convulsive transport; we were almost suffocated; and when our young
hearts found sufficient relief to breathe out our indignation, we
sat up in the bed, and with all our force, repeated a hundred times,
Carnifex! Carnifex! Carnifex! Executioner, tormentor.
Even while I write this I feel my pulse quicken, and should I live a
hundred thousand years, the agitation of that moment would still be
fresh in my memory. The first instance of violence and oppression is
so deeply engraven on my soul, that every relative idea renews my
emotion: the sentiment of indignation, which in its origin had
reference only to myself, has acquired such strength, and is at
present so completely detached from personal motives, that my heart is
as much inflamed at the sight or relation of any act of injustice
(whatever may be the object, or wheresoever it may be perpetrated)
as if I was the immediate sufferer. When I read the history of a
merciless tyrant, or the dark and the subtle machination of a
knavish designing priest, I could on the instant set off to stab the
miscreants, though I was certain to perish in the attempt.
I have frequently fatigued myself by running after and stoning a
cock, a cow, a dog, or any animal I saw tormenting another, only
because it was conscious of possessing superior strength. This may
be natural to me, and I am inclined to believe it is, though the
lively impression of the first injustice I became the victim of was
too long and too powerfully remembered not to have added
considerable force to it.
This occurrence terminated my infantine serenity; from that moment I
ceased to enjoy a pure unadulterated happiness, and on a retrospection
of the pleasures of my childhood, I yet feel they ended here. We
continued at Bossey some months after this event, but were like our
first parents in the Garden of Eden after they had lost their
innocence; in appearance our situation was the same, in effect it
was totally different.
Affection, respect, intimacy, confidence, no longer attached the
pupils to their guides; we beheld them no longer as divinities, who
could read the secrets of our hearts; we were less ashamed of
committing faults, more afraid of being accused of them: we learned to
dissemble, to rebel, to lie: all the vices common to our years began
to corrupt our happy innocence, mingle with our sports, and embitter
our amusements. The country itself, losing those sweet and simple
charms which captivate the heart, appeared a gloomy desert, or covered
with a veil that concealed its beauties. We cultivated our little
gardens no more: our flowers were neglected. We no longer scratched
away the mold, and broke out into exclamations of delight, on
discovering that the grain we had sown began to shoot. We were
disgusted with our situation; our preceptors were weary of us. In a
word, my uncle wrote for our return, and we left Mr. and Miss
Lambercier without feeling any regret at the separation.
Near thirty years passed away from my leaving Bossey, without once
recalling the place to my mind with any degree of satisfaction; but
after having passed the prime of life, as I decline into old age
(while more recent occurrences are wearing out apace) I feel these
