"Behold yonder tree which faces me, as I sit and meditate the problem of
my destiny--the destiny of me, Jean Jacques Rousseau, self-conscious
genius, and future regenerator of my age. I pick up a pebble, and
poise it between my fingers before taking my aim. In another moment
the question will be answered. If the pebble hits the tree, I, Jean
Jacques, am reserved for salvation. If I miss--O awful, overwhelming
possibility!--my name will blaze upon that dreadful scroll which numbers
the damned."
Happily the tree is bulky, and within but a few yards of the
speculator; and the great enigma of the Calvinistic church is answered
in favour of Madame de Warenne's protege, whose propensities and
proclivities at that period did not very strongly indicate his claim to
a place among the elect.
Valentine remembered the _sortes Virgilianae_--the Wesleyan's drawing of
inferences from Bible texts. Ah, could he not find an answer to the
question that was the one thought of his mind? He would find some
answer--a lying oracle, perhaps. It might be a voice from heaven,--some
temporary assuagement of this storm of doubt that raged in his breast. "I
doubt if Mr. Sheldon owns either a Bible or an, 'AEneid,'" he said to
himself, as he stopped in his rapid pacing of the room; "I will open the
first book I can put my hand upon, and from the first line my eye falls
on will draw an augury.
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