consciousness that the faculty of imagination has always been one of my
characteristics. It usually is so, I am aware, in superior minds, and it
has procured me many pleasures unknown to the common herd. Had it been
possible for me to believe that I had been misled by this faculty, I
should have carefully refrained from putting upon record any account of
my individual impressions; but my attitude here is not that of a man
recording his personal experiences only, but of one who is the official
mouthpiece and representative of the commune, and whose duty it is to
render to government and to the human race a true narrative of the very
wonderful facts to which every citizen of Semur can bear witness. In
this capacity it has become my duty so to arrange and edit the different
accounts of the mystery, as to present one coherent and trustworthy
chronicle to the world.

To proceed, however, with my narrative. It is not necessary for me to
describe what summer is in the Haute Bourgogne. Our generous wines, our
glorious fruits, are sufficient proof, without any assertion on my part.
The summer with us is as a perpetual _fête_--at least, before the insect
appeared it was so, though now anxiety about the condition of our vines
may cloud our enjoyment of the glorious sunshine which ripens them
hourly before our eyes. Judge, then, of the astonishment of the world
when there suddenly came upon us a darkness as in the depth of winter,
falling, without warning, into the midst of the brilliant weather to
which we are accustomed, and which had never failed us before in the
memory of man! It was the month of July, when, in ordinary seasons, a
cloud is so rare that it is a joy to see one, merely as a variety upon
the brightness. Suddenly, in the midst of our summer delights, this
darkness came. Its first appearance took us so entirely by surprise that
life seemed to stop short, and the business of the whole town was
delayed by an hour or two; nobody being able to believe that at six