continually occupied with a variety of pleasing
chimeras, and never did the warmth of my imagination produce more
magnificent ones. When offered an empty place in a carriage, or any
person accosted me on the road, how vexed was I to see that fortune
overthrown, whose edifice, while walking, I had taken such pains to rear.

For once my ideas were all martial: I was going to live with a military
man; nay, to become one, for it was concluded I should begin with being a
cadet. I already fancied myself in regimentals, with a fine white
feather nodding on my hat, and my heart was inflamed by the noble idea.
I had some smattering of geometry and fortification; my uncle was an
engineer; I was in a manner a soldier by inheritance. My short sight,
indeed, presented some little obstacle, but did not by any means
discourage me, as I reckoned to supply that defect by coolness and
intrepidity. I had read, too, that Marshal Schomberg was remarkably
shortsighted, and why might not Marshal Rousseau be the same? My
imagination was so warm by these follies, that it presented nothing but
troops, ramparts, gabions, batteries, and myself in the midst of fire and
smoke, an eyeglass in hand, commanding with the utmost tranquility.
Notwithstanding, when the country presented a delightful prospect, when I
saw charming groves and rivulets, the pleasing sight made me sigh with
regret, and feel, in the midst of all this glory, that my heart was not
formed for such havoc; and soon without knowing how, I found my thoughts
wandering among my dear sheep-folds, renouncing forever the labor of
Mars.

How much did Paris disappoint the idea I had formed of it! The exterior
decorations I had seen at Turin, the beauty of the streets, the symmetry
and regularity of the houses, contributed to this disappointment, since I
concluded that Paris must be infinitely superior. I had figured to
myself a splendid city, beautiful as large, of the most commanding
aspect, whose streets were ranges of magnificent palaces, composed of
marble and gold. On entering the faubourg St. Marceau, I saw nothing but
dirty stinking streets, filthy black houses, an air of slovenliness and
poverty, beggars, carters, butchers, cries of diet-drink and old hats.
This struck me so forcibly, that all I have since seen of real
magnificence in Paris could never erase this first impression, which has
ever given me a particular disgust to residing in that capital; and I may
say, the who