In three days I composed the first three
cantos of the little poem which I finished at Motiers, and I am
certain of not having done anything in my life in which there is a
more interesting mildness of manners, a greater brilliancy of
coloring, more simple delineations, greater exactness of proportion,
or more antique simplicity in general, notwithstanding the horror of
the subject which in itself is abominable, so that besides every other
merit I had still that of a difficulty conquered. If the Levite of
Ephraim be not the best of my works, it will ever be that most
esteemed. I have never read, nor shall I ever read it again without
feeling interiorly the applause of a heart without acrimony, which,
far from being embittered by misfortunes, is susceptible of
consolation in the midst of them, and finds within itself a resource
by which they are counterbalanced. Assemble the great philosophers, so
superior in their books to adversity which, they do not suffer,
place them in a situation similar to mine, and, in the first moments
of the indignation of their injured honor, give them a like work to
compose, and it will be seen in what manner they will acquit
themselves of the task.
When I set off from Montmorency to go into Switzerland, I had
resolved to stop at Yverdon, at the house of my old friend Roguin, who
had several years before retired to that place, and had invited me
to go and see him. I was told Lyons was not the direct road, for which
reason I avoided going through it.
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