in Paris—write this
melancholy paper in my doleful cell in the Bastille
during the last month of the year 1767. I write it at stolen intervals
under every difficulty. I design to secrete it in the wall of the
chimneywhere I have slowly and laboriously made a place of
concealment for it. Some pitying hand may find it therewhen I
and my sorrows are dust.
“These words are formed by the rusty iron point with which I
write with difficulty in scrapings of soot and charcoal from the
chimneymixed with bloodin the last month of the tenth year of
my captivity. Hope has quite departed from my breast. I know
from terrible warnings I have noted in myself that my reason will
not long remain unimpairedbut I solemnly declare that I am at
this time in the possession of my right mind—that my memory is
exact and circumstantial—and that I write the truth as I shall
answer for these my last recorded wordswhether they be ever
read by men or notat the Eternal Judgment-seat.
“One cloudy moonlight nightin the third week of December (I
think the twenty-second of the month) in the year 1757I was
walking on a retired part of the quay by the Seine for the
refreshment of the frosty airat an hour’s distance from my place
of resi
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