 section 7 of Confessions volumes 1 and 2. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Martin Giesen. Confessions volumes 1 and 2 by Jean-Jacques Rousseau. Anonymously translated. My master had a journeyman named Vera, whose mother lived in the neighborhood and had a garden at a considerable distance from the house, which produced excellent asparagus. This Vera, who had no great plenty of money, took it in his head to rob her of the most early production of her garden, and by the sale of it procured those indulgences he could not otherwise afford himself. But not being very nimble, he did not care to run the hazard of a surprise. After some preliminary flattery, which I did not comprehend the meaning of, he proposed this expedition to me, as an idea which had that moment struck him. At first I would not listen to the proposal, but he persisted in his solicitation, and as I could never resist the attacks of flattery, at length prevailed. In pursuance of this virtuous resolution, I every morning repaired to the garden, gathered the best of the asparagus, and took it to the molar where some good old women, who guessed how I came by it, wishing to diminish the price, made no secret of their suspicions. This produced the desired effect, for being alarmed, I took whatever they offered, which being taken to Monsieur Vera was presently metamorphosed into a breakfast, and divided with a companion of his. Although I procured it, I never partook of their good cheer, being fully satisfied with an inconsiderable bribe. I executed my roguery with the greatest fidelity, seeking only to please my employer, and several days passed before it came into my head to rob the robber, and tie the Monsieur Vera's harvest. I never considered the hazard I ran in these expeditions, not only of a torrent of abuse, but what I should have been still more sensible of a hearty beating. For the miscreant who received the whole benefit would certainly have denied all knowledge of the fact, and I should only have received a double portion of punishment for daring to accuse him. Since being only an apprentice, I stood no chance of being believed in opposition to a journeyman. Thus, in every situation, powerful rogues know how to save themselves at the expense of the feeble. This practice taught me it was not so terrible to thieve as I had imagined. I took care to make this discovery turn to some account, helping myself to everything within my reach that I conceived an inclination for. I was not absolutely ill-fared at my masters, and temperance was only painful to me by comparing it with the luxury he enjoyed. The custom of sending young people from table precisely when those things are served up, which seem most tempting, is calculated to increase their longing, and induces them to steal what they conceive to be so delicious. It may be supposed I was not backward in this particular. In general, my navery succeeded pretty well, though quite the reverse when I happened to be detected. I recollect an attempt to procure some apples, which was attended with circumstances that make me smile and shudder even at this instant. The fruit was standing in the pantry, which by a lattice at a considerable height received light from the kitchen. One day, being alone in the house, I climbed up to see these precious apples, which, being out of my reach, made this pantry appear the garden of the asperities. I fetched the spit, tried if it would reach them. It was too short. I lengthened it with a small one which was used for game, my master being very fond of hunting, darted at them several times without success. At length was more fortunate. Being transported to find, I was bringing up an apple. I drew it gently to the lattice. Was going to seize it, when, who can express my grief and astonishment, I found it would not pass through. It was too large. I tried every expedient to accomplish my design, sought supporters to keep the spits in the same position, a knife to divide the apple, and a lath to hold it with. At length I so far succeeded as to effect the division, and made no doubt of drawing the pieces through. But it was scarcely separated, compassionate reader sympathize with my affliction when both pieces fell into the pantry. Though I lost time by this experiment, I did not lose courage. But dreading a surprise, I put off the attempt till next day, when I hoped to be more successful, and returned to my work as if nothing had happened, without once thinking of what the two obvious witnesses I had left in the pantry deposed against me. The next day a fine opportunity offering I renew the trial. I fasten the spits together, get on the stool, take aim, and just going to dart at my prey. Unfortunately the dragon did not sleep. The pantry door opens. My master makes his appearance, and looking up exclaims, Bravo! The horror of that moment returns. The pen drops from my hand. A continual repetition of ill treatment rendered me callous. It seemed a kind of composition for my crimes, which authorised me to continue them. And instead of looking back at the punishment, I looked forward to revenge. Being beat like a slave, I judged I had a right to all the vices of one. I was convinced that to rob and be punished were inseparable, and constituted, if I may so express myself, a kind of traffic, in which if I perform my part of the bargain, my master would take care not to be deficient in his. That preliminary settled. I applied myself to thieving with great tranquillity. And whenever this interrogatory occurred to my mind, what will be the consequence? The reply was ready. I know the worst. I shall be beat. No matter. I was made for it. I love good eating. I'm sensual, but not greedy. I have such a variety of inclinations to gratify that this can never predominate. And unless my heart is unoccupied, which very rarely happens, I pay but little attention to my appetite, to perloining eatables. But extended this propensity to everything I wished to possess. And if I did not become a robber in form, it was only because money never tempted me. My master had a closet in the workshop which he kept locked. This I contrived to open and shut as often as I pleased, and laid his best tools, fine drawings, impressions, in a word everything he wished to keep from me, under contribution. These thefts were so far innocent that they were always employed in his service, but I was transported at having the trifles in my possession, and imagined I stole the art with its productions. Besides what I have mentioned, his boxes contained threads of gold and silver, a number of small jewels, valuable medals, and money. Yet though I seldom had five sews in my pocket, I do not recollect ever having cast a wishful look at them. On the contrary, I beheld these valuables rather with terror than with delight. I am convinced the dread of taking money was in a great measure the effect of education. There was mingled with the idea of it the fear of infamy, a prison, punishment, and death. Had I even felt the temptation these objects would have made me tremble, whereas my failings appeared a species of waggery, and in truth they were little else. They could but occasion a good trimming, and this I was already prepared for. A sheet of fine drawing paper was a greater temptation than money sufficient to have purchased a ream. This unreasonable caprice is connected with one of the most striking singularities of my character, and has so far influenced my conduct that it requires a particular explanation. My passions are extremely violent. While under their influence nothing can equal my impetuosity. I am an absolute stranger to discretion, respect, fear, or decorum, rude, saucy, violent, and intrepid. No shame can stop, no danger intimidate me. My mind is frequently so engrossed by a single object that beyond it the whole world is not worth a thought. This is the enthusiasm of a moment, the next perhaps I am plunged in a state of annihilation. Take me in my moments of tranquility. I am indolence and timidity itself. A word to speak, the least trifle to perform, appear an intolerable labour. Everything alarms and terrifies me. The very buzzing of a fly will make me shudder. I am so subdued by fear and shame that I would gladly shield myself from mortal view. When obliged to exert myself, I am ignorant what to do. When forced to speak, I am at a loss for words. And if anyone looks at me, I am instantly out of countenance. If animated with my subject, I express my thoughts with ease. But in ordinary conversations I can say nothing absolutely nothing. And being obliged to speak renders them insupportable. I may add that none of my predominant inclinations centred in those pleasures which are to be purchased. Money empoisons my delight. I must have them unadulterated. I love those of the table, for instance, but cannot endure the restraints of good company, or the intemperance of taverns. I can enjoy them only with a friend, for alone it is equally impossible. My imagination is then so occupied with other things that I find no pleasure in eating. Women who are to be purchased have no charms for me. My beating heart cannot be satisfied without affection. It is the same with every other enjoyment. If not truly disinterested, they are absolutely insipid. In a word I am fond of those things which are only estimable to minds formed for the peculiar enjoyment of them. End of Section 7. Recording by Martin Giesen in Hazelmere Surrey. Section 8 of Confessions. Volumes 1 and 2. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Martin Giesen. Confessions. Volumes 1 and 2 by Jean-Jacques Rousseau. Anonymously translated. Section 8. I never thought money so desirable as it is usually imagined. If you would enjoy, you must transform it. And this transformation is frequently attended with inconvenience. You must bargain, purchase, pay dear, be badly served, and often duped. I buy an egg. I'm assured it is new-laid. I find it stale. Fruit in its utmost perfection. It is absolutely green. I love good wine, but where shall I get it? Not at my wine merchants. He will poison me to a certainty. I wish to be universally respected. How shall I compass my design? I must make friends, send messages, write letters, come, go, wait, and be frequently deceived. Money is the perpetual source of uneasiness. I fear it more than I love good wine. A thousand times, both during and since my apprenticeship, have I gone out to purchase some nicety. I approach the pastry-cooks, perceive some women at the counter, and imagine they are laughing at me. I pass a fruit-shop, see some fine pairs. Their appearance tempts me. But then two or three young people are near, or a man I am acquainted with is standing at the door. I take all that pass for persons I have some knowledge of, and my near sight contributes to deceive me. I am everywhere intimidated, restrained by some obstacle, and with money in my pocket return as I went for want of resolution to purchase what I long for. I should enter into the most insipid details was I to relate the trouble, shame, repugnance, and inconvenience of all kinds which I have experienced in parting with my money, whether in my own person or by the agency of others. As I proceed, the reader will get acquainted with my disposition, and perceive all this without my troubling him with the recital. This once comprehended one of my apparent contradictions will be easily accounted for, and the most sordid avarice reconciled with the greatest contempt of money. It is a movable which I consider of so little value that when destitute of it I never wish to acquire any, and when I have a sum I keep it by me, for want of knowing how to dispose of it to my satisfaction. But let an agreeable and convenient opportunity present itself, and I empty my purse with the utmost freedom. Not that I would have the reader imagine that I am extravagant from a motive of ostentation, quite the reverse. It was ever in subservience to my pleasures, and instead of glorying in expense, I endeavour to conceal it. I so well perceive that money is not made to answer my purposes, that I am almost ashamed to have any, and still more to make use of it. Had I ever possessed a moderate independence, I am convinced I should have had no propensity to become avaricious. I should have required no more, and cheerfully lived up to my income. But my precarious situation has constantly and necessarily kept me in fear. I love liberty, and I loathe constraint, dependence, and all their kindred annoyances. As long as my purse contains money, it secures my independence, and exempts me from the trouble of seeking other money, a trouble of which I have always had a perfect horror, and the dread of seeing the end of my independence makes me proportionately unwilling to part with my money. The money that we possess is the instrument of liberty, that which we lack and strive to obtain is the instrument of slavery. Thence it is that I hold fast to ought that I have, and yet covet nothing more. My disinterestedness, then, is in reality only idleness. The pleasure of possessing is not, in my estimation, worth the trouble of acquiring. And my dissipation is only another form of idleness. When we have an opportunity of dispersing pleasantly, we should make the best possible use of it. I am less tempted by money than by other objects, because between the moment of possessing the money, and that of using it to obtain the desired object, there is always an interval, however short. Whereas to possess the thing is to enjoy it. I see a thing, and it tempts me. But if I see not the thing itself, but only the means of acquiring it, I am not tempted. Therefore it is that I have been a pilferer, and am so even now, in the way of mere trifles to which I take a fancy, and which I find it easier to take than to ask for. But I never in my life recollect having taken a farthing from anyone, except about fifteen years ago, when I stole seven francs and ten sous. The story is worth recounting, as it exhibits a concurrence of ignorance and stupidity. I could scarcely credit did it relate to any but myself. It was in Paris. I was walking with Monsieur de Franceux at the Palais Royal. He pulled out his watch. He looked at it, and said to me, suppose we go to the opera? With all my heart. We go. He takes two box-tickets, gives me one, and enters himself with the other. I follow, find the door crowded, and looking in, see everyone standing. Judging, therefore, that Monsieur de Franceux might suppose me concealed by the company, I go out, ask for my ticket, and getting the money returned, leave the house, without considering that by when I had reached the door everyone would be seated, and Monsieur de Franceux might readily perceive I was not there. As nothing could be more opposite to my natural inclination than this abominable meanness, I noted to show there are moments of delirium, when men ought not to be judged by their actions. This was not stealing the money, it was only stealing the use of it, and was the more infamous for wanting the excuse of a temptation. I should never end these accounts, was I to describe all the gradations through which I passed, during my apprenticeship, from the sublimity of a hero to the baseness of a villain. Though I entered into most of the vices of my situation, I had no relish for its pleasures. The amusements of my companions were displeasing, and when too much restraint had made my business wearisome, I had nothing to amuse me. This renewed my taste for reading, which had long been neglected. I thus committed a fresh offence, books made me neglect my work, and brought on additional punishment, while inclination, strengthened by constraint, became an unconquerable passion. La Tribue, a well-known librarian, furnished me with all kinds, good or bad. I perused them with avidity, and without discrimination. It will be said, at length then, money became necessary. True, but this happened at a time when a taste for study had deprived me both of resolution and activity. Totally occupied by this new inclination, I only wished to read. I robbed no longer. This is another of my peculiarities. A mere nothing frequently calls me off from what I appear the most attached to. I give in to the new idea. It becomes a passion, and immediately every former desire is forgotten. Reading was my new hobby. My heart beat with impatience to run over the new book I carried in my pocket. The first moment I was alone, I seized the opportunity to draw it out, and thought no longer of rummaging my master's closet. I was even ashamed to think that I had been guilty of such meanness. And had my amusements been more expensive, I no longer felt an inclination to continue it. La tribue gave me credit, and when once I had the book in my possession, I thought no more of the trifle I was to pay for it. As money came, it naturally passed to this woman, and when she chanced to be pressing, nothing was so conveniently at hand as my own effects. To steal in advance required foresight, and robbing to pay was no temptation. The frequent blows I received from my master, with my private and ill-chosen studies, rendered me reserved, unsociable, and almost deranged my reason. Though my taste had not preserved me from silly, unmeaning books, my good fortune I was a stranger to licentious or obscene ones. Not that la tribue, who was very accommodating, had any scruple of lending these, on the contrary, to enhance their worth, she spoke of them with an air of mystery. This produced an effect she had not foreseen, for shame and disgust made me constantly refuse them. Chance so well seconded my bashful disposition, that I was past the age of thirty, before I saw any of those dangerous compositions. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Martin Giesen. Confessions, Volumes I and II, by Jean-Jacques Rousseau. Anonymously translated. Section IX In less than a year I had exhausted la tribue's scanty library, and was unhappy for want of further amusement. My reading, though frequently bad, had worn off my childish follies, and brought back my heart to nobler sentiments than my condition had inspired. Meantime disgusted with all within my reach, and thinking everything charming that was out of it, my present situation appeared extremely miserable. My passions began to acquire strength. I felt their influence, without knowing whether they would conduct me. I sometimes indeed thought of my former follies, but sought no further. At this time my imagination took a turn which helped to calm my increasing emotions. It was to contemplate those situations in the books I had read, which produced the most striking effect on my mind. To recall, combine, and apply them to myself, in such a manner as to become one of the personages my recollection presented, and be continually in those fancied circumstances which were most agreeable to my inclinations. In a word, by contriving to place myself in these fictitious situations, the idea of my real one was in a great measure obliterated. This fondness for imaginary objects, and the facility with which I could gain possession of them, completed my disgust for everything around me, and fixed that inclination for solitude which has ever since been predominant. We shall have more than once occasion to remark the effects of a disposition misanthropic and melancholy in appearance, but which proceed, in fact, from a heart too affectionate to ardent, which for want of similar dispositions is constrained to content itself with non-entities, and be satisfied with fiction. It is sufficient at present to have traced the origin of a propensity which has modified my passions set bounds to each, and by giving too much ardour to my wishes has ever rendered me too indolent to obtain them. Thus I attained my sixteenth year, uneasy, discontented with myself and everything that surrounded me, displeased with my occupation, without enjoying the pleasures common to my age, weeping without a cause, sighing I knew not why, and fond of my chimerical ideas for want of more valuable realities. Every Sunday after sermon time my companions came to fetch me out, wishing me to partake of their diversions. I would willingly have been excused, but when once engaged in amusement I was more animated and enterprising than any of them. It was equally difficult to engage or restrain me. Indeed this was ever a leading tray in my character. In our country walks I was ever foremost, and never thought of returning till reminded by some of my companions. I was twice obliged to be from my masters the whole night, the city gates having been shut before I could reach them. The reader may imagine what treatment this procured me the following mornings, but I was promised such a reception for the third that I made a firm resolution never to expose myself to the danger of it. Not withstanding my determination I repeated this dreaded transgression. My vigilance having been rendered useless by a cursed captain named Monsieur Minutoli, who went on guard, always shut the gate he had charged of an hour before the usual time. I was returning home with my two companions, and had got within half a league of the city, when I heard them beat the tattoo. I redouble my pace. I run with the utmost speed. I approach the bridge. See the soldiers already at their posts. I call out to them in a suffocated voice. It is too late. I am twenty paces from the guard. The first bridge is already drawn up, and I tremble to see those terrible horns advanced in the air, which announce the fatal and inevitable destiny, which from this moment began to pursue me. I threw myself on the glacis in a transport of despair, while my companions, who only laughed at the accident, immediately determined what to do. My resolution, though different from theirs, was equally sudden. On the spot I swore never to return to my masters, and the next morning, when my companions entered the city, I bade them an eternal adieu, conjuring them at the same time to inform my cousin Bernard of my resolution, and the place where he might see me for the last time. From the commencement of my apprenticeship I had seldom seen him, at first indeed we saw each other on Sundays, but each acquiring different habits our meetings were less frequent. I am persuaded his mother contributed greatly towards this change. He was to consider himself as a person of consequence. I was a pitiful apprentice, notwithstanding our relationship, equality no longer subsisted between us, and it was degrading himself to frequent my company. As he had a natural good heart, his mother's lessons did not take an immediate effect, and for some time he continued to visit me. Having learned my resolution, he hastened to the spot I had appointed, not, however, to dissuade me from it, but to render my flight agreeable by some trifling presence, as my own resources would not have carried me far. He gave me, among other things, a small sword, which I was very proud of, and took with me as far as Turin, where absolute want constrained me to dispose of it. The more I reflect on his behaviour at this critical moment, the more I am persuaded he followed the instructions of his mother, and perhaps his father likewise, for had he been left to his own feelings, he would have endeavoured to retain, or have been tempted to accompany me. On the contrary, he encouraged the design, and when he saw me resolutely determined to pursue it, without seeming much affected, left me to my fate. We never saw or wrote to each other from that time. I cannot but regret this loss, for his heart was essentially good, and we seemed formed for a more lasting friendship. Before I abandoned myself to the fatality of my destiny, let me contemplate for a moment the prospect that awaited me had I fallen into the hands of a better master. Nothing could have been more agreeable to my disposition, or more likely to confer happiness than the peaceful condition of a good artificer. In so respectable aligners engravers are considered at Geneva. I could have obtained an easy subsistence, if not a fortune, this would have bounded my ambition. I should have had means to indulge in moderate pleasures, and should have continued in my natural sphere, without meeting with any temptation to go beyond it. Having an imagination sufficiently fertile to embellish with its chimeras every situation, and powerful enough to transport me from one to another, it was immaterial in which I was fixed. That was best adapted to me, which requiring the least care or exertion left the mind most at liberty, and this happiness I should have enjoyed. In my native country, in the bosom of my religion, family and friends, I should have passed a calm and peaceful life, in the uniformity of a pleasing occupation, and among connections dear to my heart. I should have been a good Christian, a good citizen, a good friend, a good man. I should have relished my condition, perhaps have been an honour to it, and after having passed a life of happy obscurity, surrounded by my family, I should have died at peace. Soon it may be forgotten, but while remembered it would have been with tenderness and regret. Instead of this, what a picture am I about to draw! Alas! Why should I anticipate the miseries I have endured? The reader will have but too much of the melancholy subject. End of Section 9 Recording by Martin Geeson in Hazelmere Surrey Section 10 of Confessions Volumes 1 and 2 This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Martin Geeson Confessions Volumes 1 and 2 by Jean-Jacques Rousseau Anonymously translated Section 10 Volume 2 The moment in which fear had instigated my flight did not seem more terrible than that wherein I put my design in execution appeared delightful. To leave my relations, my resources, while yet a child, in the midst of my apprenticeship, before I had learned enough of my business to obtain a subsistence, to run on inevitable misery and danger, to expose myself in that age of weakness and innocence, to all the temptations of vice and despair, to set out in search of errors, misfortunes, snares, slavery and death, to endure more intolerable evils than those I meant to shun, was the picture I should have drawn, the natural consequence of my hazardous enterprise. How different was the idea I entertained of it, the independence I seemed to possess was the sole object of my contemplation. Having obtained my liberty, I thought everything attainable. I entered with confidence on the vast theatre of the world which my merit was to captivate. At every step I expected to find amusements, treasures and adventures, friends ready to serve, and mistresses eager to please me. I had but to show myself, and the whole universe would be interested in my concerns. Not but I could have been content with something less. A charming society with sufficient means might have satisfied me. My moderation was such that the sphere in which I proposed to shine was rather circumscribed, but then it was to possess the very quintessence of enjoyment, and myself the principal object. A single castle, for instance, might have bounded my ambition. Could I have been the favourite of the lord and lady, the daughter's lover, the son's friend, and protector of the neighbours, I might have been tolerably content and sought no further. In expectation of this modest fortune, I passed a few days in the environs of the city, with some country people of my acquaintance, who received me with more kindness than I should have met with in town. They welcomed, lodged, and fed me cheerfully. I could be said to live on charity. These favours were not conferred with a sufficient appearance of superiority to furnish out the idea. I rambled about in this manner till I got to Corfignon in Savoy, at about two leagues' distance from Geneva. The vicar was called Monsieur de Pont Verre. This name, so famous in the history of the Republic, caught my attention. I was curious to see what appearance the descendants of the gentlemen of the Spoon exhibited. I went therefore to visit this Monsieur de Pont Verre, and was received with great civility. He spoke of the heresy of Geneva, declaimed on the authority of Holy Mother Church, and then invited me to dinner. I had little to object to arguments which had so desirable a conclusion, and was inclined to believe that priests who gave such excellent dinners might be as good as our ministers. Notwithstanding Monsieur de Pont Verre's pedigree, I certainly possessed most learning, but I rather sought to be a good companion than an expert theologian, and his fragile wine, which I thought delicious, argued so powerfully on his side that I should have blushed at silencing so kind a host. I therefore yielded him the victory, or rather declined the contest. Anyone who had observed my precaution would certainly have pronounced me a dissembler, though in fact I was only courteous. Flattery, or rather condescension, is not always a vice in young people. It is often a virtue. When treated with kindness, it is natural to feel an attachment for the person who confers the obligation. We do not acquiesce because we wish to deceive, but from dread of giving uneasiness, or because we wish to avoid the ingratitude of rendering evil for good. What interest had Monsieur de Pont Verre in entertaining, treating with respect, and endeavouring to convince me? None but mine. My young heart told me this, and I was penetrated with gratitude and respect for the generous priest. I was sensible of my superiority, but scorned to repay his hospitality by taking advantage of it. I had no conception of hypocrisy in this forbearance, or thought of changing my religion. Nay, so far was the idea from being familiar to me that I looked on it with a degree of horror, which seemed to exclude the possibility of such an event. I only wished to avoid giving offence to those I was sensible caressed me from that motive. I wished to cultivate their good opinion, and meantime leave them the hope of success by seeming less on my guard than I really was. My conduct in this particular resembled the cocketry of some very honest women who, to obtain their wishes without permitting or promising anything, sometimes encourage hopes they never mean to realise. Reason, piety, and love of order certainly demanded that instead of being encouraged in my folly, I should have been dissuaded from the ruin I was courting, and sent back to my family. And this conduct, anyone that was actuated by genuine virtue, would have pursued. But it should be observed that though Monsieur de Pauvère was a religious man, he was not a virtuous one, but a bigot who knew no virtue except worshipping images and telling his beads, in a word a kind of missionary, who thought the height of merit consisted in writing libles against the ministers of Geneva. Far from wishing to send me back, he endeavoured to favour my escape, and put it out of my power to return, even had I been so disposed. It was a thousand to one, but he was sending me to perish with hunger, or become a villain. But all this was foreign to his purpose. He saw a soul snatched from heresy, and restored to the bosom of the church. Whether I was an honest man or a naïve was very immaterial, provided I went to mass. This ridiculous mode of thinking is not peculiar to Catholics. It is the voice of every dogmatical persuasion, where merit consists in belief, and not in virtue. You are called by the Almighty, said Monsieur de Pauvère. Go to Ancy, where you will find a gaudent, charitable lady, whom the bounty of the King enables to turn souls from those errors she has happily renounced. He spoke of a Madame de Vérance, a new convert, to whom the priests contrived to send those wretches who were disposed to sell their faith, and with these she was in a manner constrained to share a pension of two thousand francs, bestowed on her by the King of Sardinia. I felt myself extremely humiliated at being supposed to want the assistance of a good and charitable lady. I had no objection to be accommodated with everything I stood in need of, but did not wish to receive it on the footing of charity, and to owe this obligation to a devotee was still worse. Notwithstanding my scruples, the persuasions of Monsieur de Pauvère, the dread of perishing with hunger, the pleasures I promised myself from the journey, and hope of obtaining some desirable situation, determined me, and I set out, though reluctantly, for Annecy. I could easily have reached it in a day, but being in no great haste to arrive there, it took me three. My head was filled with the ideas of adventures, and I approached every country seat I saw in my way in expectation of having them realised. I had too much timidity to knock at the doors, or even enter if I saw them open, but I did what I dared, which was to sing under those windows that I thought had the most favourable appearance, and was very much disconcerted to find I wasted my breath to no purpose, and that neither old nor young ladies were attracted by the melody of my voice, or the wit of my poetry, though some songs my companions had taught me I thought excellent, and that I sung them incomparably. At length I arrived at Annecy, and saw Madame de Varence. As this period of my life in a great measure determined my character, I could not resolve to pass it lightly over. I was in the middle of my sixteenth year, and though I could not be called handsome, was well made for my height. I had a good foot, a well turned leg, and animated countenance, a well proportioned mouth, black hair and eyebrows, and my eyes, though small and rather too far in my head, sparkling with vivacity, darted that innate fire which inflamed my blood. Unfortunately for me I knew nothing of all this, never having bestowed a single thought on my person till it was too late to be of any service to me. The timidity common to my age was heightened by a natural benevolence which made me dread the idea of giving pain. Though my mind had received some cultivation, having seen nothing of the world, I was an absolute stranger to polite address, and my mental acquisitions, so far from supplying this defect, only served to increase my embarrassment by making me sensible of every deficiency. Depending little, therefore, on external appearances, I had recourse to other expedients. I wrote a most elaborate letter, where mingling all the flowers of rhetoric which I had borrowed from books, with the phrases of an apprentice, I endeavoured to strike the attention and ensure the goodwill of Madame de Varence. I enclosed Monsieur de Ponvers' letter in my own, and waited on the lady with a heart palpitating with fear and expectation. It was Palm Sunday of the year 1728. I was informed she was that moment gone to church. I hasten after her, overtake and speak to her. The place is yet fresh in my memory. How can it be otherwise? Often have I moistened it with my tears, and covered it with kisses. Why cannot I enclose with gold the happy spot, and render it the object of universal veneration? Whoever wishes to honour monuments of human salvation would only approach it on their knees. It was a passage at the back of the house, bordered on the left hand by a little rivulet, which separated it from the garden, and on the right by the courtyard wall. At the end was a private door which opened into the church of the Cartelier. Madame de Varence was just passing this door, but on hearing my voice instantly turned about. What an effect did the sight of her produce! I expected to see a devout, forbidding old woman. Monsieur de Pontvers, pious and worthy lady, could be no other in my conception. Instead of which, I see a face beaming with charms, fine blue eyes full of sweetness, a complexion whose whiteness dazzled the sight, the form of an enchanting neck. Nothing escaped the eager eye of the young prosolite, for that instant I was hers. A religion preached by such missionaries must lead to paradise. My letter was presented with a trembling hand. She took it with a smile, opened it, glanced an eye over Monsieur de Pontvers, and again returned to mine, which she read through and would have read again, had not the footman that instant informed her that service was beginning. Child! said she, in a voice which made every nerve vibrate. You are wondering about at an early age. It is really a pity. And without waiting for an answer, added, go to my house, bid them give you something for breakfast. After mass I will speak to you. 11. Louis Eleonore de Varence was of the noble and ancient family of La Tour de Pi, of Vevet, a city in the country of the Vaudois. She was married very young to a Monsieur de Varence, of the house of Louis, eldest son of Monsieur de Villardin, of Lausanne. There were no children by this marriage, which was far from being a happy one. Some domestic uneasiness made Madame de Varence take the resolution of crossing the lake, and throwing herself at the feet of King Victor Amadé, who was then at Avion, thus abandoning her husband, family, and country, by a giddiness similar to mine, which precipitation she too has found sufficient time and reason to lament. The king, who was fond of appearing a zealous promoter of the Catholic faith, took her under his protection, and complimented her with a pension of fifteen hundred livres of Piedmont, which was a considerable appointment for a prince who never had the character of being generous. But finding his liberality made some conjecture he had an affection for the lady. He sent her to Annecy, escorted by a detachment of his guards, where, under the direction of Michel Gabriel de Bernex, titular bishop of Geneva, she abjured her former religion at the convent of the visitation. I came to Annecy just six years after this event. Madame de Varence was then eight and twenty, being born with the century. Her beauty, consisting more in the expressive animation of the countenance than a set of features, was in its meridian. Her manner, suzing and tender, an angelic smile played about her mouth which was small and delicate. She wore her hair, which was of an ash colour and uncommonly beautiful, with an air of negligence that made her appear still more interesting. She was short and rather thick for her height, though by no means disagreeably so. But there could not be a more lovely face, a finer neck or hands and arms more exquisitely formed. Her education had been derived from such a variety of sources that it formed an extraordinary assemblage. Like me, she had lost her mother at her birth, and had received instruction as it chanced to present itself. She had learned something of her governess, something of her father, a little of her masters, but copiously from her lovers, particularly a monsieur de Tavel, who possessing both taste and information endeavoured to adorn with them the mind of her he loved. These various instructions, not being properly arranged, tended to impede each other, and she did not acquire that degree of improvement her natural good sense was capable of receiving. She knew something of philosophy and physics, but not enough to eradicate the fondness she had imbibed from her father for empiricism and alchemy. She made elixirs, tinctures, balsams, pretended to secrets, and prepared magistry, while quacks and pretenders profiting by her weakness destroyed her property among furnaces, drugs, and minerals, diminishing those charms and accomplishments which might have been the delight of the most elegant circles. But though these interested wretches took advantage of her ill-applied education to obscure her natural good sense, her excellent heart retained its purity, her amiable mildness, sensibility for the unfortunate, inexhaustible bounty, and open, cheerful frankness, new no variation. Even at the approach of old age, when attacked by various calamities rendered more cutting by indigents, the serenity of her disposition preserved to the end of her life, the pleasing gaiety of her happiest days. Her errors proceeded from an inexhaustible fund of activity which demanded perpetual employment. She found no satisfaction in the customary intrigues of her sex, but being formed for vast designs sought the direction of important enterprises and discoveries. In her place, Madame de Longueville would have been a mere trifle. In Madame de Longueville's situation she would have governed the state. Her talents did not accord with her fortune. What would have gained her distinction in a more elevated sphere became her ruin. In enterprises which suited her disposition, she arranged the plan in her imagination, which was ever carried of its utmost extent, and the means she employed being proportioned rather to her ideas than abilities. She failed by the mismanagement of those upon whom she depended, and was ruined where another would scarce have been a loser. This active disposition, which involved her in so many difficulties, was at least productive of one benefit, as it prevented her from passing the remainder of her life in the monastic asylum she had chosen, which she had some thought of. The simple and uniform life of a nun, and the little cabals and gossipings of their parlour, were not adapted to a mind vigorous and active, which every day forming new systems had occasions for liberty to attempt their completion. The good bishop of Bernès, with less wit than François de Salle, resembled him in many particulars, and Madame de Vérance, whom he loved to call his daughter, and who was like Madame de Chantal in several respects, might have increased the resemblance by retiring like her from the world, had she not been disgusted with the idle trifling of a convent? It was not want of zeal prevented this amiable woman from giving those proofs of devotion which might have been expected from a new convert, under the immediate direction of a prelate. Whatever might have influenced her to change her religion, she was certainly sincere in that she had embraced. She might find sufficient occasion to repent, having abjured her former faith, but no inclination to return to it. She not only died a good Catholic, but truly lived one. Nay, I dare affirm, and I think I have had the opportunity to read the secrets of her heart, that it was only her aversion to singularity that prevented her acting the debautee in public. In a word, her piety was too sincere to give way to any affectation of it. But this is not the place to enlarge on her principles. I shall find other occasions to speak of them. Let those who deny the existence of a sympathy of souls explain, if they know how, why the first glance, the first word of Madame de Varence inspired me, not only with a lively attachment, but with the most unbounded confidence, which has since known no abatement. Say this was love, which will at least appear doubtful to those who read the sequel of our attachment. How could this passion be attended with sentiments which scarce ever accompany its commencement, such as peace, serenity, security and confidence? How, when making application to an amiable and polished woman, whose situation in life was so superior to mine, so far above any I had yet approached, on whom in a great measure depended my future fortune, by the degree of interest she might take in it? How, I say, with so many reasons to depress me, did I feel myself as free, as much at my ease, as if I had been perfectly secure of pleasing her? Why did I not experience a moment of embarrassment, timidity or restraint? Naturally bashful, easily confused, having seen nothing of the world, how could I, the first time, the first moment I beheld her, adopt caressing language and a familiar tone, as readily as after ten years intimacy had rendered these freedoms natural? Is it possible to possess love? I will not say without desires, for I certainly had them, but without inquiritude, without jealousy. Can we avoid feeling an anxious wish, at least, to know whether our affection is returned? Yet such a question never entered my imagination. I should have soon have inquired, do I love myself? Nor did she ever express a greater degree of curiosity. There was certainly something extraordinary in my attachment to this charming woman, and it will be found in the sequel, that some extravagances, which cannot be foreseen, attended it. What could be done for me was the present question, and in order to discuss the point with greater freedom she made me dine with her. This was the first meal in my life where I had experienced a want of appetite, and her woman, who waited, observed it was the first time she had seen a traveller of my age and appearance, deficient in that particular. This remark, which did me no injury in the opinion of her mistress, fell hard on an overgrown clown, who was my fellow guest, and devoured sufficient to have served at least six moderate feeders. For me, I was too much charmed to think of eating. My heart began to imbibe a delicious sensation, which engrossed my whole being, and left no room for other objects. Madame de Varens wished to hear the particulars of my little history. All the vivacity I had lost during my servitude returned and assisted the recital. In proportion to the interest this excellent woman took in my story, did she lament the fate to which I had exposed myself. Compassion was painted on her features, and expressed by every action. She could not exhort me to return to Geneva, being too well aware that her words and actions were strictly scrutinised, and that such advice would be thought high treason against Catholicism. But she spoke so feelingly of the affliction I must give my father, that it was easy to perceive she would have approved my returning to console him. Alas! she little thought how powerfully this pleaded against herself. The more eloquently persuasive she appeared, the less I could resolve to tear myself from her. I knew that returning to Geneva would be putting an insuperable barrier between us, unless I repeated the expedient which had brought me here, and it was certainly better to preserve than expose myself to the danger of a relapse. Besides all this, my conduct was predetermined. I was resolved not to return. Madame de Varence, seeing her endeavours would be fruitless, became less explicit, and only added with an air of commiseration. Poor child! thou must go where providence directs thee, but one day thou wilt think of me. I believe she had no conception at that time how fatally her prediction would be verified. End of section 11. Recording by Martin Geeson in Hazelmere Surrey. Section 12 of Confessions, volumes 1 and 2. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Martin Geeson. Confessions, volumes 1 and 2 by Jean-Jacques Rousseau. Anonymously translated. Section 12. The difficulty still remained how I was to gain a subsistence. I have already observed that I knew too little of engraving for that to furnish my resource, and had I been more expert, Savoy was too poor a country to give much encouragement to the arts. The above mentioned Glutton, who et for us as well as himself, being obliged to pause in order to gain some relaxation from the fatigue of it, imparted a piece of advice which, according to him, came express from heaven. Though to judge by its effects, it appeared to have been dictated from a direct, contrary quarter. This was that I should go to Turin, where in a hospital instituted for the instruction of catechumens, I should find food both spiritual and temporal, be reconciled to the bosom of the church, and meet with some charitable Christians who would make it a point to procure me a situation that would turn to my advantage. In regard to the expenses of the journey, continued our advisor, his grace, my Lord Bishop, will not be backward, when once madame has proposed this holy work, to offer his charitable donation, and madame the baroness, whose charity is so well known, once more addressing himself to the continuation of his meal, will certainly contribute. I was by no means pleased with all these charities. I said nothing, but my heart was ready to burst with vexation. Madame de Varence, who did not seem to think so highly of this expedient as the projector pretended to do, contented herself by saying everyone should endeavour to promote good actions, and that she would mention it to his lordship. But the meddling devil, who had some private interest in this affair, and questioned whether she would urge it to his satisfaction, took care to acquaint the almaners with my story, and so far influenced those good priests, that when madame de Varence, who disliked the journey on my account, mentioned it to the bishop, she found it so far concluded on, that he immediately put into her hands the money designed for my little vaticum. She dared not advance anything against it. I was approaching an age when a woman like her could not, with any propriety, appear anxious to retain me. My departure, being thus determined by those who undertook the management of my concerns, I had only to submit, and I did it without much repugnance. Though Turin was at a greater distance from Madame de Varence than Geneva, yet being the capital of the country I was now in, it seemed to have more connection with Annecy than a city under a different government and of a contrary religion. Besides, as I undertook this journey in obedience to her, I considered myself as living under her direction, which was more flattering than barely to continue in the neighbourhood. To sum up all, the idea of a long journey coincided with my insurmountable passion for rambling, which already began to demonstrate itself. To pass the mountains, to my eye, appeared delightful how charming the reflection of elevating myself above my companions by the whole height of the Alps. To see the world is an almost irresistible temptation to a Geneva, accordingly I gave my consent. He who suggested the journey was to set off in two days with his wife, I was recommended to their care. They were likewise made my purse-bearers, which had been augmented by Madame de Varence, who not contented with these kindnesses, added secretly a pecuniary reinforcement, attended with the most ample instructions, and we departed on the Wednesday before Easter. The day following, my father arrived at Annecy, accompanied by his friend, a Monsieur Rival, who was likewise a watchmaker. He was a man of sense and letters, who wrote better verses than Lamotte, and spoke almost as well. What is still more to his praise, he was a man of the strictest integrity, but whose taste for literature only served to make one of his sons a comedian. Having traced me to the house of Madame de Varence, they contented themselves with lamenting like her my fate, instead of overtaking me, which, as they were on horseback and I on foot, they might have accomplished with the greatest ease. My uncle Bernard did the same thing. He arrived at Confignon, received information that I was gone to Annecy, and immediately returned back to Geneva. Thus my nearest relations seemed to have conspired with my adverse stars to consign me to misery and ruin. By a similar negligence, my brother was so entirely lost that it was never known what was become of him. My father was not only a man of honour, but of the strictest probity, and endured with that magnanimity which frequently produces the most shining virtues. I may add, he was a good father, particularly to me whom he tenderly loved. But he likewise loved his pleasures, and since we had been separated, other connections had weakened his paternal affections. He had married again at Nion, and though his second wife was too old to expect children, she had relations. My father was united to another family, surrounded by other objects, and a variety of cares prevented my returning to his remembrance. He was in the decline of life, and had nothing to support the inconveniences of old age. My mother's property devolved to me and my brother, but during our absence the interest of it was enjoyed by my father. I do not mean to infer that this consideration had an immediate effect on his conduct, but it had an imperceptible one, and prevented him from making use of that exertion to regain me, which he would otherwise have employed. And this, I think, was the reason that, having traced me as far as Annecy, he stopped short, without proceeding to Chambéry, where he was almost certain I should be found, and likewise accounts for why, on visiting him several times since my flight, he always received me with great kindness, but never made any efforts to retain me. This conduct in a father whose affection and virtue I was so well convinced of, has given birth to reflections on the regulation of my own conduct, which have greatly contributed to preserve the integrity of my heart. It has taught me this great lesson of morality, perhaps the only one that can have any conspicuous influence on our actions, that we should ever carefully avoid putting our interests in competition with our duty, or promise ourselves felicity from the misfortunes of others. Certain that in such circumstances, however sincere our love of virtue may be, sooner or later it will give way, and we shall imperceptibly become unjust and wicked, in fact, however upright in our intentions. This maxim strongly imprinted on my mind, and reduced, though rather too late to practice, has given my conduct an appearance of folly and whimsicality, not only in public, but still more among my acquaintances. It has been said I affected originality, and sought to act different from other people. The truth is, I neither endeavour to conform or be singular. I desire only to act virtuously, and avoid situations which, by setting my interest in opposition to that of another person, might inspire me with a secret, though involuntary, wish to his disadvantage. Two years ago my Lord Marshall would have put my name in his will, which I took every method to prevent, assuring him I would not for the world know myself in the will of any one, much less in his. He gave up the idea, but insisted in return that I should accept an annuity on his life. This I consented to. It will be said I find my account in the alteration, perhaps I may. But oh, my benefactor, my father, I am now sensible, that should I have the misfortune to survive thee, I should have everything to lose, nothing to gain. This, in my idea, is true philosophy, the surest bulwark of human rectitude. Every day do I receive fresh conviction of its profound solidity. I have endeavored to recommend it in all my latter writings. But the multitude read too superficially to have made the remark. If I survive my present undertaking, and am able to begin another, I mean, in a continuation of a meal, to give such a lively and marking example of this maxim, as cannot fail to strike attention. But I have made reflections enough for a traveller. It is time to continue my journey. It turned out more agreeable than I expected. My clownish conductor was not so morose as he appeared to be. He was a middle-aged man, wore his black grisly hair in a kerr, had a marshal air, a strong voice, was tolerably cheerful, and to make up for not having been taught any trade could turn his hand to everyone. Having proposed to establish some kind of manufactory at Annecy, he had consulted Madame du Varance, who immediately gave into the project, and he was now going to Turin to lay the plan before the minister, and get his approbation, for which journey he took care to be well rewarded. This droll had the art of ingratiating himself with the priests, whom he ever appeared eager to serve. He adopted a certain jargon which he had learned by frequenting their company, and thought himself a notable preacher. He could even repeat one passage from the Bible in Latin, and it answered his purpose as well as if he had known a thousand, for he repeated it a thousand times a day. He was seldom at a loss for money, when he knew what purse contained it, yet was rather artful than naivish, and when dealing out in an affected tone his unmeaning discourses resembled Peter the Hermit, preaching up the crusade with a sabre at his side. Madame Sabran, his wife, was a tolerable, good sort of woman, more peaceable by day than by night. As I slept in the same chamber I was frequently disturbed by her wakefulness, and should have been more so had I comprehended the cause of it. But I was in the chapter of dullness, which left to nature the whole care of my instruction. I went on gaily with my pious guide and his hopeful companion, no sinister accident impeding our journey. I was in the happiest circumstances, both of mind and body, that I ever recollect having experienced, young, full of health and security, placing unbounded confidence in myself and others, in that short but charming moment of human life whose expansive energy carries, if I may so express myself, our being to the utmost extent of our sensations, embellishing all nature with an inexpressible charm, flowing from the conscious and rising enjoyment of our existence. End of section 12. Recording by Martin Geeson in Hazelmere Surrey. Section 13 of Confessions, volumes 1 and 2. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Martin Geeson. Confessions, volumes 1 and 2 by Jean-Jacques Rousseau. Anonymously translated. Section 13. My pleasing inquiritudes became less wandering. I now had an object on which imagination could fix. I looked on myself as the work, the pupil, the friend, almost the lover of Madame de Verrance. The obliging things she had said, the caresses she had bestowed on me, the tender interest she seemed to take in everything that concerned me, those charming looks which seemed replete with love, because they so powerfully inspired it. Every consideration flattered my ideas during this journey, and furnished the most delicious reveries, which no doubt, no fear of my future condition arose to embitter. In sending me to Turin, I thought they engaged to find me an agreeable subsistence there. Thus eased of every care I passed likely on, while young desires, enchanting hopes, and brilliant prospects employed my mind. Each object that presented itself seemed to ensure my approaching felicity. I imagined that every house was filled with joyous festivity. The meadows resounded with sports and revelry. The rivers offered refreshing baths, delicious fish wantoned in these streams, and how delightful was it to ramble along the flowery banks. The trees were loaded with the choicest fruits, while their shade afforded the most charming and voluptuous retreats to happy lovers. The mountains abounded with milk and cream, peace and leisure, simplicity and joy mingled with the charm of going I knew not wither, and everything I saw carried to my heart some new cause for rapture. The grandeur, variety and real beauty of the scene in some measure rendered the charm reasonable in which vanity came in for its share. To go so young to Italy, view such an extent of country, and pursue the root of Hannibal over the Alps, appeared a glory beyond my age. Add to all this our frequent and agreeable halts, with a good appetite and plenty to satisfy it. For in truth it was not worth while to be sparing at Monsieur Sabran's table, what I at could scarce be missed. In the whole course of my life, I cannot recollect an interval more perfectly exempt from care, than the seven or eight days I was passing from Annecy to Turin. As we were obliged to walk Madame Sabran's pace, it rather appeared an agreeable jaunt than a fatiguing journey. There still remains the most pleasing impressions of it on my mind, and the idea of a pedestrian excursion, particularly among the mountains, has from this time seemed delightful. It was only in my happiest days that I travelled on foot, and ever with the most unbounded satisfaction. Afterwards, occupied with business and encumbered with baggage, I was forced to act the gentleman and employ a carriage, where care, embarrassment and restraint were sure to be my companions, and instead of being delighted with the journey, I only wished to arrive at the place of destination. I was a long time at Paris, wishing to meet with two companions of similar dispositions, who would each agree to appropriate fifty guineas of his property and a year of his time to making the tour of Italy on foot, with no other attendance than a young fellow to carry our necessaries. I have met with many who seemed enchanted with the project, but considered it only as a visionary scheme, which served well enough to talk of without any design of putting it in execution. One day, speaking with enthusiasm of this project to Diderot and Grim, they gave in to the proposal with such warmth that I thought the matter concluded on. But it only turned out a journey on paper, in which Grim thought nothing so pleasing as making Diderot commit a number of impieties, and shutting me up in the inquisition for them instead of him. My regret at arriving so soon at Turin was compensated by the pleasure of viewing a large city, and the hope of figuring there in a conspicuous character, for my brain already began to be intoxicated with the fumes of ambition. My present situation appeared infinitely above that of an apprentice, and I was far from foreseeing how soon I should be much below it. Before I proceed, I ought to offer an excuse or justification to the reader for the great number of unentertaining particulars I am necessitated to repeat. In pursuance of the resolution I have formed to enter on this public exhibition of myself, it is necessary that nothing should bear the appearance of obscurity or concealment. I should be continually under the eye of the reader. He should be enabled to follow me in all the wanderings of my heart, through every intricacy of my adventures. He must find no void or chasm in my relation, nor lose sight of me an instant, lest he should find occasion to say, What was he doing at this time, and suspect me of not having dared to reveal the whole? I shall give sufficient scope to malignity in what I say. It is unnecessary I should furnish still more by my silence. My money was all gone, even that I had secretly received from Madame de Varence. I had been so indiscreet as to divulge this secret, and my conductors had taken care to profit by it. Madame Sabrin found means to deprive me of everything I had, even to a ribbon embroidered with silver, with which Madame de Varence had adorned the hilt of my sword. This I regretted more than all the rest. Indeed the sword itself would have gone the same way, and I had been less obstinately bent on retaining it. They had, it is true, supported me during the journey, but left me nothing at the end of it, and I arrived at Turin without money, clothes, or linen, being precisely in the situation to owe to my merit alone the whole honour of that fortune I was about to acquire. I took care in the first place to deliver the letters I was charged with, and was presently conducted to the hospital of the catechumens, to be instructed in that religion, for which in return I was to receive subsistence. On entering I passed an iron-barred gate, which was immediately double-locked on me. This beginning was by no means calculated to give me a favourable opinion of my situation. I was then conducted to a large apartment, whose furniture consisted of a wooden altar at the farther end, on which was a large crucifix, and round it several indifferent chairs of the same materials. In this hall of audience were assembled four or five ill-looking banditi, my comrades in instruction, who would rather have been taken for trusty servants of the devil than candidates for the kingdom of heaven. Two of these fellows were Sclavonians, but gave out they were African Jews, and as they assured me, had run through Spain and Italy, embracing the Christian faith, and being baptised wherever they thought it worth their labour. Soon after they opened another iron gate, which divided a large balcony that overlooked a courtyard, and by this avenue entered our sister Catacumens, who like me were going to be regenerated, not by baptism, but a solemn abjuration. A vile set of idle, dirty, abandoned harlots never disgraced any persuasion. One among them, however, appeared pretty and interesting. She might be about my own age, perhaps a year or two older, and had a pair of roguish eyes which frequently encountered mine. This was enough to inspire me with the desire of becoming acquainted with her, but she had been so strongly recommended to the care of the old governess of this respectable sisterhood, and was so narrowly watched by the pious missionary, who laboured for her conversion with more zeal than diligence, that during the two months we remained together in this house, where she had already been free, I found it absolutely impossible to exchange a word with her. She must have been extremely stupid, though she had not the appearance of it, for never was a longer course of instruction. The holy man could never bring her to a state of mind fit for abjuration. Meantime she became weary of her cloister, declaring that Christian or not she would stay there no longer, and they were obliged to take her at her word, lest she should grow refractory, and insist on departing as great a sinner as she came. This hopeful community were assembled in honour of the newcomer, when our guides made us a short exhortation. I was conjured to be obedient to the grace that heaven had bestowed on me. The rest were admonished to assist me with their prayers, and give me edification by their good example. Our virgins then retired to another apartment, and I was left to contemplate at leisure that wherein I found myself. The next morning we were again assembled for instruction. I now began to reflect for the first time on the step I was about to take, and the circumstances which had led me to it. I repeat, and shall perhaps repeat again, an assertion I have already advanced, and of whose truth I every day receive fresh conviction, which is that if ever child received a reasonable and virtuous education, it was myself. Born in a family of unexceptionable morals, every lesson I received was replete with maxims of prudence and virtue. My father, though fond of gallantry, not only possessed distinguished probity, but much religion. In the world he appeared a man of pleasure. In his family he was a Christian, and implanted early in my mind those sentiments he felt the force of. My three aunts were women of virtue and piety. The two eldest were professed devotees, and the third, who united all the graces of wit and good sense, was perhaps more truly religious than either, though with less ostentation. From the bosom of this amiable family I was transplanted to Monsieur Lambertier, a man dedicated to the ministry, who believed the doctrine he taught, and acted up to its precepts. He and his sister matured by their instructions those principles of judicious piety I had already imbibed. And the means employed by these worthy people were so well adapted to the effect they meant to produce, that so far from being fatigued, I scarce ever listened to their admonitions without finding myself sensibly affected, and forming resolutions to live virtuously, from which, except in moments of forgetfulness, I seldom swerved. At my uncle's religion was far more tiresome, because they made it an employment. With my master I thought no more of it, though my sentiments continued the same. I had no companions to vitiate my morals. I became idle, careless and obstinate, but my principles were not impaired. I possessed as much religion, therefore, as a child could be supposed capable of acquiring. Why should I now disguise my thoughts? I am persuaded I had more. In my childhood I was not a child. I felt I thought as a man. As I advanced in years I mingled with the ordinary class. In my infancy I was distinguished from it. I shall doubtless incur ridicule by thus modestly holding myself up for a prodigy. I am content. Let those who find themselves disposed to it laugh their fill. Afterward let them find a child that at six years old is delighted, interested, affected with romances, even to the shedding floods of tears. I shall then feel my ridiculous vanity, and acknowledge myself in an error. Thus, when I said we should not converse with children on religion, if we wished them ever to possess any, when I asserted they were incapable of communion with the supreme being, even in our confined degree, I drew my conclusions from general observation. I knew they were not applicable to particular instances. Find J. J. Housseau of six years old, converse with them on religious subjects at seven, and I will be answerable that the experiment will be attended with no danger. End of section 13 Recording by Martin Giesen in Hazelmere Surrey