protection. Her pallet and easel were now thrown aside; did she try to
paint, thronging recollections made her hand tremble, her eyes fill with
tears. With this occupation she gave up almost every other; and her mind
preyed upon itself almost to madness.

For my own part, since Adrian had first withdrawn me from my selvatic
wilderness to his own paradise of order and beauty, I had been wedded to
literature. I felt convinced that however it might have been in former
times, in the present stage of the world, no man's faculties could be
developed, no man's moral principle be enlarged and liberal, without an
extensive acquaintance with books. To me they stood in the place of an
active career, of ambition, and those palpable excitements necessary to the
multitude. The collation of philosophical opinions, the study of historical
facts, the acquirement of languages, were at once my recreation, and the
serious aim of my life. I turned author myself. My productions however were
sufficiently unpretending; they were confined to the biography of favourite
historical characters, especially those whom I believed to have been
traduced, or about whom clung obscurity and doubt.

As my authorship increased, I acquired new sympathies and pleasures. I
found another and a valuable link to enchain me to my fellow-creatures; my
point of sight was extended, and the inclinations and capacities of all
human beings became deeply interesting to me. Kings have been called the
fathers of their people. Suddenly I became as it were the father of all
mankind. Posterity became my heirs. My thoughts were gems to enrich the
treasure house of man's intellectual possessions; each sentiment was a
precious gift I bestowed on them. Let not these aspirations be attributed
to vanity. They were not expressed in words, nor even reduced to form in my
own mind; but they filled my soul, exalting my thoughts, raising a glow of
enthusiasm, and led me out of the obscure path in which I before walked,