During three years, I continued my weekly visits to Berkley square; I
was not always allowed to join the parties who assembled there, neither
indeed would it have been proper, for they were a motley groupe; when
permitted so to do, I collected materials for reflection. I had been
educated by my aunt, in strict principles of religion; many of Mr
Courtney's friends were men of wit and talents, who, occasionally,
discussed important subjects with freedom and ability: I never ventured
to mingle in the conversations, but I overcame my timidity sufficiently
to behave with propriety and composure; I listened attentively to all
that was said, and my curiosity was awakened to philosophic enquiries.
Mr Courtney now entrusted me with the keys of the bookcases, through
which I ranged with ever new delight. I went through, by my father's
direction, a course of historical reading, but I could never acquire a
taste for this species of composition. Accounts of the early periods of
states and empires, of the Grecian and Roman republics, I pursued with
pleasure and enthusiasm: but when they became more complicated, grew
corrupt, luxurious, licentious, perfidious, mercenary, I turned from
them fatigued, and disgusted, and sought to recreate my spirits in the
fairer regions of poetry and fiction.
My early associations rendered theology an interesting subject to me; I
read ecclesiastical history, a detail of errors and crimes, and entered
deeply into polemic divinity: my mind began to be emancipated, doubts
had been suggested to it, I reasoned freely, endeavoured to arrange and
methodize my opinions, and to trace them fearlessly through all their
consequences: while from exercising my thoughts with freedom, I seemed
to acquire new strength and dignity of character. I met with some of the
writings of Descartes, and was seized with a passion for metaphysical
enquiries. I began to think about the nature of the soul--whether it
was a composition of the elements, the result of organized matter, or
a subtle and etherial fire.
In the course of my researches, the Heloise of Rousseau fell into my
hands.--Ah! with what transport, with what enthusiasm, did I peruse this
dangerous, enchanting, work!--How shall I paint the sensations that were
excited in my mind!--the pleasure I experienced approaches the limits of
pain--it was tumult--all the ardour of my character was excited.--Mr
Courtney, one day, surprised me weeping over the sorrows of the tender
St Preux. He hastily snatched the book from my hand, and, carefully
collecting the remaining volumes, carried them in silence to his chamber:
but the impression made on my mind was never to be effaced--it was even
productive of a long chain of consequences, that will continue to
operate till the day of my death.
My time at this period passed rapidly and pleasantly. My father never
treated me with affection; but the austerity of his manner gradually
subsided. He gave me, occasionally, useful hints and instructions.
Without feeling for him any tenderness, he inspired me with a degree of
respect. The library was a source of lively and inexhaustible pleasure
to my mind; and, when admitted to the table of Mr Courtney, some new
character or sentiment frequently sharpened my attention, and afforded
me subjects for future enquiry and meditation. I delighted to expatiate,
when returning to the kind and hospitable mansion of my beloved aunt,
(which I still considered as my home) on the various topics which I had
collected in my little emigrations. I was listened to by my cousins with
a pleasure that flattered my vanity, and looked up to as a kind of
superior being;--a homage particularly gratifying to a young mind.