a fondness for it; but we soon found ourselves so

interested in the adventures they contained, that we alternately read

whole nights together, and could not bear to give over until at the

conclusion of a volume. Sometimes, in a morning, on hearing the swallows

at our window, my father, quite ashamed of this weakness, would cry,

"Come, come, let us go to bed; I am more a child than thou art."

I soon acquired, by this dangerous custom, not only an extreme

facility in reading and comprehending, but, for my age, a too intimate

acquaintance with the passions. An infinity of sensations were familiar

to me, without possessing any precise idea of the objects to which they

related--I had conceived nothing--I had felt the whole. This confused

succession of emotions did not retard the future efforts of my reason,

though they added an extravagant, romantic notion of human life, which

experience and reflection have never been able to eradicate.

My romance reading concluded with the summer of 1719, the following

winter was differently employed. My mother's library being quite

exhausted, we had recourse to that part of her father's which had

devolved to us; here we happily found some valuable books, which was by

no means extraordinary, having been selected by a minister that truly

deserved that title, in whom learning (which was the rage of the times)

was but a secondary commendation, his taste and good sense being

most conspicuous. The history of the Church and Empire by Le Sueur,

Bossuett's Discourses on Universal History, Plutarch's Lives,

the history of Venice by Nani, Ovid's Metamorphoses, La Bruyere,

Fontenelle's World, his Dialogues of the Dead, and a few volumes of

Moliere, were soon ranged in my father's closet, where, during the hours

he was employed in his business, I daily read them, with an avidity and

taste uncommon, perhaps unprecedented at my age.

Plutarch presently became my greatest favorite. The satisfaction I

derived from repeated readings I gave this author, extinguished my

passion for romances, and I shortly preferred Agesilaus, Brutus, and

Aristides, to Orondates, Artemenes, and Juba. These interesting studies,

seconded by the conversations they frequently occasioned with my father,

produced that republican spirit and love of liberty, that haughty and

invincible turn of mind, which rendered me impatient of restraint or

servitude, and became the torment of my life, as I continually found

myself in situations incompatible with these sentiments. Incessantly

occupied with Rome and Athens, conversing, if I may so express myself

with their illustrious heroes; born the citizen of a republic, of a

father whose ruling passion was a love of his country, I was fired with

these examples; could fancy myself a Greek or Roman, and readily give

into the character of the personage whose life I read; transported by

the recital of any extraordinary instance of fortitude or intrepidity,

animation flashed from my eyes, and gave my voice additional strength

and energy. One day, at table, while relating the fortitude of Scoevola,

they were terrified at seeing me start from my seat and hold my hand

over a hot chafing--dish, to represent more forcibly the action of that

determined Roman.

My brother, who was seven years older than myself, was brought up to

my father's profession. The extraordinary affection they lavished on

me might be the reason he was too much neglected: this certainly was a

fault which cannot be justified. His education and morals suffered

by this neglect, and he acquired the habits of a libertine before he

arrived at an age to be really one. My father tried what effect placing

him with a master would produce, but he still persisted in the same ill

conduct. Though I saw him so seldom that it could hardly be said we

were acquainted, I loved him tenderly, and believe he had as strong

an affection for me as a youth of his dissipated turn of mind could be

supposed capable of. One day, I remember, when my father was correcting

him severely, I threw myself between them, embracing my brother, whom

I covered with my body, receiving the strokes designed for him; I

persisted so obstinately in my protection, that either softened by my

cries and tears, or fearing to hurt me most, his anger subsided, and he

pardoned his fault. In the end, my brother's conduct became so bad that

he suddenly disappeared, and we learned some time after that he was in

Germany, but he never wrote to us, and from that day we heard no news of

him: thus I became an only son.

If this poor lad was neglected, it was quite different with his brother,

for the children of a king could not be treated with more attention and

tenderness than were bestowed on my infancy, being the darling of the

family; and what is rather uncommon, though treated as a beloved, never

a spoiled child; was never permitted, while under paternal inspection,

to play in the street with other children; never had any occasion

to contradict or indulge those fantastical humors which are usually

attributed to nature, but are in reality the effects of an injudicious

education. I had the faults common to my age, was talkative, a glutton,

and sometimes a liar, made no scruple of stealing sweetmeats, fruits,

or, indeed, any kind of eatables; but never took delight in mischievous

waste, in accusing others, or tormenting harmless animals. I recollect,

indeed, that one day, while Madam Clot, a neighbor of ours, was gone to

church, I made water in her kettle: the remembrance even now makes me

smile, for Madame Clot (though, if you please, a good sort of creature)

was one of the most tedious grumbling old women I ever knew. Thus have I

given a brief, but faithful, history of my childish transgressions.

How could I become cruel or vicious, when I had before my eyes only

examples of mildness, and was surrounded by some of the best people in

the world? My father, my aunt, my nurse, my relations, our friends, our

neighbors, all I had any connection with, did not obey me, it is true,

but loved me tenderly, and I returned their affection. I found so little

to excite my desires, and those I had were so seldom contradicted, that

I was hardly sensible of possessing any, and can solemnly aver I was an

absolute stranger to caprice until after I had experienced the authority

of a master.

Those hours that were not employed in reading or writing with my father,

or walking with my governess, Jaqueline, I spent with my aunt; and

whether seeing her embroider, or hearing her sing, whether sitting or

standing by her side, I was ever happy. Her tenderness and unaffected

gayety, the charms of her figure and countenance have left such

indelible impressions on my mind, that her manner, look, and attitude

are still before my eyes; I recollect a thousand little caressing

questions; could describe her clothes, her head-dress, nor have the two

curls of fine black hair which hung on her temples, according to the

mode of that time, escaped my memory.

Though my taste, or rather passion, for music, did not show itself

until a considerable time after, I am fully persuaded it is to her I am

indebted for it. She knew a great number of songs, which she sung with

great sweetness and melody. The serenity and cheerfulness which were

conspicuous in this lovely girl, banished melancholy, and made all round

her happy.

The charms of her voice had such an effect on me, that not only several

of her songs have ever since remained on my memory, but some I have not

thought of from my infancy, as I grow old, return upon my mind with a

charm altogether inexpressible. Would any one believe that an old dotard

like me, worn out with care and infirmity, should sometime surprise

himself weeping like a child, and in a voice querulous, and broken by

age, muttering out one of those airs which were the favorites of

my infancy? There is one song in particular, whose tune I perfectly

recollect, but the words that compose the latter half of it constantly

refuse every effort to recall them, though I have a confused idea of the

rhymes. The beginning, with what I have been able to recollect of the

remainder, is as follows:

Tircis, je n'ose

Ecouter ton Chalumeau

Sous l'Ormeau;

Car on en cause

Deja dans notre hameau.

---- ---- -------

------ --- un Berger

s'engager

sans danger,

Et toujours l'epine est sons la rose.

I have endeavored to account for the invincible charm my heart feels on

the recollection of this fragment, but it is altogether inexplicable.

I only know, that before I get to the end of it, I always find my voice

interrupted by tenderness, and my eyes suffused with tears. I have

a hundred times formed the resolution of writing to Paris for the

remainder of these words, if any one should chance to know them: but

I am almost certain the pleasure I take in the recollection would be

greatly diminished was I assured any one but my poor aunt Susan had sung

them.

Such were my affections on entering this life. Thus began to form and

demonstrate itself, a heart, at once haughty and tender, a character

effeminate, yet invincible; which, fluctuating between weakness and

courage, luxury and virtue, has ever set me in contradiction to myself;

causing abstinence and enjoyment, pleasure and prudence, equally to shun

me.

This course of education was interrupted by an accident, whose

consequences influenced the rest of my life. My father had a quarrel

with M. G----, who had a captain's commission in France, and was related

to several of the Council. This G----, who was an insolent, ungenerous

man, happening to bleed at the nose, in order to be revenged, accused my

father of having drawn his sword on him in the city, and in consequence

of this charge they were about to conduct him to prison. He insisted

(according to the law of this republic) that the accuser should be

confined at the same time; and not being able to obtain this, preferred

a voluntary banishment for the remainder of his life, to giving up a

point by which he must sacrifice his honor and liberty.

I remained under the tuition of my uncle Bernard, who was at that

time employed in the fortifications of Geneva. He had lost his eldest

daughter, but had a son about my own age, and we were sent together to

Bossey, to board with the Minister Lambercier. Here we were to learn

Latin, with all the insignificant trash that has obtained the name of

education.

Two years spent in this village softened, in some degree, my Roman

fierceness, and again reduced me to a state of childhood. At Geneva,

where nothing was exacted, I loved reading, which was, indeed, my

principal amusement; but, at Bossey, where application was expected, I

was fond of play as a relaxation. The country was so new, so charming

in my idea, that it seemed impossible to find satiety in its enjoyments,

and I conceived a passion for rural life, which time has not been able

to extinguish; nor have I ever ceased to regret the pure and tranquil

pleasures I enjoyed at this place in my childhood; the remembrance

having followed me through every age, even to that in which I am

hastening again towards it.

M. Lambercier was a worthy, sensible man, who, without neglecting our

instruction, never made our acquisitions burthensome, or tasks

tedious. What convinces me of the rectitude of his method is, that

notwithstanding my extreme aversion to restraint, the recollection of

my studies is never attended with disgust; and, if my improvement was

trivial, it was obtained with ease, and has never escaped memory.

The simplicity of this rural life was of infinite advantage in opening

my heart to the reception of true friendship. The sentiments I had

hitherto formed on this subject were extremely elevated, but altogether

imaginary. The habit of living in this peaceful manner soon united me

tenderly to my cousin Bernard; my affection was more ardent than that

I had felt for my brother, nor has time ever been able to efface it.

He was a tall, lank, weakly boy, with a mind as mild as his body was

feeble, and who did not wrong the good opinion they were disposed to

entertain for the son of my guardian. Our studies, amusements, and

tasks, were the same; we were alone; each wanted a playmate; to separate

would in some measure, have been to annihilate us. Though we had not

many opportunities of demonstrating our attachment to each other, it was

certainly extreme; and so far from enduring the thought of separation,

we could not even form an idea that we should ever be able to submit to

it. Each of a disposition to be won by kindness, and complaisant, when

not soured by contradiction, we agreed in every particular. If, by

the favor of those who governed us he had the ascendant while in

their presence, I was sure to acquire it when we were alone, and this

preserved the equilibrium so necessary in friendship. If he hesitated in

repeating his task, I prompted him; when my exercises were finished, I

helped to write his; and, in our amusements, my disposition being most

active, ever had the lead. In a word, our characters accorded so well,

and the friendship that subsisted between us was so cordial, that during

the five years we were at Bossey and Geneva we were inseparable: we

often fought, it is true, but there never was any occasion to separate

us. No one of our quarrels lasted more than a quarter of an hour, and

never in our lives did we make any complaint of each other. It may be

said, these remarks are frivolous; but, perhaps, a similiar example

among children can hardly be produced.

The manner in which I passed my time at Bossey was so agreeable to my

disposition, that it only required a longer duration absolutely to have

fixed my character, which would have had only peaceable, affectionate,

benevolent sentiments for its basis. I believe no individual of our

kind ever possessed less natural vanity than myself. At intervals, by

an extraordinary effort, I arrived at sublime ideas, but presently sunk

again into my original languor. To be loved by every one who knew me was

my most ardent wish. I was naturally mild, my cousin was equally so, and

those who had the care of us were of similiar dispositions. Everything

contributed to strengthen those propensities which nature had implanted

in my breast, and during the two years I was neither the victim nor

witness of any violent emotions.

I knew nothing so delightful as to see every one content, not only with

me, but all that concerned them. When repeating our catechism at church,

nothing could give me greater vexation, on being obliged to hesitate,

than to see Miss Lambercier's countenance express disapprobation and

uneasiness. This alone was more afflicting to me than the shame

of faltering before so many witnesses, which, notwithstanding, was

sufficiently painful; for though not oversolicitous of praise, I was

feelingly alive to shame; yet I can truly affirm, the dread of being

reprimanded by Miss Lambercier alarmed me less than the thought of

making her uneasy.

Neither she nor her brother were deficient in a reasonable severity, but

as this was scarce ever exerted without just cause, I was more afflicted

at their disapprobation than the punishment. Certainly the method

of treating youth would be altered if the distant effects this

indiscriminate, and frequently indiscreet method produces, were more

conspicuous. I would willingly excuse myself from a further explanation,

did not the lesson this example conveys (which points out an evil as

frequent as it is pernicious) forbid my silence.

As Miss Lambercier felt a mother's affection, she sometimes exerted a

mother's authority, even to inflicting on us when we deserved it, the

punishment of infants. She had often threatened it, and this threat of

a treatment entirely new, appeared to me extremely dreadful; but I found

the reality much less terrible than the idea, and what is still more

unaccountable, this punishment increased my affection for the person who

had inflicted it. All this affection, aided by my natural mildness, was

scarcely sufficient to prevent my seeking, by fresh offences, a return

of the same chastisement; for a degree of sensuality had mingled with

the smart and shame, which left more desire than fear of a repetition.

I was well convinced the same discipline from her brother would have

produced a quite contrary effect; but from a man of his disposition this

was not probable, and if I abstained from meriting correction it was

merely from a fear of offending Miss Lambercier, for benevolence, aided

by the passions, has ever maintained an empire over me which has given

law to my heart.

This event, which, though desirable, I had not endeavored to accelerate,

arrived without my fault; I should say, without my seeking; and I

profited by it with a safe conscience; but this second, was also the

last time, for Miss Lambercier, who doubtless had some reason to imagine

this chastisement did not produce the desired effect, declared it was

too fatiguing, and that she renounced it for the future. Till now we had

slept in her chamber, and during the winter, even in her bed; but two

days after another room was prepared for us, and from that moment I had

the honor (which I could very well have dispensed with) of being treated

by her as a great boy.

Who would believe this childish discipline, received at eight years old,

from the hands of a woman of thirty, should influence my propensities,

my desires, my passions, for the rest of my life, and that in quite a

contrary sense from what might naturally have been expected? The very

incident that inflamed my senses, gave my desires such an extraordinary

turn, that, confined to what I had already experienced, I sought no

further, and, with blood boiling with sensuality, almost from my birth,

preserved my purity beyond the age when the coldest constitutions lose

their insensibility; long tormented, without knowing by what, I gazed on

every handsome woman with delight; imagination incessantly brought

their charms to my remembrance, only to transform them into so many Miss

Lamberciers.

If ever education was perfectly chaste, it was certainly that I

received; my three aunts were not only of exemplary prudence, but

maintained a degree of modest reserve which women have long since

thought unnecessary. My father, it is true, loved pleasure, but his

gallantry was rather of the last than the present century, and he never

expressed his affection for any woman he regarded in terms a virgin

could have blushed at; indeed, it was impossible more attention should

be paid to that regard we owe the morals of children than was uniformly

observed by every one I had any concern with. An equal degree of

reserve in this particular was observed at M. Lambercier's, where a good

maid-servant was discharged for having once made use of an expression

before us which was thought to contain some degree of indelicacy. I

had no precise idea of the ultimate effect of the passions, but the

conception I had formed was extremely disgusting; I entertained a

particular aversion for courtesans, nor could I look on a rake without a

degree of disdain mingled with terror.

These prejudices of education, proper in themselves to retard the first

explosions of a combustible constitution, were strengthened, as I have

already hinted, by the effect the first moments of sensuality produced

in me, for notwithstanding the troublesome ebullition of my blood, I

was satisfied with the species of voluptuousness I had already been

acquainted with, and sought no further.

Thus I passed the age of puberty, with a constitution extremely ardent,

without knowing or even wishing for any other gratification of the

passions than what Miss Lambercier had innocently given me an idea of;

and when I became a man, that childish taste, instead of vanishing, only

associated with the other. This folly, joined to a natural timidity, has

always prevented my being very enterprising with women, so that I have

passed my days in languishing in silence for those I most admired,

without daring to disclose my wishes.

To fall at the feet of an imperious mistress, obey her mandates, or

implore pardon, were for me the most exquisite enjoyments, and the more

my blood was inflamed by the efforts of a lively imagination the more I

acquired the appearance of a whining lover.

It will be readily conceived that this mode of making love is not

attended with a rapid progress or imminent danger to the virtue of

its object; yet, though I have few favors to boast of, I have not

been excluded from enjoyment, however imaginary. Thus the senses, in

concurrence with a mind equally timid and romantic, have preserved

my moral chaste, and feelings uncorrupted, with precisely the same

inclinations, which, seconded with a moderate portion of effrontery,

might have plunged me into the most unwarrantable excesses.

I have made the first, most difficult step, in the obscure and painful

maze of my Confessions. We never feel so great a degree of repugnance

in divulging what is really criminal, as what is merely ridiculous. I

am now assured of my resolution, for after what I have dared disclose,

nothing can have power to deter me. The difficulty attending these

acknowledgments will be readily conceived, when I declare, that during

the whole of my life, though frequently laboring under the most violent

agitation, being hurried away with the impetuosity of a passion which

(when in company with those I loved) deprived me of the faculty of

sight and hearing, I could never, in the course of the most unbounded

familiarity, acquire sufficient resolution to declare my folly, and

implore the only favor that remained to bestow.

In thus investigating the first traces of my sensible existence, I find

elements, which, though seemingly incompatible, have united to produce

a simple and uniform effect; while others, apparently the same, have,

by the concurrence of certain circumstances, formed such different

combinations, that it would never be imagined they had any affinity; who

would believe, for example, that one of the most vigorous springs of my

soul was tempered in the identical source from whence luxury and ease

mingled with my constitution and circulated in my veins? Before I quit

this subject, I will add a striking instance of the different effects

they produced.

One day, while I was studying in a chamber contiguous to the kitchen,

the maid set some of Miss Lambercier's combs to dry by the fire, and on

coming to fetch them some time after, was surprised to find the teeth of

one of them broken off. Who could be suspected of this mischief? No one

but myself had entered the room: I was questioned, but denied having any

knowledge of it. Mr. and Miss Lambercier consult, exhort, threaten, but

all to no purpose; I obstinately persist in the denial; and, though

this was the first time I had been detected in a confirmed falsehood,

appearances were so strong that they overthrew all my protestations.

This affair was thought serious; the mischief, the lie, the obstinacy,

were considered equally deserving of punishment, which was not now to

be administered by Miss Lambercier. My uncle Bernard was written to; he

arrived; and my poor cousin being charged with a crime no less serious,

we were conducted to the same execution, which was inflicted with great

severity. If finding a remedy in the evil itself, they had sought ever

to allay my depraved desires, they could not have chosen a shorter

method to accomplish their designs, and, I can assure my readers, I was

for a long time freed from the dominion of them.

As this severity could not draw from me the expected acknowledgment,

which obstinacy brought on several repetitions, and reduced me to a

deplorable situation, yet I was immovable, and resolutely determined to

suffer death rather than submit. Force, at length, was obliged to

yield to the diabolical infatuation of a child, for no better name was

bestowed on my constancy, and I came out of this dreadful trial,

torn, it is true, but triumphant. Fifty years have expired since this

adventure--the fear of punishment is no more. Well, then, I aver, in the

face of Heaven, I was absolutely innocent: and, so far from breaking, or

even touching the comb, never came near the fire. It will be asked, how

did this mischief happen? I can form no conception of it, I only know my

own innocence.

Let any one figure to himself a character whose leading traits were

docility and timidity, but haughty, ardent, and invincible, in its

passions; a child, hitherto governed by the voice of reason, treated

with mildness, equity, and complaisance, who could not even support

the idea of injustice, experiencing, for the first time, so violent an

instance of it, inflicted by those he most loved and respected. What

perversion of ideas! What confusion in the heart, the brain, in all my

little being, intelligent and moral!--let any one, I say, if possible,

imagine all this, for I am incapable of giving the least idea of what

passed in my mind at that period.

My reason was not sufficiently established to enable me to put myself in

the place of others, and judge how much appearances condemned me, I only

beheld the rigor of a dreadful chastisement, inflicted for a crime I

had not committed; yet I can truly affirm, the smart I suffered, though

violent, was inconsiderable compared to what I felt from indignation,

rage, and despair. My cousin, who was almost in similar circumstances,

having been punished for an involuntary fault as guilty of a premediated

crime, became furious by my example. Both in the same bed, we embraced

each other with convulsive transport; we were almost suffocated;

and when our young hearts found sufficient relief to breathe out our

indigination, we sat up in the bed, and with all our force, repeated a

hundred times, Carnifex! Carnifex! Carnifex! executioner, tormentor.

Even while I write this I feel my pulse quicken, and should I live a

hundred thousand years, the agitation of that moment would still be

fresh in my memory. The first instance of violence and oppression is so

deeply engraved on my soul, that every relative idea renews my emotion:

the sentiment of indignation, which in its origin had reference only

to myself, has acquired such strength, and is at present so completely

detached from personal motives, that my heart is as much inflamed at the

sight or relation of any act of injustice (whatever may be the object,

or wheresoever it may be perpetrated) as if I was the immediate

sufferer. When I read the history of a merciless tyrant, or the dark

and the subtle machination of a knavish designing priest, I could on the

instant set off to stab the miscreants, though I was certain to perish

in the attempt.

I have frequently fatigued myself by running after and stoning a cock, a

cow, a dog, or any animal I saw tormenting another, only because it was

conscious of possessing superior strength. This may be natural to me,

and I am inclined to believe it is, though the lively impression of the

first injustice I became the victim of was too long and too powerfully

remembered not to have added considerable force to it.

This occurrence terminated my infantine serenity; from that moment I

ceased to enjoy a pure unadulterated happiness, and on a retrospection

of the pleasure of my childhood, I yet feel they ended here. We continue

at Bossey some months after this event, but were like our first parents

in the Garden of Eden after they had lost their innocence; in appearance

our situation was the same, in effect it was totally different.

Affection, respect; intimacy, confidence, no longer attached the pupils

to their guides; we beheld them no longer as divinities, who could read

the secrets of our hearts; we were less ashamed of committing faults,

more afraid of being accused of them: we learned to dissemble, to rebel,

to lie: all the vices common to our years began to corrupt our happy

innocence, mingle with our sports, and embitter our amusements. The

country itself, losing those sweet and simple charms which captivate the

heart, appeared a gloomy desert, or covered with a veil that concealed

its beauties. We cultivated our little gardens no more: our flowers were

neglected. We no longer scratched away the mould, and broke out into

exclamations of delight, on discovering that the grain we had sown began

to shoot. We were disgusted with our situation; our preceptors were

weary of us. In a word, my uncle wrote for our return, and we left Mr.

and Miss Lambercier without feeling any regret at the separation.

Near thirty years passed away from my leaving Bossey, without once

recalling the place to my mind with any degree of satisfaction; but

after having passed the prime of life, as I decline into old age (while

more recent occurrences are wearing out apace) I feel these remembrances

revive and imprint themselves on my heart, with a force and charm that

every day acquires fresh strength; as if, feeling life fleet from me,

I endeavored to catch it again by its commencement. The most trifling

incident of those happy days delight me, for no other reason than being

of those days. I recall every circumstance of time, place, and persons;

I see the maid or footman busy in the chamber, a swallow entering the

window, a fly settling on my hand while repeating my lessons. I see

the whole economy of the apartment; on the right hand Mr. Lambercier's

closet, with a print representing all the popes, a barometer, a large

almanac, the windows of the house (which stood in a hollow at the bottom

of the garden) shaded by raspberry shrubs, whose shoots sometimes found

entrance; I am sensible the reader has no occasion to know all this, but

I feel a kind of necessity for relating it. Why am I not permitted

to recount all the little anecdotes of that thrice happy age, at the

recollection of whose joys I ever tremble with delight? Five or six

particularly--let us compromise the matter--I will give up five, but

then I must have one, and only one, provided I may draw it out to its

utmost length, in order to prolong my satisfaction.

If I only sought yours, I should choose that of Miss Lambercier's

backside, which by an unlucky fall at the bottom of the meadow, was

exposed to the view of the King of Sardinia, who happened to be passing

by; but that of the walnut tree on the terrace is more amusing to me,

since here I was an actor, whereas, in the abovementioned scene I was

only a spectator; and I must confess I see nothing that should occasion

risibility in an accident, which, however laughable in itself, alarmed

me for a person I loved as a mother, or perhaps something more.

Ye curious readers, whose expectations are already on the stretch for

the noble history of the terrace, listen to the tragedy, and abstain

from trembling, if you can, at the horrible catastrophe!

At the outside of the courtyard door, on the left hand, was a

terrace; here they often sat after dinner; but it was subject to one

inconvenience, being too much exposed to the rays of the sun; to obviate

this defect, Mr. Lambercier had a walnut tree set there, the planting

of which was attended with great solemnity. The two boarders were

godfathers, and while the earth was replacing round the root, each held

the tree with one hand, singing songs of triumph. In order to water it

with more effect, they formed a kind of luson around its foot: myself

and cousin, who were every day ardent spectators of this watering,

confirmed each other in the very natural idea that it was nobler to

plant trees on the terrace than colors on a breach, and this glory we

were resolved to procure without dividing it with any one.

In pursuance of this resolution, we cut a slip off a willow, and planted

it on the terrace, at about eight or ten feet distance from the august

walnut tree. We did not forget to make a hollow round it, but the

difficulty was how to procure a supply of water, which was brought from

a considerable distance, and we not permitted to fetch it: but water was

absolutely necessary for our willow, and we made use of every stratagem

to obtain it.

For a few days everything succeeded so well that it began to bud, and

throw out small leaves, which we hourly measured convinced (tho' now

scarce a foot from the ground) it would soon afford us a refreshing

shade. This unfortunate willow, by engrossing our whole time, rendered

us incapable of application to any other study, and the cause of our

inattention not being known, we were kept closer than before. The fatal

moment approached when water must fail, and we were already afflicted

with the idea that our tree must perish with drought. At length

necessity, the parent of industry, suggested an invention, by which we

might save our tree from death, and ourselves from despair; it was to

make a furrow underground, which would privately conduct a part of the

water from the walnut tree to our willow. This undertaking was executed

with ardor, but did not immediately succeed--our descent was not

skilfully planned--the water did not run, the earth falling in

and stopping up the furrow; yet, though all went contrary, nothing

discouraged us, 'omnia vincit labor improbus'. We made the bason deeper,

to give the water a more sensible descent; we cut the bottom of a box

into narrow planks; increased the channel from the walnut tree to our

willow and laying a row flat at the bottom, set two others inclining

towards each other, so as to form a triangular channel; we formed a kind

of grating with small sticks at the end next the walnut tree, to prevent

the earth and stones from stopping it up, and having carefully covered

our work with well-trodden earth, in a transport of hope and fear

attended the hour of watering. After an interval, which seemed an age

of expectation, this hour arrived. Mr. Lambercier, as usual, assisted

at the operation; we contrived to get between him and our tree, towards

which he fortunately turned his back. They no sooner began to pour the

first pail of water, than we perceived it running to the willow; this

sight was too much for our prudence, and we involuntarily expressed our

transport by a shout of joy. The sudden exclamation made Mr. Lambercier

turn about, though at that instant he was delighted to observe how

greedily the earth, which surrounded the root of his walnut tree,

imbibed the water. Surprised at seeing two trenches partake of it,

he shouted in his turn, examines, perceives the roguery, and, sending

instantly for a pick axe, at one fatal blow makes two or three of our

planks fly, crying out meantime with all his strength, an aqueduct! an

aqueduct! His strokes redoubled, every one of which made an impression

on our hearts; in a moment the planks, the channel, the bason, even

our favorite willow, all were ploughed up, nor was one word pronounced

during this terrible transaction, except the above mentioned

exclamation. An aqueduct! repeated he, while destroying all our hopes,

an aqueduct! an aqueduct!

It maybe supposed this adventure had a still more melancholy end for

the young architects; this, however, was not the case; the affair ended

here. Mr. Lambercier never reproached us on this account, nor was

his countenance clouded with a frown; we even heard him mention the

circumstance to his sister with loud bursts of laughter. The laugh of

Mr. Lambercier might be heard to a considerable distance. But what is

still more surprising after the first transport of sorrow had subsided,

we did not find ourselves violently afflicted; we planted a tree in

another spot, and frequently recollected the catastrophe of the former,

repeating with a significant emphasis, an aqueduct! an aqueduct! Till

then, at intervals, I had fits of ambition, and could fancy myself

Brutus or Aristides, but this was the first visible effect of my vanity.

To have constructed an aqueduct with our own hands, to have set a slip

of willow in competition with a flourishing tree, appeared to me a

supreme degree of glory! I had a juster conception of it at ten than

Caesar entertained at thirty.

The idea of this walnut tree, with the little anecdotes it gave rise to,

have so well continued, or returned to my memory, that the design which

conveyed the most pleasing sensations, during my journey to Geneva, in

the year 1754, was visiting Bossey, and reviewing the monuments of my

infantine amusement, above all, the beloved walnut tree, whose age at

that time must have been verging on a third of a century, but I was

so beset with company that I could not find a moment to accomplish my

design. There is little appearance now of the occasion being renewed;

but should I ever return to that charming spot, and find my favorite

walnut tree still existing, I am convinced I should water it with my

tears.

On my return to Geneva, I passed two or three years at my uncle's,

expecting the determination of my friends respecting my future

establishment. His own son being devoted to genius, was taught drawing,

and instructed by his father in the elements of Euclid; I partook of

these instructions, but was principally fond of drawing. Meantime,

they were irresolute, whether to make me a watchmaker, a lawyer, or a

minister. I should have preferred being a minister, as I thought it must

be a charming thing to preach, but the trifling income which had been my

mother's, and was to be divided between my brother and myself, was too

inconsiderable to defray the expense attending the prosecution of my

studies. As my age did not render the choice very pressing, I remained

with my uncle, passing my time with very little improvement, and paying

pretty dear, though not unreasonably, for my board.

My uncle, like my father, was a man of pleasure, but had not learned,

like him, to abridge his amusements for the sake of instructing his

family, consequently our education was neglected. My aunt was a devotee,

who loved singing psalms better than thinking of our improvement, so

that we were left entirely to ourselves, which liberty we never abused.

Ever inseparable, we were all the world to each other; and, feeling no

inclination to frequent the company of a number of disorderly lads of

our own age, we learned none of those habits of libertinism to which our

idle life exposed us. Perhaps I am wrong in charging myself and cousin

with idleness at this time, for, in our lives, we were never less so;

and what was extremely fortunate, so incessantly occupied with our

amusements, that we found no temptation to spend any part of our time

in the streets. We made cages, pipes, kites, drums, houses, ships, and

bows; spoiled the tools of my good old grandfather by endeavoring to

make watches in imitation of him; but our favorite amusement was

wasting paper, in drawing, washing, coloring, etc. There came an Italian

mountebank to Geneva, called Gamber-Corta, who had an exhibition of

puppets, that he made play a kind of comedy. We went once to see them,

but could not spare time to go again, being busily employed in making

puppets of our own and inventing comedies, which we immediately set

about making them perform, mimicking to the best of our abilities the

uncouth voice of Punch; and, to complete the business, my good aunt and

uncle Bernard had the patience to see and listen to our imitations; but

my uncle, having one day read an elaborate discourse to his family, we

instantly gave up our comedies, and began composing sermons.

These details, I confess, are not very amusing, but they serve to

demonstrate that the former part of our education was well directed,

since being, at such an early age, the absolute masters of our time,

we found no inclination to abuse it; and so little in want of other

companions, that we constantly neglected every occasion of seeking them.

When taking our walks together, we observed their diversions without

feeling any inclination to partake of them. Friendship so entirely

occupied our hearts, that, pleased with each other's company the

simplest pastimes were sufficient to delight us.

We were soon remarked for being thus inseparable: and what rendered us

more conspicuous, my cousin was very tall, myself extremely short, so

that we exhibited a very whimsical contrast. This meagre figure, small,

sallow countenance, heavy air, and supine gait, excited the ridicule of

the children, who, in the gibberish of the country, nicknamed him 'Barna

Bredanna'; and we no sooner got out of doors than our ears were assailed

with a repetition of "Barna Bredanna." He bore this indignity with

tolerable patience, but I was instantly for fighting. This was what

the young rogues aimed at. I engaged accordingly, and was beat. My poor

cousin did all in his power to assist me, but he was weak, and a single

stroke brought him to the ground. I then became furious, and received

several smart blows, some of which were aimed at 'Barna Bredanna'. This

quarrel so far increased the evil, that, to avoid their insults, we

could only show ourselves in the streets while they were employed at

school.

I had already become a redresser of grievances; there only wanted a lady

in the way to be a knight-errant in form. This defect was soon supplied;

I presently had two. I frequently went to see my father at Nion, a small

city in the Vaudois country, where he was now settled. Being universally

respected, the affection entertained for him extended to me: and, during

my visits, the question seemed to be, who should show me most kindness.

A Madame de Vulson, in particular, loaded me with caresses; and, to

complete all, her daughter made me her gallant. I need not explain what

kind of gallant a boy of eleven must be to a girl of two and twenty;

the artful hussies know how to set these puppets up in front, to conceal

more serious engagements. On my part I saw no inequality between myself

and Miss Vulson, was flattered by the circumstance, and went into it

with my whole heart, or rather my whole head, for this passion certainly

reached no further, though it transported me almost to madness, and

frequently produced scenes sufficient to make even a cynic expire with

laughter.

I have experienced two kinds of love, equally real, which have scarce

any affinity, yet each differing materially from tender friendship.

My whole life has been divided between these affections, and I have

frequently felt the power of both at the same instant. For example, at

the very time I so publically and tyrannically claimed Miss Vulson, that

I could not suffer any other of my sex to approach her, I had short, but

passionate, assignations with a Miss Goton, who thought proper to act

the schoolmistress with me. Our meetings, though absolutely childish,

afforded me the height of happiness. I felt the whole charm of mystery,

and repaid Miss Vulson in kind, when she least expected it, the use she

made of me in concealing her amours. To my great mortification,

this secret was soon discovered, and I presently lost my young

schoolmistress.

Miss Goton was, in fact, a singular personage. She was not handsome, yet

there was a certain something in her figure which could not easily be

forgotten, and this for an old fool, I am too often convinced of. Her

eyes, in particular, neither corresponded with her age, her height, nor

her manner; she had a lofty imposing air, which agreed extremely well

with the character she assumed, but the most extraordinary part of her

composition was a mixture of forwardness and reserve difficult to be

conceived; and while she took the greatest liberties with me, would

never permit any to be taken with her in return, treating me precisely

like a child. This makes me suppose she had either ceased herself to be

one, or was yet sufficiently so to behold as play the danger to which

this folly exposed her.

I was so absolutely in the power of both these mistresses, that when in

the presence of either, I never thought of her who was absent; in other

respects, the effects they produced on me bore no affinity. I could have

passed my whole life with Miss Vulson, without forming a wish to quit

her; but then, my satisfaction was attended with a pleasing serenity;

and, in numerous companies, I was particularly charmed with her. The

sprightly sallies of her wit, the arch glance of her eye, even jealousy

itself, strengthened my attachment, and I triumphed in the preference

she seemed to bestow on me, while addressed by more powerful rivals;

applause, encouragement, and smiles, gave animation to my happiness.

Surrounded by a throng of observers, I felt the whole force of love--I

was passionate, transported; in a tete-a-tete, I should have been

constrained, thoughtful, perhaps unhappy. If Miss Vulson was ill,

I suffered with her; would willingly have given up my own health to

establish hers (and, observe I knew the want of it from experience); if

absent, she employed my thoughts, I felt the want of her; when present,

her caresses came with warmth and rapture to my heart, though my senses

were unaffected. The familiarities she bestowed on me I could not

have supported the idea of her granting to another; I loved her with a

brother's affection only, but experienced all the jealousy of a lover.

With Miss Goton this passion might have acquired a degree of fury; I

should have been a Turk, a tiger, had I once imagined she bestowed her

favors on any but myself. The pleasure I felt on approaching Miss Vulson

was sufficiently ardent, though unattended with uneasy sensations;

but at sight of Miss Goton, I felt myself bewildered--every sense was

absorbed in ecstasy. I believe it would have been impossible to have

remained long with her; I must have been suffocated with the violence

of my palpitations. I equally dreaded giving either of them displeasure;

with one I was more complaisant; with the other, more submissive. I

would not have offended Miss Vulson for the world; but if Miss Goton

had commanded me to throw myself into the flames, I think I should have

instantly obeyed her. Happily, both for her and myself, our amours; or

rather rendezvous, were not of long duration: and though my connection

with Miss Vulson was less dangerous, after a continuance of some greater

length, that likewise had its catastrophe; indeed the termination of a

love affair is good for nothing, unless it partakes of the romantic, and

can furnish out at least an exclamation.

Though my correspondence with Miss Vulson was less animated, it was

perhaps more endearing; we never separated without tears, and it can

hardly be conceived what a void I felt in my heart. I could neither

think nor speak of anything but her. These romantic sorrows were not

affected, though I am inclined to believe they did not absolutely centre

in her, for I am persuaded (though I did not perceive it at that time)

being deprived of amusement bore a considerable share in them.

To soften the rigor of absence, we agreed to correspond with each other,

and the pathetic expressions these letters contained were sufficient to

have split a rock. In a word, I had the honor of her not being able to

endure the pain of separation. She came to see me at Geneva.

My head was now completely turned; and during the two days she remained

here, I was intoxicated with delight. At her departure, I would have

thrown myself into the water after her, and absolutely rent the air with

my cries. The week following she sent me sweetmeats, gloves, etc. This

certainly would have appeared extremely gallant, had I not been informed

of her marriage at the same instant, and that the journey I had thought

proper to give myself the honor of, was only to buy her wedding suit.

My indignation may easily be conceived; I shall not attempt to describe

it. In this heroic fury, I swore never more to see the perfidious girl,

supposing it the greatest punishment that could be inflicted on her.

This, however, did not occasion her death, for twenty years after, while

on a visit to my father, being on the lake, I asked who those ladies

were in a boat not far from ours. "What!" said my father smiling,

"does not your heart inform you? It is your former flame, it is Madame

Christin, or, if you please, Miss Vulson." I started at the almost

forgotten name, and instantly ordered the waterman to turn off, not

judging it worth while to be perjured, however favorable the opportunity

for revenge, in renewing a dispute of twenty years past, with a woman of

forty.

Thus, before my future destination was determined, did I fool away the

most precious moments of my youth. After deliberating a long time on

the bent of my natural inclination, they resolved to dispose of me in a

manner the most repugnant to them. I was sent to Mr. Masseron, the City

Register, to learn (according to the expression of my uncle Bernard)

the thriving occupation of a scraper. This nickname was inconceivably

displeasing to me, and I promised myself but little satisfaction in the

prospect of heaping up money by a mean employment. The assiduity and

subjection required, completed my disgust, and I never set foot in the

office without feeling a kind of horror, which every day gained fresh

strength.

Mr. Masseron, who was not better pleased with my abilities than I was

with the employment, treated me with disdain, incessantly upbraiding me

with being a fool and blockhead, not forgetting to repeat, that my uncle

had assured him I was a knowing one, though he could not find that I

knew anything. That he had promised to furnish him with a sprightly boy,

but had, in truth, sent him an ass. To conclude, I was turned out of the

registry, with the additional ignominy of being pronounced a fool by all

Mr. Masseron's clerks, and fit only to handle a file.

My vocation thus determined, I was bound apprentice; not, however, to a

watchmaker, but to an engraver, and I had been so completely humiliated

by the contempt of the register, that I submitted without a murmur. My

master, whose name was M. Ducommon, was a young man of a very violent

and boorish character, who contrived in a short time to tarnish all the

amiable qualities of my childhood, to stupefy a disposition naturally

sprightly, and reduce my feelings, as well as my condition, to

an absolute state of servitude. I forgot my Latin, history, and

antiquities; I could hardly recollect whether such people as Romans ever

existed. When I visited my father, he no longer beheld his idol, nor

could the ladies recognize the gallant Jean Jacques; nay, I was so well

convinced that Mr. and Miss Lambercier would scarce receive me as their

pupil, that I endeavored to avoid their company, and from that time have

never seen them. The vilest inclinations, the basest actions, succeeded

my amiable amusements and even obliterated the very remembrance of them.

I must have had, in spite of my good education, a great propensity to

degenerate, else the declension could not have followed with such ease

and rapidity, for never did so promising a Caesar so quickly become a

Laradon.

The art itself did not displease me. I had a lively taste for drawing.

There was nothing displeasing in the exercise of the graver; and as

it required no very extraordinary abilities to attain perfection as

a watchcase engraver, I hoped to arrive at it. Perhaps I should

have accomplished my design, if unreasonable restraint, added to the

brutality of my master, had not rendered my business disgusting. I

wasted his time, and employed myself in engraving medals, which served

me and my companions as a kind of insignia for a new invented order of

chivalry, and though this differed very little from my usual employ,

I considered it as a relaxation. Unfortunately, my master caught me

at this contraband labor, and a severe beating was the consequence. He

reproached me at the same time with attempting to make counterfeit money

because our medals bore the arms of the Republic, though, I can truly

aver, I had no conception of false money, and very little of the true,

knowing better how to make a Roman As than one of our threepenny pieces.

My master's tyranny rendered insupportable that labor I should otherwise

have loved, and drove me to vices I naturally despised, such as

falsehood, idleness, and theft. Nothing ever gave me a clearer

demonstration of the difference between filial dependence and abject

slavery, than the remembrance of the change produced in me at that

period. Hitherto I had enjoyed a reasonable liberty; this I had suddenly

lost. I was enterprising at my father's, free at Mr. Lambercier's,

discreet at my uncle's; but, with my master, I became fearful, and from

that moment my mind was vitiated. Accustomed to live on terms of perfect

equality, to be witness of no pleasures I could not command, to see no

dish I was not to partake of, or be sensible of a desire I might not

express; to be able to bring every wish of my heart to my lips--what a

transition!--at my master's I was scarce allowed to speak, was forced to

quit the table without tasting what I most longed for, and the room when

I had nothing particular to do there; was incessantly confined to my

work, while the liberty my master and his journeymen enjoyed, served

only to increase the weight of my subjection. When disputes happened to

arise, though conscious that I understood the subject better than any of

them, I dared not offer my opinion; in a word, everything I saw

became an object of desire, for no other reason than because I was not

permitted to enjoy anything. Farewell gayety, ease, those happy turns

of expressions, which formerly even made my faults escape correction. I

recollect, with pleasure, a circumstance that happened at my father's,

which even now makes me smile. Being for some fault ordered to bed

without my supper, as I was passing through the kitchen, with my poor

morsel of bread in my hand, I saw the meat turning on the spit; my

father and the rest were round the fire; I must bow to every one as I

passed. When I had gone through this ceremony, leering with a wistful

eye at the roast meat, which looked so inviting, and smelt so savory, I

could not abstain from making that a bow likewise, adding in a pitiful

tone, good bye, roast meal! This unpremeditated pleasantry put them

in such good humor, that I was permitted to stay, and partake of it.

Perhaps the same thing might have produced a similar effect at my

master's, but such a thought could never have occurred to me, or, if it

had, I should not have had courage to express it.

Thus I learned to covet, dissemble, lie, and, at length, to steal, a

propensity I never felt the least idea of before, though since that

time I have never been able entirely to divest myself of it. Desire

and inability united naturally led to this vice, which is the reason

pilfering is so common among footmen and apprentices, though the latter,

as they grow up, and find themselves in a situation where everything is

at their command, lose this shameful propensity. As I never experienced

the advantage, I never enjoyed the benefit.

Good sentiments, ill-directed, frequently lead children into vice.

Notwithstanding my continual wants and temptations, it was more than a

year before I could resolve to take even eatables. My first theft was

occasioned by complaisance, but it was productive of others which had

not so plausible an excuse.

My master had a journeyman named Verrat, whose mother lived in the

neighborhood, and had a garden at a considerable distance from the

house, which produced excellent asparagus. This Verrat, who had no

great plenty of money, took it in his head to rob her of the most

early production of her garden, and by the sale of it procure those

indulgences he could not otherwise afford himself; but not being very

nimble, he did not care to run the hazard of a surprise. After some

preliminary flattery, which I did not comprehend the meaning of, he

proposed this expedition to me, as an idea which had that moment struck

him. At first I would not listen to the proposal; but he persisted in

his solicitation, and as I could never resist the attacks of flattery,

at length prevailed. In pursuance of this virtuous resolution, I every

morning repaired to the garden, gathered the best of the asparagus, and

took it to the Holard where some good old women, who guessed how I

came by it, wishing to diminish the price, made no secret of their

suspicions; this produced the desired effect, for, being alarmed, I took

whatever they offered, which being taken to Mr. Verrat, was presently

metamorphosed into a breakfast, and divided with a companion of his;

for, though I procured it, I never partook of their good cheer, being

fully satisfied with an inconsiderable bribe.

I executed my roguery with the greatest fidelity, seeking only to please

my employer; and several days passed before it came into my head, to

rob the robber, and tithe Mr. Verrat's harvest. I never considered the

hazard I run in these expeditions, not only of a torrent of abuse, but

what I should have been still more sensible of, a hearty beating; for

the miscreant, who received the whole benefit, would certainly have

denied all knowledge of the fact, and I should only have received a

double portion of punishment for daring to accuse him, since being only

an apprentice, I stood no chance of being believed in opposition to a

journeyman. Thus, in every situation, powerful rogues know how to save

themselves at the expense of the feeble.

This practice taught me it was not so terrible to thieve as I had

imagined: I took care to make this discovery turn to some account,

helping myself to everything within my reach, that I conceived an

inclination for. I was not absolutely ill-fed at my master's, and

temperance was only painful to me by comparing it with the luxury he

enjoyed. The custom of sending young people from table precisely when

those things are served up which seem most tempting, is calculated to

increase their longing, and induces them to steal what they conceive

to be so delicious. It may be supposed I was not backward in this

particular: in general my knavery succeeded pretty well, though quite

the reverse when I happened to be detected.

I recollect an attempt to procure some apples, which was attended with

circumstances that make me smile and shudder even at this instant. The

fruit was standing in the pantry, which by a lattice at a considerable

height received light from the kitchen. One day, being alone in the

house, I climbed up to see these precious apples, which being out of my

reach, made this pantry appear the garden of Hesperides. I fetched the

spit--tried if it would reach them--it was too short--I lengthened it

with a small one which was used for game,--my master being very fond

of hunting, darted at them several times without success; at length was

more fortunate; being transported to find I was bringing up an apple,

I drew it gently to the lattice--was going to seize it when (who

can express my grief and astonishment!) I found it would not pass

through--it was too large. I tried every expedient to accomplish my

design, sought supporters to keep the spits in the same position, a

knife to divide the apple, and a lath to hold it with; at length, I so

far succeeded as to effect the division, and made no doubt of drawing

the pieces through; but it was scarcely separated, (compassionate

reader, sympathize with my affliction) when both pieces fell into the

pantry.

[Illustration: 0028]

Though I lost time by this experiment, I did not lose courage, but,

dreading a surprise, I put off the attempt till next day, when I

hoped to be more successful, and returned to my work as if nothing had

happened, without once thinking of what the two obvious witnesses I had

left in the pantry deposed against me.

The next day (a fine opportunity offering) I renew the trial. I fasten

the spits together; get on the stool; take aim; am just going to dart at

my prey--unfortunately the dragon did not sleep; the pantry door opens,

my master makes his appearance, and, looking up, exclaims, "Bravo!"--The

horror of that moment returns--the pen drops from my hand.

A continual repetition of ill treatment rendered me callous; it seemed a

kind of composition for my crimes, which authorized me to continue them,

and, instead of looking back at the punishment, I looked forward to

revenge. Being beat like a slave, I judged I had a right to all

the vices of one. I was convinced that to rob and be punished were

inseparable, and constituted, if I may so express myself, a kind of

traffic, in which, if I perform my part of the bargain, my master

would take care not to be deficient in his; that preliminary settled,

I applied myself to thieving with great tranquility, and whenever this

interrogatory occurred to my mind, "What will be the consequence?" the

reply was ready, "I know the worst, I shall be beat; no matter, I was

made for it."

I love good eating; am sensual, but not greedy; I have such a variety of

inclinations to gratify, that this can never predominate; and unless

my heart is unoccupied, which very rarely happens, I pay but little

attention to my appetite; to purloining eatables, but extended this

propensity to everything I wished to possess, and if I did not become a

robber in form, it was only because money never tempted me.

My master had a closet in the workshop, which he kept locked; this I

contrived to open and shut as often as I pleased, and laid his best

tools, fine drawings, impressions, in a word, everything he wished to

keep from me, under contribution.

These thefts were so far innocent, that they were always employed in his

service, but I was transported at having the trifles in my possession,

and imagined I stole the art with its productions. Besides what I have

mentioned, his boxes contained threads of gold and silver, a number of

small jewels, valuable medals, and money; yet, though I seldom had five

sous in my pocket, I do not recollect ever having cast a wishful look at

them; on the contrary, I beheld these valuables rather with terror than

with delight.

I am convinced the dread of taking money was, in a great measure, the

effect of education. There was mingled with the idea of it the fear of

infamy, a prison, punishment, and death: had I even felt the temptation,

these objects would have made me tremble; whereas my failings appeared a

species of waggery, and, in truth, they were little else; they could but

occasion a good trimming, and this I was already prepared for. A sheet

of fine drawing paper was a greater temptation than money sufficient to

have purchased a ream. This unreasonable caprice is connected with

one of the most striking singularities of my character, and has so far

influenced my conduct, that it requires a particular explanation.

My passions are extremely violent; while under their influence, nothing

can equal my impetuosity; I am an absolute stranger to discretion,

respect, fear, or decorum; rude, saucy, violent, and intrepid: no shame

can stop, no danger intimidate me. My mind is frequently so engrossed by

a single object, that beyond it the whole world is not worth a thought;

this is the enthusiasm of a moment, the next, perhaps, I am plunged in

a state of annihilation. Take me in my moments of tranquility, I am

indolence and timidity itself; a word to speak, the least trifle to

perform, appear an intolerable labor; everything alarms and terrifies

me; the very buzzing of a fly will make me shudder; I am so subdued by

fear and shame, that I would gladly shield myself from mortal view.

When obliged to exert myself, I am ignorant what to do! when forced

to speak, I am at a loss for words; and if any one looks at me, I am

instantly out of countenance. If animated with my subject, I express

my thoughts with ease, but, in ordinary conversations, I can say

nothing--absolutely nothing; and, being obliged to speak, renders them

insupportable.

I may add, that none of my predominant inclinations centre in those

pleasures which are to be purchased: money empoisons my delight; I must

have them unadulterated; I love those of the table, for instance, but

cannot endure the restraints of good company, or the intemperance of

taverns; I can enjoy them only with a friend, for alone it is equally

impossible; my imagination is then so occupied with other things, that I

find no pleasure in eating. Women who are to be purchased have no charms

for me; my beating heart cannot be satisfied without affection; it is

the same with every other enjoyment, if not truly disinterested, they

are absolutely insipid; in a word, I am fond of those things which are

only estimable to minds formed for the peculiar enjoyment of them.

I never thought money so desirable as it is usually imagined; if you

would enjoy you must transform it; and this transformation is frequently

attended with inconvenience; you must bargain, purchase, pay dear,

be badly served, and often duped. I buy an egg, am assured it is

new-laid--I find it stale; fruit in its utmost perfection--'tis

absolutely green. I love good wine, but where shall I get it? Not at

my wine merchant's--he will poison me to a certainty. I wish to be

universally respected; how shall I compass my design? I must make

friends, send messages, write letters, come, go, wait, and be frequently

deceived. Money is the perpetual source of uneasiness; I fear it more

than I love good wine.

A thousand times, both during and since my apprenticeship, have I gone

out to purchase some nicety, I approach the pastry-cook's, perceive

some women at the counter, and imagine they are laughing at me. I pass

a fruit shop, see some fine pears, their appearance tempts me; but then

two or three young people are near, or a man I am acquainted with is

standing at the door; I take all that pass for persons I have some

knowledge of, and my near sight contributes to deceive me. I am

everywhere intimidated, restrained by some obstacle, and with money in

my pocket return as I went, for want of resolution to purchase what I

long for.

I should enter into the most insipid details was I to relate the

trouble, shame, repugnance, and inconvenience of all kinds which I have

experienced in parting with my money, whether in my own person, or by

the agency of others; as I proceed, the reader will get acquainted with

my disposition, and perceive all this without my troubling him with the

recital.

This once comprehended, one of my apparent contradictions will be easily

accounted for, and the most sordid avarice reconciled with the greatest

contempt of money. It is a movable which I consider of so little value,

that, when destitute of it, I never wish to acquire any; and when I have

a sum I keep it by me, for want of knowing how to dispose of it to my

satisfaction; but let an agreeable and convenient opportunity present

itself, and I empty my purse with the utmost freedom; not that I would

have the reader imagine I am extravagant from a motive of ostentation,

quite the reverse; it was ever in subservience to my pleasures, and,

instead of glorying in expense, I endeavor to conceal it. I so well

perceive that money is not made to answer my purposes, that I am almost

ashamed to have any, and, still more, to make use of it.

Had I ever possessed a moderate independence, I am convinced I should

have had no propensity to become avaricious. I should have required no

more, and cheerfully lived up to my income; but my precarious situation

has constantly and necessarily kept me in fear. I love liberty, and I

loathe constraint, dependence, and all their kindred annoyances. As long

as my purse contains money it secures my independence, and exempts

me from the trouble of seeking other money, a trouble of which I have

always had a perfect horror; and the dread of seeing the end of my

independence, makes me proportionately unwilling to part with my money.

The money that we possess is the instrument of liberty, that which we

lack and strive to obtain is the instrument of slavery. Thence it is

that I hold fast to aught that I have, and yet covet nothing more.

My disinterestedness, then, is in reality only idleness, the pleasure of

possessing is not in my estimation worth the trouble of acquiring:

and my dissipation is only another form of idleness; when we have an

opportunity of disbursing pleasantly we should make the best possible

use of it.

I am less tempted by money than by other objects, because between

the moment of possessing the money and that of using it to obtain the

desired object there is always an interval, however short; whereas to

possess the thing is to enjoy it. I see a thing and it tempts me; but if

I see not the thing itself but only the means of acquiring it, I am not

tempted. Therefore it is that I have been a pilferer, and am so even

now, in the way of mere trifles to which I take a fancy, and which I

find it easier to take than to ask for; but I never in my life recollect

having taken a farthing from any one, except about fifteen years ago,

when I stole seven francs and ten sous. The story is worth recounting,

as it exhibits a concurrence of ignorance and stupidity I should

scarcely credit, did it relate to any but myself.

It was in Paris: I was walking with M. de Franceul at the Palais Royal;

he pulled out his watch, he looked at it, and said to me, "Suppose we

go to the opera?"--"With all my heart." We go: he takes two box tickets,

gives me one, and enters himself with the other; I follow, find the door

crowded; and, looking in, see every one standing; judging, therefore,

that M. de Franceul might suppose me concealed by the company, I go out,

ask for my ticket, and, getting the money returned, leave the house,

without considering, that by then I had reached the door every one would

be seated, and M. de Franceul might readily perceive I was not there.

As nothing could be more opposite to my natural inclination than this

abominable meanness, I note it, to show there are moments of delirium

when men ought not to be judged by their actions: this was not stealing

the money, it was only stealing the use of it, and was the more infamous

for wanting the excuse of a temptation.

I should never end these accounts, was I to describe all the gradations

through which I passed, during my apprenticeship, from the sublimity of

a hero to the baseness of a villain. Though I entered into most of the

vices of my situation, I had no relish for its pleasures; the amusements

of my companions were displeasing, and when too much restraint had made

my business wearisome, I had nothing to amuse me. This renewed my taste

for reading which had long been neglected. I thus committed a fresh

offence, books made me neglect my work, and brought on additional

punishment, while inclination, strengthened by constraint, became an

unconquerable passion. La Tribu, a well-known librarian, furnished me

with all kinds; good or bad, I perused them with avidity, and without

discrimination.

It will be said; "at length, then, money became necessary"--true; but

this happened at a time when a taste for study had deprived me both of

resolution and activity; totally occupied by this new inclination,

I only wished to read, I robbed no longer. This is another of my

peculiarities; a mere nothing frequently calls me off from what I appear

the most attached to; I give in to the new idea; it becomes a passion,

and immediately every former desire is forgotten.

Reading was my new hobby; my heart beat with impatience to run over the

new book I carried in my pocket; the first moment I was alone, I seized

the opportunity to draw it out, and thought no longer of rummaging my

master's closet. I was even ashamed to think that I had been guilty of

such meanness; and had my amusements been more expensive, I no longer

felt an inclination to continue it. La Tribu gave me credit, and when

once I had the book in my possession, I thought no more of the trifle I

was to pay for it; as money came it naturally passed to this woman; and

when she chanced to be pressing, nothing was so conveniently at hand as

my own effects; to steal in advance required foresight, and robbing to

pay was no temptation.

The frequent blows I received from my master, with my private and

ill-chosen studies, rendered me reserved, unsociable, and almost

deranged my reason. Though my taste had not preserved me from silly

unmeaning books, by good fortune I was a stranger to licentious or

obscene ones; not that La Tribu (who was very accommodating) had any

scruple of lending these, on the contrary, to enhance their worth she

spoke of them with an air of mystery; this produced an effect she had

not foreseen, for both shame and disgust made me constantly refuse them.

Chance so well seconded my bashful disposition, that I was past the age

of thirty before I saw any of those dangerous compositions.

In less than a year I had exhausted La Tribu's scanty library, and was

unhappy for want of further amusement. My reading, though frequently

bad, had worn off my childish follies, and brought back my heart to

nobler sentiments than my condition had inspired; meantime disgusted

with all within my reach, and thinking everything charming that was out

of it, my present situation appeared extremely miserable. My passions

began to acquire strength, I felt their influence, without knowing

whither they would conduct me. I sometimes, indeed, thought of my former

follies, but sought no further.

At this time my imagination took a turn which helped to calm my

increasing emotions; it was, to contemplate those situations in the

books I had read, which produced the most striking effect on my mind; to

recall, combine, and apply them to myself in such a manner, as to become

one of the personages my recollection presented, and be continually

in those fancied circumstances which were most agreeable to my

inclinations; in a word, by contriving to place myself in these

fictitious situations, the idea of my real one was in a great measure

obliterated.

This fondness for imaginary objects, and the facility with which I could

gain possession of them, completed my disgust for everything around

me, and fixed that inclination for solitude which has ever since been

predominant. We shall have more than once occasion to remark the effects

of a disposition, misanthropic and melancholy in appearance, but which

proceed, in fact, from a heart too affectionate, too ardent, which,

for want of similar dispositions, is constrained to content itself

with nonentities, and be satisfied with fiction. It is sufficient, at

present, to have traced the origin of a propensity which has modified my

passions, set bounds to each, and by giving too much ardor to my wishes,

has ever rendered me too indolent to obtain them.

Thus I attained my sixteenth year, uneasy, discontented with myself and

everything that surrounded me; displeased with my occupation; without

enjoying the pleasures common to my age, weeping without a cause,

sighing I knew not why, and fond of my chimerical ideas for want of more

valuable realities.

Every Sunday, after sermon-time, my companions came to fetch me out,

wishing me to partake of their diversions. I would willingly have been

excused, but when once engaged in amusement, I was more animated and

enterprising than any of them; it was equally difficult to engage or

restrain me; indeed, this was ever a leading trait in my character. In

our country walks I was ever foremost, and never thought of returning

till reminded by some of my companions. I was twice obliged to be from

my master's the whole night, the city gates having been shut before I

could reach them. The reader may imagine what treatment this procured

me the following mornings; but I was promised such a reception for

the third, that I made a firm resolution never to expose myself to the

danger of it. Notwithstanding my determination, I repeated this dreaded

transgression, my vigilance having been rendered useless by a cursed

captain, named M. Minutoli, who, when on guard, always shut the gate he

had charge of an hour before the usual time. I was returning home with

my two companions, and had got within half a league of the city, when

I heard them beat the tattoo; I redouble my pace, I run with my utmost

speed, I approach the bridge, see the soldiers already at their posts,

I call out to them in a suffocated voice--it is too late; I am twenty

paces from the guard, the first bridge is already drawn up, and I

tremble to see those terrible horns advanced in the air which announce

the fatal and inevitable destiny, which from this moment began to pursue

me.

I threw myself on the glacis in a transport of despair, while my

companions, who only laughed at the accident, immediately determined

what to do. My resolution, though different from theirs, was equally

sudden; on the spot, I swore never to return to my master's, and the

next morning, when my companions entered the city, I bade them an

eternal adieu, conjuring them at the same time to inform my cousin

Bernard of my resolution, and the place where he might see me for the

last time.

From the commencement of my apprenticeship I had seldom seen him;

at first, indeed, we saw each other on Sundays, but each acquiring

different habits, our meetings were less frequent. I am persuaded his

mother contributed greatly towards this change; he was to consider

himself as a person of consequence, I was a pitiful apprentice;

notwithstanding our relationship, equality no longer subsisted between

us, and it was degrading himself to frequent my company. As he had

a natural good heart his mother's lessons did not take an immediate

effect, and for some time he continued to visit me.

Having learned my resolution, he hastened to the spot I had appointed,

not, however, to dissuade me from it, but to render my flight agreeable,

by some trifling presents, as my own resources would not have carried

me far. He gave me among other things, a small sword, which I was

very proud of, and took with me as far as Turin, where absolute want

constrained me to dispose of it. The more I reflect on his behavior

at this critical moment, the more I am persuaded he followed the

instructions of his mother, and perhaps his father likewise: for, had

he been left to his own feelings, he would have endeavored to retain,

or have been tempted to accompany me; on the contrary, he encouraged the

design, and when he saw me resolutely determined to pursue it, without

seeming much affected, left me to my fate. We never saw or wrote to each

other from that time; I cannot but regret this loss, for his heart was

essentially good, and we seemed formed for a more lasting friendship.

Before I abandon myself to the fatality of my destiny, let me

contemplate for a moment the prospect that awaited me had I fallen into

the hands of a better master. Nothing could have been more agreeable to

my disposition, or more likely to confer happiness, than the peaceful

condition of a good artificer, in so respectable a line as engravers are

considered at Geneva. I could have obtained an easy subsistence, if not

a fortune; this would have bounded my ambition; I should have had

means to indulge in moderate pleasures, and should have continued in

my natural sphere, without meeting with any temptation to go beyond

it. Having an imagination sufficiently fertile to embellish with its

chimeras every situation, and powerful enough to transport me from

one to another, it was immaterial in which I was fixed: that was best

adapted to me, which, requiring the least care or exertion, left the

mind most at liberty; and this happiness I should have enjoyed. In

my native country, in the bosom of my religion, family and friends,

I should have passed a calm and peaceful life, in the uniformity of a

pleasing occupation, and among connections dear to my heart. I should

have been a good Christian, a good citizen, a good friend, a good man. I

should have relished my condition, perhaps have been an honor to it, and

after having passed a life of happy obscurity, surrounded by my family,

I should have died at peace. Soon it may be forgotten, but while

remembered it would have been with tenderness and regret.

Instead of this--what a picture am I about to draw!--Alas! why should

I anticipate the miseries I have endured? The reader will have but too

much of the melancholy subject.