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when she creates some sublime thought, would scarcely give an idea of this other kind of happiness. In the marvellous creation of my own mind, I found at once all the blandishments of sense, and all the delights of the soul. Overwhelmed, submerged in these double pleasures, I no longer knew what my true existence was; I was a mortal, and yet not a mortal; I was transformed into a cloud, a wind, a sound; I was a spirit, an aërial being, singing of supreme felicity. I cast away my own nature, that I might make myself one with the phantom of my desires, and transform myself into it, that I might be in more intimate communion with beauty; be at the same time the passion received and the passion given,love and its object. Suddenly, struck with a sense of my folly, I threw myself on my couch; I buried myself in my grief; I watered my pillow with burning tears, which fell unseen, and were given to a phantom.

A TEMPTATION.

After a time thus passed, no longer able to remain in my tower, I descended through the darkness, opened the door at the foot of the stairs with the furtive movement of a murderer, and wandered forth into the wood.

I walked some time at hazard, waving my hands, embracing the winds, which escaped from me like the phantom which was the constant object of my pursuit; then stopped, leaning against the trunk of a beech; I watched the crows, startled from one tree, and alighting on another; or the light of the moon gliding along the leafless tree-tops. I longed to inhabit this dead world, reflecting the pallor of the grave. I felt neither the cold nor the night-dew; even the icy breath of the dawn would not have roused me from my dreams, had not the village bell at this hour fallen on my ear.

In most of the villages of Bretagne, the break of day is the time usually selected for tolling the bell for the dead. This tolling, consisting only of three notes, has in it a sort of monotonous, melancholy, and rural melody. Nothing could

be more in harmony with my sick and wounded soul, than to be thus recalled to the tribulations of existence, by the sound which announced its end. I pictured to myself the herdsman expiring in his unknown hut, then laid in a cemetery not less obscure. What had he come to do on earth? What was I doing in this world? Since I must one day take my leave of it, would it not be better to set out on my journey during the freshness of the morning, and arrive early at my destination, than to perform it under the oppressive heat of the day? The flush of desire overspread my face; the idea of ceasing to exist took possession of my heart like a sudden joy. During the time of my youthful errors, I often wished not to survive happiness; in my first success there was a degree of felicity which made me aspire to self-destruction.

Day by day bound me more strongly to my phantom, unable to enjoy what did not exist, I was like those mutilated men who dream of beatitudes overflowing for them, and create for themselves a vision whose pleasures equal the tortures of the infernal regions. I had, moreover, a presentiment of the miseries of my future destiny; ingenious in inventing sufferings, I had placed myself between two ideas of despair; sometimes I looked on myself as a creature of no worth, incapable of rising above the vulgar herd; at others, I seemed to have a consciousness of qualities never destined to be appreciated; an instinctive feeling warned me, that on my path through the world I should find nothing of what I sought.

Everything combined to nourish the bitterness of my discontent. Lucile was unhappy; my mother afforded me no consolation; my father made me feel the terrors of life. His moroseness increased with his years; age froze his soul as well as his body; he watched me unceasingly, seeking opportunities of speaking harshly to me. When I returned from my wild expeditions, and saw him seated on the steps, I would have died rather than have entered the château. Yet I could only defer my torment; forced to appear at supper, I sat down in confusion on the edge of my chair, my faced stained by the rain, my hair in disorder. Under my

father's eyes, I sat motionless, a cold perspiration broke on my brow; the last ray of reason fled.

I have now reached a period at which I require some strength of mind to confess my weakness. The man who attempts his own life, gives evidence rather of the weakness of his nature, than of the vigour of his soul.

I had a gun, the worn out trigger of which often went off unexpectedly. I loaded this gun with three balls, and went to a spot at a considerable distance from the great Mall. I cocked the gun, put the end of the barrel into my mouth, and struck the butt-end against the ground; I repeated the attempt several times, but unsuccessfully; the appearance of a gamekeeper interrupted me in my design. I was a fatalist, though without my own intention or knowledge; supposing that my hour was not yet come, I deferred the execution of my project to another day. Had I succeeded, all that I had been would have been buried with me; nothing would have been known of the mental history which led me to my fate; I should have added one more to the multitude of nameless unfortunates; I could not have been traced by my griefs, like a wounded man by his blood.

Any whose minds may be troubled by these delineations, and tempted to imitate these follies, or who may be attached to my memory by my fancies, should remember that they are listening to the voice of one who has passed from this world. Reader, whom I shall never know! of me there is nothing remaining nothing but what I am in the hands of the living God who has judged me.

ILLNESS-I FEAR AND

REFUSE TO ENTER THE CHURCH-PROJECT OF
A VOYAGE TO INDIA.

An illness, brought on by this ill-regulated life, put an end to the torments through which the first inspirations of the muse, and the first attacks of passion, reached me. These passions, vague as yet, in which my soul had, as it were, foundered, resembled those gales at sea which blow from every point of the horizon. I was an inexperienced pilot, and knew not on what side to spread my sail to these fickle winds. My breast heaved, fever seized me; a messenger was sent to Bazouches, a little town five or six leagues from Combourg, to fetch an excellent physician, named Cheftel, whose son was engaged in the affair of the Marquis de Rouerïe.* He inquired carefully into my case, ordered the necessary remedies, and declared his opinion that it was absolutely necessary to make me change my way of life.

For six weeks my life was in danger. One morning, my mother came to my bedside, and said: "It is now time for you to decide; your brother is in a position to procure you a living; but I wish to consult you before you enter the seminary, since, although I should wish you to embrace the ecclesiastical profession, I would much rather see you a man of the world than a priest who should be a disgrace to his order."

After what has just been said, an opinion may be formed whether the proposal of my pious mother was well judged. In all the greater events of my life, I have always come to a prompt decision in what it was my duty to avoid; an impulse of honour guided me. An Abbé? I appeared to myself ridiculous. A Bishop? The majesty of the priesthood overawed me, and I drew back with reverence before the altar. As a Bishop, should I make efforts with a view to acquire

* As I advance in life, I again light on the characters mentioned in my Memoirs. The widow of this son has just been received into Maria Theresa's Infirmary. This is another testimony to my veracity.

virtues, or should I content myself with concealing my vices? I felt too weak for the former, and was too ingenuous for the latter. Those who regard me as a hypocrite, or ambitious, know little of me. I shall never succeed in the world, precisely because I am deficient in a passion and a vice— ambition and hypocrisy. The former would be, in my case, at the most piqued self-love. I might desire sometimes to be the King's minister, in order to laugh at my enemies; but at the end of twenty-four hours, I would throw my portfolio and my gown out of the window.

I told my mother, then, that my call to the priestly office was not sufficiently strong. I changed my projects for the second time. I had no desire at all to go to sea; and no longer wished to enter the church. The military career still remained; that I liked; but how could I endure the loss of my independence, and the constraint of European discipline? I thought of an absurd scheme; I declared I would go to Canada, to clear the forests; or to India, to seek for service in the army of some of the native Princes.

By one of those contrasts, which may be observed in the lives of all men, my father, who was so reasonable at other times, was never very averse to an adventurous project. He growled at my mother on account of my tergiversations but he decided to send me to India. I was sent to St. Malo, where an armament was preparing for Pondicherry.

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A MOMENT IN MY NATIVE TOWN REMEMBRANCE OF LA VILLENEUVE, AND OF THE TRIALS OF MY YOUTH-I AM RECALLED TO COMBOURG-LAST INTERVIEW WITH MY FATHER-I ENTER INTO THE ARMY-FAREWELL TO COMBOURG.

Two months rolled away; I found myself again alone in my maternal isle; la Villeneuve had just died. Going to weep by the side of the empty poor bed where she had expired, I cast my eyes upon the small wicker go-cart, in which I had first learned to stand erect on this sorrowful

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