the sooner. The trees by the side of the road, always lopped,
according to the custom of the country, afforded but little shade, and
exhausted by fatigue, I frequently threw myself on the ground, being
unable to proceed any farther. I thought a book in my hand might make
me moderate my pace. One day I took the _Mercure de France_, and as I
walked and read, I came to the following question proposed by the
academy of Dijon, for the premium of the ensuing year: Has the progress
of sciences and arts contributed to corrupt or purify morals?

The moment I had read this, I seemed to behold another world, and
became a different man. Although I have a lively remembrance of the
impression it made upon me, the detail has escaped my mind, since I
communicated it to M. de Malesherbes in one of my four letters to him.
This is one of the singularities of my memory which merits to be
remarked. It serves me in proportion to my dependence upon it; the
moment I have committed to paper that with which it was charged, it
forsakes me, and I have no sooner written a thing than I had forgotten
it entirely. This singularity is the same with respect to music.
Before I learned the use of notes I knew a great number of songs; the
moment I had made a sufficient progress to sing an air of art set to
music, I could not recollect any one of them; and, at present, I much
doubt whether I should be able entirely to go through one of those of
which I was the most fond. All I distinctly recollect upon this
occasion is, that on my arrival at Vincennes, I was in an agitation
which approached a delirium. Diderot perceived it; I told him the
cause, and read to him the prosopopoeia of Fabricius, written with a
pencil under a tree. He encouraged me to pursue my ideas, and to
become a competitor for the premium. I did so, and from that moment I
was ruined.