not noble; it suits not a dignified heroine; but, nevertheless, it
was mine, and it is a history that I am writing. But the most
fastidious would have been reconciled to the name, had they heard my
mother pronounce it, or had they seen her who bore it. No expression
wanted grace, when accompanied by the affectionate tone of my mother;
when her touching voice penetrated my soul, did it teach me to
resemble her? Lively without being ever rompish, and naturally
retiring, I asked only to be occupied, and seized with quickness the
ideas which were presented to me. This disposition was so well taken
advantage of, that I do not remember learning to read: I have heard
that I did so before I was four years old, and that, after that time,
nothing more was required than to supply me with books."

Her passion for these was subjected to little guidance or control; she
read whatever chance threw in her way; they were, for the most part,
of a serious character--Locke, Pascal, Burlamaque, Montesquieu;
relieved, however, by works on history, the poems of Voltaire, Don
Quixote, and some of the popular romances; but, as these were few in
number, she was compelled to read them often, and thus acquired a
habit of thought. When she was nine years old, Plutarch's Lives fell
in her way, and more delighted her than any romance or fairy tale. The
book became her bosom companion; and from that moment, she says, "she
dated the ideas and impressions which made her a republican without
her knowing that she was becoming one."

"But this child, who was accustomed to read serious books, could
explain the circles of the celestial sphere, could use the pencil and
the graver, and at eight years old was the best dancer in a party of
girls older than herself, assembled for a family festival. The same
child was often called to the kitchen to prepare an omelette, wash
herbs, or to skim the pot. This mixture of grave studies, agreeable
exercise, and domestic cares, ordered and regulated by the wisdom of
my mother, rendered me fit for all circumstances, seemed to
anticipate the vicissitudes of my fortune, and has aided me in bearing
them. I feel nowhere out of place; I can prepare my soup with as much
ease as Philopemon cut wood, though no one seeing me would deem that
such a task was fitted for me."

The study of Plutarch and the ancient historians was not, perhaps,
favorable to the happiness of Mademoiselle Philipon. She regretted
that her lot had not been