At the risk of being thought to share his madness--if he _was_ mad--I will conclude by saying that I, for one, believe him to have been sane, and to have told the truth all through. MADGE PLUNKET I am but a poor scribe; ill-versed in the craft of wielding words and phrases, as the cultivated reader (if I should ever happen to have one) will no doubt very soon find out for himself. [Illustration:] I have been for many years an object of pity and contempt to all who ever gave me a thought--to all but _one_! Yet of all that ever lived on this earth I have been, perhaps, the happiest and most privileged, as that reader will discover if he perseveres to the end. My outer and my inner life have been as the very poles--asunder; and if, at the eleventh hour, I have made up my mind to give my story to the world, it is not in order to rehabilitate myself in the eyes of my fellow-men, deeply as I value their good opinion; for I have always loved them and wished them well, and would fain express my goodwill and win theirs, if that were possible. It is because the regions where I have found my felicity are accessible to all, and that many, better trained and better gifted, will explore them to far better purpose than I, and to the greater glory and benefit of mankind, when once I have given them the clew. Before I can do this, and in order to show how I came by this clew myself, I must tell, as well as I may, the tale of my checkered career--in telling which, moreover, I am obeying the last behest of one whose lightest wish was my law. If I am more prolix than I need be, it must be set down to my want of experience in the art of literary composition--to a natural wish I have to show myself neither better nor worse than I believe myself to be; to the charm, the unspeakable charm, that personal reminiscences have for the person principally concerned, and which he cannot hope to impart, however keenly he may feel it, without gifts and advantages that have been denied to me. And this leads me to apologize for the egotism of this Memoir, which is but an introduction to another and longer one that I hope to publish later. To write a story of paramount importance to mankind, it is true, but all about one's outer and one's inner self, to do this without seeming somewhat egotistical, requires something akin to genius--and I am but a poor scribe. * * * * * "_Combien j'ai douce souvenance Du joli lieu de ma naissance_!" These quaint lines have been running in my head at intervals through nearly all my outer life, like an oft-recurring burden in an endless ballad--sadly monotonous, alas! the ballad, which is mine; sweetly monotonous the burden, which is by Chateaubriand.