The Confessions of J. J. Rousseau, Book 4
Jean Jacques Rousseau

This etext was produced by David Widger

[NOTE: There is a short list of bookmarks, or pointers, at the end of the
file for those who may wish to sample the author's ideas before making an
entire meal of them. D.W.]

(In 12 books)

Privately Printed for the Members of the Aldus Society

London, 1903


Let any one judge my surprise and grief at not finding her on my arrival.
I now felt regret at having abandoned M. le Maitre, and my uneasiness
increased when I learned the misfortunes that had befallen him. His box
of music, containing all his fortune, that precious box, preserved with
so much care and fatigue, had been seized on at Lyons by means of Count
Dortan, who had received information from the Chapter of our having
absconded with it. In vain did Le Maitre reclaim his property, his means
of existence, the labor of his life; his right to the music in question
was at least subject to litigation, but even that liberty was not allowed
him, the affair being instantly decided on the principal of superior
strength. Thus poor Le Maitre lost the fruit of his talents, the labor
of his youth, and principal dependence for the support of old age.

Nothing was wanting to render the news I had received truly afflicting,
but I was at an age when even the greatest calamities are to be
sustained; accordingly I soon found consolation. I expected shortly
to hear news of Madam de Warrens, though I was ignorant of the address,
and she knew nothing of my return. As to my desertion of Le Maitre (all
things considered) I did not find it so very culpable. I had been
serviceable to him at his retreat; it was not in my power to give him any
further assistance. Had I remained with him in France it would not have
cured his complaint. I could not have saved his music, and should only
have doubled his expense: in this point of view I then saw my conduct;
I see it otherwise now. It frequently happens that a villainous action
does not torment us at the instant we commit it, but on recollection, and
sometimes even after a number of years have elapsed, for the remembrance
of crimes is not to be extinguished.

The only means I had to obtain news of Madam de Warrens was to remain at
Annecy. Where should I seek her in Paris? or how bear the expense of
such a journey? Sooner or later there was no place where I could be so
certain to hear of her as that I was now at; this consideration
determined me to remain there, though my conduct was very indifferent.
I did not go to the bishop, who had already befriended me, and might
continue to do so; my patroness was not present, and I feared his
reprimands on the subject of our flight; neither did I go to the
seminary, M. Graswas no longer there; in short, I went to none of my
acquaintances. I should gladly have visited the intendant's lady, but
did not dare; I did worse, I sought out M. Venture, whom (notwithstanding
my enthusiasm) I had never thought of since my departure. I found him
quite gay, in high spirits, and the universal favorite of the ladies of

This success completed my infatuation; I saw nothing but M. Venture; he
almost made me forget even Madam de Warrens. That I might profit more at
ease by his instructions and example, I proposed to share his lodgings,
to which he readily consented. It was at a shoemaker's; a pleasant,
jovial fellow, who, in his county dialect, called his wife nothing but
trollop; an appellation which she certainly merited. Venture took care
to augment their differences, though under an appearance of doing the
direct contrary, throwing out in a distant manner, and provincial
accents, hints that produced the utmost effect, and furnished such scenes
as were sufficient to make any one die with laughter. Thus the mornings
passed without our thinking of them; at two or three o'clock we took some
refreshment. Venture then went to his various engagements, where he
supped, while I walked alone, meditating on his great merit, coveting and
admiring his rare talents, and cursing my own unlucky stars, that did not
call me to so happy a life. How little did I then know of myself! mine
had been a thousand times more delightful, had I not been such a fool, or
known better how to enjoy it.

Madam de Warrens had taken no one with her but Anet: Merceret, the
chambermaid, whom I have before mentioned, still remained in the house.
Merceret was something older than myself, not pretty, but tolerably
agreeable; good-natured, free from malice, having no fault to my
knowledge but being a little refractory with her mistress. I often went
to see her; she was an old acquaintance, who recalled to my remembrance
one more beloved, and this made her dear to me. She had several friends,
and among others one Mademoiselle Giraud, a Genevese, who, for the
punishment of my sins, took it in her head to have an inclination for me,
always pressing Merceret, when she returned her visits, to bring me with
her. As I liked Merceret, I felt no disinclination to accompany her;
besides I met there with some young people whose company pleased me.
For Mademoiselle Giraud, who offered every kind of enticement, nothing
could increase the aversion I had for her. When she drew near me, with
her dried black snout, smeared with Spanish snuff, it was with the utmost
difficulty that I could refrain from expressing my distaste; but, being
pleased with her visitors, I took patience. Among these were two girls
who (either to pay their court to Mademoiselle Giraud or myself) paid me
every possible attention. I conceived this to be only friendship; but
have since thought it depended only on myself to have discovered
something more, though I did not even think of it at the time.

There was another reason for my stupidity. Seamstresses, chambermaids,
or milliners, never tempted me; I sighed for ladies! Every one has his
peculiar taste, this has ever been mine; being in this particular of a
different opinion from Horace. Yet it is not vanity of riches or rank
that attracts me; it is a well-preserved complexion, fine hands, elegance
of ornaments, an air of delicacy and neatness throughout the whole
person; more in taste, in the manner of expressing themselves, a finer or
better made gown, a well-turned ankle, small foot, ribbons, lace, and
well-dressed hair; I even prefer those who have less natural beauty,
provided they are elegantly decorated. I freely confess this preference
is very ridiculous; yet my heart gives in to it spite of my
understanding. Well, even this advantage presented itself, and it only
depended on my own resolution to have seized the opportunity.

How do I love, from time to time, to return to those moments of my youth,
which were so charmingly delightful; so short, so scarce, and enjoyed at
so cheap a rate!--how fondly do I wish to dwell on them! Even yet the
remembrance of these scenes warms my heart with a chaste rapture, which
appears necessary to reanimate my drooping courage, and enable me to
sustain the weariness of my latter days.

The appearance of Aurora seemed so delightful one morning that, putting
on my clothes, I hastened into the country, to see the rising of the sun.
I enjoyed that pleasure in its utmost extent; it was one week after
midsummer; the earth was covered with verdure and flowers, the
nightingales, whose soft warblings were almost concluded, seemed to vie
with each other, and in concert with birds of various kinds to bid adieu
to spring, and hail the approach of a beautiful summer's day: one of
those lovely days that are no longer to be enjoyed at my age, and which
have never been seen on the melancholy soil I now inhabit.

I had rambled insensibly, to a considerable distance from the town--the
heat augmented--I was walking in the shade along a valley, by the side of
a brook, I heard behind me the steps of horses, and the voice of some
females who, though they seemed embarrassed, did not laugh the less
heartily on that account. I turn round, hear myself called by name, and
approaching, find two young people of my acquaintance, Mademoiselle de
G---- and Mademoiselle Galley, who, not being very excellent horsewomen,
could not make their horses cross the rivulet.

Mademoiselle de G---- was a young lady of Berne, very amiable; who,
having been sent from that country for some youthful folly, had imitated
Madam de Warrens, at whose house I had sometimes seen her; but not
having, like her, a pension, she had been fortunate in this attachment to
Mademoiselle Galley, who had prevailed on her mother to engage her young
friend as a companion, till she could be otherwise provided for.
Mademoiselle Galley was one year younger than her friend, handsomer,
more delicate, more ingenious, and to complete all, extremely well made.
They loved each other tenderly, and the good disposition of both could
not fail to render their union durable, if some lover did not derange it.
They informed me they were going to Toune, an old castle belonging to
Madam Galley, and implored my assistance to make their horses cross the
stream, not being able to compass it themselves. I would have given each
a cut or two with the whip,, but they feared I might be kicked, and
themselves thrown; I therefore had recourse to another expedient, I took
hold of Mademoiselle Galley's horse and led him through the brook, the
water reaching half-way up my legs. The other followed without any
difficulty. This done, I would have paid my compliments to the ladies,
and walked off like a great booby as I was, but after whispering each
other, Mademoiselle de G---- said, "No, no, you must not think to escape
thus; you have got wet in our service, and we ought in conscience to take
care and dry you. If you please you must go with us, you are now our
prisoner." My heart began to beat--I looked at Mademoiselle Galley----
"Yes, yes," added she, laughing at my fearful look; "our prisoner of war;
come, get up behind her, we shall give a good account of you." But,
mademoiselle," continued I, "I have not the honor to be acquainted with
your mother; what will she say on my arrival?"--"Her mother," replied
Mademoiselle de G---- is not at Toune, we are alone, we shall return at
night, and you shall come back with us.

The stroke of electricity has not a more instantaneous effect than these
words produced on me. Leaping behind Mademoiselle de G----, I trembled
with joy, and when it became necessary to clasp her in order to hold
myself on, my heart beat so violently that she perceived it, and told me
hers beat also from a fear of falling. In my present posture, I might
naturally have considered this an invitation to satisfy myself of the
truth of her assertion, yet I did not dare, and during the whole way my
arm served as a girdle (a very close one, I must confess), without being
a moment displaced. Some women that may read this would be for giving me
a box on the ear, and, truly, I deserved it.

The gayety of the journey, and the chat of these girls, so enlivened me,
that during the whole time we passed together we never ceased talking a
moment. They had set me so thoroughly at ease, that my tongue spoke as
fast as my eyes, though not exactly the same things. Some minutes,
indeed, when I was left alone with either, the conversation became a
little embarrassed, but neither of them was absent long enough to allow
time for explaining the cause.

Arrived at Toune, and myself well dried, we breakfasted together; after
which it was necessary to settle the important business of preparing
dinner. The young ladies cooked, kissing from time to time the farmer's
children, while the poor scullion looked on grumbling. Provisions had
been sent for from town, and there was everything necessary for a good
dinner, but unhappily they had forgotten wine; this forgetfulness was by
no means astonishing to girls who seldom drank any, but I was sorry for
the omission, as I had reckoned on its help, thinking it might add to my
confidence. They were sorry likewise, and perhaps from the same motive;
though I have no reason to say this, for their lively and charming gayety
was innocence itself; besides, there were two of them, what could they
expect from me? they went everywhere about the neighborhood to seek for
wine, but none could be procured, so pure and sober are the peasants in
those parts. As they were expressing their concern, I begged them not to
give themselves any uneasiness on my account, for while with them I had
no occasion for wine to intoxicate me. This was the only gallantry I
ventured at during the whole of the day, and I believe the sly rogues saw
well enough that I said nothing but the truth.

We dined in the kitchen; the two friends were seated on the benches, one
on each side the long table, and their guest at the end, between them, on
a three--legged stool. What a dinner! how charming the remembrance!
While we can enjoy, at so small an expense, such pure, such true
delights, why should we be solicitous for others? Never did those
'petite soupes', so celebrated in Paris, equal this; I do not only say
for real pleasure and gayety, but even for sensuality.

After dinner, we were economical; instead of drinking the coffee we had
reserved at breakfast, we kept it for an afternoon collation, with cream,
and some cake they had brought with them. To keep our appetites in play,
we went into the orchard, meaning to finish our dessert with cherries.
I got into a tree, throwing them down bunches, from which they returned
the stones through the branches. One time, Mademoiselle Galley, holding
out her apron, and drawing back her head, stood so fair, and I took such
good aim, that I dropped a bunch into her bosom. On her laughing, I said
to myself, "Why are not my lips cherries? How gladly would I throw them
there likewise."

Thus the day passed with the greatest freedom, yet with the utmost
decency; not a single equivocal word, not one attempt at double-meaning
pleasantry; yet this delicacy was not affected, we only performed the
parts our hearts dictated; in short, my modesty, some will say my folly,
was such that the greatest familiarity that escaped me was once kissing
the hand of Mademoiselle Galley; it is true, the attending circumstances
helped to stamp a value on this trifling favor; we were alone, I was
embarrassed, her eyes were fixed on the ground, and my lips, instead of
uttering words, were pressed on her hand, which she drew gently back
after the salute, without any appearance of displeasure. I know not what
I should have said to her; but her friend entered, and at that moment I
thought her ugly.

At length, they bethought themselves, that they must return to town
before night; even now we had but just time to reach it by daylight;
and we hastened our departure in the same order we came. Had I pleased
myself, I should certainly have reversed this order, for the glance of
Mademoiselle Galley had reached my heart, but I dared not mention it,
and the proposal could not reasonably come from her. On the way, we
expressed our sorrow that the day was over, but far from complaining of
the shortness of its duration, we were conscious of having prolonged it
by every possible amusement.

I quitted them in nearly the same spot where I had taken them up. With
what regret did we part! With what pleasure did we form projects to
renew our meeting! Delightful hours, which we passed innocently
together, yet were worth ages of familiarity! The sweet remembrance of
those days cost those amiable girls nothing; the tender union which
reigned among us equalled more lively pleasures, with which it could not
have existed. We loved each other without shame or mystery, and wished
to continue our reciprocal affection. There is a species of enjoyment
connected with innocence of manners which is superior to any other,
because it has no interval; for myself, the remembrance of such a day
touches me nearer, delights me more, and returns with greater rapture to
my heart than any other pleasure I ever tasted. I hardly knew what I
wished with those charming girls. I do not say: that had the arrangement
been in my power, I should have divided my heart between them;
I certainly felt some degree of preference: though I should have been
happy to have had Mademoiselle de G----, for a mistress, I think,
by choice, I should have liked her, better as a confidante; be that as it
may, I felt on leaving them as though I could not live without either.
Who would have thought that I should never see them more; and that here
our ephemeral amours must end?

Those who read this will not fail to laugh at my gallantries, and remark,
that after very promising preliminaries, my most forward adventures
concluded by a kiss of the hand: yet be not mistaken, reader, in your
estimate of my enjoyments; I have, perhaps, tasted more real pleasure in
my amours, which concluded by a kiss of the hand, than you will ever have
in yours, which, at least, begin there.

Venture, who had gone to bed late the night before, came in soon after
me. I did not now see him with my usual satisfaction, and took care not
to inform him how I had passed the day. The ladies had spoken of him
slightingly, and appeared discontented at finding me in such bad hands;
this hurt him in my esteem; besides, whatever diverted my ideas from them
was at this time disagreeable. However, he soon brought me back to him
and myself, by speaking of the situation of my affairs, which was too
critical to last; for, though I spent very little, my slender finances
were almost exhausted. I was without resource; no news of Madam de
Warrens; not knowing what would become of me, and feeling a cruel pang at
heart to see the friend of Mademoiselle Galley reduced to beggary.

I now learned from Venture that he had spoken of me to the Judge Major,
and would take me next day to dine with him; that he was a man who by
means of his friends might render me essential service. In other
respects he was a desirable acquaintance, being a man of wit and letters,
of agreeable conversation, one who possessed talents and loved them in
others. After this discourse (mingling the most serious concerns with
the most trifling frivolity) he showed me a pretty couplet, which came
from Paris, on an air in one of Mouret's operas, which was then playing.
Monsieur Simon (the judge major) was so pleased with this couplet, that
he determined to make another in answer to it, on the same air. He had
desired Venture to write one, and he wished me to make a third, that, as
he expressed it, they might see couplets start up next day like incidents
in a comic romance.

In the night (not being able to sleep) I composed a couplet, as my first
essay in poetry. It was passable; better, or at least composed with more
taste than it would have been the preceding night, the subject being
tenderness, to which my heart was now entirely disposed. In the morning
I showed my performance to Venture, who, being pleased with the couplet,
put it in his pocket, without informing me whether he had made his. We
dined with M. Simon, who treated us very politely. The conversation was
agreeable; indeed it could not be otherwise between two men of natural
good sense, improved by reading. For me, I acted my proper part, which
was to listen without attempting to join in the conversation. Neither of
them mentioned the couplet nor do I know that it ever passed for mine.
M. Simon appeared satisfied with my behavior; indeed, it was almost all
he saw of me at this interview. We had often met at Madam de Warrens,
but he had never paid much attention to me; it is from this dinner,
therefore, that I date our acquaintance, which, though of no use in
regard to the object I then had in view, was afterwards productive of
advantages which make me recollect it with pleasure. I should be wrong
not to give some account of this person, since from his office of
magistrate, and the reputation of wit on which he piqued himself, no idea
could be formed of it. The judge major, Simon, certainly was not two feet
high; his legs spare, straight, and tolerably long, would have added
something to his stature had they been vertical, but they stood in the
direction of an open pair of compasses. His body was not only short, but
thin, being in every respect of most inconceivable smallness--when naked
he must have appeared like a grasshopper. His head was of the common
size, to which appertained a well-formed face, a noble look, and
tolerably fine eyes; in short, it appeared a borrowed head, stuck on a
miserable stump. He might very well have dispensed with dress, for his
large wig alone covered him from head to foot.

He had two voices, perfectly different, which intermingled perpetually in
his conversation, forming at first a diverting, but afterwards a very
disagreeable contrast. One grave and sonorous, was, if I may hazard the
expression, the voice of his head: the other, clear, sharp, and piercing,
the voice of his body. When he paid particular attention, and spoke
leisurely, so as to preserve his breath, he could continue his deep tone;
but if he was the least animated, or attempted a lively accent, his voice
sounded like the whistling of a key, and it was with the utmost
difficulty that he could return to the bass.

With the figure I have just described, and which is by no means
overcharged, M. Simon was gallant, ever entertaining the ladies with
soft tales, and carrying the decoration of his person even to foppery.
Willing to make use of every advantage he, during the morning, gave
audience in bed, for when a handsome head was discovered on the pillow no
one could have imagined what belonged to it. This circumstance gave
birth to scenes, which I am certain are yet remembered by all Annecy.

One morning, when he expected to give audience in bed, or rather on the
bed, having on a handsome night-cap ornamented with rose-colored ribbon,
a countryman arriving knocked at the door; the maid happened to be out;
the judge, therefore, hearing the knock repeated, cried "Come in," and,
as he spoke rather loud, it was in his shrill tone. The man entered,
looked about, endeavoring to discover whence the female voice proceeded
and at length seeing a handsome head-dress set off with ribbons, was
about to leave the room, making the supposed lady a hundred apologies.
M. Simon, in a rage, screamed the more; and the countryman, yet more
confirmed in his opinion, conceiving himself to be insulted, began
railing in his turn, saying that, "Apparently, she was nothing better
than a common streetwalker, and that the judge major should be ashamed of
setting such ill examples." The enraged magistrate, having no other
weapon than the jordan under his bed, was just going to throw it at the
poor fellow's head as his servant returned.

This dwarf, ill-used by nature as to his person, was recompensed by
possessing an understanding naturally agreeable, and which he had been
careful to cultivate. Though he was esteemed a good lawyer, he did not
like his profession, delighting more in the finer parts of literature,
which he studied with success: above all, he possessed that superficial
brilliancy, the art of pleasing in conversation, even with the ladies.
He knew by heart a number of little stories, which he perfectly well knew
how to make the most of; relating with an air of secrecy, and as an
anecdote of yesterday, what happened sixty years before. He understood
music, and could sing agreeably; in short, for a magistrate, he had many
pleasing talents. By flattering the ladies of Annecy, he became
fashionable among them, appearing continually in their train. He even
pretended to favors, at which they were much amused. A Madam D'Epigny
used to say "The greatest favor he could aspire to, was to kiss a lady on
her knees."

As he was well read, and spoke fluently, his conversation was both
amusing and instructive. When I afterwards took a taste for study,
I cultivated his acquaintance, and found my account in it: when at
Chambery, I frequently went from thence to see him. His praises
increased my emulation, to which he added some good advice respecting the
prosecution of my studies, which I found useful. Unhappily, this weakly
body contained a very feeling soul. Some years after, he was chagrined
by I know not what unlucky affair, but it cost him his life. This was
really unfortunate, for he was a good little man, whom at a first
acquaintance one laughed at, but afterwards loved. Though our situations
in life were very little connected with each other, as I received some
useful lessons from him, I thought gratitude demanded that I should
dedicate a few sentences to his memory.

As soon as I found myself at liberty, I ran into the street where
Mademoiselle Galley lived, flattering myself that I should see someone go
in or out, or at least open a window, but I was mistaken, not even a cat
appeared, the house remaining as close all the time as if it had been
uninhabited. The street was small and lonely, any one loitering about
was, consequently, more likely to be noticed; from time to time people
passed in and out of the neighborhood; I was much embarrassed, thinking
my person might be known, and the cause that brought me there
conjectured; this idea tortured me, for I have ever preferred the honor
and happiness of those I love to my own pleasures.

At length, weary of playing the Spanish lover, and having no guitar,
I determined to write to Mademoiselle de G----. I should have preferred
writing to her friend, but did not dare take that liberty, as it appeared
more proper to begin with her to whom I owed the acquaintance, and with
whom I was most familiar. Having written my letter, I took it to
Mademoiselle Giraud, as the young ladies had agreed at parting, they
having furnished me with this expedient. Mademoiselle Giraud was a
quilter, and sometimes worked at Madam Galley's, which procured her free
admission to the house. I must confess, I was not thoroughly satisfied
with this messenger, but was cautious of starting difficulties, fearing
that if I objected to her no other might be named, and it was impossible
to intimate that she had an inclination to me herself. I even felt
humiliated that she should think I could imagine her of the same sex as
those young ladies: in a word, I accepted her agency rather than none,
and availed myself of it at all events.

At the very first word, Giraud discovered me. I must own this was not a
difficult matter, for if sending a letter to young girls had not spoken
sufficiently plain, my foolish embarrassed air would have betrayed me.
It will easily be supposed that the employment gave her little
satisfaction, she undertook it, however, and performed it faithfully.
The next morning I ran to her house and found an answer ready for me.
How did I hurry away that I might have an opportunity to read and kiss it
alone! though this need not been told, but the plan adopted by
Mademoiselle Giraud (and in which I found more delicacy and moderation
than I had expected) should. She had sense enough to conclude that her
thirty--seven years, hare's eyes, daubed nose, shrill voice, and black
skin, stood no chance against two elegant young girls, in all the height
and bloom of beauty; she resolved, therefore, nether to betray nor assist
them, choosing rather to lose me entirely than entertain me for them.

As Merceret had not heard from her mistress for some time, she thought of
returning to Fribourg, and the persuasions of Giraud determined her; nay
more, she intimated it was proper someone should conduct her to her
father's and proposed me. As I happened to be agreeable to little
Merceret, she approved the idea, and the same day they mentioned it to me
as a fixed point. Finding nothing displeasing in the manner they had
disposed of me, I consented, thinking it could not be above a week's
journey at most; but Giraud, who had arranged the whole affair, thought
otherwise. It was necessary to avow the state of my finances, and the
conclusion was, that Merceret should defray my expenses; but to retrench
on one hand what was expended on the other, I advised that her little
baggage should be sent on before, and that we should proceed by easy
journeys on foot.

I am sorry to have so many girls in love with me, but as there is nothing
to be very vain of in the success of these amours, I think I may tell the
truth without scruple. Merceret, younger and less artful than Giraud,
never made me so many advances, but she imitated my manners, my actions,
repeated my words, and showed me all those little attentions I ought to
have had for her. Being very timorous, she took great care that we
should both sleep in the same chamber; a circumstance that usually
produces some consequences between a lad of twenty and a girl of twenty--

For once, however, it went no further; my simplicity being such, that
though Merceret was by no means a disagreeable girl, an idea of gallantry
never entered my head, and even if it had, I was too great a novice to
have profited by it. I could not imagine how two young persons could
bring themselves to sleep together, thinking that such familiarity must
require an age of preparation. If poor Merceret paid my expenses in
hopes of any return, she was terribly cheated, for we arrived at Fribourg
exactly as we had quitted Annecy.

I passed through Geneva without visiting any one. While going over the
bridges, I found myself so affected that I could scarcely proceed. Never
could I see the walls of that city, never could I enter it, without
feeling my heart sink from excess of tenderness, at the same time that
the image of liberty elevated my soul. The ideas of equality, union, and
gentleness of manners, touched me even to tears, and inspired me with a
lively regret at having forfeited all these advantages. What an error
was I in! but yet how natural! I imagined I saw all this in my native
country, because I bore it in my heart.

It was necessary to pass through Nion: could I do this without seeing my
good father? Had I resolved on doing so, I must afterwards have died
with regret. I left Merceret at the inn, and ventured to his house.
How wrong was I to fear him! On seeing me, his soul gave way to the
parental tenderness with which it was filled. What tears were mingled
with our embraces! He thought I was returned to him: I related my
history, and informed him of my resolution. He opposed it feebly,
mentioning the dangers to which I exposed myself, and telling me the
shortest follies were best, but did not attempt to keep me by force,
in which particular I think he acted right; but it is certain he did not
do everything in his power to detain me, even by fair means. Whether
after the step I had taken, he thought I ought not to return, or was
puzzled at my age to know what to do with me--I have since found that he
conceived a very unjust opinion of my travelling companion. My step--
mother, a good woman, a little coaxingly put on an appearance of wishing
me to stay to supper; I did not, however, comply, but told them I
proposed remaining longer with them on my return; leaving as a deposit
my little packet, that had come by water, and would have been an
incumbrance, had I taken it with me. I continued my journey the next
morning, well satisfied that I had seen my father, and had taken courage
to do my duty.

We arrived without any accident at Fribourg. Towards the conclusion of
the journey, the politeness of Mademoiselle Merceret rather diminished,
and, after our arrival, she treated me even with coldness. Her father,
who was not in the best circumstances, did not show me much attention,
and I was obliged to lodge at an alehouse. I went to see them the next
morning, and received an invitation to dine there, which I accepted. We
separated without tears at night; I returned to my paltry lodging, and
departed the second day after my arrival, almost without knowing whither
to go to.

This was a circumstance of my life in which Providence offered me
precisely what was necessary to make my days pass happily. Merceret was
a good girl, neither witty, handsome, nor ugly; not very lively, but
tolerably rational, except while under the influence of some little
humors, which usually evaporated in tears, without any violent outbreak
of temper. She had a real inclination for me; I might have married her
without difficulty, and followed her father's business. My taste for
music would have made me love her; I should have settled at Fribourg, a
small town, not pretty, but inhabited by very worthy people--I should
certainly have missed great pleasures, but should have lived in peace to
my last hour, and I must know best what I should have gained by such a

I did not return to Nion, but to Lausanne, wishing to gratify myself with
a view of that beautiful lake which is seen there in its utmost extent.
The greater part of my secret motives have not been so reasonable.
Distant expectation has rarely strength enough to influence my actions;
the uncertainty of the future ever making me regard projects whose
execution requires a length of time as deceitful lures. I give in to
visionary scenes of hope as well as others, provided they cost nothing,
but if attended with any trouble, I have done with them. The smallest,
the most trifling pleasure that is conveniently within my reach, tempts
me more than all the joys of paradise. I must except, however, those
pleasures which are necessarily followed by pain; I only love those
enjoyments which are unadulterated, which can never be the case where we
are conscious they must be followed by repentance.

It was necessary I should arrive at some place, and the nearest was best;
for having lost my way on the road, I found myself in the evening at
Moudon, where I spent all that remained of my little stock except ten
creuzers, which served to purchase my next day's dinner. Arriving in the
evening at Lausanne, I went into an ale-house, without a penny in my
pocket to pay for my lodging, or knowing what would become of me. I
found myself extremely hungry--setting, therefore, a good face on the
matter, I ordered supper, made my meal, went to bed without thought and
slept with great composure. In the morning, having breakfasted and
reckoned with my host, I offered to leave my waistcoat in pledge for
seven batz, which was the amount of my expenses. The honest man refused
this, saying, thank Heaven, he had never stripped any one, and would not
now begin for seven batz, adding I should keep my waistcoat and pay him
when I could. I was affected with this unexpected kindness, but felt it
less than I ought to have done, or have since experienced on the
remembrance of it. I did not fail sending him his money, with thanks, by
one I could depend on. Fifteen years after, passing Lausanne, on my
return from Italy, I felt a sensible regret at having forgotten the name
of the landlord and house. I wished to see him, and should have felt
real pleasure in recalling to his memory that worthy action.
Services which doubtless have been much more important, but rendered with
ostentation, have not appeared to me so worthy of gratitude as the simple
unaffected humanity of this honest man.

As I approached Lausanne, I thought of my distress, and the means of
extricating myself, without appearing in want to my step-mother.
I compared myself, in this walking pilgrimage, to my friend Venture,
on his arrival at Annecy, and was so warmed with the idea, that without
recollecting that I had neither his gentility nor his talents, I
determined to act the part of little Venture at Lausanne, to teach music,
which I did not understand, and say I came from Paris, where I had never

In consequence of this noble project (as there was no company where I
could introduce myself without expense, and not choosing to venture among
professional people), I inquired for some little inn, where I could lodge
cheap, and was directed to one named Perrotet, who took in boarders.
This Perrotet, who was one of the best men in the world, received me very
kindly, and after having heard my feigned story and profession, promised
to speak of me, and endeavored to procure me scholars, saying he should
not expect any money till I had earned it. His price for board, though
moderate in itself, was a great deal to me; he advised me, therefore, to
begin with half board, which consisted of good soup only for dinner, but
a plentiful supper at night. I closed with this proposition, and the
poor Perrotet trusted me with great cheerfulness, sparing, meantime, no
trouble to be useful to me.

Having found so many good people in my youth, why do I find so few in my
age? Is their race extinct? No; but I do not seek them in the same
situation I did formerly, among the commonality, where violent passions
predominate only at intervals, and where nature speaks her genuine
sentiments. In more elevated stations they are entirely smothered, and
under the mask of sentiment, only interest or vanity is heard.

Having written to my father from Lausanne, he sent my packet and some
excellent advice, of which I should have profited better. I have already
observed that I have moments of inconceivable delirium, in which I am
entirely out of myself. The adventure I am about to relate is an
instance of this: to comprehend how completely my brain was turned, and
to what degree I had 'Venturised' (if I may be allowed the expression),
the many extravagances I ran into at the same time should be considered.
Behold me, then, a singing master, without knowing how to note a common
song; for if the five or six months passed with Le Maitre had improved
me, they could not be supposed sufficient to qualify me for such an
undertaking; besides, being taught by a master was enough (as I have
before observed) to make me learn ill. Being a Parisian from Geneva,
and a Catholic in a Protestant country, I thought I should change my name
with my religion and country, still approaching as near as possible to
the great model I had in view. He called himself Venture de Villeneuve.
I changed, by anagram, the name Rousseau into that of Vaussore, calling
myself Monsieur Vaussore de Villeneuve. Venture was a good composer,
though he had not said so; without knowing anything of the art, I boasted
of my skill to every one. This was not all: being presented to Monsieur
de Freytorens, professor of law, who loved music, and who gave concerts
at his house, nothing would do but I must give him a proof of my talents,
and accordingly I set about composing a piece for his concerts, as boldly
as if I had really understood the science. I had the constancy to labor
a fortnight at this curious business, to copy it fair, write out the
different parts, and distribute them with as much assurance as if they
had been masterpieces of harmony; in short (what will hardly be believed,
though strictly true), I tacked a very pretty minuet to the end of it,
that was commonly played about the streets, and which many may remember
from these words, so well known at that time:

Quel caprice!
Quel injustice!
Quio, tu Clarice
Trahiriot tes feux? &'c.

Venture had taught me this air with the bass, set to other words, by the
help of which I had retained it: thus at the end of my composition, I put
this minuet and bass, suppressing the words, and uttering it for my own
as confidently as if I had been speaking to the inhabitants of the moon.
They assembled to perform my piece; I explain to each the movement, taste
of execution, and references to his part--I was fully occupied. They
were five or six minutes preparing, which were for me so many ages: at
length, everything is adjusted, myself in a conspicuous situation, a fine
roll of paper in my hand, gravely preparing to beat time. I gave four or
five strokes with my paper, attending with "take care!" they begin--
No, never since French operas existed was there such a confused discord!
The minuet, however, presently put all the company in good humor; hardly
was it begun, before I heard bursts of laughter from all parts, every one
congratulated me on my pretty taste for music, declaring this minuet
would make me spoken of, and that I merited the loudest praise. It is
not necessary to describe my uneasiness, or to own how much I deserved

Next day, one of the musicians, named Lutold, came to see me and was kind
enough to congratulate me on my success. The profound conviction of my
folly, shame, regret, and the state of despair to which I was reduced,
with the impossibility of concealing the cruel agitation of my heart,
made me open it to him; giving, therefore, a loose to my tears, not
content with owning my ignorance, I told all, conjuring him to secrecy;
he kept his word, as every one will suppose. The same evening, all
Lausanne knew who I was, but what is remarkable, no one seemed to know,
not even the good Perrotet, who (notwithstanding what had happened)
continued to lodge and board me.

I led a melancholy life here; the consequences of such an essay had not
rendered Lausanne a very agreeable residence. Scholars did not present
themselves in crowds, not a single female, and not a person of the city.
I had only two or three great dunces, as stupid as I was ignorant, who
fatigued me to death, and in my hands were not likely to edify much.

At length, I was sent for to a house, where a little serpent of a girl
amused herself by showing me a parcel of music that I could not read a
note of, and which she had the malice to sing before her master, to teach
him how it should be executed; for I was so unable to read an air at
first sight, that in the charming concert I have just described, I could
not possibly follow the execution a moment, or know whether they played
truly what lay before them, and I myself had composed.

In the midst of so many humiliating circumstances, I had the pleasing
consolation, from time to time, of receiving letters from my two charming
friends. I have ever found the utmost consolatory virtue in the fair;
when in disgrace, nothing softens my affliction more than to be sensible
that an amiable woman is interested for me. This correspondence ceased
soon after, and was never renewed: indeed it was my own fault, for in
changing situations I neglected sending my address, and forced by
necessity to think perpetually of myself, I soon forgot them.

It is a long time since I mentioned Madam de Warrens, but it should not
be supposed I had forgotten her; never was she a moment absent from my
thoughts. I anxiously wished to find her, not merely because she was
necessary to my subsistence, but because she was infinitely more
necessary to my heart. My attachment to her (though lively and tender,
as it really was) did not prevent my loving others, but then it was not
in the same manner. All equally claimed my tenderness for their charms,
but it was those charms alone I loved, my passion would not have survived
them, while Madam de Warrens might have become old or ugly without my
loving her the less tenderly. My heart had entirely transmitted to
herself the homage it first paid to her beauty, and whatever change she
might experience, while she remained herself, my sentiments could not
change. I was sensible how much gratitude I owed to her, but in truth, I
never thought of it, and whether she served me or not, it would ever have
been the same thing. I loved her neither from duty, interest, nor
convenience; I loved her because I was born to love her. During my
attachment to another, I own this affection was in some measure deranged;
I did not think so frequently of her, but still with the same pleasure,
and never, in love or otherwise, did I think of her without feeling that
I could expect no true happiness in life while in a state of separation.

Though in so long a time I had received no news from Madam de Warrens, I
never imagined I had entirely lost her, or that she could have forgotten
me. I said to myself, she will know sooner or later that I am wandering
about, and will find some means to inform me of her situation: I am
certain I shall find her. In the meantime, it was a pleasure to live in
her native country, to walk in the streets where she had walked, and
before the houses that she had lived in; yet all this was the work of
conjecture, for one of my foolish peculiarities was, not daring to
inquire after her, or even pronounce her name without the most absolute
necessity. It seemed in speaking of her that I declared all I felt, that
my lips revealed the secrets of my heart, and in some degree injured the
object of my affection. I believe fear was likewise mingled with this
idea; I dreaded to hear ill of her. Her management had been much spoken
of, and some little of her conduct in other respects; fearing, therefore,
that something might be said which I did not wish to hear, I preferred
being silent on the subject.

As my scholars did not take up much of my time, and the town where she
was born was not above four leagues from Lausanne, I made it a walk of
three or four days; during which time a most pleasant emotion never left
me. A view of the lake of Geneva and its admirable banks, had ever, in
my idea, a particular attraction which I cannot describe; not arising
merely from the beauty of the prospect, but something else, I know not
why, more interesting, which affects and softens me. Every time I have
approached the Vaudois country I have experienced an impression composed
of the remembrance of Madam de Warrens, who was born there; of my father,
who lived there; of Miss Vulson, who had been my first love, and of
several pleasant journeys I had made there in my childhood, mingled with
some nameless charm, more powerfully attractive than all the rest. When
that ardent desire for a life of happiness and tranquility (which ever
follows me, and for which I was born) inflames my mind, 'tis ever to the
country of Vaud, near the lake, in those charming plains, that
imagination leads me. An orchard on the banks of that lake, and no
other, is absolutely necessary; a firm friend, an amiable woman, a cow,
and a little boat; nor could I enjoy perfect happiness on earth without
these concomitants. I laugh at the simplicity with which I have several
times gone into that country for the sole purpose of seeking this
imaginary happiness when I was ever surprised to find the inhabitants,
particularly the women, of a quite different disposition to what I
sought. How strange did this appear to me! The country and people who
inhabit it, were never, in my idea, formed for each other.

Walking along these beautiful banks, on my way to Vevay, I gave myself
up to the soft melancholy; my heart rushed with ardor into a thousand
innocent felicities; melting to tenderness, I sighed and wept like a
child. How often, stopping to weep more at my ease, and seated on a
large stone, did I amuse myself with seeing my tears drop into the water.

On my arrival at Vevay, I lodged at the Key, and during the two days I
remained there, without any acquaintance, conceived a love for that city,
which has followed me through all my travels, and was finally the cause
that I fixed on this spot, in the novel I afterwards wrote, for the
residence of my hero and heroines. I would say to any one who has taste
and feeling, go to Vevay, visit the surrounding country, examine the
prospects, go on the lake and then say, whether nature has not designed
this country for a Julia, a Clara, and a St. Preux; but do not seek them
there. I now return to my story.

Giving myself out for a Catholic, I followed without mystery or scruple
the religion I had embraced. On a Sunday, if the weather was fine, I
went to hear mass at Assans, a place two leagues distant from Lausanne,
and generally in company with other Catholics, particularly a Parisian
embroiderer, whose name I have forgotten. Not such a Parisian as myself,
but a real native of Paris, an arch-Parisian from his maker, yet honest
as a peasant. He loved his country so well, that he would not doubt my
being his countryman, for fear he should not have so much occasion to
speak of it. The lieutenant-governor, M. de Crouzas, had a gardener, who
was likewise from Paris, but not so complaisant; he thought the glory of
his country concerned, when any one claimed that honor who was not really
entitled to it; he put questions to me, therefore, with an air and tone,
as if certain to detect me in a falsehood, and once, smiling malignantly,
asked what was remarkable in the 'Marcheneuf'? It may be supposed I
asked the question; but I have since passed twenty years at Paris, and
certainly know that city, yet was the same question repeated at this day,
I should be equally embarrassed to answer it, and from this embarrassment
it might be concluded I had never been there: thus, even when we meet
with truths, we are subject to build our opinions on circumstances, which
may easily deceive us.

I formed no ideas, while at Lausanne, that were worth recollecting, nor
can I say exactly how long I remained there; I only know that not finding
sufficient to subsist on, I went from thence to Neutchatel, where I
passed the winter. Here I succeeded better, I got some scholars, and
saved enough to pay my good friend Perrotet, who had faithfully sent my
baggage, though at that time I was considerably in his debt.

By continuing to teach music, I insensibly gained some knowledge of it.
The life I led was sufficiently agreeable, and any reasonable man might
have been satisfied, but my unsettled heart demanded something more.
On Sundays, or whenever I had leisure, I wandered, sighing and
thoughtful, about the adjoining woods, and when once out of the city
never returned before night. One day, being at Boudry, I went to dine at
a public-house, where I saw a man with a long beard, dressed in a violet-
colored Grecian habit, with a fur cap, and whose air and manner were
rather noble. This person found some difficulty in making himself
understood, speaking only an unintelligible jargon, which bore more
resemblance to Italian than any other language. I understood almost all
he said, and I was the only person present who could do so, for he was
obliged to make his request known to the landlord and others about him by
signs. On my speaking a few words in Italian, which he perfectly
understood, he got up and embraced me with rapture; a connection was soon
formed, and from that moment, I became his interpreter. His dinner was
excellent, mine rather worse than indifferent, he gave me an invitation
to dine with him, which I accepted without much ceremony. Drinking and
chatting soon rendered us familiar, and by the end of the repast we had
all the disposition in the world to become inseparable companions. He
informed me he was a Greek prelate, and 'Archimandrite' of Jerusalem;
that he had undertaken to make a gathering in Europe for the
reestablishment of the Holy Sepulchre, and showed me some very fine
patents from the czarina, the emperor, and several other sovereigns.
He was tolerably content with what he had collected hitherto, though he
had experienced inconceivable difficulties in Germany; for not
understanding a word of German, Latin, or French, he had been obliged to
have recourse to his Greek, Turkish Lingua Franca, which did not procure
him much in the country he was travelling through; his proposal,
therefore, to me was, that I should accompany him in the quality of
secretary and interpreter. In spite of my violet-colored coat, which
accorded well enough with the proposed employment, he guessed from my
meagre appearance, that I should easily be gained; and he was not
mistaken. The bargain was soon made, I demanded nothing, and he promised
liberally; thus, without any security or knowledge of the person I was
about to serve, I gave myself up entirely to his conduct, and the next
day behold me on an expedition to Jerusalem.

We began our expedition unsuccessfully by the canton of Fribourg.
Episcopal dignity would not suffer him to play the beggar, or solicit
help from private individuals; but we presented his commission to the
Senate, who gave him a trifling sum. From thence we went to Berne, where
we lodged at the Falcon, then a good inn, and frequented by respectable
company; the public table being well supplied and numerously attended.
I had fared indifferently so long, that I was glad to make myself amends,
therefore took care to profit by the present occasion. My lord, the
Archimandrite, was himself an excellent companion, loved good cheer, was
gay, spoke well for those who understood him, and knew perfectly well how
to make the most of his Grecian erudition. One day, at dessert while
cracking nuts, he cut his finger pretty deeply, and as it bled freely
showed it to the company, saying with a laugh, "Mirate, signori; questo a
sangue Pelasgo."

At Berne, I was not useless to him, nor was my performance so bad as I
had feared: I certainly spoke better and with more confidence than I
could have done for myself. Matters were not conducted here with the
same simplicity as at Fribourg; long and frequent conferences were
necessary with the Premiers of the State, and the examination of his
titles was not the work of a day; at length, everything being adjusted,
he was admitted to an audience by the Senate; I entered with him as
interpreter, and was ordered to speak. I expected nothing less, for it
never entered my mind, that after such long and frequent conferences with
the members, it was necessary to address the assembly collectively, as if
nothing had been said. Judge my embarrassment!--a man so bashful to
speak, not only in public, but before the whole of the Senate of Berne!
to speak impromptu, without a single moment for recollection; it was
enough to annihilate me--I was not even intimidated. I described
distinctly and clearly the commission of the Archimandrite; extolled the
piety of those princes who had contributed, and to heighten that of their
excellencies by emulation, added that less could not be expected from
their well--known munificence; then, endeavoring to prove that this good
work was equally interesting to all Christians, without distinction of
sect; and concluded by promising the benediction of Heaven to all those
who took part in it. I will not say that my discourse was the cause of
our success, but it was certainly well received; and on our quitting the
Archimandrite was gratified by a very genteel present, to which some very
handsome compliments were added on the understanding of his secretary;
these I had the agreeable office of interpreting; but could not take
courage to render them literally.

This was the only time in my life that I spoke in public, and before a
sovereign; and the only time, perhaps, that I spoke boldly and well.
What difference in the disposition of the same person. Three years ago,
having been to see my old friend, M. Roguin, at Yverdon, I received a
deputation to thank me for some books I had presented to the library of
that city; the Swiss are great speakers; these gentlemen, accordingly,
made me a long harangue, which I thought myself obliged in honor to
answer, but so embarrassed myself in the attempt, that my head became
confused, I stopped short, and was laughed at. Though naturally timid,
I have sometimes acted with confidence in my youth, but never in my
advanced age: the more I have seen of the world the less I have been able
to adapt its manners.

On leaving Berne, we went to Soleurre: the Archimandrite designing to re-
enter Germany, and return through Hungary or Poland to his own country.
This would have been a prodigious tour; but as the contents of his purse
rather increased than diminished during his journey, he was in no haste
to return. For me, who was almost as much pleased on horseback as on
foot, I would have desired no better than to have travelled thus during
my whole life; but it was pre-ordained that my journey should soon end.

The first thing we did after our arrival at Soleurre, was to pay our
respects to the French ambassador there. Unfortunately for my bishop,
this chanced to be the Marquis de Bonac, who had been ambassador at the
Porte, and was acquainted with every particular relative to the Holy
Sepulchre. The Archimandrite had an audience that lasted about a quarter
of an hour, to which I was not admitted, as the ambassador spoke French
and Italian at least as well as myself. On my Grecian's retiring, I was
prepared to follow him, but was detained: it was now my turn. Having
called myself a Parisian, as such, I was under the jurisdiction of his
excellency: he therefore asked me who I was? exhorting me to tell the
truth; this I promised to do, but entreated a private audience, which was
immediately granted. The ambassador took me to his closet, and shut the
door; there, throwing myself at his feet, I kept my word, nor should I
have said less, had I promised nothing, for a continual wish to unbosom
myself, puts my heart perpetually upon my lips. After having disclosed
myself without reserve to the musician Lutold, there was no occasion to
attempt acting the mysterious with the Marquis de Bonac, who was so well
pleased with my little history, and the ingenuousness with which I had
related it, that he led me to the ambassadress, and presented me, with an
abridgment of my recital. Madam de Bonac received me kindly, saying,
I must not be suffered to follow that Greek monk. It was accordingly
resolved that I should remain at their hotel till something better could
be done for me. I wished to bid adieu to my poor Archimandrite, for whom
I had conceived an attachment, but was not permitted; they sent him word
that I was to be detained there, and in quarter of an hour after, I saw
my little bundle arrive. M. de la Martiniere, secretary of the embassy,
had in a manner the care of me; while following him to the chamber
appropriated to my use, he said, "This apartment was occupied under the
Count de Luc, by a celebrated man of the same name as yourself; it is in
your power to succeed him in every respect, and cause it to be said
hereafter, Rousseau the First, Rousseau the Second." This similarity
which I did not then expect, would have been less flattering to my wishes
could I have foreseen at what price I should one day purchase the

What M. de la Martiniere had said excited my curiosity; I read the works
of the person whose chamber I occupied, and on the strength of the
compliment that had been paid me (imagining I had a taste for poetry)
made my first essay in a cantata in praise of Madam de Bonac. This
inclination was not permanent, though from time to time I have composed
tolerable verses. I think it is a good exercise to teach elegant turns
of expression, and to write well in prose, but could never find
attractions enough in French poetry to give entirely in to it.

M. de la Martiniere wished to see my style, and asked me to write the
detail I had before made the ambassador; accordingly I wrote him a long
letter, which I have since been informed was preserved by M. de Marianne,
who had long been attached to the Marquis de Bonac, and has since
succeeded M. de Martiniere as secretary to the embassy of M. de

The experience I began to acquire tended to moderate my romantic
projects; for example, I did not fall in love with Madam de Bonac, but
also felt I did not stand much chance of succeeding in the service of her
husband. M. de la Martiniere was already in the only place that could
have satisfied my ambition, and M. de Marianne in expectancy: thus my
utmost hopes could only aspire to the office of under secretary, which
did not infinitely tempt me: this was the reason that when consulted on
the situation I should like to be placed in, I expressed a great desire
to go to Paris. The ambassador readily gave in to the idea, which at
least tended to disembarrass him of me. M. de Mervilleux interpreting
secretary to the embassy, said, that his friend, M. Godard, a Swiss
colonel, in the service of France, wanted a person to be with his nephew,
who had entered very young into the service, and made no doubt that I
should suit him. On this idea, so lightly formed, my departure was
determined; and I, who saw a long journey to perform with Paris at the
end of it, was enraptured with the project. They gave me several
letters, a hundred livres to defray the expenses of my journey,
accompanied with some good advice, and thus equipped I departed.

I was a fortnight making the journey, which I may reckon among the
happiest days of my life. I was young, in perfect health, with plenty of
money, and the most brilliant hopes, add to this, I was on foot, and
alone. It may appear strange, I should mention the latter circumstance
as advantageous, if my peculiarity of temper is not already familiar to
the reader. I was continually occupied with a variety of pleasing
chimeras, and never did the warmth of my imagination produce more
magnificent ones. When offered an empty place in a carriage, or any
person accosted me on the road, how vexed was I to see that fortune
overthrown, whose edifice, while walking, I had taken such pains to rear.

For once my ideas were all martial: I was going to live with a military
man; nay, to become one, for it was concluded I should begin with being a
cadet. I already fancied myself in regimentals, with a fine white
feather nodding on my hat, and my heart was inflamed by the noble idea.
I had some smattering of geometry and fortification; my uncle was an
engineer; I was in a manner a soldier by inheritance. My short sight,
indeed, presented some little obstacle, but did not by any means
discourage me, as I reckoned to supply that defect by coolness and
intrepidity. I had read, too, that Marshal Schomberg was remarkably
shortsighted, and why might not Marshal Rousseau be the same? My
imagination was so warm by these follies, that it presented nothing but
troops, ramparts, gabions, batteries, and myself in the midst of fire and
smoke, an eyeglass in hand, commanding with the utmost tranquility.
Notwithstanding, when the country presented a delightful prospect, when I
saw charming groves and rivulets, the pleasing sight made me sigh with
regret, and feel, in the midst of all this glory, that my heart was not
formed for such havoc; and soon without knowing how, I found my thoughts
wandering among my dear sheep-folds, renouncing forever the labor of

How much did Paris disappoint the idea I had formed of it! The exterior
decorations I had seen at Turin, the beauty of the streets, the symmetry
and regularity of the houses, contributed to this disappointment, since I
concluded that Paris must be infinitely superior. I had figured to
myself a splendid city, beautiful as large, of the most commanding
aspect, whose streets were ranges of magnificent palaces, composed of
marble and gold. On entering the faubourg St. Marceau, I saw nothing but
dirty stinking streets, filthy black houses, an air of slovenliness and
poverty, beggars, carters, butchers, cries of diet-drink and old hats.
This struck me so forcibly, that all I have since seen of real
magnificence in Paris could never erase this first impression, which has
ever given me a particular disgust to residing in that capital; and I may
say, the whole time I remained there afterwards, was employed in seeking
resources which might enable me to live at a distance from it. This is
the consequence of too lively imagination, which exaggerates even beyond
the voice of fame, and ever expects more than is told. I have heard
Paris so flatteringly described, that I pictured it like the ancient
Babylon, which, perhaps, had I seen, I might have found equally faulty,
and unlike that idea the account had conveyed. The same thing happened
at the Opera-house, to which I hastened the day after my arrival! I was
sensible of the same deficiency at Versailles! and some time after on
viewing the sea. I am convinced this would ever be the consequence of a
too flattering description of any object; for it is impossible for man,
and difficult even for nature herself, to surpass the riches of my

By the reception I met with from all those to whom my letters were
addressed, I thought my fortune was certainly made. The person who
received me the least kindly was M. de Surbeck, to whom I had the
warmest recommendation. He had retired from the service, and lived
philosophically at Bagneux, where I waited on him several times without
his offering me even a glass of water. I was better received by Madam de
Merveilleux, sister-in-law to the interpreter, and by his nephew, who was
an officer in the guards. The mother and son not only received me
kindly, but offered me the use of their table, which favor I frequently
accepted during my stay at Paris.

Madam de Merveilleux appeared to have been handsome; her hair was of a
fine black, which, according to the old mode, she wore curled on the
temples. She still retained (what do not perish with a set of features)
the beauties of an amiable mind. She appeared satisfied with mine, and
did all she could to render me service; but no one seconded her
endeavors, and I was presently undeceived in the great interest they had
seemed to take in my affairs. I must, however, do the French nation the
justice to say, they do not so exhaust themselves with protestations,
as some have represented, and that those they make are usually sincere;
but they have a manner of appearing interested in your affairs, which is
more deceiving than words. The gross compliments of the Swiss can only
impose upon fools; the manners of the French are more seducing, and at
the same time so simple, that you are persuaded they do not express all
they mean to do for you, in order that you may be the more agreeably
surprised. I will say more; they are not false in their protestations,
being naturally zealous to oblige, humane, benevolent, and even (whatever
may be said to the contrary) more sincere than any other nation; but they
are too flighty: in effect they feel the sentiments they profess for you,
but that sentiment flies off as instantaneously as it was formed. In
speaking to you, their whole attention is employed on you alone, when
absent you are forgotten. Nothing is permanent in their hearts, all is
the work of the moment.

Thus I was greatly flattered, but received little service. Colonel
Godard for whose nephew I was recommended, proved to be an avaricious old
wretch, who, on seeing my distress (though he was immensely rich), wished
to have my services for nothing, meaning to place me with his nephew,
rather as a valet without wages than a tutor. He represented that as I
was to be continually engaged with him, I should be excused from duty,
and might live on my cadet's allowance; that is to say, on the pay of a
soldier: hardly would he consent to give me a uniform, thinking the
clothing of the army might serve. Madam de Merveilleux, provoked at his
proposals, persuaded me not to accept them; her son was of the same
opinion; something else was to be thought on, but no situation was
procured. Meantime, I began to be necessitated; for the hundred livres
with which I had commenced my journey could not last much longer;
happily, I received a small remittance from the ambassador, which was
very serviceable, nor do I think he would have abandoned me had I
possessed more patience; but languishing, waiting, soliciting, are to me
impossible: I was disheartened, displeased, and thus all my brilliant
expectations came once more to nothing. I had not all this time
forgotten my dear Madam de Warrens, but how was I to find her? Where
should I seek her? Madam de Merveilleux, who knew my story, assisted me
in the search, but for a long time unavailingly; at length, she informed
me that Madam de Warrens had set out from Paris about two months before,
but it was not known whether for Savoy or Turin, and that some
conjectured she was gone to Switzerland. Nothing further was necessary
to fix my determination to follow her, certain that wherever she might
be, I stood more chance of finding her at those places than I could
possibly do at Paris.

Before my departure, I exercised my new poetical talent in an epistle to
Colonel Godard, whom I ridiculed to the utmost of my abilities. I showed
this scribble to Madam de Merveilleux, who, instead of discouraging me,
as she ought to have done, laughed heartily at my sarcasms, as well as
her son, who, I believe, did not like M. Godard; indeed, it must be
confessed, he was a man not calculated to obtain affection. I was
tempted to send him my verses, and they encouraged me in it; accordingly
I made them up in a parcel directed to him, and there being no post then
at Paris by which I could conveniently send this, I put it in my pocket,
and sent it to him from Auxerre, as I passed through that place. I
laugh, even yet, sometimes, at the grimaces I fancy he made on reading
this panegyric, where he was certainly drawn to the life; it began thus:

Tu croyois, vieux Penard, qu' une folle manie
D' elever ton neveu m'inspireroit l'envie.

This little piece, which, it is true, was but indifferently written; did
not want for salt, and announced a turn for satire; it is,
notwithstanding, the only satirical writing that ever came from my pen.
I have too little hatred in my heart to take advantage of such a talent;
but I believe it may be judged from those controversies, in which from
time to time I have been engaged in my own defence, that had I been of a
vindictive disposition, my adversaries would rarely have had the laughter
on their side.

What I most regret, is not having kept a journal of my travels, being
conscious that a number of interesting details have slipped my memory;
for never did I exist so completely, never live so thoroughly, never was
so much myself, if I dare use the expression, as in those journeys made
on foot. Walking animates and enlivens my spirits; I can hardly think
when in a state of inactivity; my body must be exercised to make my
judgmemt active. The view of a fine country, a succession of agreeable
prospects, a free air, a good appetite, and the health I gained by
walking; the freedom of inns, and the distance from everything that can
make me recollect the dependence of my situation, conspire to free my
soul, and give boldness to my thoughts, throwing me, in a manner, into
the immensity of beings, where I combine, choose and appropriate them to
my fancy, without constraint or fear. I dispose of all nature as I
please; my heart wandering from object to object, approximates and unites
with those that please it, is surrounded by charming images, and becomes
intoxicated with delicious sensations. If, attempting to render these
permanent, I am amused in describing to myself, what glow of coloring,
what energy of expression, do I give them!--It has been said, that all
these are to be found in my works, though written in the decline of life.
Oh! had those of my early youth been seen, those made during my travels,
composed, but never written!--Why did I not write them? will be asked;
and why should I have written them? I may answer. Why deprive myself of
the actual charm of my enjoyments to inform others what I enjoyed? What
to me were readers, the public, or all the world, while I was mounting
the empyrean. Besides, did I carry pens, paper and ink with me? Had I
recollected all these, not a thought would have occurred worth
preserving. I do not foresee when I shall have ideas; they come when
they please, and not when I call for them; either they avoid me
altogether, or rushing in crowds, overwhelm me with their force and
number. Ten volumes a day would not suffice barely to enumerate my
thoughts; how then should I find time to write them? In stopping, I
thought of nothing but a hearty dinner; on departing, of nothing but a
charming walk; I felt that a new paradise awaited me at the door, and
eagerly leaped forward to enjoy it.

Never did I experience this so feelingly as in the perambulation I am now
describing. On coming to Paris, I had confined myself to ideas which
related to the situation I expected to occupy there. I had rushed into
the career I was about to run, and should have completed it with
tolerable eclat, but it was not that my heart adhered to. Some real
beings obscured my imagined ones--Colonel Godard and his nephew could not
keep pace with a hero of my disposition. Thank Heaven, I was soon
delivered from all these obstacles, and could enter at pleasure into the
wilderness of chimeras, for that alone remained before me, and I wandered
in it so completely that I several times lost my way; but this was no
misfortune, I would not have shortened it, for, feeling with regret, as I
approached Lyons, that I must again return to the material world, I
should have been glad never to have arrived there.

One day, among others, having purposely gone out of my way to take a
nearer view of a spot that appeared delightful, I was so charmed with it,
and wandered round it so often, that at length I completely lost myself,
and after several hours' useless walking, weary, fainting with hunger and
thirst, I entered a peasant's hut, which had not indeed a very promising
appearance, but was the only one I could discover near me. I thought it
was here, as at Geneva, or in Switzerland, where the inhabitants, living
at ease, have it in their power to exercise hospitality. I entreated the
countryman to give me some dinner, offering to pay for it: on which he
presented me with some skimmed milk and coarse barley--bread, saying it
was all he had. I drank the milk with pleasure, and ate the bread, chaff
and all; but it was not very restorative to a man sinking with fatigue.
The countryman, who watched me narrowly, judged the truth of my story by
my appetite, and presently (after having said that he plainly saw I was
an honest, good--natured young man, and did not come to betray him)
opened a little trap door by the side of his kitchen, went down, and
returned a moment after with a good brown loaf of pure wheat, the remains
of a well-flavored ham, and a bottle of wine, the sight of which rejoiced
my heart more than all the rest: he then prepared a good thick omelet,
and I made such a dinner as none but a walking traveller ever enjoyed.

When I again offered to pay, his inquietude and fears returned; he not
only would have no money, but refused it with the most evident emotion;
and what made this scene more amusing, I could not imagine the motive of
his fear. At length, he pronounced tremblingly those terrible words,
"Commissioners," and "Cellar-rats," which he explained by giving me to
understand that he concealed his wine because of the excise, and his
bread on account of the tax imposed on it; adding, he should be an undone
man, if it was suspected he was not almost perishing with want. What he
said to me on this subject (of which I had not the smallest idea) made an
impression on my mind that can never be effaced, sowing seeds of that
inextinguishable hatred which has since grow up in my heart against the
vexations these unhappy people suffer, and against their oppressors.
This man, though in easy circumstances, dare not eat the bread gained by
the sweat of his brow, and could only escape destruction by exhibiting an
outward appearance of misery!--I left his cottage with as much
indignation as concern, deploring the fate of those beautiful countries,
where nature has been prodigal of her gifts, only that they may become
the prey of barbarous exactors.

The incident which I have just related, is the only one I have a distinct
remembrance of during this journey: I recollect, indeed, that on
approaching Lyons, I wished to prolong it by going to see the banks of
the Lignon; for among the romances I had read with my father, Astrea was
not forgotten and returned more frequently to my thoughts than any other.
Stopping for some refreshment (while chatting with my hostess), I
inquired the way to Forez, and was informed that country was an excellent
place for mechanics, as there were many forges, and much iron work done
there. This eulogium instantly calmed my romantic curiosity, for I felt
no inclination to seek Dianas and Sylvanders among a generation of
blacksmiths. The good woman who encouraged me with this piece of
information certainly thought I was a journeyman locksmith.

I had some view in going to Lyons: on my arrival, I went to the
Chasattes, to see Mademoiselle du Chatelet, a friend of Madam de Warrens,
for whom I had brought a letter when I came there with M. le Maitre,
so that it was an acquaintance already formed. Mademoiselle du Chatelet
informed me her friend had passed through Lyons, but could not tell
whether she had gone on to Piedmont, being uncertain at her departure
whether it would not be necessary to stop in Savoy; but if I choose,
she would immediately write for information, and thought my best plan
would be to remain at Lyons till she received it. I accepted this offer;
but did not tell Mademoiselle du Chatelet how much I was pressed for an
answer, and that my exhausted purse would not permit me to wait long.
It was not an appearance of coolness that withheld me, on the contrary,
I was very kindly received, treated on the footing of equality, and this
took from me the resolution of explaining my circumstances, for I could
not bear to descend from a companion to a miserable beggar.

I seem to have retained a very connecting remembrance of that part of my
life contained in this book; yet I think I remember, about the same
period, another journey to Lyons, (the particulars of which I cannot
recollect) where I found myself much straitened, and a confused
remembrance of the extremities to which I was reduced does not contribute
to recall the idea agreeably. Had I been like many others, had I
possessed the talent of borrowing and running in debt at every ale-house
I came to, I might have fared better; but in that my incapacity equalled
my repugnance, and to demonstrate the prevalence of both, it will be
sufficient to say, that though I have passed almost my whole life in
indifferent circumstances, and frequently have been near wanting bread,
I was never once asked for money by a creditor without having it in my
power to pay it instantly; I could never bear to contract clamorous
debts, and have ever preferred suffering to owing.

Being reduced to pass my nights in the streets, may certainly be called
suffering, and this was several times the case at Lyons, having preferred
buying bread with the few pence I had remaining, to bestowing them on a
lodging; as I was convinced there was less danger of dying for want of
sleep than of hunger. What is astonishing, while in this unhappy
situation, I took no care for the future, was neither uneasy nor
melancholy, but patiently waited an answer to Mademoiselle du Chatelet's
letter, and lying in the open air, stretched on the earth, or on a bench,
slept as soundly as if reposing on a bed of roses. I remember,
particularly, to have passed a most delightful night at some distance
from the city, in a road which had the Rhone, or Soane, I cannot
recollect which, on the one side, and a range of raised gardens, with
terraces, on the other. It had been a very hot day, the evening was
delightful, the dew moistened the fading grass, no wind was stirring,
the air was fresh without chillness, the setting sun had tinged the
clouds with a beautiful crimson, which was again reflected by the water,
and the trees that bordered the terrace were filled with nightingales who
were continually answering each other's songs. I walked along in a kind
of ecstasy, giving up my heart and senses to the enjoyment of so many
delights, and sighing only from a regret of enjoying them alone.
Absorbed in this pleasing reverie, I lengthened my walk till it grew very
late, without perceiving I was tired; at length, however, I discovered
it, and threw myself on the step of a kind of niche, or false door,
in the terrace wall. How charming was the couch! the trees formed a
stately canopy, a nightingale sat directly over me, and with his soft
notes lulled me to rest: how pleasing my repose; my awaking more so.
It was broad day; on opening my eyes I saw the water, the verdure, and
the admirable landscape before me. I arose, shook off the remains of
drowsiness, and finding I was hungry, retook the way to the city,
resolving, with inexpressible gayety, to spend the two pieces of six
francs I had yet remaining in a good breakfast. I found myself so
cheerful that I went all the way singing; I even remember I sang a
cantata of Batistin's called the Baths of Thomery, which I knew by heart.
May a blessing light on the good Batistin and his good cantata, which
procured me a better breakfast than I had expected, and a still better
dinner which I did not expect at all! In the midst of my singing,
I heard some one behind me, and turning round perceived an Antonine,
who followed after and seemed to listen with pleasure to my song.
At length accosting me, he asked, If I understood music. I answered,
"A little," but in a manner to have it understood I knew a great deal,
and as he continued questioning of me, related a part of my story.
He asked me, If I had ever copied music? I replied, "Often," which was
true: I had learned most by copying. "Well," continued he, "come with
me, I can employ you for a few days, during which time you shall want for
nothing; provided you consent not to quit my room." I acquiesced very
willingly, and followed him.

This Antonine was called M. Rotichon; he loved music, understood it, and
sang in some little concerts with his friends; thus far all was innocent
and right, but apparently this taste had become a furor, part of which he
was obliged to conceal. He conducted me into a chamber, where I found a
great quantity of music: he gave me some to copy, particularly the
cantata he had heard me singing, and which he was shortly to sing

I remained here three or four days, copying all the time I did not eat,
for never in my life was I so hungry, or better fed. M. Rolichon brought
my provisions himself from the kitchen, and it appeared that these good
priests lived well, at least if every one fared as I did. In my life, I
never took such pleasure in eating, and it must be owned this good cheer
came very opportunely, for I was almost exhausted. I worked as heartily
as I ate, which is saying a great deal; 'tis true I was not as correct as
diligent, for some days after, meeting M. Rolichon in the street, he
informed me there were so many omissions, repetitions, and
transpositions, in the parts I had copied, that they could not be
performed. It must be owned, that in choosing the profession of music,
I hit on that I was least calculated for; yet my voice was good and I
copied neatly; but the fatigue of long works bewilders me so much, that
I spend more time in altering and scratching out than in pricking down,
and if I do not employ the strictest attention in comparing the several
parts, they are sure to fail in the execution. Thus, through endeavoring
to do well, my performance was very faulty; for aiming at expedition,
I did all amiss. This did not prevent M. Rolichon from treating me well
to the last, and giving me half-a-crown at my departure, which I
certainly did not deserve, and which completely set me up, for a few days
after I received news from Madam de Warrens, who was at Chambery, with
money to defray the expenses of my journey to her, which I performed with
rapture. Since then my finances have frequently been very low, but never
at such an ebb as to reduce me to fasting, and I mark this period with a
heart fully alive to the bounty of Providence, as the last of my life in
which I sustained poverty and hunger.

I remained at Lyons seven or eight days to wait for some little
commissions with which Madam de Warrens had charged Mademoiselle du
Chatelet, who during this interval I visited more assiduously than
before, having the pleasure of talking with her of her friend, and being
no longer disturbed by the cruel remembrance of my situation, or painful
endeavors to conceal it. Mademoiselle du Chatelet was neither young nor
handsome, but did not want for elegance; she was easy and obliging while
her understanding gave price to her familiarity. She had a taste for
that kind of moral observation which leads to the knowledge of mankind,
and from her originated that study in myself. She was fond of the works
of Le Sage, particularly Gil Blas, which she lent me, and recommended to
my perusal. I read this performance with pleasure, but my judgment was
not yet ripe enough to relish that sort of reading. I liked romances
which abounded with high-flown sentiments.

Thus did I pass my time at the grate of Mademoiselle du Chatelet, with as
much profit as pleasure. It is certain that the interesting and sensible
conversation of a deserving woman is more proper to form the
understanding of a young man than all the pedantic philosophy of books.
I got acquainted at the Chasattes with some other boarders and their
friends, and among the rest, with a young person of fourteen, called
Mademoiselle Serre, whom I did not much notice at that time, though I was
in love with her eight or nine years afterwards, and with great reason,
for she was a most charming girl.

I was fully occupied with the idea of seeing Madam de Warrens, and this
gave some respite to my chimeras, for finding happiness in real objects
I was the less inclined to seek it in nonentities. I had not only found
her, but also by her means, and near her, an agreeable situation, having
sent me word that she had procured one that would suit me, and by which I
should not be obliged to quit her. I exhausted all my conjectures in
guessing what this occupation could be, but I must have possessed the art
of divination to have hit it on the right. I had money sufficient to
make my journey agreeable: Mademoiselle du Chatelet persuaded me to hire
a horse, but this I could not consent to, and I was certainly right,
for by so doing I should have lost the pleasure of the last pedestrian
expedition I ever made; for I cannot give that name to those excursions I
have frequently taken about my own neighborhood, while I lived at

It is very singular that my imagination never rises so high as when my
situation is least agreeable or cheerful. When everything smiles around
me, I am least amused; my heart cannot confine itself to realities,
cannot embellish, but must create. Real objects strike me as they really
are, my imagination can only decorate ideal ones. If I would paint the
spring, it must be in winter; if describe a beautiful landscape, it must
be while surrounded with walls; and I have said a hundred times, that
were I confined in the Bastile, I could draw the most enchanting picture
of liberty. On my departure from Lyons, I saw nothing but an agreeable
future, the content I now with reason enjoyed was as great as my
discontent had been at leaving Paris, notwithstanding, I had not during
this journey any of those delightful reveries I then enjoyed. My mind
was serene, and that was all; I drew near the excellent friend I was
going to see, my heart overflowing with tenderness, enjoying in advance,
but without intoxication, the pleasure of living near her; I had always
expected this, and it was as if nothing new had happened. Meantime,
I was anxious about the employment Madam de Warrens had procured me,
as if that alone had been material. My ideas were calm and peaceable,
not ravishing and celestial; every object struck my sight in its natural
form; I observed the surrounding landscape, remarked the trees, the
houses, the springs, deliberated on the cross-roads, was fearful of
losing myself, yet did not do so; in a word, I was no longer in the
empyrean, but precisely where I found myself, or sometimes perhaps at
the end of my journey, never farther.

I am in recounting my travels, as I was in making them, loath to arrive
at the conclusion. My heart beat with joy as I approached my dear Madam
de Warrens, but I went no faster on that account. I love to walk at my
ease, and stop at leisure; a strolling life is necessary to me:
travelling on foot, in a fine country, with fine weather and having an
agreeable object to terminate my journey, is the manner of living of all
others most suited to my taste.

It is already understood what I mean by a fine country; never can a flat
one, though ever so beautiful, appear such in my eyes: I must have
torrents, fir trees, black woods, mountains to climb or descend, and
rugged roads with precipices on either side to alarm me. I experienced
this pleasure in its utmost extent as I approached Chambery, not far from
a mountain which is called Pas de l'Echelle. Above the main road, which
is hewn through the rock, a small river runs and rushes into fearful
chasms, which it appears to have been millions of ages in forming. The
road has been hedged by a parapet to prevent accidents, which enabled me
to contemplate the whole descent, and gain vertigoes at pleasure; for a
great part of my amusement in these steep rocks, is, they cause a
giddiness and swimming in my head, which I am particularly fond of,
provided I am in safety; leaning, therefore, over the parapet, I remained
whole hours, catching, from time to time, a glance of the froth and blue
water, whose rushing caught my ear, mingled with the cries of ravens, and
other birds of prep that flew from rock to rock, and bush to bush, at six
hundred feet below me. In places where the slope was tolerably regular,
and clear enough from bushes to let stones roll freely, I went a
considerable way to gather them, bringing those I could but just carry,
which I piled on the parapet, and then threw down one after the other,
being transported at seeing them roll, rebound, and fly into a thousand
pieces, before they reached the bottom of the precipice.

Near Chambery I enjoyed an equal pleasing spectacle, though of a
different kind; the road passing near the foot of the most charming
cascade I ever saw. The water, which is very rapid, shoots from the top
of an excessively steep mountain, falling at such a distance from its
base that you may walk between the cascade and the rock without any
inconvenience; but if not particularly careful it is easy to be deceived
as I was, for the water, falling from such an immense height, separates,
and descends in a rain as fine as dust, and on approaching too near this
cloud, without perceiving it, you may be wet through in an instant.

At length I arrived at Madam de Warrens; she was not alone, the
intendant-general was with her. Without speaking a word to me, she
caught my hand, and presenting me to him with that natural grace which
charmed all hearts, said: "This, sir, is the poor young man I mentioned;
deign to protect him as long as he deserves it, and I shall feel no
concern for the remainder of his life." Then added, addressing herself
to me, "Child, you now belong to the king, thank Monsieur the Intendant,
who furnishes you with the means of existence." I stared without
answering, without knowing what to think of all this; rising ambition
almost turned my head; I was already prepared to act the intendant
myself. My fortune, however, was not so brilliant as I had imagined, but
it was sufficient to maintain me, which, as I was situated, was a capital
acquisition. I shall now explain the nature of my employment.

King Victor Amadeus, judging by the event of preceding wars, and the
situation of the ancient patrimony of his fathers, that he should not
long be able to maintain it, wished to drain it beforehand. Resolving,
therefore, to tax the nobility, he ordered a general survey of the whole
country, in order that it might be rendered more equal and productive.
This scheme, which was begun under the father, was completed by the son:
two or three hundred men, part surveyors, who were called geometricians,
and part writers, who were called secretaries, were employed in this
work: among those of the latter description Madam de Warrens had got me
appointed. This post, without being very lucrative, furnished the means
of living eligibly in that country; the misfortune was, this employment
could not be of any great duration, but it put me in train to procure
something better, as by this means she hoped to insure the particular
protection of the intendant, who might find me some more settled
occupation before this was concluded.

I entered on my new employment a few days after my arrival, and as there
was no great difficulty in the business, soon understood it; thus, after
four or five years of unsettled life, folly, and suffering, since my
departure from Geneva, I began, for the first time, to gain my bread with

These long details of my early youth must have appeared trifling, and I
am sorry for it: though born a man, in a variety of instances, I was long
a child, and am so yet in many particulars. I did not promise the public
a great personage: I promised to describe myself as I am, and to know me
in my advanced age it was necessary to have known me in my youth. As,
in general, objects that are present make less impression on me than the
bare remembrance of them (my ideas being all from recollection), the
first traits which were engraven on my mind have distinctly remained:
those which have since been imprinted there, have rather combined with
the former than effaced them. There is a certain, yet varied succession
of affections and ideas, which continue to regulate those that follow
them, and this progression must be known in order to judge rightly of
those they have influenced. I have studied to develop the first causes,
the better to show the concatenation of effects. I would be able by some
means to render my soul transparent to the eyes of the reader, and for
this purpose endeavor to show it in every possible point of view, to give
him every insight, and act in such a manner, that not a motion should
escape him, as by this means he may form a judgment of the principles
that produce them.

Did I take upon myself to decide, and say to the reader, "Such is my
character," he might think that if I did not endeavor to deceive him,
I at least deceived myself; but in, recounting simply all that has
happened to me, all my actions, thoughts, and feelings, I cannot lead him
into an error, unless I do it wilfully, which by this means I could not
easily effect, since it is his province to compare the elements, and
judge of the being they compose: thus the result must be his work, and if
he is then deceived the error will be his own. It is not sufficient for
this purpose that my recitals should be merely faithful, they must also
be minute; it is not for me to judge of the importance of facts, I ought
to declare them simply as they are, and leave the estimate that is to be
formed of them to him. I have adhered to this principle hitherto, with
the most scrupulous exactitude, and shall not depart from it in the
continuation; but the impressions of age are less lively than those of
youth; I began by delineating the latter: should I recollect the rest
with the same precision, the reader, may, perhaps, become weary and
impatient, but I shall not be dissatisfied with my labor. I have but one
thing to apprehend in this undertaking: I do not dread saying too much,
or advancing falsities, but I am fearful of not saying enough, or
concealing truths.


Have ever preferred suffering to owing
I was long a child, and am so yet in many particulars


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