his unamiable and doubtful character; he was false in many ways; but
that feeling rang true--it was the best part of him, and of that
'idealism of the heart' whose right of rule he asserted in an age of
artificiality and petty formalism. Those were no empty words in his
third letter to Malesherbes:

'Which time of my life do you suppose I recall most often and most
willingly in my dreams? Not the pleasures of youth; they were too
few, too much mixed with bitterness, and they are too far away now.
It is the time of my retreat, of my solitary walks--those fast-flying
delicious days that I passed all alone by myself, with my good and
simple Thérèse, my beloved dog, my old cat, with the wild birds and
the roes of the forest, with all Nature and her inconceivable Maker.

'When I got up early to go and watch the sunrise from my garden, when
I saw a fine day begin, my first wish was that neither letters nor
visitors might come to break its charm....

'Then I would seek out some wild place in the forest, some desert
spot where there was nothing to shew the hand of man, and so tell of
servitude and rule--some refuge which I could fancy I was the first
to discover, and where no importunate third party came between Nature
and me....

'The gold broom and the purple heather touched my heart; the majestic
trees that shaded me, the delicate shrubs around, the astonishing
variety of plants and flowers that I trod under foot, kept me
alternately admiring and observing.'

His writings shew that with him return to Nature was no mere theory,