DUKE UNIVERSITY LIBRARY Digitized by the Internet Archive . in 2017 with funding from Duke University Libraries https://archive.org/details/memoirsofprivateOOstae MEMOIRS THE PRIVATE LIFE MY FATHER, BY Uulse (l^€cker) THE BARONESS DE^ STAEL-HOLSTEIN. TO WHICH ARE added, MISCELLANIES) M. NECKER. LONDON: PRINTED FOR HENRY COLBURN, PUBLIC LIBRARY, CONDUIT STREET, HANOVER SQUARE, 1818. J, Gillet, Printer, Crown Court, Fleet Street, London. •=!s.3. M s INTRODUCTION. AT the moment when the stroke of death has fallen on Mad. de Stael, many of her friends are naturally impelled to offer a last tribute to the memory of a woman whose intel- lectual qualities, however rare and predominant, formed but a small part of her real intrinsic excellence. Earnestly as I desire to see this sacred duty fulfilled, the more I struggle to perform the part which friendship dictates, the more pain- fully am I taught to feel that it exceeds my strength. When I would retrace the details of a life alternately devoted to the acquisition of glory, and the alleviation of misfortune, events press on my mind with such tumultuous rapidity, that, forgetful of the allotted task, I surrender all my faculties to the influence of impressions — never to be renewed on earth — un- conscious for what purpose, I still hold the pen, I suffer hours to elapse without the power to embody in words even one of those senti- ments which appear to me to challenge from all mankind spontaneous sympathy and unequivo- cal approbation. IV INTRODUCTION. AVhen I re-peruse her works, of which I once proposed to offer a critical analysis to the public, 1 am involuntarily arrested by each of those expressions which, whilst she lived, were touch- ing from their eloquence without suggesting any sinister presage, but which, now that she is no more, are recalled by her friends as terrible pro- phecies too fatally accomplished. When at length by a painful effort I have succeeded in writing a few' lines, which but imperfectly com- memorate even one of her least excellencies, I am overwhelmed with the bitter reflection, that this testimony of friendship was not offered to her who is its object : reduced to a state of weak- ness, in which it was dangerous to excite or even to indulge those emotions of affection which appeared to form the elements of her existence, it was judged necessary to divert her attention to indifferent subjects; and though all her friends were emulous in their zeal and un- remitted in their attentions, none ventured to speak of their peculiar feelings — all submitted to the restraint of silence — and now that she is snatched from us by death, we are, if I may use the expression, sinking under the weight of those words which we were compelled to sup- press till that fatal moment when utterance (to my feelings at least) appears to be a kind of pro- fanation. INTRODUCTION. V It will be in vain to expect in these pages either regular details, or a connected series of ideas, or even the complete expression of that sentiment with which Mad. de Stael never failed to impress all who were admitted within the circle of her intimate affections. It is for those only who keep the public in view, to collect the facts of which that active, animated, brilliant life was composed. To her friends. Mad. de Stael is the first, the only object of in- terest. It is for her alone they write ; incapable of submitting to any other principle of criticism than the desire to have merited her approbation, they seek not the living breath of praise; they are ambitious only to indulge the persuasion, that their tribute might have been grateful to that heart which is no longer sensible to pity or to sympathy, but which was formed to cherish with responsive tenderness, the last faithful record of eternal friendship. The two predominant qualities of Mad. de Stael were tenderness and pity. Like every child of genius she had an unextinguishable passion for glory; and, in common with all noble minds, participated in the ardent love of liberty. Yet, these two master principles, how- ever imperious whilst no superior feelings op- posed them, no longer preserved the ascendant when they entered into competition with the VI INTRODUCTION. happiness of those she loved, or when the sight of human misery recalled to her recollection that there was an object still dearer than suc- cess, a pursuit more sacred than glory. Such dispositions were little calculated to secure her tranquillity during the stormy season of the Revolution, in which, from the political posi- tion of her father, she must have been inevitably compelled to take a part, even though she had not been carried along the stream by the native energy of her character and the ardour of her sentiments. After the ephemeral triumph which each faction alternately won and lost without having confirmed by justice what was wrested with violence, Mad. de Stael, although she bad seceded previous to their last defeat, was constantly enrolled among the vanquished party. It has been kindly suggested, that to silence the murmurs of discontent, to draw from a whole nation a free, spontaneous homage to the daughter of Necker, I ought studiously to con- fine my remarks to her private qualities, or literary talents, consigning to oblivion whatever was connected with the political subjects inces- santly agitated and contested during five-and- twenty eventful years ; but having always ob- served that Mad. de Stael held her honour pledged to the avowal of noble and magnani- mous sentiments, I cannot believe she would INTRODUCTION. Vll sanction such timid counsels, and for that reason shall reject them. At the same time I may be permitted to remark, that she ought to be par- doned for her love of liberty, even by its in- veterate foes, when it is recollected, that to the proscribed of every class she became a zealous partizan, and that she was more active in lend- ing support and administering consolation to their adversity, than she had ever been in re- sisting their power or attacking their principles: to unfortunate emigrants her house was an asylum ; they found a resource in her fortune and owed their safety to her activity : it was not enough that she lavished her bounty, that she offered a place of refuge which her courage rendered inviolable. She even sacri- ficed to them that time which was to her the most valuable of human possessions, every mo- ment of which was dedicated to the pursuit of glory and to the preparation for another triumph. At a period when the neighbouring states of France were reduced by a spirit of pusillanimity to the meanness of persecution, how often did she suspend her important labours to secure to the proscribed fugitive that asylum which he had reached with difficulty, and where he was again menaced with exile : with what ardour did she consecrate hours and days to be the advocate of those destitute beings who ,V111 INTRODUCTION. were without a protector or a friend ! She was even eager to suspend the career of an irresistible genius, to render that genius the palladium of misfortune. It is not surprising that in some of her works this trait of character should be perceptible. Several of them were composed during the intervals she had snatched from a series of active and indefatigable beneficence ; and to those who were well acquainted with her whole life, it would not be difficult to discover, in every slight inaccuracy of style, the traces of a generous action. If such was Mad. de Stael to those whose only claim on her benevolence was the common fel- lowship of suffering humanity, what was she not to those to whom she was united by the ties of friendship? How well were they assured that her thoughts answered to their thoughts? That she divined their wishes and participated in their painful or pleasurable emotions ? With what graceful flexibility she transported herself into even their momentary feelings — their most evanescent impressions ! With what felicity she developed their most vague ideas ! With what exquisite address she lent to them attractions or importance ! Even that rare talent of conversation which she almost exclusively possessed, that marvel- lous, that unrivaled talent, so much dreaded by INTRODUCTION. IX the authors of oppression and the advocates of injustice appeared in these happy moments to have been alone created for her friends, to -whom, by a certain undefinable power and magical touch of intimacy, it gave even in solitude the vivid, the animated movements of the most brilliant society, and perpetually multiplied the sources of enjoyment. Even in separating from her the charm which she had shed over existence was not suspended. To her absent friends she was still in a manner present and companionable. Referring to her alone the ideas presented by new objects, they continued to enjoy her con- versation, or rather, perhaps, adjourned a part of their sentiments and ideas to the happy mo- ment when they expected to meet again. It was not only in security and tranquillity that Mad. de Stael was the most amiable of women and the most endearing of friends ; in seasons of difficulty and danger she was equally constant and devoted. I appeal to all who have shared her affections, whether they did not repose in her friendship with that implicit faith which is due to a protecting Providence. Was any one, by unforeseen calamity, deprived of his property ? he knew where poverty would cease to persecute him. — Was he con- strained to fly ? there was one asylum still open to receive him. — Was he plunged into a prison ? X INTRODUCTION. — he expected, with confidence, that Mad. de Stael should penetrate to those gloomy walls, to break his chain and gladden him with the tidings of deliverance. Among the aflPections that filled her life, at- tachment to her father always held the first place. In speaking of him with all her elo- quence, words seemed wanting to express her feelings. All her other sentiments were mo- dified by this principle. Her love for France was sanctified by the reflection, that it was the country which her father had served, and it even became more fervent from her unappeas- able desire to see that father justified in pub- lic opinion. Whilst he lived it was her earnest wish to conduct him to her native country where she believed his presence must dissipate every prejudice, and conciliate every party. After his death, it was rather the hope of vindicating his memory, than the anticipation of personal cele- brity, that stimulated her eflforts and confirmed her exertions. The writing of M. Necker’s life was her con- stant occupation. Even during that dreadful malady in which inexorable Nature seemed to have complicated and exhausted every species of suffering, it was her unceasing, and even her last regret, that she had been unable to com- plete the monument which filial love would have erected. INTRODUCTION. XI I have just re-perused the brief memoirs pre- fixed to the miscellaneous works of her father. I may be deceived— but now, that she is no more, it appears to me that these pages are bet- ter calculated to discover her real merits, to se- cure to her the admiration, and even the love of those to whom she was unknown, than any of her other works, however rich in eloquence, however brilliant or seductive to the imagina- tion. It is here that her soul is felt whilst her genius is developed; the delicacy of her percep- tions — the astonishing variety of her impressions — her glowing eloquence — her strength of reason — her genuine enthusiasm — her love of liberty, and of justice — her impassioned sensibility — the melancholy which sometimes pervades even her purely literary productions — all is here conse- crated to the effort of throwing light on one object, to the desire of illustrating one senti- ment, to the hope of communicating one im- pression. It is the only instance in which she has concentrated in one point her strength, her energy, her imagination, her sensibility — all the intellectual and moral faculties of her capacious soul. Hitherto, this work has not been considered in a proper point of view. Whilst the au- thor lived, she was subjected to the influence of opposing opinions. Life is a power against Xll INTRODUCTION. which, SO long as it endures, are enlisted par- tialities and enmities, the contentions of in- terest, and the hostility of prejudice. But now that this power is broken, should not every thing assume a different aspect ? And if, as I must believe, the woman who has obtained so much glory, and performed so much good, is now the object of universal sympathy, and un- limited benevolence, I invite all who would offer homage to talent, or render justice to magnanimity, all in whom genius inspires ad- miration, or goodness awakens sympathy ; I invite them all to re-peruse the precious me- morial inscribed on a father’s tomb, by that daughter who is now an inmate of the same grave. 1 invite to the perusal of this work all who would really know Madame de Stael, who can be but imperfectly discovered from her other works, and more imperfectly still in those which shall be hereafter written to illustrate her character. — Who, indeed, shall describe her? They who regret her feebly could not execute the task ; — by those whose grief is measured by an affection never to be erased, it might be ful- filled — but it cannot be attempted. (From the Mercure de France, M. M, BENJAMIN DE CONST ANT, TABLE OF CONTENTS. Page Life of M, Necker . . . 1 MISCELLANIES. 1 Life but an Essay 2 Political (Economy 3 The Envious Man 4 The Union of Morals with Politics 5 Proverbial Sayings 6 Mediocrity . . , ; 7 Measured Steps . 8 Necessity .... 9 Myself .... 10 Sensibility . . , 11 Printing 12 Newspaper Writers . . 13 The Imagination 14 Boasting .... 15 Expressions of Habit 16 Eager Curiosity 17 Listlessness . . . , 18 The Vain Man 19 The Mysterious Man 20 Old Men .... 21 Indecision : . 22 The Shifts of Ignorance in places of Importance 23 Consideration 24 Hereditary Monarchy . . 25 Patriotism 26 A Jealous God . . . 27 The Judgements we form of ourselves 28 The Protestant Worship 29 An Illustrious Victim 30 Memoirs of One’s own Life 159 160 161 , ib. 163 ib. 164 ib. 165 166 ib. 167 . ib. 168 ib. 169 ib. 170 ib. 171 172 175 . 178 182 187 189 ib. 190 . 194 ib. XIV TABLE OF tOKTENTS. Page SI Knowledge of Mankind . . . 195 32 Consolation . . . . ib. 33 The Feeble Man .... 196 34 Esprit de Famille . . . 197 35 False Calculations ... ib. 36 Cross Accidents . . . . ib. 37 The Happiness of Fools . . 198 38 The Distressed Fool . . . 212 39 Praise .... 214 40 Tears . . . . ib. 41 Affectation . . . .217 42 The Credulity of Parents . . 219 43 Reproaches . . . . ib. 44 Misanthropy . . . . ib. 45 They ..... 224 46 Defects transformed into Qualities . 225 47 Old Men : expressions which do not suit them 226 48 Fragment upon the customs of Society in France in 1786 .... 227 49 Habit among Servants . . . 236 50 The Despot ... ib. 51 Dangerous depositaries of Secrets . . 237 52 Habitual Laughs . . . ib. 53 A Happiness peculiar to the Lower Classes of Mankind ib. 54 Language of Madame de Sfael . . 238 55 We must not expect too much of Subalterns . ib. 56 The first reception . . . 239 57 No more .... ib. 58 Glory ..... 240 59 Conscription ... ib. GO Robespierre . . . . ib. 61 Solitude .... 241 62 The word to Guillotine . • . ib. 63 The want of interest in what we say . 242 64 Perfect Piety . . . . ib. 65 A singular pretension . . . 243 66 The art to be used with others . . ib. 67 Liberty .... 244 68 Being occupied with One’s-self . . 247 69 Public Opinion .... 248 70 Death . . . . ib. 71 Love and its Language . . . 249 72 A spirit of Decision . . . ib. 73 Praise ..... 250 74 False show of Modesty . . . 251 TABLE OF CONTENTS. 75 Ease in your situation 76 Second Marriages 77 Death . 78 Death 79 Political Morals 80 Morality . 81 xli en of Education . 82 Timidity 83 Charity 84 The Duration of Life 85 Confidence in Ourselves 86 Barren Minds 87 4'he Vague . . 88 The Despot 89 Taste in the Manners . 90 Afflictions of the Soul 91 The Religious Vade Mecum 92 Severity towards One’s-self 93 Being natural 94 Public Opinion 95 Avarice . 96 The Fashion 97 Old Age 98 The Eternity of future Punishment 99 Selfishness .... 100 The Genevese . . 101 Th e t ienevese . . . 102 Political Economy . . , 103 The Tribunate 104 Exaggeration 105 Others • . . . 106 Grace .... 107 The same language with an opposite character . 108 Obedience 109 Hereditary Distinctions 110 The Opinion of Society 111 R>- morse 112 The manner of Others with Us . 113 A consequence 114 Circumstances . 115 Conjugal Ties 116 Fragment upon Metaphysical Free-will XV Page 252 254 256 257 ib. ib. 258 259 ib. 260 262 263 ib. 264 ib. 266 267 277 278 279 ib. 283 284 285 ib. 287 ib. 288 ib. 289 ib. 290 ib. 291 292 29S ib. ib. 2S4 ib. ib. / XVI TABLE OF CONTENTS. SKETCH OF THOUGHTS. 1 On Materialism • • Pagr 305 2 Hereditary Succession 307 3 The Mystery of One’s-self • • ib. 4 Regrets • • 308 5 Envy • • ib. 6 Familiarity . . • • ib. 7 The thirst of Glory • ib. 8 Joking • ib. 9 Susceptibility • 309 10 The Imagination . ib. 11 A well-written Letter • • ib. 12 Foreign Travel • • 310 13 Public Opinion . • 312 14 Tricks of Satirists • ib. 15 Old Men . . • • 313 16 A risk ib. 17 Avidity . . « • ib. 18 The Revolution • • ib. 19 A Work • * ib. 20 The Pit at the Theatre • 314 21 The Vague . . ib. 22 A Custom at Geneva • ib. Essay on Corn Laws and the Corn Trade . 315 The Fatal Consequences of a Single Fault 353 MEMOIRS OF THE PRIVATE LIFE OF M. NECKER. IT is natural that curiosity should be generally excited respecting the life and cha- racter of a man whose political career must occupy a distinguished place in the future annals of Europe. The knowledge of the human mind is eminently facilitated by ex- amining the sentiments and actions of those who have taken apart in extraordinary events, and whom the gifts of nature or the vi- cissitudes of fortune have marked out for combat with fate and with mankind : but this vague curiosity acquires new im- portanc'e, and is even associated with the higher interests of morality, when the object to which it refers is a man endowed with B 2 MEMOIRS OF THE every quality that can stimulate to the grati- fication of an immeasurable ambition ; yet whose ambition was invariably held subor- dinate to the dictates of the most scrupulous conscience— a man whose genius was bounded but by the circle of his duties and affections, and whose faculties overstept every barrier but that of virtue: — a man who, after a tran- sient glimpse of the most splendid prosperity, was plunged into misfortunes which obscured tbe lustre of his glory; and who, when pre- sented to posterity, will be appreciated only by those beings whose souls possess some sparks of a congenial nature. It will be my task at some future period, if my mind should ever recover from that fatal stroke which has cruelly blasted its hopes of happiness, to present to the world a portrait of ray father in public life, as a states- man and an author : but as such a work must inevitably touch on that great epoch in the history of Europe, the French Revolution, I shall postpone to a more distant period the PRIVATE LIFE OF M. NECKER. 3 performance of a duty which might rouse the malignant passions now slumbering in the grave. Yet, let me be permitted to avow to the enemies of that man, who not only disclaimed revenge, but whose pure and ever- youthful soul was not even susceptible of deep resentment, that this forbearance has no other aim than to avert from them the guilt of offering violation to the grave. Yes, let them retaliate on me alone for whatever may provoke their malice. I am vulnerable : I still survive. Let their dagger be directed against the last relic of that family, once so cherished and so envied : but let them respect a name which all upright men must venerate. Let them spare a memory which shall cast over the departed century a track of etherial light — a light emanating from earth, but sub- limely ascending to heaven ! Had it been the fate of M. Necker to spend his life at Geneva, in the obscurity of a pri- vate station ; had he for ever remained a stranger to the seductions of a French court, 4 MEMOIRS OF THE and to all those conflicts of interest, inse- parable from power and ambition, I am per- suaded that merely as a citizen and a man, it would have been impossible to contemplate his character without mingled emotions of reverence and admiration ; but what senti- ments must not this character inspire, when examined in all its purity — its elevation, its delicacy, and benignity, unsullied by tempta- tion — impregnable to reproach — during that perilous career which was calculated to create a thousand impetuous or vindictive passions; to call into action a thousand harsh or re- volting sentiments. It was at the age of fifteen that my father arrived in Paris, alone and unpro- tected, with a slender property ; for the improvement of which his family had pro- cured him a commercial situation. From that period he not only became his own guide, but laid the foundation of that fortune, from which his relations have since derived their prosperity. To him alone may we PRIVATE LIFE OF M. NECKER. 5 refer whatever we have enjoyed — whatever we possess. To my father I owed all the bril- liant advantages of prosperity, of affluence, and distinction, which were showered on my early youth. Even at this moment, when I am deprived of all that once promised hap- piness, it is by invoking his spirit, by re- calling his thoughts, his words, his sen- timents, that I am enabled to discharge the duties which still bind me to existence. During the twenty years which elapsed from the period of my father’s arrival in Paris, to his marriage, he devoted himself to the duties of his situation, and religiously abstained from the pleasures and even the amusements commonly pursued with ardour in a luxurious capital. It has sometimes happened, in the course of those familiar con- versations which passed between us when he lived in retirement, that he retraced this period of his existence, with the description of which I was deeply affected : that period when my imagination represented him as 6 MEMOIRS OF THE SO young, so Solitary, so engaging, and when, had we been born cotemporaries, we might, perhaps, have been united by those indissoluble ties, which are yet stronger than those of nature. It may easily be supposed, that the pur- suits of commerce had developed in M.Necker those capacities for business, so essentially necessary in the political department, which he was hereafter destined to fill. It is other- wise with literary composition, in which he eminently excelled, but to which all the habits of his life, during five and twenty years, must have been equally inimical and revolting. In reality,^s it not with- out precedent — without parallel, that the first calculator of the age, the man whose au- thority is classical in finance, should, at the same time, have been one of the most elegant prose-writers in the French language, emi- nently distinguished by the splendour of his diction, and the magnificence of his ima- gination ? It is in the re-union of opposite PRIVATE LIFE OF M. NECKER. 7 qualities that we recognize the character of a master-mind. The feebler faculties which are formed at the expense, or supplied by the privation, of others, are wanting in true dignity an(| moral greatness. It is for the feeble tree to concentrate all its vigour in one branch, whilst the oak of the forest throws out luxuriant shoots in every direction, and extends to a distance its majestic shade. It is notorious to every distinguished mer- chant in Europe, that M. Necker possessed peculiar aptitudes for business, and was emi- nently successful in financial calculations ; but it should be remarked, that in every question susceptible of doubt, he never failed to decide against his own interest. He has often told me, that he might have doubled his fortune, had he not retired early from business ; and he observed, that he had never felt a strong desire for wealth or power: he added, “ Had either of them been the ob- ject of my ruling passion, I should have had ample opportunities for its gratification.’^ Too elevated in his conceptions, too ardent MEMOIRS OF THE in his feelings, to attach himself to mercenary pursuits, my father was impassioned but for glory ; and in glory there is something of fu- turity which seems to produce a kind of har- monious accord, an etherial medium of com- munication between the thoughts of heaven and the thoughts of earth. It was during the sittings of the East India Company that the superiority of M. de Necker first arrested attention. It was observed, that in announcing his opinions he often per- mitted himself to speak from the impulse of the moment, and that he uniformly became animated and impressive, whenever he was deeply interested in the subject. To the close of his life, however, I have witnessed his struggles with native diffidence, which often gave an expression of embarrassment to his noble countenance, when he had attracted notice by the recital of some impressive facts, some characteristic anecdotes, to which his graceful style or playful irony lent their sole attraction. He did not exhaust all his resources ; he PRIVATE LIFE OF M. NECKER. Q was not perfectly master of his genius, till he was roused by difficulties to exertion. His power often lay dormant till it was imperiously called forth. His mind kept pace with events. He opposed firmness to violence. He drew courage from danger; at once displaying the most noble pride and the most ingenuous modesty. No one knew better how to assume the dignity which overawes injustice. Yet he was constantly accustomed to compare his abstract ideas of perfection with his indivi- dual efforts or actual attainments ; and I have passed my life in pleading his own cause against that self-distrust or self-re- proach, to which he was habitually subject, and to which he seemed most liable when, by some extraordinary exertion of talent, or some sublime example of virtue, he should have had the best title to approbation and applause. Such had been the characteristic features of his early youth. Let me be pardoned if, whilst I retrace that portion of my father’s life, which preceded roy birtli, or intimate 10 MEJVIOIKS OF THE acquaintance with his habits and feelings, 1 venture to advert to those later years, in which we were intimately associated, and indissolubly united. There was a perfect analogy in the various periods of M. Necker^s existence; — his youth harmonized with his age; his prosperity answered to his adver- sity ; it was one ray of virtue that illumined his whole life ; the same reverence for the supreme Being — the same attachment to duty, to religion — to benevolence — prevailed in every season. None of his early cotem- poraries could have known better than my- self what he must have been at thirty, since at sixty he was no other than the same. In his youth he anticipated the results of expe- rience by a premature developement of the faculty of reflection. To the purity of his moral conduct he owed the privilege of hav- ing preserved, in old age, the imagination and sensibility of youth. Twenty years after his arrival at Paris, he married a woman of exemplary cha- PRIVATE LIFE OF M. NECKER. ]] racter and distinguished mental attainments. Her ancestors were in every sense of the word respectable ; but the revocation of the Edict of Nantz had deprived them of their patrimony, and my father had again to change poverty to affluence, and a second time restore the fortunes of a fallen family. From the first moment of their union to the last, my mother was the supreme ob- ject of my father’s existence. Unlike other public men, his attention was not confined to a few measured forms at stated seasons, such as might have been deemed sufficient for the subordinate destiny of woman. His affec- tion was demonstrated by all those tender assiduities, those delicate sentiments, those constant emanations of kindness and tender- ness, which can only flow from a devoted heart. Warm and impassioned in all her feelings, my mother would have been miser- able in what is commonly called a fortunate marriage. It was not enough that her hus- band should be simply a good or liberal man. 12 MEMOIRS OF THE It was necessar}^ to her happiness that she should discover in her first friend, that sub- lime sensibility which belongs but to superior intellect, but which the possession of superior intellect, by producing tastes and habits un- suited to domestic life, too frequently destroys. It was necessary to her heart to have selected one only object of affection, and to concen- trate in one point all its faculties of tender- ness. Happy to have found that being whom she sought, she was still more happy in being permitted to dedicate to him her whole life ; — pre-eminently happy, she was spared the agonies of surviving that felicity of which she had so largely tasted. Peace to her ashes ! she was more worthy than her daughter, and deservedly more favoured. Soon after my father’s marriage, he was appointed minister to the Republic of Ge- neva at Paris. In accepting the employ- ment, he declined the emolument attached to it — a principle of disinterestedness from which, in the course of his political life, he never PRIVATE LIFE OF M. NECKER. 13 permitted himself to deviate. He did not, however, escape the imputation of pride, for having- been the first minister in France, or perhaps any other country, who not only relinquished the perquisites of office, but even sunk a part of his own fortune to provide for the expenditure* which it necessarily ex- acted. In embracing this resolution, my fa- ther was not actuated by pride, but by a bet- ter sentiment. To repair the disorder in the finances he had abolished many sinecures, and delicacy concurred with prudence in de- termining him to put it out of the power of any ex-placeman to draw invidious compari- sons between the stipend which he had for- feited, with the immense revenue which the minister was supposed to possess. My fa- ther felt more courage in reforming abuses when the purity of his principles had been * M. Necker, though assuredly the best of fathers, purchased an annuity of a hundred thousand livres, which, with his ordinary revenues, was not more than sufficient to supply this expenditure. 14 MEMOIRS OF THE attested by a patriotic sacrifice. Such were the simple but correct motives for a conduct which might otherwise appear mysterious. It was one of my father’s peculiar charac- teristics, that nothing appeared to cost him an effort. Whatever sacrifice he made was impelled by a sentiment so sacred and sin- cere, that its merit was forgotten by himself, and rarely appreciated by the world ; and as, in these instances, he betrayed no struggles, and expressed no regrets, it was commonly supposed that my father could not act other- wise, and that his goodness was rather invo- luntarv than meritorious. •/ At first the king was astonished when M. Necker declined the perquisites annexed to the office of minister ; but in a short time the king became so familiar with this self- denying peculiarity, that when M. Necker was declared minister a second and a third time, the subject was never alluded to, and the thing passed as a matter of course. The same peculiarity, in dififerent relations of life, PRIVATE LIFE OF M. NECKER. 15 was frequently exemplified in my father’s conduct. He pressed his services with such frank simplicity, that by many they have been wholly forgotten. There is a degree of deli- cacy in certain procedures, and even of refine- ment in certain expressions, which is not to be comprehended by an ordinary mind, and there are people so obtuse as not to be ca- pable of conceiving the existence of any virtue which has not been literally expressed. I may with truth affirm, that a very inadequate idea of M. Necker’s conduct in pecuniary transactions is to be conceived by those who simply observe, that he was a generous man. Another epithet must be invented to designate the character of one who totally forgot the good he performed not only in appearance, but in reality ; not by effort, but simply by that dereliction of self, of which great minds alone are capable, the inimitable feature of their natural and transcendent beauty. My mother, who was no less high-spirited than noble-minded, had brought my father no 16 MEMOIRS OF THE portion. Had her husband been only of the ordinary standard of goodness, she would never have permitted herself to use his for- tune, but with extreme caution and circum- spection. On his accession to the ministry he transferred to her all his property, not wish- ing, as he himself observed, to have any other care or occupation than France, his adopted country. From that moment he succeeded in persuading my mother that he thought no longer of his fortune, and that he wished for nothing so much as to be exonerated from its management : and it is a singular fact, that she finally came to consider it as a property of which she was the absolute mistress. It would generally be mentioned as no common proof of delicacy to devolve on ano- ther the disposal of your fortune; but how exquisite was the delicacy of M. Necker, when, to satisfy his wife’s scrupulosity, he even assumed the appearance of a defect from which he was in reality wholly exempted. She often rallied him on his pretended inca- PRIVATE LIFE OF M. NECKER. I7 pacity for business: but from the moment of her death he entered with peculiar aptitude into those very details of domestic manage- ment for which he had previously affected an insuperable aversion. The remark I have made is illustrated by the follov/ing passage, which I transcribe from the portrait of M. Necker by his wife : — “ The qualities of M. Necker are absolute and independent: I should not venture to pronounce them perfect, but they are inte- gral and simple ; and without alloy from any other sentiment : let me be permitted to ex- plain myself. i “ It is often said of such a man, that he is not capable of malice, although he constantly broods on the wrongs which he has received from his enemies, and at the same time, per- haps, persuades himself that he forgives them. Of another it is said, that he is disinterested, though he attaches importance to the benefits he has conferred, and requires that they should be properly acknowledged. If I ventured to c 18 MEMOIRS OF THE define disinterestedness as exemplified by M. Necker, I should not expatiate on his noble conduct, the purity of his principles, or the delicacy of his sentiments; I should not en- large on the magnanimity so repeatedly dis- played in his contempt of wealth : nor even mention the sacrifices to which he has been prompted by patriotism or benevolence. These virtues are so perfectly appropriate to M. Necker, that I should blush to make them the subject of eulogium ; for would it not be absurd to extol a vestal for the chastity of her deportment ? “ I should rather describe his disinterested- ness by a whimsical trait of character, such as almost destroys its merit, or at least ren- ders it equivocal, by evincing how completely the idea of wealth, with all its concomitant associations, was effaced from his mind. The following anecdote, selected from a thousand others, will illustrate my meaning: — INIr, Necker quitted business at a moment when he might have trebled his fortune, simply be- PRIVATE LIFE OF M. NECKER. IQ cause he was grown indifferent to a pursuit which no longer possessed the attractions of novelty. His capital might have been dou- bled, but a sentiment too exquisite to merit the title of virtue, impelled him to divide it with his former associate. “ It was in vain that I urged him to remain in a situation for which he had conceived dis- taste. He withdrew from the commercial house which he had established, and surrendered to it a sum of money to which he was legally entitled, without exacting interest, or even availing himself of the opportunity to employ his capital to advantage: in the sequel lie transferred to me his whole property, not re- taining a single paper, nor even the smallest sum, in his own possession. From this pe- riod his fortune was left to my sole disposal. I have bought and sold, built, contracted, conducted every thing according to my own pleasure, without ever consulting him on the subject — having learnt from experience that such appeals served only to produce impa- c 2 20 MEMOIRS OF THE tience or disgust. On his property he never bestowed another thought, till the memorable moment when he was impelled by the noblest motives to place it in the royal treasury. In his retirement, and during all the various re- volutions and appointments in the financial department, nothing could induce him to re- sume this deposit, for which he merely ac- cepted an interest far inferior to what he would have received from the public funds. So sincerely had he renounced in my favour the management of his affairs, that he even forgot he still possessed the rights of property, and at present is not without diffidence in asking for money, which he even appears to receive as gratuitous obligation. Our inte- rior exhibits the amiable and whimsical con- trast of a great genius submitting to voluntary tutelage ; of a statesman not inadequate to the government of a great empire, but whose, carelessness for money is so notorious in his own family, that even his servants seem to consider him in a state of subordination; and PRIVATE LIFE OF M. NECKER. 21 iiom the highest department to the lowest, every thing is arranged, planned, and executed without his interference. M. Necker, in short, so eminently formed for supremacy in great things, resembles the mythological deity who was destined to reign in heaven and serve on earth, I have frequently had occasion to re- mark, in reference to Mr. Necker, that the perfection of moral qualities is not calculated to impress the vulgar mind, which has with them no common sympathies ; — there are men who cannot duly estimate any particular vir- tue, unless they discover in the possessor some indications of an opposite vice. “ The very name of virtue implies effort. Nor is it in the nature of self-love to value that of which it has not ascertained the price. No one has given M. Necker credit for par- doning his enemies : no one ever thanked him for the immense sacrifice of money which he has made both in public and private life to patriotism and to principle. His fortune was measured by his munificence, and it was more 22 MEMOIRS OF THE natural to ascribe to him enormous wealth, than exalted benevolence. Nevertheless, when M. Necker superintended the finances, he became economical and severe in his manage- ment of money; and whilst he freely dispensed his own property, he held that of the royal treasury sacred, as a symbol of national pro- sperity— an instrument of good to the people.” A person, hostile to my father, has made a remark which happily illustrates his cha- racter. — “ M. Necker,” said he, “ devoted twenty years to fortune, twenty years to am- bition and glory, and he dedicated his last years to study and retirement.” To have disposed in this manner of three parts of his life, without permitting the pur- suits of the one to influence the habits of the other, is, I believe, the most re- markable proof ever given of complete self- command and elevation of character. It is obvious, that M. Necker, a citizen of Geneva, and a protestant, must have had many obstacles to surmount, before he could obtain PRIVATE LIFE OF M. NECKER. 23 the highest offices in the French monarchy. It was partly by his unblemished fame, and partly by his peculiar power of conciliating all whom he sought to please, that he arrived at a distinction almost unprecedented for a foreigner and a protestant — that of being elected at first prime minister, and finally of being admitted to the royal council. It was by his eulogy on Colbert, and his work on the commerce of grain, that M. Necker first attracted notice, or acquired consideration. In 1777 , at the instigation of M. Maurepas, who, from his conversation alone, had been impressed with respect for his talents, he was appointed to the superintend- ence of the royal treasury, the derangement in the finances having induced this deviation from the ordinary routine of preferment. It has been pretended, that M. Necker understood not men, because it was con- stantly his aim to conduct them by the prin- ciples of justice and morality, and because since the French Revolution many people 24 MEMOIRS OF THE have been disposed to consider such means as chimerical and absurd ; but 1 can safely affirm, that this scrupulosity originated, not in any exaggerated esteem for mankind, but in habitual reverence for truth and rectitude. He was no stranger to the subtleties and refinements of Machiavelian policy, and pos- sessed a thousand times more flexibility and address than was necessary to succeed in artifice and deception. It was impossible to discover more sagacity in fathoming the views, more promptitude in developing the character of those with whom he came in contact. Several of his thoughts and mis- cellaneous fragments, not only exhibit a per- feet knowledge of human nature, but even a propensity to satire in describing its various peculiarities. Amongst the persons of talent who have lived with my father, none will hesitate to confirm my opinion, that though disarmed by the delicacy of his moral feel- ings, he possessed the adroitness, the flexibi- lity, the insinuation, which must have in- PRIVATE LIFE OF M. NECKER. 25 vested, with the most pernicious influence, any man who was not too noble to use artifice, and too upright to connive at cor- ruption. He discovered character at a single glance : in a quarter of an hour he became as fami- liar with the mind as the countenance ; his knowledge extended to the minutest details : he surprised the heart in those unguarded — those undefinable movements, over which art has no power, and which nature renders intelligible only to the exploring eye of genius.* * In early youth my father composed several comedies, pregnant with that vis comica which is alone derived from the knowledge of human nature. At that period he was anxious to see them represented ; but the avocations of business interfered with this design, which was finally laid aside. He has often remarked to me, that had his plays been performed, the whole tenor of his life must have been changed. In France, the choice of prime minister could not have fallen on a man who should have been avowedly the author of such compositions. It was almost paradoxical, that the man with manners the most imposing, dignified in his style, and serious in his sentiments, should have possessed a gaiety of fancy, so original, so versatile, so MEMOIRS OF THE 2G I have already observed, that M. Necker never failed to captivate those whom he sought to please. His influence over man- kind would have been still greater, had he not sometimes conceived a distaste for the real but limited objects of active life. As simple representative of the Republic of Geneva, he inspired such esteem in M. de Choiseul, then the first minister of France, that when the government of Geneva had oc- poignant, that it might h^ve excited mirth, even in a mixed assembly — which necessarily includes the lower orders of the people. I have been so struck with the incongruous, or rather supplemental faculty developed in these comedies, that I was once tempted to hazard their publication ; but I dis- trusted my competence to the preliminary labours of revision and correction, and was completely checked by the reflection, that in France the children of a great man must have followed him to the grave before the public shall be disposed to decide on his relics with candour and impar- tiality. It is long since men and things were submitted to the test of truth. The question is not ivhat they have been, but what has been said of them. It is necessary to present a serious aspect to that nation, apparently so gay, but whose gaiety is rather an ofiensive weapon than a sportive sally of the imagination. PRIVATE LIFE OF M. NECKER. 27 casion to send to Paris some distinguished man to treat with him, M. deChoiseul wrote to M. Necker the following billet: — “ Pray inform your compatriots that their Envoy Extraordinary shall not come within my doors — I will treat but with one man, and that is yourself.” — My father confessed to me that his first success in public life afforded him more satisfaction than all his subsequent preferment. He was sure to become pecu- liarly interesting whenever he spoke of him- self, and of those emotions of ambition and self-love which he had once experienced. Satiety was in him less the effect of a rest- less spirit of ambition than of that sensibility, that elevation of soul to which external cir- cumstances are wholly inadequate. After two interviews Maurepas did not hesitate to recommend the nomination ofM. Necker to the royal treasury. Shortly after, during a short indisposition of M. Maurepas, my father procured the nomination of M. de Castres. to the marine department. The 28 MEMOIRS OF THE marshal, though generally esteemed, was scarcely known to the king, who but a quar- ter of an hour before would never have chosen him for that office. To the credit which my father rapidly acquired at court may be traced the jealousy excited against him. The queen, till influenced by the spirit of party, was singularly pleased with his conversation, and in general T have observed that, by ordi- nary men, he was liked when known, and by superior men no sooner seen than loved. The attachment which he inspired in different in- dividuals might be considered as a test of their moral and intellectual excellence ; and uniformly, he who possessed the best under- standing was most ready to do justice to his merit. To illustrate this remark, I shall cite the following examples : — One of the first judges of human intellect, but who certainly cannot be suspected of any extraordinary reverence for human virtue, M. de Mira- beau, in 1789, had an interview with my father, the object of which was to procure PRIVATE LIFE OF M. NECKER. 29 his interest in having him appointed to the ministry. My father, without refusing homage to his talents, candidly stated that he could never be the colleague of M. de Mirabeau. “ My strength,” he observed, “ consists in my mo- rality. You have too much understanding not to perceive, at some future day, the im- portance of this support. Till that period shall arrive, though it may be proper t,hat his majesty should choose you for his minister, it will be impossible that he should elect us both.” On returning home after this conversa- tion, M. de Mirabeau committed to paper some observations respecting M. Necker, in which he declares how much he had been struck with his comprehensive mind and extraordinary attainments. Under the influence of these feelings, he gave orders for the bust of M. Necker, which he in- tended to place in his future retreat. This identical bust it was my fortune to purchase 30 MEMOIRS OF THE of the sculptor to whom Mirabeau had given the order ; and it was assuredly no small satisfaction to possess this secret testimony of his real sentiments, which ambition so often tempted him to disavow in the public tribune. I have insisted the more strenuously on my father’s peculiar talent for knowing men and governing mankind, since there were some so completely misled by the strictness of his moral principles, as to suppose him ignorant and unskilled in that important part of poli- tical science, I must again repeat, that the faculties of M. Necker had no other limits than his virtues. From the constitution of his mind, the versatility'^ of" his talents, and his captivating address, he must have been master of those arts of policy which his rigid principles condemned, and his dignified mind rejected. It cannot be doubted, that the sagacity which conducted him to power and preferment, might have enabled him to discover the worst means, and to make them PRIVATE LIFE OF M. NECKER. 31 subservient to the worst ends. How often have we seen ordinary men, even such as were incapable of comprehending a general principle or a generous sentiment ; how often have such men displayed extraordinary adroitness in seizing the proper moment for prorjioting their particular interests. If M. Necker embraced not such opportunities, it must be attributed to excess of delicacy, not to a want of discrimination. The most plau- sible never deceived him. His penetration -Might have taught him to despise mankind, Jiad it not been checked by that sublime candour, which traces actions to their source, and blends, in one expanded sentiment of humanity, ourselves and others, the indivi- dual and the species. During his first administration, M. Necker had to offer violence to his native benevo- lence, by the suppression of offices and em- ployments, from which many had derived support, who, by this abolition, were deprived of competence, if not of subsistence. In an 32 MEMOIRS OF THE administration founded on the basis of order and economy, he was necessarily obliged to forego all the enjoyments attached to the possession of power, and he ventured not to advance to preferment a relation or a friend, conceiving himself obliged to offer reparation to those whose incomes had been diminished. Occupied from morning to night, he ap- plied to his various avocations with unre- mitted assiduity, admitting no other visitors than the discontented duns who came -to complain of his economical retrenchments. My mother, on her part, devoted herself with equal zeal to the prisons and hospitals. In the language of the world, it would be difficult to discover what were the pleasures, the ho- nours, the profits, the advantages,which either of them could hope to derive from such an existence. They looked for no other recom- pense than the public esteem, which my father obtained in a degree that would scarcely be credited at the present moment. In writing his political life, I shall have to PRIVATE LIFE OF M. NECKER. 33 cite examples of the enthusiasm which he inspired, and of the homage he received from his compatriots and cotemporaries.* The provincial administration, established by M. Necker, had prepared all orders in the state for an acquaintance with political legis- * I have in my possession a large collection of letters, addressed to my father and my mother, by all the most distinguished men in France, (from 1775,) during an in- terval of twenty years. It is possible that I may, at some future period, publish this collection, which can alone develope the state of popular feeling in France at that period. It will be seen, with surprise, that some of those who have since inveighed against the duplication of the third estate, and who at- tributed to my father the crime of being its author, were eager to address him, either to applaud the effort he had made or to complain of his lukewarmness in the popular cause. At the head of his enlightened and superior cotem- poraries, Buffon, Thomas, 3Iarmontel, Saint Lambert, Suard, L’Abb4 Morellet, evince, in their opinions, a moderation and an independence, which inspire no less respect for their prin- ciples than their understanding: with these distinguished persons. Monsieur and Madame Necker coalesced in form- ing the holy league, which at that time watched over the honour and happiness of France. In this collection will also be found, letters from the most eminent foreigners of the age ; such as the Abb4 Galiani, Prince Hen ry of Prussia, M. de Cariaicolli, Lord Stormont. D 34 MEMOIRS OF THE lation. The abolition of the right of main morte^ the public statement of the finances, the repeal of the imposts, which weighed most heavily on the people : all these bene- ficent schemes of an enlightened 'mind, (for the first time realized,) produced a strong impression both in the intelligent and the indigent classes of society ; extorting equally from the patriot who sought only the public good, and from the sufiPerer who had been involved in national calamity, the most fer- vent gratitude and unqualified approbation. Nevertheless, from the clashing of personal interests, the cupidity of the courtiers, and the jealousy of M. de Maurepas, M. Necker became obnoxious to the hatred of the minor party, at whose secret instigation the most offensive libels were published. From the sensibility which my mother betrayed to this outrage, my father unfortunately attached to it too much importance. In the sequel, he took the prudent resolution, never to peruse any of these mischievous publications, of PRIVATE LIFE OF M. NECKER. 35 which the falsehood was more notorious to the authors than the readers : but at this moment my mother’s grief, the only evil which was truly afflictive to her husband’s heart, destroyed his equanimity. Madame Necker had written, unknown to him, to M. Maurepas, beseeching him to withdraw his protection from the libelists who had attacked M. Necker ; — a false step, from which M. Maurepas learnt too well that M. and Mad. Necker were exquisitely sensible to the variations in public opinion, and, at the same time, discovered that he had it in his power to inflict on them the most painful mortification. That nothing can be more injudicious than to teach your enemy how he may injure you, is an obvious truth, on which women seldom reflect with advan- tage. It appears to them sufficient to say to a persecutor — you make me suffer — to dis- arm the most inveterate enemy ; but political relations are of a more austere nature ; and my father soon became sensible of the error 30 MEMOIRS OF THE which my mother had incautiously com- mitted. At the instigation of M. Maurepas, and several other persons of the court, who had been disgusted by M. Necker’s rigid eco- nomy, new libels were published against him. My father never demanded that the authors should be prosecuted. There WTre amongst them some who even held places at his disposal; but in order to contend with success against the still increasing number of his enemies, he solicited some signal mark of royal approbation ; — such as his admission to the council; an honour which w^as after- wards conceded to him. This application created new discussions, which the enemies of M. Necker knew how to envenom ; and, finally, when he offered his resignation it was accepted. In the sequel, my father bitterly reproached himself for not having stifled these disgusts, for the sake of accomplishing the salutary plans, of which he had so hap- pily laid the foundation. In reality, it is not PRIVATE LIFE OF M. NECKER. 37 improbable but that had he remained in the ministry, he might have prevented theRevolu- tion by restoring order to the financial system. It will not be conceived at the present pe- riod, when, through a series of political con- vulsions, the liberty of speech is vilified and dishonoured in France, what importance was once attached by a minister to the publica- tion of any invidious libel. It should, however, be remarked, that in a country where the liberty of the press was not (as in England) previously established, and where public opinion had acquired an almost incredible degree of moral force, whatever might attaint the purity of a political reputa- tion, was an evil of no trivial importance : and since my father’s influence was founded on the high esteem which had been conceived for his character, it would unquestionably have been injurious to that esteem had he submitted too patiently to insults which were secretly encouraged by the members of the government. 38 MEMOIRS OF THE The noble mind will surely suggest his excuse for that procedure to which he was prompted by delicacy, by dignity, and inde- pendence, though it should even be alleged, that, by this too exquisite susceptibility, he had forfeited that power which, in the esti- mation of ordinary men, cannot be too dearly purchased — a singular fault, perhaps, which might safely be permitted to pass unnoticed. It was not, however, always that my father rested in the consciousness of his integrity. Imagination conspired with conscience to render him severe on his past actions. In his private reflections he was often guilty of injustice to himself, and was certainly more unhappy during his first voluntary retreat from power, than in his last secession from the ministry, when he had lost every thing, but when he had not for a single moment to balance on his future conduct. In reality how illustrious was this first disgrace ! when all France pursued M. Necker with acclama- tions of homage ! and the French have so PRIVATE LIFE OF M. NECKER. 39 much grace and vivacity and delicacy when they offer a generous tribute to unmerited misfortune. The King of Poland, the King and Queen of Naples, the Emperor Joseph 11. invited M. Necker to superintend the finances of their respective governments.* * I cannot refuse tiiyself the satisfaction of transcribing a few passages from the letters of the Empress Catherine addressed to Baron Grimm, by whom they were transmitted to my father. — Petersburgh, July, 1761. ...... “At length M. Necker is no longer in admi- nistration. France has had a beautiful dream, and there is now a triumph for her enemies. The character of this rare man is sufficiently illustrated in his works ; for the memorial is not inferior to the Compte rendu. The King of France was on the point of realizing the most brilliant victory; but this moment will not soon return. M. Necker only wanted a master who could keep pace with his gi- gantic steps.” “ Petersburgh, July 22, 1761. “ I was much pleased with the letter which M. Necker has written you. I am only vexed that he is no longer in office. He is a man for whom Heaven has destined the first place in the temple of fame. He must live ; he must double the existence of his cotemporaries; and then this star shall find no parallel, and his cotemporaries must all remain far behind him.” “ At length 40 MEMOIES OF THE These splendid offers he refused without hesitation, since they militated against his love for France, which was the master-passion of his soul, and to his last moment formed the strongest interest of his life. In his retirement he composed that cele- brated work on the Administration of the Finances, by which three or four booksellers made their fortune, of which a hundred tliou- sand copies were printed, and which is now considered the only classical book in France on the subject of administration. In 17875 M. de Calonne having convoked the assembly of the Notables, took occasion, in his preliminary discourse, to attack the “ Petersburgh, November 8, 1785. " At length I have read the introduction to M. Necker’s work, which I have just finished. Since he is sensible to esteem, assure him that he possesses mine. It is im- possible not to see that he was at his post, and that he fulfilled his duty with passion. I like his expression — “ What I have done, I could do again.” To use this lan- guage one must be virtuous — nay, one must love virtue to distraction, to continue to love it with enthusiasm after so many disappointments.” PRIVATE LIFE OF M. NECKER. 41 veracity of the statement submitted to the king by M. Necker. It was easy to per- ceive that a man of M. Necker’s character must repel the injurious assertion ; and he delayed not to transmit to the king a memo- rial, with other satisfactory pieces, which in- controvertibly established the fidelity of his statements. The king read and was satis- fied, but desired to keep the memorial from the world ; and my father was assured by some of his friends who were daily admitted to the royal presence, that om this condition his sovereign was willing to recal him to the ministry ; and to all human calculation it appeared unquestionable, that my father must for ever renounce the hope of being reinstated in power, if in this instance he submitted not to the royal pleasure. My father conceived his honour compro- mised in the affront, which had been publicly offered him in the printed discourse of M. de Calonne ; and the greater the sacrifice ol ambition annexed to a public exculpation, 42 MEMOIRS OF THE the more he felt his delicacy interested in exacting the reparation. I have already ob- served, that the strongest sentiment by which he was actuated, with reference to human interests, was self respect, or the love of glory — a sentiment which he might sacri- fice to a religious sense of duty, but which he never commuted for considerations of an inferior nature. No sooner was the king apprized that the reply of M. Necker to M. de Calonne was printed, than he exiled him by a lettre de cachet to a distance of 40 leagues from Paris. At this period 1 was very young. A lettre de cachet and banishment impressed my ima- gination as an act of the the most atrocious cruelty. When I learnt the sentence I uttered a shriek of despair, and was unable to form a conception of a greater calamity. All the society of Paris who, from natural urbanity, and the mild manners acquired during a long interval of peace, were unwilling to witness PRIVATE LIFE OF M* NECKER. 43 human sufferings, collected round my father, and openly inveighed against his unmerited banishment. In this instance my father was the only person who judged the king with candour. He repeated, that his majesty had sufficient reason to be dissatisfied with his obstinate resistance ; and several years after he used to remark, as a proof of the amiable disposition of Louis XVIth, that he had li- mited his punishment to an exile of forty leagues from Paris, and that in four months he revoked this exile, and soon after, on the 25th of August, 1788, recalled to his court his refractory minister. I passed with my father the period of his banishment. How calm were his spirits ! How serene his soul ! Sometimes he heard from his correspond- ents that he was to be reinstated immediately; sometimes that he should never be restored : now, that all was gained, — and eight days after, that all was lost. He awaited the course of events with a tranquillity, which I have always observed him to possess in every 44 MEMOIRS OF THE crisis of destiny, when he was neither exposed to the sorrows of the heart or the scruples of conscience. At the moment when M. Necker was recalled to the ministry, he had just pub- lished his work on the importance of religious opinions, a work which surely affords a strik- ing proof of his internal tranquillity under circumstances which should have appeared most likely to agitate an ambitious soul. It is not unusual for men of the world to write on religion in the decline of life, when the only future that awaits them is eternity : but it is not often that, in the interval of two ad- ministrations, when exposed to all the agita- tions incident to a situation of conflict and suspense, that a statesman should have devoted himself to a labour so irrelevant to the pur- suits of finance — to a labour which will consti- tute his glory with posterity, but which could not be subservient to his w'orldly interests. On the contrary, M. Necker, by this woik, exposed himself to the chance of disobliging some of his warmest and most distinguished PRIVATE LIFE OF M. NECKER. 45 partisans, since he was the first, the only great writer who animadverted on the ten- dency to irreligion which prevailed at that period. This pernicious tendency succeeded to the real good which had been effected by the exposure of intolerance and su^ierstition. Against this sinister and fatal spirit M. Necker had then singly to contend ; and he contended not with that hatred for philosophy, which is but a change of arms in the same hands, but w ith that noble enthusiasm for religion, with- out which reason has no guide, and imagina- tion no object : without which even virtue is without charms, and sensibility without interest. In the number of superior statesmen, Ci- cero, the Chancellor THospital, and Bacon are eminently distinguished for having, in the midst of political agitation, found leisure for solitary meditation and attention to the in- terests of the immortal soul. But my father published his work at a moment peculiarly unfavourable to the opinions w^hich he main- 6i MEMOIRS OF THE tained, and it required all his precision as a calculator to defend him from the stigma of having become a visionary. In every age there is a degree of virtue which must be liable to the imputation of imbecility. This is always the most perfect virtue, since it is not that which can be ren- dered the object of selfish speculation. The second administration of M. Necker from the 2oth of August, 1788, to the 14th of July, 1789, is precisely that period which a powertul party in France have been most eager to vilify by malicious representation. Let me here repeat, that I pledge myself (when 1 shall write the political life of my father) to prove, from the history of the Revolution, that this party has constantly laboured under misconception respecting its true interests, the progress of events, and in- dividual character. It is acknowledged by all who have stu- died the conduct and writings of M. Necker, that he never for one moment entertained PRIVATE LIFE OF M. NECKER. 47 the idea of producing the French Revolu- tion. It was his favourite theory, that the best form of government for a great state was a limited monarchy, similar to tliat of which England offers an example. The same thought pervades all his writings, and it must be ad- mitted by the partisans of every political sys- tem, that the love of liberty and of order ac- quires double force from wisdom and mag- nanimity : but the political opinions of my father were, like himself, subordinate to mo- ral principle. Conscious of his duties towards the king, as his minister, he dreaded the con- sequences of an insurrectional movement, which might endanger the safety and the life of human beings. His only fault as a states- man, in the vulgar sense of the word, was that of being equally scrupulous on the means and the end, that he pursued the moral not only in the object proposed, but in the very means which are proposed for its attainment. How was it possible, with such a character. 48 MEMOIRS OE THE and in the situation of minister to the king, that he should become the instrument of a revolution which must eventually subvert the throne ? That he loved liberty cannot be doubted. To what man of genius and of principle can it be indifferent? But duty al- ways appeared to him to possess more sacred authority than the noblest human sentiments. In the order of our duties, the most imperious are those which bind us individually as man to man ; for the more distant the relation^ the less precise is the obligation. On assuming the helm of government, !M. Necker represented to the king, that if such circumstances should ever occur as to render the severity and sternness of a Richelieu ne- cessary, he should no longer be capable of filling the office of minister: so long as reason and probity were sufficient, he trusted he should not be found incompetent to his ser- vice. In reality, when the history of the French Revolution shall become a subject of reflection to enlightened minds ; when the PRIVATE LIFE OF M. NECKER. 49 men who took in it the most active part shall have ceased to exist, I am persuaded that the life and writings of M. Necker will recall the discussion of that ancient and interesting ques- tion, how far virtue is compatible with po- licy, and whether it can be advantageous for nations that the party by which they are governed, should ever deviate from the rigid principles of morality ? In the answer to this question is involved the censure or approbation of M. Necker. But admitting, that as a public man he should not escape blame, how glorious is the con- demnation which is founded on an excess of virtue ! How honorable to be cast in such a cause, with the privilege of appealing to the experience of future ages ! — to that impartial testimony which is alone paramount to the sentiment on which it is to pronounce judg- ment, the conscience of an honest man. M. Necker has constantly maintained, that the king was pledged to the convocation of the States - general, before he entered the E 50 MEMOIRS OF THE ministry, and that the duplication of the third estate was imperiously enforced by the conviction, that the king, in resisting it, must hazard his safety, by incurring the sus- picion of injustice : — but by what motive was M. Necker actuated in so strenuously disclaiming the gratitude and enthusiasm of a large portion of the French people ? Was it to secure the love of the aristocratic party? — that party he had never courted when in the zenith of its power. In his banishment, it assumed a more formidable aspect : yet he had never compromised his independence by any of those irrevocable expressions, which alone accord with the violence and exaggera- tion of faction. He has uniformly main- tained those temperate opinions which pro- voke hostility from men accustomed to rush into the extremes, and who are eager to sup- port their opinions by a victorious standard. “ Tow'hat purpose, then,” I have often asked — “ to what purpose should you lessen your merit with the popular party : you who pre- PRIVATE LIFE OF M. NECKER. 51 tend not at all to conciliate its antagonists ?” “ It is my wish,” he replied, “ to attest the truth, without reference to any personal in- terest : with regard to myself, I desire only to have it known, that whatever might be my in- dividual opinions, I should never, as minister, have taken any step contrary to the obliga- tions which I had contracted towards my sovereign, by the nature of my office.” Of my father’s inviolable respect for those duties, what stronger proof can be adduced than his conduct on the 11th of July, 1789 ? It was well known, that in the council M. Necker opposed the order for collecting, at Versailles and Paris, the French and Swiss soldiers. It is notorious that he voted for an amicable accommodation with the commons ; a measure which, had it been followed, might, by concealing the insurrectional disposition of the troops, have saved the annihilation of the royal authority ; but this salutary counsel was overruled by that misguided party, whose temerity first betrayed to ruin, and who after- E 2 52 MEMOIRS OF THE wards imputed to a few individuals the blame of those embarrassments which re- sulted from the whole order of things. By the instigation of this party, the king was persuaded, that in changing the minister, he should remove the difficulty ; and to this in- considerate measure, prompted by rashness Muthout energy or consistency to sustain the inevitable consequences, may be attributed the 14th of July, and in that the subversion of the royal authority. It was on the 11th of July, as my father was sitting down to table, with a numerous dinner party, that the minister of the marine came to his house, and, taking him aside, presented to him a letter from the king, requiring him to re- sign his office, and to withdraw from France as quietly as possible. All was comprized in the world quietly. Such was the effervescence of the public mind, that had my father al- lowed it to be surmized was banished for his attachment to the popular cause, there can be no doubt the voice of the people PRIVATE LIFE OF M. NECKER. 53 would have raised him to the pinnacle of power. Had he cherished in his soul one spark of a factious spirit — had he even sur- rendered himself to the justifiable feelings of the moment, his dismission must have been discovered, and his departure prevented ; — he would have been brought back in triumph to Paris, invested with whatever could be flattering or attractive to human ambition. It should be remarked, that the first cockade exhibited in France, even during his short absence, was green, in compliment to the colour of his livery. The name of M. Necker resounded from two hundred thousand men in the streets of Paris, whilst the object of their acclamations shunned every demonstra- tion of enthusiasm with more care than a criminal employs to escape from the scaffold. The resolution which he had formed he did not communicate to his family, to me, or his most intimate friends. My mother, though in delicate health, departing without a female attendant — with- 54 MEMOIRS OF THE out even a travelling dress, entered, with my father, the carriage in this they usually took their evening airing, and in this they travelled day and night till they reached Basle ; where, when I rejoined them four days after, they still wore the same full dress in which they had presided at the dinner party, from whence they withdrew, by stealth and in silence, from France, from their home, from their friends, from splendour, and from power. At the sight of this garb of fashion, covered with dust ; at the sound of that foreign name, which had been assumed to prevent discovery and detention, I was over- whelmed with such deep emotions of awe and tenderness, that on entering (at the inn) the apartment in which 1 once more beheld my father, I threw myself at his feet, and thus, by an involuntary impulse, offered spontaneous homage : — this external act was but the symbol of that habitual veneration which he was formed to inspire in public and in private life, in the brilliant moment PRIVATE LIFE OF M. NECKER. 5.5 of his political career, and in the every-day details of the domestic circle, his truth and justice, his magnanimity and benevolence, were equally conspicuous and perma- nent. It is a trite remark, that no hero exists for those with whom he is perfectly familiar. Experience proves, that almost all who have performed a public part, are without the qualities essential to the private man ; but when you recognize in the same individual a character at once simple and sublime ; when you behold the upright citizen in the emi- nent statesman, the philanthropist in the man of genius, the man of feeling in the man of exalted station, the nearer you approach to such a man, the more he becomes the object of admiration ; the more you discover the image of that Providence who presides over the starry heavens, yet disdains not to clothe the lilies, and to watch over the life of a single sparrow. My father, who has often received the oQ MEMOIRS OF THE tribute of praise from the pen of his wife and daughter, would have been happy to impose on us that conventional modesty which pre- vails in other families. But we discovered in him virtues so consistent, so uniform, so per- fectly in harmony with the language which he maintained to the public, that we were compelled to relieve the full fraught heart with the expression of that domestic worship which consecrated our whole existence. — Oppressed by gratitude and affection, we learnt to despise that common-place raillery, which blunts the edge of feeling, and imper- ceptibly impairs the integrity of principle. On his abrupt departure from A^ersailles, M. Necker had not even taken a passport, lest he should commit himself to some indi- vidual who might betray his confidence. He was careful to evade every pretext for defer- ing his journey: but reaching Valenciennes, the commandant of the town refused him permission to proceed without a passport. My father produced the king’s letter, which PRIVATE LIFE OF M. NECKEU. 57 he had no sooner read than the commandant, who had recognized M. Necker by his re- semblance to the print, which was placed on the mantle-piece in his apartment, permitted him to proceed, not without breathing a deep sigh for the irreparable evils which he fore- saw his departure must produce to France. It had been proposed to the king to put my father under arrest, since it appeared in- credible that he should take precautions to counteract the effects of that enthusiasm which he had excited ; but the king, who never ceased to do justice to his probity, in- sisted that it would be sufficient to request him to withdraw quietly. The event de- monstrated that his majesty did not err in this calculation. It was in the morning of the 12th of July that I received a letter from my father, an- nouncing his departure, and desiring me to retire to the country, lest some expression of public homage should be addressed to him through the medium of my person. 58 MEMOIRS OF THE In the morning I received deputations from every quarter of the city, who addressed me in the most enthusiastic terms on the departure of JM. Necker, and on the steps proper to be taken to obtain his recall. At such a moment, I scarcely know to w'hat conduct I might have been prompted by youth and inexperince ; but, in obedience to my father’s letter, I retired to some dis- tance from Paris, where, being apprized by a second courier of the route which he had taken, (and of which he had made a mystery in his former letter,) I set out, on the 13 th of July, to rejoin him. My father had chosen Brussels, as a less distant frontier than Switzerland, and, as a further precaution, where he had less chance of being known. During the twenty-four hours that w-e passed together, preparing for the long journey through Germany, by which he was to return to Switzerland, he recollected that, a few days before his exile, Messrs. Hope, the bankers of Amsterdam, had asked him to PRIVATE LIFE OF M. NECKER. 59 lend security, from his own fortune, of two millions, deposited in the royal treasury, for a supply of wheat, which, in this memorable year of scarcity, was become indispensable to the subsistence of Paris. Much as the disturbances in France had shaken the credit of its government with foreign states, the personal guarantee of M. Necker was alone sufficient to inspire con- fidence, and he hesitated not to accede to the requisition. On his arrival at Brussels, fear- ing that the news of his exile might excite alarm in Messrs. Hope, and consequently impede the expected supplies, he wrote to confirm the guarantee. Banished and pro- scribed, he hazarded the greatest part of the property still remaining in his possession, to preserve Paris from the calamity with which it was menaced, by the inexperience or em- barrassment of a new minister.— O French- men ! O France! it was thus that my father loved you I When the new minister, the ephemeral 60 MEMOIRS OF THE successor of M. Necker, was initiated in the business of his department, it devolved on M. du Fresue de Saint Leon, the first clerk of finance, to present, amongst the corre- spondence, the answer from the Hopes ac- cepting the first security, which my father had offered them. I know not whether the suc- cessor relished this mode of serving his ma- jesty without emolument, and even at the risk of losing his private property, but what could be more noble, more consonant to the spirit of antiquity, than the conduct of M. Necker, who, in ratifying, during his exile, the generous sacrifice, must have risen superior to the sentiment most common to mankind — that of wishing his absence should be regretted, by refusing himself the satisfac- tion of being compared with his successor. My father had proceeded, with M. de Stael, to Basle, through Germany. IMy mother and myself, who followed leisurely, were overtaken at Frankfort by a messenger, who brought letters from the king and the PRIVATE LIFE OF M. NECKER. 6l National Assembly, which, for the third time, recalled M. Necker to the ministry. It was at Frankfort that I received the intelli- gence of an event which apparently raised my father to the summit of human prospe- rity ; — at that same Frankfort to which I was recalled fourteen years after by a very dif- ferent destiny. My mother, far from being elated with this victory, was not even willing that my father should accept the triumph. It was at Basle that we rejoined him, and that he made his decision to return to Paris ; — a resolution which I am authorized to state he did not embrace without extreme reluctance. The issue of the 14th of July convinced him that he should in future have to contend for the preservation of royalty ; he foresaw, that though his popularity must be sacrificed, he might still fail to obtain that ascendancy with the government over its pernicious coun- sellors, which could alone save it from de- struction. 62 MEMOIRS OF THE At this moment he had a glimpse of futu- rity, which impressed him with a presage of those innumerable evils, too fatally attested by subsequent experience. These apprehen- sions, however, were combated by hope, and vanquished by a sense of duty. He trusted to his personal popularity to protect the par- tisans of the ancient regime from some of those tremendous evils with which they were menaced. He flattered himself he might prevail on the Constituent Assembly to covenant with the king for a limited mo- narchy ; but this expectation was far from being sanguine. To himself and to us, he dissembled not the obstacles which opposed its accomplishment; but he dreaded the self-reproaches which might attend him in his retreat, if he refused to make any effort to avert those evils which he might vainly attempt to prevent. It is easy to conceive, that to the man of genius, endowed with imagination and sen- sibility, the history of whose life is inter- PRIVATE LIFE OF M. NECKER. 63 mingled with the most fearful political revo- lutions, and w'^hOse ardent spirit is corroded even in solitude by painful retrospections; neither conscience, nor reason, nor the esteem of^mankind, can always prove sufficient to ensure tranquillity. Let the envious ask for splendour, for fortune, for youth and beauty, all those smil- ing gifts, which serve to embellish the sur- face of life ; but never let them cast an in- vidious glance on those eminent distinctions of mind and genius, which destroy the peace of their possessor. Let them rather depre- cate than calumniate that perilous eminence, which finds its enemy in human destiny. Let them at least disclaim the injustice of hating those who are already the victims of persecution. Yet, what a brilliant moment of happiness, of enjoyment, was that journey, or rather procession, from Basle to Paris, when my father decided to return to Versailles. I know not that history offers a parallel in- 64 MEMOIRS OF THE stance of triumph for any man, who has not been a sovereign. The French nation, so animated in the expression of its sentiments, surrendered, for the first time, to a hope which was wholly new, and of which it had not learnt, by fatal experience, to perceive the limits ; at this period, when liberty was known to the enlightened class but by the noble sentiments which it inspires, and to the people but by ideas analogous to its ne- cessities and its sufferings, M. Necker ap- peared as the precursor of that long expected deity : the most lively acclamations heralded his steps ; the women prostrated themselves on the ground when his carriage approached : through whatever villages we passed, the most distinguished inhabitants displaced the postilions, to lead our horses along the road. In the towns, the people insisted on drawing the carriage through the streets. A general* in the French army, the bravest of the brave. * General Junod. PRIVATE LIFE OF M. NECKER. was wounded in one of these triumphal entries : — in short, no man, who has not borne a sceptre, ever appeared to be so firmly enthroned in the hearts of the people. Alas ! it was I who received this homage, and who enjoyed this triumph ; — it was I alone who surrendered to the intoxication of that blissful moment, and never ought I to be- come ungrateful for having tasted these few precious moments, however bitter should be the dregs of life. At this period my father was occupied in allaying that effervescence of feeling so for- midable to the vanquished party. On arriv- ing at Basle, his first step was to visit Mad. de Polignac, who had always been hostile to his interests, but who, now being proscribed and unfortunate, engaged his attention. In his journey he seized every opportunity to render essential service to the aristocrats, who were escaping in great numbers froni Paris, and many of whom solicited letters from his hand to enable them to reach the F 66 MEMOIRS OF THE frontier in safety. This assistance he freely granted, though perfectly sensible how much he compromised his own credit by his gene- rous conduct. It should be remarked, that my father was, both by nature and principle, endowed with a rare prudence, and that he acted not from impulse but reflection. His mind laboured under one defect, which was sometimes injurious to his capacities for active exertion — that of being susceptible of doubt and diffidence. He combined all the chances of success or defeat, and never over- looked the possibility of disappointment ; but when once impressed with the conviction of an imperative duty, all the calculating powers of reason submitted to principle, that supreme arbiter of his conduct, and Avhatever might be the consequences of a decision wdiich virtue dictated, in this single instance he decided without doubt or hesi- tation. At every spot where my father stopt during his journey, he addressed the surrounding PRIVATE LIFE OP M. NECKER. 67 people on the necessity of respecting pro- perty and persons. He demanded from those who professed so much love, to evince their sincerity by the performance of their respec- tive duties. He accepted his triumph with a sentiment religiously consecrated to virtue, to humanity, to the public good. What then are men if such conduct does not merit their esteem and their respect ? — What then is life if such conduct is not vi- sited by the divine benediction ? When we had advanced within about ten leagues of Paris, he heard that the Baron Besanval — one of those most obnoxious to popular fury — had been overtaken and ar- rested, and was about to be reconducted to Paris, where he would inevitably be mas- sacred in the streets. In the middle of the road our carriage was stopt, and my father was requested to write to the officers who were conducting the baron to the capital, requiring them, by his own authority, to suspend the execution of the order, trans- 68 MEMOIRS OF THE mitted from the Commune of Paris, and to keep their prisoner in safe custody. In exacting this requisition he took a bold step, and no one knew better than my father how fragile a thing is popular favour — a species of power which appears to be held on the condi- tion of not using it; yet, he hesitated not to write as required, sensible that the least delay might prove fatal to the life of Baron de Besan- val,and conscious that he should never obtain his own pardon, if he missed an opportunity of saving a human being from destruction. I know not what politicians may say to this respect for human life ; but it appears to me, that mankind in general ought not, even from considerations of policy, to reprobate the sentiment. On arriving at Versailles, my father was obliged to present himself before the Commune of Paris, toexplain his conductrespectingM.de Besanval : my mother and myself still followed his steps ; all the inhabitants of Paris were in the streets, at the windows, or on the roofs. PRIVATE LIFE OF M. NECKER. 69 and all shouted Vive M. Necker. Amidst these acclamations my father entered the Ho- tel de Ville, where he pronounced a discourse, of which the sole object was to demand the pardon of M. Besanval, and a general amnesty for persons of his opinion. This address gained the hearts of his numerous audience; and a sentiment of pure enthusiasm for vir- tue and for goodness — -a sentiment independ- ent of political interests or opinions — took possession of,, the two hundred thousand Frenchmen, assembled at the Hotel de Ville and its environs. At such a moment, who would not have loved the French nation with enthusiasm ? Never has it appeared more great than on this memorable day, when it willed to be magna- nimous ; — never more amiable than at the moment when its native impetuosity was carried by an irresistible impulse to bene- ficence. During the fifteen years which have since elapsed, nothing has weakened the impression which that moment produced 70 MEMOIRS OF THE in my mind, and which must for ever re- main among the most vivid — the most deli- cious of my life. Through a long course of subsequent events, my father preserved for the name of France that undefinable feeling, which Frenchmen alone can understand. It is not, indeed, to be dissembled, that there have been moments of the Revolution which sully the glory of that happy France : but, richly endowed' by Nature — munificently favoured by Heaven, it is impossible not to look forward to the time when she shall be- come worthy of all the sacrifices she has demanded, and shall recompense all the bene- dictions she has received. Few women are permitted to enjoy the privilege of hearing from a whole nation the name of him who is the cherished object of their tenderness. To those privileged few I appeal, whether any moment in human exist- ence can be compared with that which has been sanctified by the acclamations of a whole community. Those eyes which seem ani- PRIVATE LIFE OF M. NECKER. 71 mated by your feelings, those countless voices which proclaim the secret aspirations of your heart, that name buoyant in air, which should seem to return to heaven, after having col- lected uni versal homage on earth — that electric impulse, which men communicate to each other — to sum up all, the inspiration of that mysterious principle, derived from nature and from society, love ; which, whether filial or parental, is always love ! and the soul sinks under emotions too powerful for its strength ! When 1 returned to myself 1 felt that I had reached the utmost limit of human felicity, yet I foresaw not that this exquisite moment of bliss was to be solitary in my existence. I suspected not that my day-star was to de- cline so early in its morning. My father was at the summit of human glory — a glory con- secrated to his most cherished object — to humanity — to concord — to mercy : but from this day, which has been eternized by his virtues — from this glorious day commenced the decline of his destiny. 72 MEMOIRS OF THE In the history of all great men there is a certain epoch of prosperity, when fortune seems to be exhausted with her efforts ; but for him who had never admitted to his heart one scheme of personal aggrandizement, one wish dictated by sordid egotism, it might have been expected that fortune should be more constant. This boon was denied. Pro- vidence conducted not the French Revolution through the paths of justice ; and my father, who pursued no other track, was overwhelmed in the common wreck of virtue. On the very evening of his triumph, at the Hotel de Ville, at the instance of M. de Mi- rabeau, the Sections retracted the amnesty pronounced in the morning ; and of this glo- rious day there remained to my father but the secret satisfaction of having rescued from massacre one old man, the Baron de Besan- val.* Even this was worthy of any price. * The majority of the Swiss Cantons, Berne, Soleure, &c., wrote to M. Necker, thanking him for having pre- served the life of one of their citizens. PRIVATE LIFE OF M. NECKER. 73 We know so little what are the torments in- flicted by a cruel death, that the consciousness of having snatched from it one human being, ought for ever to be considered as an inex- haustible subject of gratitude and consolation ; and is it not a triumph of humanity, when history shall attest to future ages, that one statesman has caused it to be believed, that morality, tenderness, and benevolence were not incompatible with the talents and virtues ne- cessary to the government of a great empire ? Will it not be soothing to remember, that this man at least was accessible to generosity and to mercy ; and that once his influence prevailed through the wide empire of France, where, whoever suffered unjustly, might then exclaim with confidence — “ If he knew this I should obtain redress ; if it be possible he will administer relief.” Is it not enough that we are all subject to the iron hand of destiny? And must men be equally hard and inflexible? All human beings have cause to ask compas- sion. For the most fortunate there is no 74 MEIVIOIRS OF THE other perspective than old age and death. How, then, can we cease to admire in the powerful, above all other qualities, the hu- manity that is eager to console, the clemency that is willing to pardon ! A year of famine unexampled during a whole century, conspired with partial troubles, to render 1789-1790 afflictive. To the honor of M. Necker, Paris and the Departments were exempted from famine by his constant vigilance and unremitted care ; but it must be observed, that such cares attract no ho- mage, and are solely dictated by humanity. Occupied with this important object, he procured supplies of wheat from every corner of the globe, frequently lamenting that he was unable to devote to politics that attention which the momentous crisis demanded. But such was his anxiety lest Paris should be left destitute of provisions at the moment when the factions were ready for open war, that he was attacked with a long and dangerous illness, which laid the foundation of that PRIVATE LIFE OF M. NECKER. 75 malady which finally abridged his existence — so warmly did his heart enter into his political duties, and so tenderly did he love those whom it was his business to govern. In revising his papers, I have found many letters addressed to him by the various com- munes of Paris, warm with acknowledgments for the parental care with which he had averted from them the horrors of famine. How many acknowledgments of a similar kind have been transmitted from every part of France! With what anguish have I reverted to these records of gratitude which perpetuate his glory, and ought to eternize his memory ! So abrupt is the transition, so painful the reflection, that where once was renown, there is now a mournful silence ; since grief has usurped the place of hope, and the blazon of pomp is exchanged for the garb of mourning ! We learn to recog- nize death for the first time, when it falls on those we love. Hitherto, it has been but the terror of a phantom, from which our view was averted. Now it appears in open day — 76 MEMOIRS OF THE it obscures the half of life : and were happi- ness to be born again, it would seem to wi- ther beneath its baneful influence. During the last fifteen months of his admi- nistration, M. Necker had constantly to main- tain a struggle for the executive power, either without or within the constituent assembly. His position every day became the more difficult, as the intemperate men who sur- rounded the court infused injurious suspicions of his sincerity, and he was not permitted to direct those whom he was expected to defend. Much has been said of his want of firmness ; and firmness is undoubtedly an essential qua- lity in those who preside over a great nation : but it would not be difficult to prove, that in 1789 and 1790, such was the fermentation of the public mind, that no moral force could have arrested its violence. It is impossible to supply the want of firmness in the chief of an empire. Talents may be lent, activity borrowed, but there is something individual in the character or constitution of one mind, PRIVATE LIFE OF M. NECKER. 77 which never can be transferred to another. The personal interference of the king is not necessary in the constitutional government of England; but in other European mo- narchies, above all at the moment of a poli- tical crisis, no minister can ever atone for the absence of energy in his sovereign, and even the public discourses which he composes for his use but serve to aggravate the con- tract which exists between what he really is, and what he would appear to be. It must be admitted, that my father, to whose nature nothing was so repugnant as the resources of corruption, could employ against the different factions no other arms than reason. But even had his conduct been regulated by other principles, I firmly believe, that, under the then existing circumstances, it was for the king alone to defend the king, and that the speeches of a minister, who was known to possess no influence at court, could not have the authority of a single word pro- nounced from the throne. 78 MEMOIRS OF THE On the evening of that very day on which my father returned to the Hotel de Ville, M. Mirabeau and his partisans levelled all their force against his popularity. In the journals and libels printed at their instiga- tion he was loaded with obloquy, and, in effect, a regular attack was commenced against his reputation. Who does not know that the discovery of printing has furnished a tremendous engine of power, which, when misdirected or ill-regulated must, in common with every principle of human society, tend to disorganization and destruction ? In spite of his enemies and their persecu- tions, M. Necker, however, continued to dispense partial good. The remains of his popularity still enabled him to snatch some individuals from destruction. He suggested a language for the executive power, which was still supported by popular opinion, but a double virtue diminished in a two-fold degree its force. The court, perceiving the decline of his popularity, attached less importance to PRIVATE LIFE OP M. NECKER. 7-9 his counsels, whilst the popular party, know- ins: that his credit was on the wane at court, no longer dreaded his influence. It was to his popularity alone that he owed his ascen- dancy in the cabinet ; it was forfeited by his zeal in defending the throne. Had he pos- sessed credit at court, he might have pre- served or regained his influence with the popular party ; and he missed this credit be- cause he had at first maintained the rights of the people against the court. Let not the cause of morality be impugned by such a spectacle. It will appear from his works, V that my father never withdrew his confidence from that virtue which had been his guide, because it had not made him triumph over his enemies. If success was the supreme object of human life, there would be no scope for virtuous effort — no aim for religious heroism ; every thing must be reduced to a dull process of calculation. It is impossible not to perceive in the self-devotion imposed on delicate minds a principle which, how- 80 MEMOIRS OF THE ever mysterious or immutable, must unques- tionably be the agent for operating some assured and important good. When Cato perished at Utica, though he redeemed not the liberties of Rome, he con- secrated to the admiration of future ages the noble sentiments which he had illustrated by his solitary example. Who shall deny that M. Necker, in becoming a martyr to the union of civil and religious liberty, has pro- moted the cause of that virtue, which, to a superficial observer, might appear to suffer with him ? In 1790, that fatal epoch of his life, when he was condemned to witness the annihila- tion of his plans, the destruction of his hopes, the oblivion of his meritorious services, the forfeiture of that populatity and esteem which had formed his noblest recompense, even in that fatal year, he was never se- duced to a deviation from upright con- duct, or to a dereliction of magnanimous sentiments. PRIVATE LIFE OF M. NECKER, 81 On the publication of the red book, (the Contents of which should have been sacred, •since they referred exclusively to the private expenditure of the king and royal family,) M. Necker became the apologist and the ad- vocate of those who* were implicated in the disclosure, although it was wholly uncon- nected with his own administration, and onh^ exposed that of his adversary and predecessor, ■ M. de Calonne. Among other secret memo- randums, was an account of money trans- mitted to the emigrant princes of France, by whom he had been treated with marked hostility. Yet, this circumstance had no other effect than to render him more earnest in vindicating the gratuities which had been accepted by those princes of whom he spoke with that respectful tenderness, by which sympathy and commiseration are most deli- cately expressed : — too amiable to cherish hatred — to magnanimous to harbour sus- picion, my father’s soul was inaccessible to’ one vindictive sentiment. When the Con-' G 82 MEMOIRS OF THE vention passed the decree for abolishing titles of nobility, M. Necker not only advised the king to refuse his sanction, but even pub- lished a remonstrance against the edict, at Ihe moment when the enthusiasm for equality was omnipotent in France. It is foreign from my present purpose to enquire how far opinions, which by some might be stigmatized as prejudices, were consistent with the really philosophical principles which my father had ardently embraced. It would be irrelevant to point out the admirable re-union of contrasts, - or rather that extent of intellect which ren- dered him at once the advocate for freedom and the defender of monarchy. Whenever it shall be my business to pub- lish my father’s works, I shall annex to them a collection of all the memorials presented to the king and the National Assembly during the fifteen months of his administration. On the authority of these documents, I venture to assert, that there exists not an injustice, an abuse, or a defect incident to political PRIVATE LIFE OF M. NECKEB. QS institutions, which he has not exposed, or anticipated, or for which he has not offered a caution and suggested a remedy. But this was no moment for listening to the voice of truth, when all the fiercer passions were suddenly called into action, and this fair realm of France opened to the honest en- thusiast, or the mercenary speculator, the richest domain that ever tempted cupidity, or allured imagination. My father’s house having been menaced with destruction, my mother became apprehensive for his safety ; and as he had no longer a hope of being useful to his country, he departed, in 1790, having previously prepared a memorial on the depreciation of assignats, in which he announced the financial changes which have since taken place ; but, whilst he predicted with certainty the ruin impending on the creditors of the state, he left his two millions in the royal treasury, although he possessed a' bond from the king which would have authori- zed him to reclaim them at pleasure ; and, al- O g 84 MEMOIRS OF THE thou gh as m i n i s ter of fi n an ce, h e possessed more facility than anj^ other person for enforcing re- stitution. Thislastexcessof generosityhas not escaped censure, and niight almost be consi- dered as a blamable imprudence, but for the reflection that my father wished to leave to his country a pledge of his administration, and not to detach his fate from the destiny of France. Itshould also be observed, thatalthough he had no other expectation than that his interest should be paid in paper money, it was re- pugnant to his character to admit the suspi- cion, that the principal of a debt so sacredlv pledged, should be violated in the most pe- rilous season of political agitation. On his return to Switzerland, through Basle, my father was stopt at Arcy sur Aube, and menaced with destruction at Vesoul, in consequence of the popular suspicion which libellous publications had excited against him. He was accused of having betrayed the interests of the people in favour of the eini- PRIVATE LIFE OF M. NECKER. 85 grant party, who, in foreign countries, had avowed for him the most unfriendly senti- ments. It was thus that he re-measured that road which, but a few months before, he had passed in triumph ! Cruel vicissitude, which would have inflicted pangs on the most courageous soul, and which an unsul- lied conscience alone could sustain with pa- tience and benignity. At length he arrived at Copet, where I soon rejoined him ; (fourteen years from the present moment). I found him pensive — silent — abstracted ; but without any senti- ment of bitterness or resentment. One day, in speaking of the deputies from the city of Tours, who had been his inmates for some months during the Federation, he said to me — “ This city testified much kind- ness for me a year ago : perhaps it is not quite forgotten; perhaps in that part of France I am still beloved.” It is for those only who have been familiar with his countenance, who can recall the sublime expression in his 86 MEMOIRS OF THE eyes, or the touching tones of his voice — it is for those alone to conceive how these words vibrated to that heart by which he was passionately adored. But it vvas not often that he divulged his secret emotions. Calm and collected in his deportment, on every subject in which his personal feelings were interested, he had that reserve which is the indelible character of intense sensibility. On his arrival at Copet, that sacred spot where he still lives but in the bitter regrets which eternize his memory, he commenced that admirable life of solitude and resignation, which conciliated even the respect of his enemies. It was here that he composed, on the different political situations of France, those celebrated works which have succes- sively obtained the approbation of men whose party was vanquished, and extorted the cen- sure of others whose Cause was victorious. It was in this retreat that he developed a ce- lestial soul ; a character which every day became more pure, more noble, more sus- PRIVATE LIFE OF M. NECKER. 87 ceptible of humane and generous sentiments, and in his adversity he impressed on all who approached him a veneration which must re- main till death. In composing the political life of my father, I shall have occasion to examine the cha- racter and object of his writings. As some of these referred particularly to subjects of temporary interest, I shall, perhaps, detach from them the general ideas, to form a body of political principles which must be imperish- able as his name. I am persuaded, that many, even of M. Necker’s warmest ad- mirers, will be struck with the force of his genius, when disengaged from those epheme- ral events against which he had so often to exert his intellectual strength. It will be curious to select from those poli- tical compositions, which were prompted by the exigences of the moment, ideas worthy to be presented to posterity. The only work which he published, independently of poli- tical tracts, is a series of moral and re- MEMOIRS OF THE S8 ligio US essays. It has by some been objected to this book, that it is divided into sections, in the manner of a scriptura] discourse ; but surely this form is well adapted to the nature of the work, and invests it with appropriate dignity and importance. From the introduc- tion of the beautiful thoughts, the original and pointed expressions of the Holy Scrip- tures, it acquires all the eloquence of the pulpit, and is more interesting than a merely didactic composition. How many graces of style and of sentiment are contained in this work ? What a profound knowledge of uni- versal nature in all its weakness and all its strength — of that nature “ at once susceptible, stormy, and impassioned,” which belongs to those who, by talents, b}^ misfortunes, or even Wpassions, have been roused from the sleep of the soul — the lethargic vulgarity of mere physical existence. What sublime indul- gence is here united to spotless purity: what consolation isofferedfor everygrief — that alone excepted for which I in vain invoke his ad- PRIVATE LIFE OF M. NECKER. 89 mirable genius. There exists not a social relation, a hurnan duty, public or private, whether incident to youth or to age, to civic functions or domestic duties, for which he has not prescribed some salutary principle, or pronounced some irrevocable truth. But he is one whom the sufferer will best learn to appreciate. The more perfectly a writer understands the secret of unsophisticated and susceptible souls, the less can he be compre- hended by those who depend upon external circumstances, and are conscious of no other feelings than the pains and pleasures of self- love : but I may venture to affirm, that this is one of the first books in existence for soli- tary thinkers, who fathom their own capa- cities by reflection, and rather impute blame to themselves than to mankind. What emo- tion is not inspired by the perusal of the dis- course on Death and Immortality ! He who is now no more, speaks with such animation of the grave, and regrets, by anticipation, the spring, the aspect of nature, and all those 90 MEMOIRS OF THE beauties of the earth which an eternal night now conceals from his eyes. He who is no more, commiserates the sufferings of his survivors, and promises immortality — that blessed immortality, fraught with the noble hopes of seeing him again, of holding with him the most intimate communication. Oh, my God ! pardon the weakness of thy imperfect creature, if to the heart which has so deeply loved, even the beatitude of heaven is presented to the imagination in the smile of that father who shall welcome me to thy eternal mansions. The mass of mankind reach the term of human existence without reflecting upon their end: but when some luminous genius fixes bis steady gaze on that awful abyss, it appears not that he sinks into the vale of death, but rather, that he hovers over that grave which he contemplates. Such was my impression on reading these discourses in my fat^^’s presence, when we were both occupied with one thought and communed on one subject. PRIVATE LIFE OF M. NECKEK. 91 And is it possible that this faculty of re- flection, which transported him beyond him- self, should be annihilated ? — No ! — perish the suggestion ; shame on those by whom it is supported, and who little suspect the mischiefs they would accomplish. Accus- tomed to see in religion but an instrument of tyranny and oppression, let them in future consider it as the last, only solace of the de- jected spirit, the only anchor of the despairing soul. If they have humanity, this suggestion will induce them to leave its altar untouched, whilst they pass by to the other side. In his moral and religious course of in- struction, my father still presides over the education of my children, who, whilst they listen to his admonitions seem raised on his paternal wings to heaven. The perusal of this work is peculiarly calculated to benefit those with whom life is new, and to whom it appears invested with the brilliant visions of futurity. I scruple not to affirm, (with what- ever distrust the declaration may be received,) 92 MEMOIRS OP THE that when I read these discourses, when 1 dwell on the various passages in my father’s works, which are in harmony with virtuous impulses and elevated sentiments, I am tempted to reproach myself for not having sufficiently expressed the sincere, the impas- sioned admiration with which I am penetrated; far from having exaggerated for effect, it is for effect alone that I suppress the praise which would be dictated by independent and impartial judgment. I am not deceived by filial tenderness. They who have long been devoted to literary pursuits, acquire, with respect to books, a sort of artist-like impar- tiality, wholly divested of individual interests and personal sympathies. For myself, at least, 1 know that it has frequently happened to me to have praised the writers by whom 1 had been attacked, from that disinterested love of talent which rises superior to every species of prejudice or prepossession. I de- mand, therefore, from those who participate not in a daughter’s enthusiasm for her father, that PRIVATE LIFE OF M. NECKER. 93 they will re-peruse his discourse on Murder, on Indulgence, on Old Age, on Youth, and I pledge myself that they shall not read without emotion. There is a certain class of men who have no other pursuit than fortune or pleasure, and with whom all sentiments, all principles are considered but as stratagems of war, which are either adopted or disclaimed as they hap- pen to promote or impede a leading object. From such men I can onlyexpect pleasantries, more or less poignant, according to the pre- vailing humour of the moment ; yet even to such men I would say ; If you are menaced with sufferings (of whatever nature they may be) — not the sufferings of the heart, for to them you are inaccessible, but such sufferings as old age, infirmity, ruin, disgrace, or even the mere satiety of life, against which, wealth, credit, pleasure, the very essence of vitality, can avail nothing — if to such evils you be- come subject, appeal to the writings of M. Necker, and you shall find in I know not 94 MEMOIRS OF THE what page or volume of that man, so different from yourselves, some consolatory suggestions, or expressions of sympathy — you, too, shall have your part in his universal goodness, all withered and benumbed as you are, if there remain but one vital spark within the soul, ye shall be touched and inspired by his persuasive eloquence.’^ The prominent feature of all M. Necker’s writings is the almost inconceivable variety of intellect which they exhibit. If Voltaire was unique for the versatility of his talents, M. Necker was unprecedented for the univer- sality of his faculties. It is the re-union and harmony of contrasts that constitute in the uni- verse, as in man, the most perfect beauty. In the writings of M. Necker you discover acute- ness and solidity ; gaiety and fancy; reason and feeling; energy and delicacy ; precision and imagination ; originality of thought and ele- gance of expression— -all these various quali- ties of mind and heart exist without conco- mitant defects. It is always power that pre- PRIVATE LIFE OF M. NECEER. 95 vails, but that never exceeds its proper limits. Guided by the spirit of analysis, which never decomposes fixed principles, and which, in striking at the cause, never chills one gene- rous impulse, never paralyzes one warm emo- tion of the heart in exploring an ideal world, he appears not in opposition to experience and reason. He soars with imagination, but is never bewildered in chimeras. The legislator and the poet are united in his mind by that comprehensive grasp of intellect, which em- braces every object at the same moment, and by that admirable principle of order, which never loses sight of its native greatness. Thus the stars which roll over our heads are governed by immutable laws, and guided by undeviating calculations ; although such is their immeasurable distance from our ter- restrialsphere,that we perceive not the mecha- nism of their movements whilst we contem- plate, with reverence and astonishment, their celestial course. The posthumous works of my father w^hich 96 MEMOIRS OF THE I am about to publish, consist chiefly of de- tached thoughts and fragments on various subjects. Some of them were composed at different intervals, but the greater part were written during the last winter of his life. I have suppressed onlj^such as were connected with political subjects. No production of his pen is more calculated to give a proper idea of his own character, of his proper self. To a quick insight into the human heart, he superadded, in an eminent degree, the vis comica which gives poignancy to his stric- tures on general society. The same work contains a fragment on metaphysics, a paper on the commerce of grain, and an essay on the happiness of fools. To do justice to these three subjects he must have had a mind of extraordinary compass (to borrow a musical expression) in its Jteys. In addition to these are some other fragments, equally distinguished bybeautiful sentiments and cor- rect elegance of composition. He proposed to enlarge these miscellanies, and had even PRIVATE LIFE OF M. NECKER. 97 eoHected materials for the undertaking. En- gaged in a political career, by which he was long confined to objects of administration, or of public utility, he had a peculiar pleasure in opening his mind to the reception of new ideas, and in directing his attention to objects from which he had hitherto been precluded. It must be a subject of regret, even to those who had no personal interest in his welfare, that his sudden death prevented him from dispensing those treasures of information which he possessed, and which are now lost to society for ever. So just and exquisite were his perceptions^ there was so much' of moral sensibility in his intellect, his deci- sions were so perfectly free from prejudice and from system — in one word, there was something so original and yet so compre- hensive in the character of his mind, as is not likely to be replaced. Almost all distinguished men are governed by their predominant mental faculty. He who is firm refers every thing to will; the enthusiast H 98 MEMOIRS OF THE attributes all to enthusiasm ; the susceptible, to imagination. It required the incredible variety of which M. Necker’s life had been composed, to render him capable of taking his observations from the centre of things, and of preserving with the human race a sublime im- partiality. To produce such a character it was necessary that he should be able to dis- cover in himself secret affinities with all other beings, and that, detecting whatever was evil by sagacity, and whatever was good by ana- logy, he might finally become an adept in the history of man. In the familiar correspondence of my father there was not what can properly be called style, since he was too simple a character to bestow on his private letters the care and cir- cumspection requisite to a literary composi- tion : but whatever he had to communicate w’as expressed with a felicitous precision, which implied something more than mere clearness of perception, and bespoke the di- vine harmony of a soul whose secret aspira- tions were in unison with truth and virtue. PRIVATE LIFE OF M. NECKER. 99 On some occasions^ but they were of rare occurrence, when he had to convey admoni- tion or reproof, whether the fault rested with a nation or an individual, whether the tres- pass was committed by a daughter or an ad- versary, he uniformly expressed himself with such propriety and delicacy as (to judge by my own feelings) were calculated to over- whelm the culprit loith self-reproach. The truths which he forebore to proclaim were en- forced by his silence; and the conscious mind suggested not only the words which he with- held, but the benefits which he scorned to recall, and the glory which he appeared to forget. Many of my father’s letters are destined for publication. Of all his correspondents 1 was the richest, the most partially distinguished. When we separated, he suffered not a single post to elapse, without transmitting to me some token of remembrance. Alas ! I have not too many plans of occupation respecting him to persuade myself that the link of com- H 2 100 MEMOIRS OF THE uluiiicatiou between us is not quite broken. — » 1 venture to cite a single passage from one of his letters which sufficiently illustrates the delicate yet dignified manner with which he referred to any personal interests. Some peasants who had been concerned in an insurrection in the Pays de Vaud, having burnt the deeds containing 'the titles to sei- griorial property, the government summoned the proprietors to whom this outrage had been offered, to prefer their official complaints against the rebels. “ I have nothing parti- cular to allege against them.” wrote my fa- ther, “ their station considered ” How full of meaning is this simple phrase ! The re- proof of an upright man is conveyed with a grace and decorum which might equally serve as a lesson to the weakness of governments and the violence of subjects. It has been objected to the style of M.Necker that it affected too much pomp, and was con- sequently iparked by too much uniformity, a defect which, if it really exist, is surely PRIVATE LIFE OF M. NECKER. 101 T 30 t to be discovered in the thoughts which I am about to publish, and which he composed at leisure, without any immediate views of publication. But it should be remembered, that in those works which my father con- signed to the press, he had to consider him- self in some respects as a public character, and was, therefore, tenacious of maintaining that tone of dignity which he conceived to be appropriate to a public station. It appears to me, however, impossible not to perceive, through this official dignity in the various writings of M. Necker, those different kinds of talent which are more distinctly perceived in his detached reflections. Even that keen perception of the ridiculous, evinced in his acute observations on human character, may be detected in some of his gravest political compositions. He indulged in all the variety of style compatible with the consideration exacted by his political character — a consi- deration never to be sacrificed by M. Necker, even for the highest literary distinction. 102 MEMOIRS OF THE One of the most remarkable attributes ot M. Necker’s style is its perfect harmony; and such was his repugnance to a short or abrupt sentence, that he never composed a public speech without repeating it aloud in his study. It cannot be doubted that one of the greatest charms of style is comprised in har- mony ; such is the analogy between the phy- sical and the moral, that all the affections of the soul produce a correspondent inflexion of voice, a certain melody of language which is in unison with its sense. The predominant tone of my father’s feel- ings was dignity or magnanimity; and by ob- serving the harmony of his style we became sensible to the expression of his character. I am, however, persuaded that had he allowed himself more frequently to break the measured regularity of his periods, and to assume occa- sionally a familiar tone ; had he even descended to his readers only to render them more sen- sible of his accustomed elevation, he might perhaps have inspired less respect; his style PRIVATE LIFE OF M. NECKER, 103 would not have preserved such classical ma- jesty, but to the majority of readers, the mag- nificent idea profusely scattered through his writings, would have been more obvious and even more attractive. It requires an effort of attention to distinguish whatever is refined, ingenious, and original in a style whose regu- larity is never interrupted. Had not Bossuet been unequal, his sublime passages would perhaps excite less emotion. The continuity of excellence in any thing of human compo- sition can scarcely ever produce a continuity of admiration. The harmony and magnificence which prevail in almost all M. Necker’s acknow- ledged works, assume a totally different cha- racter in the romance which completes the present collection, and in which, surren- dered without reserve to the emotions of a susceptible heart, he has resumed his native simplicity, and caught a tone of eloquence equally graceful and impassioned. The pe- rusal of this little tale will convey the best 104 MEMOIRS OF THE idea of what he was in domestic life, and of the desolation which must be felt by those Avho have now to learn to live without him. Eighteen months have scarcely passed since one morning, at our breakfast table, the con- versation having turned on novels, I ventured to express m}'’ doubts whether he could ever write one. tie replied that it was more pos- sible to excite a lively interest by conjugal love than any other sentiment. Having men- tioned an event which had recently occurred at Paris, I proposed that he should make it the basis of a novel : to this proposal he acceded, and in six weeks presented to my perusal the little work which I am now offer- ing to the public. At this moment, when every word finds an echo in my sorrowing heart, I receive not a stronger impression than I experienced from the first perusal. There is a certain degree of talent which is not susceptible of improvement : and when we recollect that this admirable language of love, of passion. private life of M. NECKER. 105 of sensibility, of delicacy, is the production of one who had counted seventy years, who had been occupied with great political courts, and immersed in financial calculations, when we recollect that the same name is prefixed to the Administration of Finances and the Fatal Error ; that the same man, at an advanced age, suddenly develops in addition, or rather in opposition to his acknowledged talents, the graces of youth, the ardent passions of maturity, and I know not what delicacy of sentiment, which blended the freshness of first impressions with the consciousness of a long and beautiful remembrance ; — when all this is recollected, it appears to me, that old age, at least that of my father, can no longer be regarded as the decline of life, but as the commencement of immortality. I can with truth affirm, that in the last years of his ex- istence there was an almost celestial expres- sion in his looks and his accents. It was on this renovation of strength and sensibility that I founded my hopes of his protracted i06 MEMOIRS OF THE existence ; and I fancied I saw a new pledge for the duration of his earthly career, when it was but an anticipation of that heaven which already began to take possession of his soul. The unbounded admiration for M. Necker, which I have felt, or rather with which I have been imbued from the earliest period of ray existence, far from being attributed to the illusions of filial tenderness, should rather be considered as authenticating the reality of his virtues. In the paternal and filial relations, a father and daughther not only become most intimately acquainted \vith their mutual weaknesses, but if the passions of youth should clash with the reason of age, the child has obviously an interest in detect- ing the foibles of the parent — not to expose them, but simply to annul that authority which impedes the accomplishment of its own wishes. I will not dissemble, that I have sometimes been prompted by such motives to enter on a PRIVATE LIFE OF M. NECKER. 10^ similar examination ; and the result has been honourable to him in whom I vainly at- tempted to discover frailty. Never have I seen my father deceive himself, or submit to deception ; — never have I known him fix a false boundary between discretion and gene- rosity; — never have I found him unac- quainted with the best means of attaining a determinate object -never has he failed to detect the truth, however artfully concealed or entangled. The conviction of his sagacity has operated on my character in a manner which could not but be disadvantageous in my intercourse with the world. Accustomed from infancy to rest in the belief, that every effort to conceal my feelings must be futile and unavailing, I have often communicated whatever I felt to people who could not, by their own sagacity, have divined my senti- ments ; ■ — to this communication I was prompted, not by frankness, but the suppo- sition that concealment was impracticable, and that it was therefore better by anticipa- tion to prevent them from having the advan- - 108 MEMOIRS OF THE tage of a discovery. To the almost preterna^ tural sagacity of my father, I may trace an opinion with which I was long impressed, that whatever we think or do must sooner or later be divulged ; — an opinion on which 1 have sometimes acted with a degree of cul- pable precipitation. To have lived with such a man as Necker was a bad preparation for the world. It was during the last illness of my mother, and after her death, (since which ten years have elapsed,) that the character of my father in private life was most fully developed. In the course of her long malady, he la- vished on her cares, of which it is impossible, by description, to give any adequate idea. Tormented with restless nights, during the day she sometimes slept, whilst she reclined her head on her husband’s shoulder ; and I have often seen him several hours standing in the same position, lest he should awaken her by making the slightest movement. Nor were those cares merely such as duty dictates, but such as tenderness inspires, animated by PRIVATE LIFE OF M. NECKER. f09 that sentiment of genuine love which is pre- served in pure souls through all the vicissi- tudes of time and suffering. It was often a solace to my mother to hear music. Every evening musicians were sum- moned to her chamber, and she felt that har- monious sounds might inspire those elevated thoughts which can alone give to death the character of sublime serenity. On the last day of her life, whilst wind instruments were playing in an apartment close to hers, there was something inexpressibly sombre in the contrast between the different expression of the airs and the uniform sentiment of sadness with which the approach of death filled every heart. One day, when it happened that no musicians were in attendance, at the request of my father, 1 sat down to the piano, and after having executed several pieces, began to sing the air of Edipus Colonna^ by Sacchini, the words of which describe the cares of Antigone : — She has lavished her tenderness and her cares ; Her sympathy has lent charms to my misfortunes. no MEMOIRS OF IHE My father could not listen to these words without shedding a torrent of tears. I ven- tured not to proceed ; and for several hours after saw him at the feet of his dying wife, wholly abandoned to that powerful emotion which reduced a great man — a man occupied with important interests and fortified by sub- lime meditation, to the mere creature of feel- ing, overwhelmed with grief and inaccessible to consolation. When my mother was no more, it was not by the ravings of despair my father demon- strated a grief which was no less permanent than his existence. He executed her last wishes with a self-possession peculiar to that deeper sensibility which concentrates all its strength in the performance of a sacred duty. Some hours after my mother’s death, I en- tered his chamber, the windows of which opened on a magnificent view of the Alps, illumined by the morning sun : — “ Perhaps her soul hovers there,” exclaimed he, point- ing to a slight cloud that passed over the horizon : he paused and was silent. Ah ! PRIVATE LIFE OF M. NECKER. Ill why was he not called to pronounce on me the same words ? In his presence I should have had no fear of death, for in him were reali;2ed all my conceptions of religion — to whose sanctuary I seemed to have free access whilst he remained on earth ; and now am I left solitary and desolate to complete my weary pilgrimage. Much has been said of the solicitude ex- pressed by my mother respecting her inter- ment. In the course of her attendance on the hospitals, she had discovered more than one instance of premature sepulture, which made a strong impression on her imagination. She attached also the utmost importance to the idea that her ashes might be re-united to those of her adored husband, for whom her affection extended beyond the grave. There is, perhaps, nothing extraordi- nary in this solicitude, in a character of a contemplative cast, which, ev'en in the midst of life, is absorbed by the gloomy images of death. Men are in general right when they >12 MEMOIRS OF THE plunge into public affairs, or lose in dissipa- tion the recollection of that mortal destiny which, to those who can be satisfied with ordinary interests and vulgar pleasures, pre- sents the most revolting aspect. But when religion, love, and misfortune have fixed in solitude two beings united by sympathy and esteem, and approaching with equal steps towards the tomb, with such a destiny, what can be more natural than that a person of imagination and sensibility should seek to annihilate the dreary void of an eternal sepa- ration ? These remarks refer to the testa- mentary dispositions of Mad. Necker, w'hich were executed by her husband with strict punctuality and unlimited obedience; and never, during the ten years that he remained the guardian of her tomb, was her image banished from his memory. I have in my possession some private papers composed immediately after her de- cease ; in one of which he enumerates his various motives for deploring her irreparable PRIVATE LIFE OF M. NECKER. II3 loss ; — in another he institutes an examina- tion of his own conduct, and anxiously asks himself in what instance he had been want- ing in attention to her felicity. He recalls every possible circumstance by which he might have contributed to her happiness or misery, and appears to have become more or less tranquil as he was more or less satisfied with the result of his scrutiny. Not content with this examination of words and actions, he retires within himself: and appeals to his inmost heart to pronounce judgment on the affection he has experienced. I challenge history or even fiction to pro- duce a parallel instance of conjugal tenderness. All other men, in similar compositions, ex- hibit only a superficial sensibility ; — in those of my father new faculties of feeling are de- veloped ; a love which in purity assimilates with the divine ; and which, in its capacities for suffering, only appears human ; — a love replete with delicacy and tenderness; guilt- less of blame, yet accessible to remorse, I ]14 MEMOIRS OF THE What happiness did not my mother possess during many revolving years ! The love which withers wdth time and age — the love which is not consecrated by mutual senti- ments of esteem, fidelity, and duty — how poor is such love compared with the attach- ment so long exemplified in this admirable union ! In such a wedded pair there is an identity of existence and of memory which should seem to offer a guarantee for immor- tality. They who have dissipated their affec- tion on various objects, know not where to reclaim them. In the moment of universal renovation, one look from heaven is sufficient to reanimate two virtuous beings, wffio in life participated of the same thoughts, and had a common fund of hope and fear of suffering and enjoyment. It cannot be doubted that my father preserved to his last moments the most devoted tenderness for my mother’s memory ; but it is a satisfaction to me to reflect, that during some years it was the privilege of myself and ray children to have PRIVATE LIFE OF M. NECKER. 115 almost exclusively engrossed the affections of that noble heart — as tender in its domestic sympathies, as sublime in its principles. In one of the letters which I last year re- ceived from him, he observes, that he is con- vinced he is much more fitted for a private than a public station. Alive to all the do- mestic charities, whoever approached came within the sphere of his influence — every human affection was sacred ; — every social duty had its appropriate place, and, from the first to the last, nothing was neglected. When the French entered Switzerland, my father, who had been proscribed during the reign of terror, found himself, though a foreigner, on the list of emigrants. In this number he had been enrolled in 1793, when, by vindicating the king, he exposed to con- fiscation whatever property he possessed in France. Many of his friends were alarmed at the situation of M. Necker at Copet, the first frontier town which the French were to occupy. As he insisted on not removing I 2 MEMOIRS OF THE 1 16 from the spot, we remained in our own home, committing ourselves to the mercy of the French Directory, and to the sentiments which were personally entertained by the French officers. Our confidence was not misplaced. The French generals evinced for my father the most respectful consideration, and, by the unanimous resolution of the Directory, his name was erased from the list of proscrip- tion. There was, however, some cause for alarm at a moment when, according to law, every emigrant discovered on the territory occupied by the French troops might be condemned to death. But my father, though accustomed to exaggerate dangers to which my mother and myself were exposed, persisted in remain- ing at Copet ; and our servants having been drawn by curiosity to the public road, we were actually left alone in our deserted chateau, at the very moment that the French were entering Switzerland. Fievious to this event, ray father had been PRIVATE LIFE OF M. NECKER. 11 ? employed in perusing his papers, carefully committing to the flames every letter, and even panegyric, which might have subjected the writer to suspicion. Of his scrupulous delicacy in whatever concerned the safety of others, I cite one instance among a thousand which are present to my recollection : — Some years before, he had received a letter from an honest citizen of Vesoul, disclaiming all participation in the injustice and ingrati- tude of his compatriots, and expressing, in the strongest terms, his indignation against those who could have been wanting in respect to the name of Necker. Hitherto my father had preserved this letter, as a record of guileless simplicity which softened his regrets ; but, fearing lest this man should incur the ill will of his fellow-citizens, he so carefully erased the signature, that, when I discovered this letter amongst my father’s papers, I was wholly unable to trace the writer’s name. Too many similar actions has he consigned 118 MEMOIRS OF THE to oblivion, simply because they had escaped his own memory. A few days ago, I dis- covered, by accident, a new trait of delicacy, almost singular in its character. He had let a house near Copet on the ordinary terms to a family in middling circumstances. When this family quitted it, a woman , of fortune asked to occupy the same house at a lower rent, and, by dint of importunity, at length carried her point ; but conceiving himself bound to restore to the poorer family the excess of the rent which he had received from them during many 3'ears, my father wrote to request their acceptance of a sum equivalent to the restitution. To have offered the same sum from motives of generosity would have been an action of ordinary benevolence : it is the scrupulous integrity which renders the ex- ample almost unique in the annals of virtue. In consequence of the French Revolution, and the sequestration of his property in France, M. Necker had forfeited three-fourths of his fortune. To the hour of his death a PRIVATE LIFE OF M. NECKER. IIQ false estimate was made of his wealth, which was measured not by his revenues but his benefactions. In dispensing his bounties he was uninfluenced by personal feelings, and often selected from those who had been ini- mical to his interests, the objects of his com- miseration and beneficence. His liberality was free from ostentation, yet without af- fectation ofsecresy. Such was the simplicity of his character, that his virtues were perhaps comprehended only by those who sympa- thized in his feelings. His moral perfections, like every thing at once majestic and well- proportioned, did not immediately strike the eye. He had so much sincerity, that in studying the character of what is truly noble and good, a writer could not do better than examine the actions, the manners, and the words of M. Necker, the expressions he em- ployed, whether decided or qualified, the ac- cent of his voice, the language of his physio- ‘gnomy, all bespoke that harmony of truth, which is rather to be felt than expressed, and which, though it may be analysed by the 120 MEMOIRS OF THE critical observer, is beyond imitation with- out the impulse of kindred genius. In the least, or in the greatest actions of life, my father’s conduct was regulated by immutable principles ; yet he had for others that indulgence which results equally from goodness, and from a knowledge of the human heart. There is an unbend- ing rigour in conventional principles indis- criminately applied to all persons and cir- cumstances, which influences society rather as a penal code than the decision of an enlightened judgment. That this severity is to be preferred to relaxation of principles, or corruption of manners, cannot be disputed ; but it is the perfection of morality to qualify its judgments by comprehensive views of human character and human life. Genius recognises in superior faculties power and peril, and therefore subjects not all men to the same standard. Without ever seeking for himself any pre- text for extenuation, my father admitted this distinction in its full extent. He felt that, PRIVATE LIFE OF M. NECKER. J2i in some respects, the man of an enlarged mind was necessarily the better man ; he knew that the accumulation of ideas must have an inevitable tendency to produce expansion and greatness of soul, and that if superior men are not always perfectly moral, morality can scarcely be perfect but amongst superior men. My father united to a predilection for per- sons of talent and of imagination, a perfect be- nevolence for ordinary men, occupied solely with habitual pursuits, but whose experience offered an accession to his stock of useful knowledge. If he sometimes hazarded plea- santry with his intimates, it was accompanied with such grace, and restrained by such de- licacy, that 1 could class among the happiest moments of my life those in which I was myself the object of his sportive gaiety. In- veterate stupidity alone provoked his impa- tience. He entertained respect for those who had prosecuted with success any art or sci- ence, or useful occupation, or who had culti- vated to perfection any single faculty — even the incapacity which most annoyed him he 122 MEMOIRS OF THE learnt to tolerate, from a sentiment of all others omnipotent in his soul, the fear of inflicting pain. He was eminently alive to the emotions of pity, an affection always calculated to inspire attachment, but which in a man of superior talents falls like precious dew on the dreariness and avidity of human life. My father was at once the most im- posing, yet most conciliatory of human beings ; the man before whom it had been most painful to feel the blush of shame, but at whose feet it had been least revolting to shed the tears of repentance : the man from whom I should have sought consolation, not by demonstrations of penitence, but by spon- taneous and unreserved confession — by asso- ciating his image with my thoughts, and pouring my whole soul into his paternal bosom. I do not believe that any individual ever inspired in an equal degree confidence and respect. I have never known any who could invite PRIVATE LIFE OF M. NECKER, 123 to such endearing familiary without renounc- ing that dignity which, whenever restraint becomes necessary, imposes silence with a single word. Often have I seen him encircled by my children, welcoming to his table their juvenile companions with an expression of benignity, at once so touching and so vene- rable, that even his condescension, whilst it endeared his gaiety, inspired reverence. As he advanced in life he became subject to many infirmities, and in particular suf- fered from an excess of corpulence, which impeded his movements, and rendered him averse to mixing in society. He had a re- pugnance to becoming the object of obser- vation, and perpetually recurred to the graces of youth. Sometimes he said to me : “ I know not why humiliation should be at- tached to the infirmities of age, and yet I feel that I am humbled.” It was perhaps owing to this little shade of weakness that he was so tenderly beloved. No other man could inspire for old age that tenderness intermin- 124 MEMOIRS OF THE gled with respect which created in the heart more than filial sentiment. It is not uncommon to meet with old men who affect the mann-ers of youth ; but there unfortunately exists in the juve- nile imagination something which repels this infringement on the laws of nature ; and although the young may at first ap- plaud the efforts to assimilate to them, they have some difficulty to restrain the energetic feelings, the wild exuberance of youth. There are other old men more respectable but not equally amiable, who place themselves in the centre of a certain rational sphere formed to exclude imagination, and with it all the in- definite gifts and attractions of the heart and mind. Such men extort respect, but repel affection ; the young are over-awed by their presence, and though it were impossible but that all, sooner or later, should acquire the same disposition, this stern contempt of hu- man vanity, like the herald of death, appals the soul that glows with hope and kindles PRIVATE LIFE OF M. NECKER. 125 with ardent affection. Both these extremes had been avoided by my father, whose coun- tenance, at once touching and serene, has left on my mind an indelible impression of virtuous age, and even disposed me to offer involuntary respect to every other man of the same venerable aspect. It is only at this epoch of human life that the heart is divested of its habitual egotism, and the friend becomes the tute- lary guardian of those he loves. Never shall I forget with what looks my father appeared to follow me, when I plunged into conversation with all the ardour and impetuosity inspired by active interests and ardent feelings. With those looks, though himself reposing on the shore, he seemed to accompany me with his vows and his bene- dictions, silently deploring that he could no longer protect me from the conflicting ele- ments. The feebleness of his frame presented a striking contrast to the strength of his under- standing, the depth of his judgment, the acute 126 MEMOIRS OF THE discrimination with which he appreciated the value of those intellectual treasures collected by time, by study, and experience. There was in this contrast something that cast around my father I know not what halo of futurity: and I often contemplated him with those emotions of tenderness which are awakened by the sight of a young man blasted in his first bloom, and whose hectic cheeks announce his rapid progress to an untimely grave. In these declining years his life was ob- scured by a portentous cloud, and he inspired an awful presage in that heart where he was not only beloved but adored. It was impos* sible to doubt that my father sympathized in the sufferings of human life. He attempted not to arrest the natural course of feeling by the impertinence of ordinary maxims, and common-place counsels. He penetrated to your inmost being before he whispered conso- lation. He placed himself exactly in your position before he attempted to decide upon your destiny. No one more frequently than myself has had occasion to remark in him. PRIVATE LIFE OF M. NECKER. 127 that ingenious benevolence with which he divined the sentiments peculiar to different circumstances, either of age or fortune, not only with impartiality, but disinterestedness. He resided in a province, which is not my native country, where the sciences are culti- vated, perhaps to the disadvantage, almost to the exclusion, of literature. He was sen- sible to the pain I suffered from the conflict of opposing feelings, when recalled by my friends and my predominant tastes to France, yet withheld by filial affection and insu- perable repugnance to the idea of renouncing, even for a short period, his society. On such occasions, it was usual for him to take my part against my censurers ; he even per- sisted in taking it against myself. When I sometimes lamented that I could not, like him, enjoy existence in solitude, nor, like him, supply to myself the loss of that quick collision of mind, that ardent emulation of glory, which doubles life and gives new powers to genius, he encouraged my predilection 128 MEMOIRS OF THE for France, still clinging with affection to the memory of the past, and fervently desir- ing to preserve to his descendants an attach- ment to his adopted country. Little did I think at the moment of our parting, when we breathed the most tender adieu, with a delicious hope of a speedy re- union, little did I then think that we were parting for ever. M. Mathew de Montmorenci, who, though devoted to the most exalted duties, is not indifferent to the delicate cares of friendship, M. de Montmorenci was present at that memorable moment; he witnessed the in^ terest with which my father calculated even the most minute circumstance of my destiny ; he saw him bless me ; but the benediction was not ratified by heaven. During this fatal separation I was to lose my protector — my guardian — my friend — him whom I should have chosen from all mankind for the su- preme, the only object of my affection, had we been permitted to be coevals, to enter PRIVATE LIFE OF M. NECKER. JOQ into the sphere of human existence toge- ther. No one, like my father, could ever inspire in those around the idea of an almost super- natural protection. It was peculiar to his mind to discover resources for almost every emergency; and, by a rare union of prudence and activity, he would provide for every thing and yet compromise nothing. During the convulsions of France, when we were even separated, I still confided in his protection, and never conceived the pos- sibility of becoming subject to any calamity. Whilst he lived I felt assured that he would fly to my assistance. I knew that by his venerable air, his imposing eloquence, I might be redeemed from a prison. As a tute- lary angel I addressed him : as such I yielded to his influence, with the unutterable con- viction that it was not on me, but on him that devolved the care of my safety. I believed that even my errors were to be repaired by his assistance. So long as he lived, nothing K 130 MEMOIRS OF THE appeared impossible — nothing hopeless. It is only since his death that I have learnt to feel terror — that I have lost that sanguine confidence of youth which relies on obtaining every thing by its own effort. From him alone was derived my strength ; — my confi- dence was his support. Does this tutelary spirit still watch over my fate ? Shall it dictate to me w'hat to ask, or warn me what to shun ? Shall it still guide my steps ? Are those paternal wings extended to my children, whom he blessed with his dying breath ? Enshrined in my heart, may I still seek him there, to invoke his aid and to re- ceive his counsels 1 In our retirement, my father allowed me the privilege of conversing with him familiarly several hours every day; and, relieved from the apprehension of being an intruder, I freely demanded his opinion on every subject. He composed at stated hours, without ever hav- ing neglected either business or friendship. If I even entered his apartment within this PRIVATE LIFE OF M. NECKER. 131 interval, I perceived by a single glance that my presence gave him pleasure. Oh ! for that cherished look, that paternal welcome, which it shall never more be mine to receive. I am now in the same apartment, surrounded by the objects associated with his image, my soul, my heart invoke him, and in vain ! Oh ! what is then the barrier that separates the living from the dead? An awful barrier, surely — or the being so good, so benevolent — the being by whom I was so tenderly be^ loved, in witnessing my despair — would, if he was permitted, come to to my assistance. It has been remarked by a writer of no common talent, that there must always be some point in which two hearts do not touch, which in time would be difficult to render their union supportable ; but sprung from the same blood, a daughter has, however subordinate in her character, a perfect analogy with the beloved father who formed her mind from infancy, whose sentiments she mechani- cally imbibed, whose opinions she implicitly K 2 132 MEMOIRS OF THE adopted, and with whom she freely partici-- pated wiiatever he possessed — except those sublime virtues which were incapable of par- ticipation. In losing such a father, who re- quired only that his children should love him and be happy, the anchorage of hope is gone — the pillar of confidence crumbles to the dustJ not liberty, but desolation is offered to view. It was for 'him, the sublime man, the exalted son of genius to charge himself with the care of my humbler destiny. Even in what regards external circumstances I have suddenly passed from the most perfect confidence to doubt and uncertainty. There is not a single instance, whether small or great, ostensible or secret, in which I find not my loss as total as it must be irreparable. By what eflforts such privation is to be en- dured, I have yet to learn. I continue to exist, though none watches over my safety. I exist, though removed from that protection w'hich rendered me interesting in my own eyes. Grief produces but grief. One day PRIVATE LIFE OF M. NECKER. 133 succeeds another, and I wake but to find life more desolate — more destitute of consolation. One of the greatest charms that I tasted in the intercourse with my father was, to per- ceive that he took a lively interest in real events, and was little disposed to pursue discussions on abstract questions. He had such an affluence of ideas, that it was scarcely possible to impart to him any with which he was not familiar : but as he was also an adept in the human heart, he was warmly inter- ested in whatever developed its affections, and illustrated the history of man. Nothing was more revolting to him than common- place metaphysics. “ I would rather,” said he one day to me, “ listen to the good man who should describe to me the colour of the equipage he has just met in the streets, than to that Monsieur who addressed me the other day with : ‘ I know not whether you are of my opinion, sir, but it appears to me, that self-love is the primum mobile of all human actions.’ ” Real events, however trifling, are 134 MEMOIRS OF THE less insipid and more pregnant with new ideas than common place reflections, reiterated by all, and felt by none. Aware of my father’s relish for strictures on men and manners, I was early accustomed to relate or to write to him whatever came under my observation, (when separated from each other) : I still lived with him in the con- sciousness that I was collecting materials for som.e future conversations, or in the satisfac- tion of transmitting to him my own sources of enjoyment. He has frequently said that he wished not to see more of the world than lie found in my descriptions, which afforded him amusement without fatigue. He listened with so much animation — it was so delight- ful to inspire him with pleasure — that I am unable to recognize myself now that the pulse of life stands still, and that I can no longer measure it with his existence. The most stupendous events pass before me like so many shadows; — his reflections, his thoughts, his sentiments no longer embody themselves PRIVATE LIFE OF M. NECKER. 135 to my eyes. When we were separated, he was incessantly before me. I felt his pre- sence not only in the events of life, but in the still more tender sympathy he lavished on my happiness, and that of my children. In my last fatal journey what did not his kindness suggest, or rather prevent, to secure my daughter and myself from what he called the dangers of our expedition. Even his letters are full of minute details, for which he some- times offered the amiable excuse of paternal solicitude. I was perfectly aware of this angelic weakness which ever afforded me such voluptuous gratification, that when my daughter and myself, in going from Nurem- berg to Berlin, were overturned in the snow, I exulted in the opportunity it afforded me of relating the adventure at Copet, and of wit- nessing the emotions with which he should, listen to the recital of our perilous situation, and in hearing him anathematize the careless- ness of my servant, and even my own temerity. It is only from a father we can receive such 136 MEMOIRS OF THE proofs of affection — an aged father, who is himself detached from the realities of life. Whilst our cotemporaries are engaged in mu- tual conflicts, how delicious is the protec- tion extended by our progenitors ; — how dis- interested the love which makes us feel every moment that we are still young and still tenderly beloved, and that w'e have yet a place on earth. When these too fall — when the generation that preceded our existence is passed away, we are left exposed to the arrows of death, and soon shall it be our turn to re- ceive his behest and fill up the measure of human destiny. In the spring of that same year I was in Germany, in the possession of happiness, having regained my former elasticity and emulation in that land of sincerity, of know- lodge and enthusiasm, which deigned to distinguish the daughter of M. Necker, as if it had been to Germany alone that her father owed his fortune, or devoted his genius and his virtues. PRIVATE LIFE OF M. NECKER. ]37 In the many introductory letters, with Vv'hich I was supplied by my father, he gave me the title of his only and cherished daughter ; and to noble minds no other re- commendation could be necessary to engage their suffrage in favour of her whom such a man had honoured with that tender appella- tion. I know not whether it was the will of Heaven that the thunder should reach me when I reposed in the bosom of happiness, and when the heart, which had been chilled by the bitter experience of ingratitude, once more expanded with hope and confidence. I was forming plans for various works, with the view of introducing into France the literature of Germany. I had been collecting notes on different subjects, which I hoped to submit to my father’s judgment. I was even amus- ing myself with calculating by the almanack the very day fixed for my departure, whilst my father, laughing at my passion for dates, promised to quit Geneva precisely at the same hour, and to proceed in expectation of 138 MEMOIRS OF THE my arrival at Copet. In the last letter 1 re- ceived from him are these words, which should alone inspire distrust in human des- tiny : — “ Enjoy, my child, without anxiety, whatever pleasure you can receive from the society of Berlin, for I know not when I have experienced such sensations of health.” These assurances had lulled me to a security totally foreign from my habitual temper. Seldom had I breathed so lightly, never had I been more perfectly disengaged from all the cares and solicitudes which are the precursors of grief. It was on the morning of the 18th of August that one of my friends laid on my table two letters announcing my father’s ill- ness, carefully concealing from me by what courier they had been brought, and what dreadful intelligence had been communicated. I departed instantly, unsuspicious of the de- ception, and till my arrival at Weimar never surmised the fatal truth that he was no more. It is impossible to describe those incon- ceivable emotions which we suffer from the PRIVATE LIFE OF M. NECKER. 139 death of our most intimate friend, with whom we have passed our whole life, who by the reciprocation of pain and pleasure seems iden- tified and indissolubly united with our own existence. It is only by observing the de- cline of strength, the extinction of energy, that we become truly sensible to the disparity of age; but to pass from a letter full of busy plans and gay anticipations, and breathing the most tender and ardent sentiments to an eternal silence, is such a stroke of calamity as the heart wants courage to sustain, and ima- gination has no power to surpass. In those terrible moments in which the whole human being is disorganised, when we are conscious of a sort of internal frenzy that rages within us, we are disposed to create systems and superstitions to renew our hopes and recall our illusions. On retracing my past life, I asked whether I had ever committed any crimes to merit such signal punishment, and had a momentary persuasion that it was impossible such a penalty was imposed. 140 MEMOIRS OF THE When conviction was compelled by reason, my sufferings were such as must have ex- torted pity even from my most implacable enemies. But it is not to inspire pity that I write, in France more than any country this sentiment has long been exhausted. When I mention mj^self, it is only as an act of justice to my father, to illustrate his cha- racter by describing the impression which he produced on a heart susceptible of lively feelings — on one, who but for him could never have fathomed all the depths of life. It is but a feeble expression to say we should prefer death to grief. Who has not experienced this impulse of desperation, even for comparatively trivial sorrows ? But, to give an idea of what was peculiar in ray father’s character, and of his influence on the destiny of others if any one should say to me — “ You shall be reduced to the most abject poverty, but your father, restored to youth, shall be the partner of your whole life” — the most delicious vision would be presented to my imagination. I should see PRIVATE LIFE OF M. NECKER. J4I his active intelligence recommencing the career of fortune ; his dignity sustaining my respectability ; his comprehensive mind pre- serving me from a monotonous insipidity; whilst the devotedness of his affection should ingeniously discover or create a thousand sources of pleasure, combined with skill and enjoyed with wisdom. If another should de- nounce on me the calamity of blindness ; — if it were predicted to me : “All this nature which smiles around you shall vanish from your eyes: you shall no longer see your children^ but your father shall be your cotemporary ; his arm shall be your support ; you shall still listen to his voice your father, whose kindness was never withheld from misfortune ; — your father, whose pity was inexhaustible, who possesses an inimitable talent for consolation, and the most ingenious address in rousing the dejected soul ; — your father, from whom you have derived every thing in this world, shall accompany your future steps in life” — even such a destiny, were it offered to my choice, 142 MEMOIRS OF THE I should not hesitate to prefer to indepen- dence, without his sympathy and support. Whilst I possessed him, the disparity in our ages frequently disturbed my tranquillity; but were he restored to me, I would, methinks, gladly commute for it six months from every year of my existence. Were it possible, during the existence of the beloved object, to conceive the misery into which we are plunged by his loss, how much better should we know how to con- tribute to his happiness ; how much more should we feel the value of every hour, of every moment enjoyed in his society. In vain do we recall the memory of our former affections. It should seem that our enjoyment has borne no proportion to our sufferings, so superficial is our life that we do not half appreciate what we possess till it is wrested from our grasp. We are then haunted by the remembrance of our omissions. A mo- mentary expression of ill-humour or bitter- ness, though a thousand times expiated and PRIVATE LIFE OP M. NECKER. 143 pardoned, pursues the heart like a mortal enemy : at length all our thoughts become perplexed, and who knows if we shall be able to dissipate the phantoms created by despair ? My father, in the spring of that fatal year, lived at Geneva, surrounded by his friends, and amongst them his eldest brother, for whom he had uniformly cherished the most cordial esteem and affection. He was also cheared by his niece, my dearest friend, (the daughter of the celebrated physician, Mad. Necker de Saussure,) and who, like an adopt- ed sister, supplied my place in absence. In the narrow circle of domestic life. Mad. Necker de Saussure has acquired superior in- telligence, and, in the ardent feelings of her affectionate heart, I had a guarantee for my immediate recall, whenever an alteration in the state of my father’s health should alarm her solicitude. But the malady which proved mortal, equally violent and unexpected, at- tacked him at the moment when he seemed to have the most perfect enjoyment of life 144 MEMOIRS OF THE when in full possession of all his moral anch intellectual energies, he might have continued to illustrate his character by his writings, and to direct the destiny of my children. In a few passages written for his own private eye, I have found some passages admirably expres- sive of composure, of complacency, and ten- derness. “ This is an agreeable age for writing,” he observes ; “ this pra of three score and ten. Your mind has not lost its vigour. Envy begins to leave you in peace, and you hear, by anticipation, the silver-toned voice of fame.” In another passage, he says — “ You are old, yet full of life, of love for your chil- dren. Must all these energies be deposited in the bosom of death ?” Alas ! he regretted us, and we were unable to retain him. In one of his reflections he makes the following re- mark ; — “ When we lose a friend we are apt to think only of our own regrets ; but should we not also think of the regrets which the de- parting friend must also suffer, in separating from those he loves It appears to me PRIVATE LIFE OF M. NECKER. 145 that be clung to life. It is indeed impossible but that such warm affections, such happy recollections, mu«t, in every situation, give value to existence. It is in the season of the passions, that the heart is left a prey to bitter- ness and despair. Often in our familiar conversations, my father gently complained of the rapid flight of time. He once exclaimed, “ Why am I not thy brother? — I should then protect thee all thy life.” Methinks it must be an obtuse being whom such recollections do not in- stantly destroy. It is sometimes a cruel situation to love with enthusiasm one whose years double ours — to feel the impotence of our wishes to resist that invincible necessity, which im- poses an eternal separation — to be unable to tear from our own hearts that agitated life, which is as a consuming flame, and to di- vide it with him whom we have lost for ever ! One of the most astonishing miracles of the 146 MEMOIRS OF THE moral world is that total forgetfulness of death in which we all continue to exist — that fri- volity of sensation, which makes us float so lightly on the waves. I am not surprised that persons of a susceptible nature, when penetrated with this reflection, should retire to some monastic solitude, anxious to dis- cover, in the most gloomy objects, some shade of resemblance between our early and our latter days. We know not in youth — previous to the experience of some great calamity, we are un- able to comprehend — what it is to have lost all confidence in futurity. I cannot now be separated, during a single day from the sur- viving objects of ray affection, but that every sudden noise recalls that messenger at Berlin, who changed for ever the tenor of my destiny. From poetry and music, those inexhaustible sources of tender melancholy, I now expe- rience only the most agonizing emotions. I can scarcely persuade myself that he is not there, and that by dint of tears I shall not PRIVATE LIFE OF M. NECKER. 147 recall him to existence. And those impas- sioned sensibilities, once so delicious, from which I derived my enthusiasm, serve but to renew in all its violence the grief which, during the ordinary occupation of the day, had been stilled, or rather, stupefied. There is a window in my father’s study which looks upon the wood, where he had orected the tomb in which his remains were to be re-united to my mother’s ashes. The same window commands a view of the avenue leading to the spot ; and it was there that he was accustomed to stand after I had left him to bid me adieu, waving his handkerchief till I was no longer in sight. On one of the evenings that we spent to- gether in this study, during the last autumn, when we had been long engaged in the most interesting conversation, I asked A^m, who seemed to be my guarantee from every mis- fortune, even from that of losing him, what would become of me if ever I should be called to this severe trial ? “ My child,” L 2 148 MEMOIRS OF THE replied he, with a broken voice, and with an angelic expression of countenance — “ God tempers the wind to the shorn lamb/’ Alas ! the storm has not spared me. Deprived of one country, I return to the other — to the paternal mansion — but to find a tomb. It is possible that I shall be blamed for having printed, amongst my father’s posthu- mous works, some passages which contain my own eulogium; but I scruple not to avow, that I value nothing half so much as those commendations, and far from suppres- sing them, I am desirous to reprint, in the present collection, that note in reference to me, which is annexed to the miscellanies of my mother; and the letters in my behalf, which he addressed in the succeeding years to one of the first functionaries of the state. I should have found no enemies, I should not have been refused that benevolence to which I was entitled, had I been permitted to invest myself with this magnificent suffrage. But his memory is now my egis, and this shall yet PRIVATE LIFE OP M. NECKER. I49 cover me till I descend to the tomb where we shall one day be all three united. I shall not attempt to dispute the observa- tion which some may be pleased to make, that we are a family who delighted to echo each other’s praises. Yes — we loved ; — we could not live without saying that we loved. We scorned to repel the attacks of our ene- mies. We forebore to direct our strength against them. To malice and persecution we opposed only those principles of which I alone remain the unfortunate but faithful de- pository. My father, in one of his memorandums, writes “ Ours is truly a singular family.” Singular it perhaps has been, and such let it remain. Never shall the multitude pur- sue the path it has chosen. It will be for posterity alone to determine whether my fa- ther did right in sacrificing so much of present good for the suffrage of future ages. He admired the expression of St. Augustin, in speaking of the Divinity — because 150 MEMOIRS OF THE he is eternal.’* Even man, feeble as he is when he aspires to glory — to that terrestrial immortality, ought to be patient, if he would be eternal. My father, as will appear by his Thoughts^ was frequently occupied with the ideas of death, which he endeavoured to familiarize to his imagination : and it is probable that death w ould have been more frequently the subject of our private conversation, but for the disparity of age, which must have embit- tered our reflections. Happily, however, this expression, the disparity of age, has but a momentary, an evanescent sense ; a little while, and it will be for me to suffer those mortal agonies which he has tasted. At that terrible moment he also shall appear before me ; it will be in his arms that I shall breathe my last. In one of his notes he says — “ Imagine that you have seen the crowd which as- sists at your interment, and all is over.” Had be then represented to himself the distress PRIVATE LIFE OF M. NECKER. 151 which must be created by his loss — had his penetrating spirit pursued the subject in all its details, even to the sepulchre; but pass- ing from those gloomy ideas to that exquisite delicacy of sentiment, in which no private individual, and still less any public character, ever equalled him, he records in the next page an infantine remark of my daughter, of which the sensibility had touched him. And he subjoins, in speaking of her: “ Would that some one would bring me tidings of her 1’* It is for me, my father, to be the first to fulfil that mission. Kindly has Providence thrown over our future paths the veil of hope. Were our eyes permitted to take a clear view of the opposite shore, who would remain on this desolate coast? Who would not be im- patient to depart, and to rejoin his chosen friends ? In the progress of my father’s illness he was soon in a state of delirium. Even then, when disengaged from all external objects, he evinced the elevation and the sensibility 152 MEMOIRS OF THE of his soul. He incessantly mentioned re- ligion with love and respect ; he implored with fervor the indulgence and the mercy of God. What are we if such a man distrusted his acceptance ? He gave his blessing to my three children ; — he blessed also his daughter. Laying his hand upon his heart, he repeated many times the touching words — “ She has loved me much.” He was anxious for my future fate. Several times during his fever he expressed his apprehensions that his last work might have been injurious to my in- terests. He pitied me for losing him. En- grossed exclusively by the tender domestic affections, he retained no recollection of his arduous career, or of its splendid celebrity. The heart alone survives in those moments of depression, when vulgar men betray only egotism and vanity. His testament commences with thesewords: — “ 1 bless the Supreme Being for the lot which he has been pleased to grant me on earth ; and, with firm affiance, remit to his PRIVATE LIFE OF M. NECKER. 153 g-oodness and mercy my future destiny.” — Thus, in defiance of all his various sufferings, he was satisfied with his lot; and neither assuming pride or affecting humility, he felt that it had been illustrious, and that time would consecrate it to immortality. The last words which he uttered were ad- dressed to the Deity. “ Great God 1” he exclaimed, “ receive thy servant, who ap- proaches death with hasty steps.” Doubt- less this petition was accepted. It was he who was protected by heaven, not his unhappy daughter, w^ho was not even permitted to re- ceive his last words, to sustain him in the awful conflict of nature. She even enjoyed existence at the moment that he perished. In his discourse on charity, he has said : “ How impressive, how sublime is that last moment, in which our account with this world is closed, when the virtuous man, in taking a retrospective view of his former life, may with propriety declare in the words of Job — ‘ I relieved the destitute stranger, and 154 MEMOIRS OF THE the orphan who had none to succour him. The blessing of him who was about to perish came upon me ; and I caused the widow’s heart to sing for joy.’ ” Admirable predic- tion of his own end ! In the same discourse, he describes with a sagacity, which is at once ingenious and affecting, all those good offices, the dispensations which charity em- ploys in administering relief to the suffering wretch, or proposes consolation for the af- flicted soul. It is thus that he discovers the inexhaustible resources of a master mind, surrendered without reserve to the impres- sions of goodness and benevolence. In one day, and by one fatal blow, the sources of pity were dried up, and the altar of magnanimity levelled to the dust. To the disinterested sufferers in the cause of liberty it had been soothing to consider the house of Necker as a sanctuary, and cheering to reflect, that in his remote dwelling, at the foot of the Alps, one great and virtuous man existed, who participated in their sacrifices, and hal- PRIVATE LIFE OF M. NECKER. 155 lowed their exertions ; and who, in his life and writings, continued to inspire that sacred love of truth and rectitude, that elevation of soul, and religious sympathy, which are all- sufficient to recompense pain and privation. And all this is now over. That sanctuary is closed on earth. There is no longer a tri- umph for patriotism. The laurel which the suffrage of one great man conferred on a noble action is blasted. He, who in his illustrious old age, kindled, with a persuasive eloquence, in all who approached him the love of truth and justice, is now silent for ever ! In the universal veneration attached to his name, the good of every country found refuge and protection. And I am not solitary in deplor- ing a loss which leaves in society an awful void — an universal desolation. Other men have pursued a career more brilliant — more dazzling — resplendent to the eye of ambition, and flattering to the heart, whose only aspiration is for prosperity : but never has any man of genius arisen in France 156 PRIVATE LIFE OF M. NECKER. SO warmly, so devotedly the friend of virtue. Never again shall such proofs be given of benevolence, of tenderness, of magnanimity, and heroic attachment. From France, from the world, this bright example is withdrawn, for mankind — as for me, this star is set for ever ! MISCELLANIES BY M. NECKER. . C ' 3 - T m v» • -.n .,t#f MISCELLANIES. I. LIFE BUT AN ESSAY. OUR opinions are subjected to so many changes, and we come and go in every direc- tion in such a manner that, contemplating life as we look behind us, we seem to see no- thing but confusion. There are many observations to be made adapted to impress upon us the belief that the present life is but a simple essay : often, had one instant more been given us for re- flection, some of our greatest faults would not have been committed, and there are symptoms of infancy to be seen even in the most mature age. Is it not also a subject 160 MISCELLANIES. worthy of reflection to see the progress of our mental illumination continue when the pas- sions are gone by — after the period of our life when we seem to have the least occasion for it ? II. POLITICAL ECONOMY. Books will be written probably to the very end of the world upon political economy. It is a science in which each man wanders ac- cording to his fancy ; where we always manage to proceed on our way, whatever may be the propositions with which we chance to set out. *Tis a science in which one is led to follow, unconsciously, the opinions of others ; for all the paths in it run in a circle, and we return upon our steps much more than we advance. It is not thus with geo- metry and the high metaphysics; with geo- metry because we are constrained to pass over all the discoveries of others before we can ascribe to ourselves one new idea, and with the high metaphysics because in a very short MISCELTvANIES. 10 1 time we arrive at the brink of infinity, of that bonndary which no one can pass. III. THE ENVIOUS MAN. There are certain circumstances in which the envious man will applaud with much greater vehemence than any other person : this is when a speech or an action are of in- disputable excellence. He hopes, that by chusing the highest tone in the testimonies of his admiration, he may silence those who do not like to be seconds in any thing ; and he has besides perceived, that by carrying praises to exaggeration the fatal but is the sooner brought into action ; and the moment this hut makes its appearance, he thinks himself so much the more privileged to give it a gra- cious reception, in proportion as he has just distinguished himself by overstrained plaudits. IV. THE UNION OF MORALS WITH POLITICS. Tiberius had as much power as the Anto- nines ; Louis XI. as much as Louis IX. ; but M 1G2 MISCELLANIES. ought we to conclude from thence, as is the fashion at present, that there is no necessary point of union between morals and politics ? — I am ftir from thinking thus. The art of making oneself obeyed, of making oneself feared, does not complete the idea that we should form of politics ; that word ought also to include the art of making oneself loved, of governing without violence — the art of at- tracting the esteem of other nations. ' You cite also the success of bad faith, the triumph of hypocrisy, and you laugh at private morals, you ridicule public virtues ; but is it not an exception against the uni- versal order of nature, a sort of blow struck at it, when vice obtains a momentary suc- cess ? — Tliere is no field of speculation for rogues but among honest men, and you can- not give currency to the policy of Machiavel without admitting the supposition that the greater number of princes obey the laws of good morals. This may, perhaps, be a new manner of considering the union which subsists between MISCELLANIES, 163 morals and politics ; a lovely union, which has not always been properly supported, but which is not the less worthy of being so. V. PROVERBIAL SAYINGS. There is a fine character of truth impressed upon all notions in general currency, upon all proverbial maxims, though having become, from their antiquity, the possession of the lower classes, they have contracted a taint of vulgarity which exposes them to the con- tempt of men of superior taste ; there is great pleasure in restoring them to the honour which is their due. VI. MEDIOCRITY. When Nature called you into being in a middling station of life, far from envying the great their riches or their honours, you had reason to bless your fate. In that state all your labours then become matters of interest to you ; the least advance in your fortune gives you pleasure, and continuing on your course M 2 164 MISCELLANIES. by slow degrees, you may travel all your life along the path of hope. VII. MEASURED STEPS. There is not sufficient variety on the great theatre of the world to amuse a very ardent mind during a long voyage. — How is it when, under favour of a large fortune or precocity in education, the point from which we set out is placed too near to the commencement of our life — when at the first emerging from infancy strong interests or a high destiny have too soon occupied the mind ? Every thing around us has been prepared for pur- suing our course with measured steps, and no excess seems suited to us. VIII. NECESSITY. There are situations in life w'hich, to con- duce to our happiness, must have been fixed by necessity ; such is mediocrity of fortune. For if you have voluntarily refused an in- crease of wealth or of honours, there are mo- MISCELLANIES. 165 ments of regret in which you will be angry with yourself, and you will have a persecutor in your own imagination. One of the most admirable features of our intellectual organization is the agreement established between two principles apparently in absolute contradiction to each other — LIBERTY and NECESSITY. IX. MYSELF. Myself is a forbidden subject of conversa- tion ; yet it is, perhaps, the only one which the greater part of mankind have studied well — in which they have made any dis- coveries. Suffer people to give you the opinion they have of themselves, and they w’ill amuse you more than by repeating, after so many others, the common-place things of life. There is a sort of legislation in so- ciety which consists entirely of enacting re- strictions, and which, giving all men thus a similar exterior, makes me almost die with ennui. 166 MISCELLANIES. X. SENSIBILITY. I do not inquire whether there is a moral aim in the novel which has made me shed so many tears, for one cannot be so much moved without being rendered better. The being thus affected disposes me to pity and 'com- passion ; it prepares me to feel the most deli- cate sentiments of love ; it opens my heart to consolatory ideas, to the most consolatory of all, the belief in God, and it encourages me to the practice of virtue by making me satisfied with myself. XI. PRINTING. Thou who didst invent the art of printing give us back the money awarded thee for the discovery ! — See what use has been made of your ingenious idea ; sometimes it has served as a means of promoting disturbance and ef- fervescence ; sometimes, under favour of the privilege which authority has reserved to itself, an assistant to despotism — a veil to hypocrisy. MISCELLANIES. 167 XII. NEWSPAPER-WRITERS. You wish to see such an author, such a sect, such a government, such a nation de- cried, and the newspaper-writer obeys. Is this an honourable function ? — No, surely ; but the public has not yet taken up the thing in a serious point of view. — There is a chance in every thing. XIII. THE IMAGINATION. The imagination in its mysterious action seems to terminate in a point so fine, so sub- tile, that a nothing almost may then bend it. For this reason it is that we have so often seen, not only a man of moderate capacity, but even a fool with one or two gross ideas, domineer over a man of genius, whose multi- farious perceptions were a general subject of astonishment, and who seemed, from the ex- tent and variety of his talents, to touch on every thing ! 168 MISCELLANIES. Xiy, BOASTING. What a person says at every moment of his own talents and his own character is commonly the very opposite to the truth : what he is naturally he suffers to take its course without thinking of it : he is intent only upon what he wishes to appear. XV. EXPRESSIONS OF HABIT. One may form a tolerably just idea of the principal features of a man’s character, by only remarking any term which he uses ha- bitually. Honestly is a word commonly in frequent use by a notorious dissembler : a very formal man will have without ceremony for ever in his mouth ; while the flatterer will be equally ready with his you may be- lieve me. The man of confused ideas will say, let us speak clearly; the caviller, what does that signify One might amuse one- self much with collecting a variety of these examples. I knew a man, a terribly long MISCELLANIES. 169 speechifyer, who was perpetually saying in shorty introducing it even in his very first phrase. The common class of people have a vast number of these by -words, which in them is merely the effect of habit, having caught them up they know not how. The habit of using them is, however, so strong, that though assured Tis for their interest to abandon them they cannot do it. A designation of this kind would be more important in the tracing out any person than a description of their fea- tures. XVI. EAGER CURIOSITY, The man of eager curiosity always says what ? to every thing he hears ; he wishes to engage the relater to repeat his story. XVII. LISTLESSNESS. See there Alcidon.— -He has discovered that notwithstanding all his graces he is very ennuyeux to the company. — -What does he do ?— He goes up to the chimney in the midst 170 MISCELLANIES. of a very large circle, extends his arms, stretches his legs, and yawns with a great noise, doing all he can to acquire himself the reputation of a man entirely exhausted. XVIII. THE VAIN MAN. They talk much of the beggars who shrink from their vocation. — There are vain men — men of great pretensions, who are pretty much in the same state. They are so afraid of ap- pearing to solicit our voices in their favour, that they never half finish a sentence, and sometimes yawn at what they say themselves. XIX. THE MYSTERIOUS MAN. The first law which a man imposes upon himself in diplomacy is to be mysterious. This is wrong, for such a character banishes confidence in others. There are two ways of being secret : one by thinking always of what is proper to be said ; the other, of thinking always what ought to be concealed : the first is adopted by men of moderate talents ; the MISCELLANIES. 171 second, by those of superior ones. Complete success is never attained but by the latter ; it is the only thing that gives assurance to the mind, and consequent ease to the manners. The Baron de ***, the minister of a great potentate, shewed the greatest reserve to- wards those with whom he was to be engaged in matters of business, and hence made it ma- nifest that he was endeavouring to confer the character of a dupe liberally around him. Every one excused himself from accepting this character, and he could get nothing from them ; his correspondence with his govern- ment became sterile, and he was recalled. XX. OLD MEN. Old men lead a very painful life while they are still in a state to feel every thing, to appre- ciate every thing. The smiling prospect of the future is their’s no longer, and when they would talk of the past no one will listen to them. Every one dashes into the scuffles of the world, runs towards the field of battle 172 MISCELLANIES. whence they are returned, ’tis much if they condescend to salute them as they pass. XXI. INDECISION. The dangers of indecision are obvious to all, but few people attend to the kind of mania which often accompanies this character. 1 will notice some of the principal forms in wdiich it appears. The man who is a prey to the torments of indecision will quarrel with his own reason, which does not know how to conduct him with a steady hand. He creates himself a new legislator, he gives himself another master, to whom he submits blindly. This master, this legislator, is nothing, how- ever, but a simple rule, a capricious rule ; but which has the merit of being clear and deci- sive. By this rule, which differs according to the nature of things, the man of indecision is determined in his labours, in his walks, in his choice of the books he shall read, in all the details of his life. Is a month, a week, a day, to be fixed for a certain journey he is to take. MISCELLANIES. 1 «7 O for something to be done, no matter what, the decision is made by consulting the alma- nack on certain festivals, certain particular epochs, or on the change of the moon. Un- doubtedly, some act of the will was requisite on the part of the indecisive man to establish these rules ; but that once accomplished, he has ever after nothing to do but to obey. And what a blessing, what a convenience to him ! He is released on a sudden from all the pains, all the troubles to which his cha- racter subjected him at every instant. It. is true, that this regulation leads sometimes to very odd sallies, since one simple and positive rule, such as must be established to keep off irresolution entirely, never can suit all cir- cumstances equally well. This the man of indecision himself perceives, but in grateful remembrance of the many services which the regulation has rendered him, and the comfort he still receives from it, he continues his sub- mission, refusing even to yield to the excep- tions which his own reason counsels. Strange 174 MISCELLANIES. singularity ! — ’tis in sight of this reason, and with its knowledge, that he is guilty of a great folly. Scarcely will any one admit the truth of a manner of being so strange, because it has an air of madness ; yet a variety of observations have convinced me that, under different shadings, it is very common. I have seen my daughter attacked with this mania, though nobody is more susceptible of being hastily led away, or more prone to act without reflec- tion. But in situations of perfect calm, in petty details, she does not know how to come to a resolution ; and it is a curious spectacle to see a person whose imagination soars above all common ideas, seeking at every moment a rule by which to decide how she shall employ herself this or that hour — a law by which the portions of the day shall be thus or thus al- lotted— a motive of preference for such or such a day to quit a place, for such an epoch to un- dertake a journey, or any other project she has in view ; — in fine, it is a curious thing MISCELLANIES. 175 when she is writing, when her looks, full of fire, express the warmest enthusiasm, to see her, nevertheless, surrounded with what- ever may assist in fixing her indecision, to see the watch opened, and the almanck spread out before her. — What a mystery is the hu- man mind ! XXII. THE SHIFTS OF IGNORANCE IN PLACES OF IMPORTANCE. The conduct of a man in public life, occu- pied in concealing his ignorance, is an abso- lute system of tactics. It is curious to re- mark his studied silence when the conversa- tion turns upon a subject which he is con- scious he ought to know well, and of which he is equally conscious that he knows no- thing; — to see how he slinks away when this conversation approaches too near him, and the looks of the circle around seem to express that they are all expectation to hear his opi- nion. He goes up in an absent way to the chimney-piece, takes up some papers that lie 176 MISCELLANIES. there, and begins to look them over with pro- found attention, while, nevertheless, if he hears any thing said on which he may venture with confidence to put in a word, 'tis so, says he, exactly so, not taking his eyes, however, from the papers, till the moment when he can adroitly give another turn to the conversa- tion ; — and to this resource he has been obliged to recur so often that it is become en- tirely familiar to him. Sometimes he will be a little more adven- turous, and if a debate arises in his company upon the period when some event of anti- quity happened, or upon the distance be- tween two large towns, and several different opinions on the question are supported with equal pertinacity, one maintaining, for in- stance, that it was the year 300 before our aera, another, that it was the year 200 — one that the distance between the towns was two thousand leagues, another, that it was two thousand four hundred, he will fix the period at the year 230, the distance at two thousand MISCELLANIES. 177 two hundred leagues : this is a medium he ventures to take without having any notion whatever upon the subject, only he feels con- fident that he cannot be very wide of the mark. But with such fortunate opportunities to display his knowledge he is not often fa- voured. It is more easy to him to terminate a controversy upon any anxiom laid down, since he has always some common-place remark or assertion ready at hand, suited to the occa- sion. Sometimes he takes his revenge ; and if he happens to have been reading in the morning, in the way of his business, any paper or papers, through which he has acquired some piece of statistical knowledge, he does not rest till he gives the conversation such a turn as will enable him to bring it out. Woe, then, to any one who thinks that he shall pay his court to him by making many inquiries upon the subject, or who offers some slight objection, that he may ask for an explana- tion ; — our man of ignorance is already at the full length of his tether, he answers only N 178 MISCELLANIES. by monosyllables, and becomes evidently out of humour. XXI H. CONSIDERATION. To be held in consideration is a term the sense of which has not the same extent under different kinds of government. Republicans commonly define riches, talents, virtue, as giving consideration ; aristocrats consider it as only acquired by birth and honours ; while in monarchies, where these elementary princi- ples of consideration are not wholly rejected, others are equally contended for, less decided, less positively defined, but to which all ho- mage is exacted not less rigorously. ^Tis the attribute of republics to attach all ideas of superiority to personal qualities or actual cir- cumstances — nothing indeterminate can pass current with them ; whereas, in monarchies, the vague predominates in the scale by which superiority is measured. There nothing is determined, nothing ought to be so, except the supremacy of the chief ruler ; a sort of per MISCELLANIES. 179 petual negotiation upon the subject is main- tained among the inferior ranks. Here it is th,at the whole value of consideration is per- fectly understood ; of that singular kind of distinction which is independent of the favour of the prince, and which is conferred by opi- nion alone. Never was consideration so much sought after as in the reigns of Louis XV. and Louis XVL; for opinion was then strong and the monarchs weak. Society had erected a tribunal more formidable than that of the prince ; and the courtiers, nay, the ministers themselves, would rather have risked incur- ring the displeasure of the royal family, than exposing themselves to be ill-received in the drawing-rooms of Paris. This thirst of con- sideration was, I am inclined to think, carried too far, since it deterred the government from employing early enough the means which cir- cumstances required. Two favourable epochs might be named for having placed it under due controul; the one in the time of Richelieu when the authority of public opinion was N 2 180 MISCELLANIES. not fully established, the other, when, by the events of the Revolution, it was wholly de- stroyed. When in the latter times of the monarchy they talked of men and women who enjoyed high personal consideration, the number of them was very small ; at least of such as en- joyed it beyond all dispute ; for it did not belong by right, as I have said, to any of the advantages which we appreciate the most highly ; riches, birth, and other factitious claims became means of obtaining it, if the individuals knew how to conduct themselves with the proper dignity. I have known personally, and very well, some of those who enjoyed the highest con- sideration in France, which they had obtained less by the superiority of their situation in the world, than by an union of qualities, each in perfect accordance with the other. A ha- bitual decorum in their conduct and conver- sation, composure in their manner, taste in their politeness, a sort of reserve which si- MISCELLANIES. 181 lenced familiarity. All this exterior, how- ever, was presumed to be the index to real merit, or the subject would have been consi- dered only as a hero of the stage. It was necessary, also, in order to obtain consideration, that all exaggerated ideas, all overstrained sentiments should be avoided ; these are voyages to distant countries, which are not undertaken when the fortune is made. The more the powers appeared concentrated by reason, the greater was the respect shewn. Above all things, a high consideration is irreconcilable with that constant and restless seeking for applause not unfrequently to be seen — with those vain pretensions, which place our fate entirely in the hands of others. We ought, nevertheless, to feel our own powers, and to let others see that we do feel them ; we ought, in some sort, to be wit- nesses for ourselves, but to be so under proper restraints. Our opinion of ourselves cannot be without its value, since we know ourselves better than we can be known by 182 MISCELLANIES. others ; by too much modesty we expose ourselves to be under-rated, and this is never the way to obtain consideration. It may seem strange to say, but this con- sideration, the result of such varied merit, never can be attached to any one, whether man or woman, with a mean countenance and person. *Tis, that consideration implies re- spect, and respect must be commanded rather than granted. Esteem has often been put on a parallel with consideration ; — there is more solidity in the one, more pomp in the other. Every thing is pure in esteem, and yet consideration is more flattering. A simple and religious mind is satisfied with esteem, but considera- tion is required when we are wholly among the world and emulous of the homage of mankind. XXIV. HEREDITARY MONARCHY. There are in the social wwld many institu- tions, which, received as simple things, are MISCELLANIES. 183 nevertheless the result of a long series of ideas, more or less metaphysical. How many ideas of this kind have preceded the very common terms public order ^ liberty^ political powery the word kingy or sole chief of a great state ; — and how many ideas of this kind have in the same manner preceded the singular term of hereditary authority. The common class see nothing in a here- ditary throne but a patrimonial arrangement, like all those civil institutions which regulate the succession of property in private families. The difference is, however, very great — it is so in principle, it is so in fact. There is no man whose powers are not equal to the pos- session of a field, and to tracing a furrow in it, but the government of an empire is at- tended with much greater difficulties. Thus, to let the administration of a mighty state be transmitted from one to another in regular succession, after a certain scale of genealogical combinations and the ordinary laws of descent, is an arrangement in the political world which must have excited great astonishment at the 184 MISCELLANIES. first glance. To push the matter still further, and see, by the same title, the government of a great state pass from the hands of a man of talent and genius, into those of one devoid of intellect or steadiness of character, is an ano- maly yet more extraordinary. How then came hereditary succession to the throne ever to be thought of? — The question can- not be resolved by shewing the inconve- niences attached to other modes of succes- sion, and thence pronouncing that hereditary descent is exceedingly to be preferred, over any mode of election that can be invented. This observation may seem to favour heredi- tary descent ; but one single act of reasoning is not suiiicient to justify any law. We must then seek elsewhere for a justification of he- reditary authority. It is easy to see how this authority has been maintained among nations subjected to a despotic government ; the successor, indi- cated by law, immediately seizes on the mili- tary command, he makes his janissaries and his spahis take the oath to him, and, to pre- miscellanies. 185 vent their bringing his power into any parallel with his person, he hides himself closely within the walls of his seraglio; terror finishes the work and he reigns. In Europe hereditary authority is supported after a milder fashion ; in securing the con- tinuity of respect by a singular medium. The throne is surrounded by a class of men reputed the first in the state, and who, taken collectivel}^ have always the same appear- ance from age to age. These men, designated under the title of the great lords of the court, accustom the nation to the idea of rank, and constantly recall it to their minds. They prevent the people approaching near enough to the throne to think of becoming judges of the prince personally, of pretending to appre- ciate him. They prevent the emblem of royalty from being confounded with the indi- vidual, which might, perhaps, end in the monarch’s being expected to be a hero, as the price of the honours paid him ; — for, were such conditions required, hereditary 186 MISCELLANIES. authority could not be maintained, unless the family could insure the privilege of producing a constant succession of men of superior powers. Thus the great lords in a monarchy, which serve as an appendage to the royal family, secure a continued respect for the throne ; a continued respect to a succession of princes unequal in talents and in merit ; for such an inequality is the inevitable result of the chances of nature. Some men have appeared here and there, in the march of ages, who, endowed with ex- traordinary powers, and assisted by circum- stances, have overswayed public opinion, and given it a direction entirely after their own will ; but princes who come into the posses- sion of authority by a regular succession, by hereditary right, are men of the ordinary stamp ; and if they are not to be supported by the iVsiatic despotism, that public opinion must be secured to them, the utility of which the European nations know by long expe- MISCELLANIES. 187 rience : that public opinion which is derived from the magic of ranks and dignities, mild in its influence, and which, addressing itself to our imaginations, does not uphold its domi- nion by fear, but simply by habit. XXV. PATRIOTISM. When a country is extended every day by conquests, or by new affiliations, patriotism is no longer any thing more than a word in the dictionary. There must be some cir- cumscribed bounds, some certain limits to make our individuality, as a country, felt, and to enable us to compare it with others. The ocean which prescribes limits to Great Britain is one of the first safe-guards of Bri- tish patriotism. The Americans have found the only means of conciliating a vast extent of territory with love of the country, the Federative government. Each state has re- mained small individually, little in its pecu- liar and daily interests ; and if their attention rests upon the universality of the states, and 188 MISCELLANIES. tfieir great political union, it is as one state thinks of finding, in a firm alliance with an- other, the surest means of its own support and defence. There is another origin for love of the country, which is the association of the citi- zens to the spiritual life of the state ; — and to this term spiritual life I affix the same sig- nification as belongs to it, when applied to an individual. We are ourselves either an insulated or collective character only, by thought, by choice, and by will. Thus, in a country where the citizens are excluded from every kind of political interest, patriotism is but an empty name. Do you think that this feeling has really a place in your bosom be- cause you say you love your country; be- cause you say you are sensible of all the ad- vantages it enjoys ? — All this may be said, may be thought with perfect frigidity, but the true lover of his country would almost weep with affection but to hear it named. I have observed the English very closely with MISCELLANIES. I89 this idea in view; the feeling that they ari& English is never absent from their minds : — I doubt whether over all the vast continent of the ancient Germans, any man ever thinks once in the day that he is a German. XXVI. A JEALOUS GOD. The sovereign benefactor of mankind can- not be a jealous God, since he has introduced into the world a sentiment more powerful than gratitude — that is love, XXVII. THE JUDGMENTS WE FORM OF OURSELVES. Men who have a perfectly good opinion of themselves are ridiculous but happy : men who are always finding fault with them- selves are unhappy but estimable. It is dif- ficult to observe a just medium: we should contemplate ourselves at a distance without love, without asperity, merely as a common acquaintance. 190 MISCELLANIES. XXVIII. THE PROTESTANT WORSHIP. The Catholic worship consisting of a great many ceremonies, of a great deal of outward pomp and show, oratory is not of such essen- tial importance there as in thereformed church. This is an advantage at a period when the offices of the church are no longer consigned to men of the first education. We see at Geneva the names of some of the most illus- trious families among the list of persons who have been the greatest ornaments of the pul- pit ; but such persons will no longer enter into the ministry, since the ecclesiastical state has ceased to be regarded with the high consideration it formerly enjoyed. It is much to be lamented that this decline of a state so important, is a daily increasing evil, and that at a time when religion has more occasion than ever for able defenders and supporters. Even so lately as the middle of the last cen- tury, there were, at Geneva, on an average, thirty scholars entered every year as students MISCELLANIES. 191 ill theology ; at present there are not more than eight or ten, and scarcely one of these is an ancient Genevese. I have so often spoken in my writings of religion and its vast importance, that no new reflections npon this great subject can be ex- pected from me ; but I must take a survey of it under a particular point of view. It would be very difficult for a long time, if it could ever be accomplished, to bring back, into the career of the ministry, men of talents and distinction proportioned to the majesty of their functions. When a task, then, is beyond the powers of the men who are called upon to execute it, would it not be both wise and proper to lessen it ? — I think it would ; and this observation I must apply to our protestant ministers. A new sermon every week, with very little exception, is expected from them ; this is too much for the greater part. What sort of a composition can they be supposed to pro- duce in so short a time, and repeated, not now and then only, but every week : and 192 MISCELLANIES. they are, moreover, expected to learn it by heart. This latter duty has, indeed, of late, been much dispensed with, and, in my opi- nion, it is so much the worse. All action in the delivery is by this means precluded, and thus one great resource for producing a power- ful effect upon the congregation is lost. No- thing remains but aworking of the head up and down like a Chinese pagod, to catch a phrase which is given with a loud voice, and then the head goes down again to look for another. How is the preacher, thus circumstanced, ever to raise his eyes to heaven, or to turn them towards his auditors ; they can never quit, for more than an instant at a time, the manuscript spread before him on the desk. It would be something, if the preacher would avail himself of this mode of de- livering his sermons, to read over some of the fine discourses which are to be found in print, and which have such an established reputation ; but this will not do, his congregation require a new composition. It must, moreover, be ac- MISCELLANIES. 193 knowledged that for the most part these dis- courses are extremely poor, no less as to the matter than the delivery. Of this I have had considerable means of judging in quality of lord of my village ; it is impossible not to be struck with the tranquil monotony in w’hich the whole service is performed, and the gene- ral propensity to sleep which this produces. How can it be otherwise if there is nothing in the orator to attract attention ; if he never appears elevated by any thought, or melted by any sentiment ; if no tear ever falls upon his cheek, and if in his descriptions he gets to the brink of the lake of fire with an air of calmness and serenity suited to nothing but a scene of the most perfect stillness and tran- quillity ? In expecting that every thing should be done, every thing accomplished by the talents of the preacher, our time would be lost and we should fall into a great error ; the men of which we form an idea, which it would be desirable to find, exist not in sufficient num- o 194 MISCELLANIES. bers upon the earth, much less are they to be found in the narrow circle where we are obliged to seek them, and whence alone we can take them. Nothing then remains but, in contenting ourselves with what we have, to lighten their task, and reduce it to a pro- per level with their powers. XXIX. AN ILLUSTRIOUS VICTIM. Oh Louis ! excellent prince, and the best of men, never shall any thing come from my pen in which I, as an evidence worthy of credit, do not bear testimony to thy virtues, in which I do not appeal in thy defence to the only stable judgment, the judgment of posterity. — Innocent victim ! if ever there was one — innocent victim of human passions! — What an impious sacrifice ! XXX. MEMOIRS OF ONE’s OWN LIFE. A man ought to have been very much dis- tinguished in war or in public business to be authorized to publish memoirs of his life. It may also be allowed to a person possessing MISCELLANIES. 195 eminent talents in writing to speak of himself, but any other subject Avould become him much better. XXXI. KNOWLEDGE OF MANKIND. We cannot know mankind, we cannot be sure that we have arrived at a knowledge of them, if we have not passed through three states of life differing widely from each other. A state of inferiority which imposes on us the necessity of studying others and endea- vouring to please them ; — a state of equality which affords an opportunity of contemplat- ing them in the full range of their passions ; and a state of superiority which gives occa- sion to observe them in all the wariness of circumspection, in their sounding how far they may go, and all their little incidental manoeuvres. XXXII, CONSOLATION. To console, consolation, a consoler — fine words, and worthy to express the sweetest, the most amiable of sentiments !— Happy he 196 MISCELLANIES. who has been able in the course of his life to say, he is coming, he will console me ; — happy also he who has spread a calm over a heart torn by agitation. Let us admire this celestial intercourse between the comforter and the afflicted person. — How ? — we have then been able to soothe the grief of a friend, to speak to him in a language perfectly adapted to the uneasiness of his mind, to the disquietudes of his imagination, to the afflictions of his con- science. — Almighty Father ! let us believe that among mortal beings *tis the comforter, the good, the intelligent comforter, the com- forter of sensibility, who is the most accept- able to thee — the being who approaches the nearest to bearing some likeness to thyself. XXXIII. THE FEEBLE MAN. It is not from gaiety or from folly that many people never give their opinions with- out their being accompanied by a laugh. It is that, being feeble and timid, they are afraid of bei|fg obliged to defend them. Their mis- MISCELLANIES. 197 placed laugh then affords them a sort of re- treat of which they will avail themselves at all hazards. XiXXIV. ESPRIT DE FAMILLE. Little federations in the midst of universal society — this is what we are presented with on all sides in the moral and physical world. — It is the grand system of nature, the seal of order never to be altered. The esprit de fa~ mille is then a primary idea. XXXV. FALSE CALCULATIONS. I would fain prove to him that he is in the wrong and that I am in the right. — You are going to give yourself a great deal of trouble to be less loved. XXXVI. CROSS ACCIDENTS. One means of learning to support the greater part of the cross accidents that we meet with in the world is to think that some real mis- fortune has perhaps been prevented by the accident of which we complain. 398 MISCELLANIES. XXXVII. THE HAPPINESS OF FOOLS.* To be happy we must be fools. This moral truth is one of the most ancient in the world. We read in the Book of Genesis, that “ when Adam and Eve had eaten of the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge their eyes were opened^ and they knew that they were naked” This signifies that they were all on a sudden enlightened as to the littleness and misery of man. “ But before God drove them from the Garde7i of Eden, he made them cloaks of skins and clothed them” What an ever-inemorable instance of his compassion towards mankind. This precious garment, this cloak of skin which covers our nakedness, is the pleasing errors we entertain of ourselves, the sweet confidence we place in ourselves, the good opinion in which we * This is the ouly article in the present work which is already before the world, and is one of the first composed by M. Necker. But since his own intention was to pub- lish it with the rest of the pieces which compose this vo- kiiue it is here inserted . — Note by Madame de Stael. MISCELLANIES. }gg hold ourselves. Happy gifts, to which our corruption has given the name of follies, and which our ingratitude seeks to disclaim, but which are, let it not be doubted, the great guarantees of our happiness on earth. Since men were first united in society, a perpetual competition has been established among them, the great source of their pains and pleasures. This competition varies in its objects and differs in its extent. Some transport themselves to the extremity of the earth, and to the most remote ages, to measure themselves against all the great men who exist or have existed. Others take their measurements only from the little coterie in which they themselves move ; others are sa- tisfied with merely proving that they have more good sense than their wives or chil- dren all, however, find some subject of comparison. Amid this general contention, who among all the athletae is the most sure of conquer- ing? — Undoubtedly the fool in his cloak of 200 MISCELLANIES. skin — he is my hero. What signifies to him whether others would raise him up or pull him down ? he carries his own pedestal about with him. Yes, his own opinion is all-suffi- cient to his happiness, it is an enchanted bed of down on which he reposes voluptuously, and sleeps in a state of delight. Ah ! how is it possible to paint in too high colours the felicity of such a man ? — See there Clito, Chrysippus, Alcindas. — Incessantly occupied with themselves, the satisfaction they have in it sparkles in their eyes. One manifests it boldly and openly ; another suf- fers it to break forth with some management, he counts out his treasures slowly ; another restrains it under a veil of tranquil compo- sure, he is the true gourmand, he adds to the delight of his other rare endowments that of a sentiment of heroic moderation. What a charming thing is a fool absolutely gorged with himself! — He is always putting forth some exquisite oddity ; in eflTect he must necessarily be Qriginal, since he is solely MISCELLANIES. 201 occupied with an object of whom nobody else ever thinks. The fool and the man of genius are the great ornaments of the w'orld ; all the in- termediary classes are devoid of life and spirit ; they are arid plains between two pic- turesque mountains. If, however, they figure equally upon the earth, their happiness is very disproportionate. The man of genius and penetration in seeing all the relations that objects bear to one another, reunites a thou- sand, apparently diflferent, under one general principle. To him the picture of the world contracts itself, and its colours approach each other ; scarcely in the midst of his career, he finds analogies in every thing, and nothing any longer excites his curiosity. The fool, whom all these relations escape, at the end of a life extended to two centuries, without ever having quitted his own town, would still find constant matter to astonish him. As he has no notion of classing bis ideas, as he never gene- ralizes any, every thing in the universe is to 202 MISCELLANIES. him detached, every thing excites his wonder, every thing is a phaenomenon ; his life is but a prolonged infancy, nature to him always preserves its freshness. in the eyes of the man of observation the future soon appears nothing but the probable reproduction of the past, and he looks for- W'ard to it without pleasure; — to the fool it is a new creation, and the charm of hope em- bellishes all his days. The man who reflects, and whose reflections embrace a thousand dif- ferent combinations, if he must choose, if he must make some decision, finds an infinite number of different and contrary motives crowd upon his thoughts, and the whole ac- tivity of his mind can scarcely suffice to run over the multiplicity of his perceptions; — he is undecided, he is tormented. The fool makes his choice in an instant, he has no comparisons to make : his eye is an officious glass, which never presents more than one or two objects at a time to his thoughts. Another misfortune of persons of talent, MISCELLANIES. 203 unknown to fools, is the difficulty they find to make people comprehend their meaning rightly ; their reason is a sixth sense, the effects of which they endeavour in vain to explain. Deceived by seeing the human figure, they make incredible efforts to transmit their ideas to others ; and if they do not arrive at length, through experience, at seeing in the greater part of mankind nothing more than an image or a puppet, they must pass their lives in the torments of the Dana'ides. If, fatigued with external objects, the man of genius turns inwardly upon himself, he finds himself so defective in a thousand ways, that it interrupts his enjoyment of what he really does possess ; he is never satisfied with himself. These are pains unknown to the fool ; if he engages in a survey of his internal self he finds in abundance wherewithal to ex- cite his respect and admiration ; his mind is an affectionate host always courteous to him, always polite, always ready to treat and feast him. MISCELLANIES. 20-i To the enlightened man, perfection is a towering rock, the summit of which is lost in the clouds ; to fools it is a perfect globe which turns incessantly upon itself, each one be- lieves himself upon the summit, and thinks he marches over the heads of all his fellow- beings. No, nothing can interrupt the se- renity of a fool, he knows neither envy nor jealousy ; as he rests his glory upon nothings, he finds a place for them every where. Damon, at thirty years of age become a counsellor, arranges his hair to go and sit in judgment. He sits there in effect, and re- flecting upon the respect with which he must be contemplated by all around him, he arrays himself in a most majestic gravity. But ’tis with difficulty he can support it if, by chance, a curl in the wig of one of his brethren should happen to wander from its right place, if a child should fall down, if a butterfly should burn its wings in the candle ; all these things awaken in him so vast an idea of his own su- periority, that he has an almost irresistible MISCELLANIES. 205 inclination to laugh. Then, if he is to speak, his gravity incurs a new danger, for he cannot get calmly over a possessive pronoun. If an unfortunate /, me, my, crosses his way, the charming image presented tickles his fancy so deliciously that his drawn up features expand in spite of himself, and his countenance yields to the delight of his heart. See two fools in conversation together: they do not hear each other, yet they laugh continually; while one speaks, the other is at a point where he is lost in enchantment, *tis between what he has just said, and what he is about to say. They promise at parting to meet again very soon and enjoy each other’s conversation, and each is fully persuaded that he has delighted his friend by his brilliant sallies. ’Tis often with the utmost diffidence that the man of talents ventures to say any thing witty or ingenious. The delicacy of his taste renders him difficult to be pleased, he has ob- served all the windings, the delusions of 206 MISCELLANIES. amour pr opr e, he has remarked that the greater part of mankind are not disposed to allow wit or genius in another, but inasmuch as that other has the air of not being conscious him- self that he has said what, in the familiar phrase of the world, is termed a good thing, but leaves to his auditors the honour of the discovery to console them for his triumph. The fool is spared the trouble and per- ple;xity of this kind of management. He distributes his ideas around him wuth the most complete confidence, and if he does but now and then hit upon some common-place reflection, he makes it knowm by sound of trumpet ; he precedes it by putting on an air of profound art, and with vain-glory seems to transport himself some paces from himself, the better to contemplate the object of his profound admiration, then he approaches him- self again, the better to hear what is coming, and in this delightful occupation, agitated by a most happy intoxication, he is proud of the tributes he has been paying to himself. MISCELLANIES. 207 The man of talents, finally, if in love, is never satisfied. The delicacy of his tact is an obstacle to his happiness ; a word which escapes from his mistress, a look which he happens to catch, a tone of voice on which he puts his own interpretation, a thousand shadings imperceptible to others are sufficient to disturb his fairest hopes. Though enjoy- ing numberless proofs of the most tender love, still he is pursued by these doubts, his heart is tormente’d by the most refined dis- tinctions, he questions whether Tis himself that is beloved, or whether he may not be loved only because he loves, not from a charm irresistible, invinc'ible ; he analyses love, and in that analysis loses all its sweets. The fool enjoys those sweets without being- beloved. He is satisfied that he makes the same deep impression upon every woman he sees that he makes upon himself. He fancies himself beloved because he is convinced that he is amiable, and he is convinced that he is amiable because he is a fool ; it is upon this 208 MISCELLANIES. base, one which cannot be shaken, that his happiness is raised. The fool was ever a happy lover, a tranquil husband ; and, since nothing goes wrong with him, should his wife happen to amuse herself with any little infidelity, he is too well satisfied with him- self ever to suppose that possible, and he is still tranquil, still happy. Even if at the dawn of day he should see a man quit the apartment of his wife, he runs in, hastens to her casket of jewels, looks them over, finds all safe, and laughs and chuckles that the stupid robber had not wit enough to discover them. What a spectacle of happiness this picture, feeble as it is, displays ? — Fathers and mo- thers, can you be insensible to it ? — Will you not change your system of education ? — ’Tis to flatter your own vanity, Tis to throw a lustre round yourelves, that you wish to see your children shine by their talents and at- tainments, and that you labour with so much ardour to accomplish it. You prepare the MISCELLANIES. 209 trcssels on which you would raise you rsejjes, and in your impatience to see them' great you wish the happiest moments of their lives, those of their childhood, at an end. What a mistake is this ! — Because you are only happy yourselves in proportion to the estimation in which you find yourselves held by others, you think you are promoting the happiness of your children in endeavouring to inspire them with the same sentiment, and in assist- ing them to satisfy it. — “ Cruel that you are !” might they say to you, “ you might have placed in our own reservoirs the water which was to quench our thirst, and you have opened the spring in the field of another.” Cease then to merit this reproach on the part of your children ; instead of embellish- ing their minds dazzle their eyes, give them, if you can, an indestructible opinion of themselves, send them thus armed into the world, and if they are loaded with ridicule do not make yourselves uneasy, ’tis their p 210 MISCELLANIES. happiness that is confided to you, not their glory. In vain will you alledge that it is your duty to bring them as near as you can to per- fection. Happiness is of more consequence to man than perfection ; and if, through the blessing of folly, every one finds his happi- ness within himself, all those social virtues, to which at present we give the name of per- fection, will be but useless sacrifices. Tis the refinement of our perceptions, *tis the delicacy of our self-love, which renders this perfection so painful ; it must be sought with vast effort in a combination of qualities agreeable to others, in the study of their tastes, and in their applauses ; but such per- fection is a slavery, it depends on opinion, a capricious and haughty deity. Ah ! let us for ever deter those we love from W'^orshipping her! — ask of all her followers how'many secret tears this worship has been the occasion of their shedding ; tears that will never be shed iWlSCELLANIESo 211 by my hero. The man of talents is the sacri- ficer and the victim at the altar of public opinion; the fool at these same altars is the adorer and the god. Men of genius, assist me, then, to multiply fools in the world ! I can deeply feel their happiness, but you alone have the power of establishing a new system. Why will you refuse to do this ? Why assume that disdain- ful look } The distance which separates you from us, and which appears infinite, involves perhaps millions of beings above you. Who knows whether, throughout the universe, every one is not a fool to another ? Who knows whether you are not so to the inhabit- ants of the moon, or to some aerial spirits ? Is it because you do not hear them laugh at your expense that you do not believe the thing possible r But your fools do not hear you, and ’tis the distinctive character of folly not to perceive itself, and always to take the limits of its own sight for the bounds of what actually exists. 212 MISCELLANIES. Be, then, more timid, more distrustful, and, far from despising the fools you may meet, admire their happiness, acknowledging that nothing is wanting to giv'e them pretensions to the title of men of genius, but to have been fools by their own choice. XXXVIII. THE DISTRESSED FOOL. There are fools of the happiest disposition in the world, and who live upon the best pos- sible terms with themselves. On the hap- piness of these we have just expatiated. There are others subject to somewhat of as- perity, whom we do not see with the same pleasure ; these are the fools who have some sort of insight into their own folly , — some sort of insight, observe I say — who are, con- sequently, less secure in themselves, less at their ease, less confident. They have but a distant idea of their own mediocrity, and shut out at all hazards any light that might shine upon them ; they have a certain quantity of maxims and ideas, which, very general, serve MISCELLANIES. 213 them as an advanced guard to prevent any thing approaching near enough to sound the absolute depth of their talents and knowledge. They believe, also, that these general maxims and ideas place them upon a level with those who think, and from a high sense of their dignity, refuse to enter into details, as they would refuse any manual labour. ^Tis always with them a long time, a short time — ’tis al- ways the past, the present, the future, life — never so many years, so many days. They also employ, by preference, large adjectives, as a means of avoiding any concern with pre- cision. They have, in short, that mixture of doubt and confidence, of high pretension and shrinking from it, which renders them often as unhappy as the complete, downright fool is otherwise. They have never the ease of what they are designed for ; that ease which is as necessary to the complete character of a fool as it is in forming a true good house- wife. MISjCELLANIES. 254 XXXIX. PRAISE. Can it be believed ! The greater part of those men who are evidently rendered happy themselves by being praised and applauded, never think of making use of the same means of recommending themselves to others — never seek thus to captivate those of whom they stand the most in need. Whence comes this ? — I do not understand it, for the corol- lary seems evident, the inference is very sim- ple. You are all a little silly, my friends — I need not explain myself any farther. XL. TEARS. How many different sorts of tears are there ! how different are the causes of them, how various their eflfects ! — and yet there is but one name for all. You are moved, your eyes are moistened, you weep when others talk of you, when you talk of yourself, when you read one of your own compositions ; you do not interest MISCELLANIES. 215 me, assure yourself ; I never can sympathize with that very tender partiality you have for yourself. You weep because your pride is wounded, because it is humiliated, and you are restrained in the desire you have to mani- fest your resentment ; — I cannot sympathize, believe me, with this insolent anguish. No, tears of pride, or tears of self-love never can touch me. And you who weep as readily as you breathe, who weep on every occasion, and at every moment, with a degrading weakness, I am ready to despise you, I turn away with disgust from that face drowned in tears, which you present as a manifestation of your sen- What, then, are the tears by which we ought to be moved ? — those by which, in effect, we are moved ? They are the tears which escape involuntarily, from one under real affliction, which he would conceal but cannot, and which no art could produce. ’Tis your tears, venerable parents! which you MISCELLANIES. 2 If) restrain with every possible effort before the world, lest they should speak too plainly the ingratitude of a beloved son ; — ^tis your tears, lovely child, when a harsh mother corrects you unjustly, when you are punished with- out knowing your fault, and when you invoke protection, uncertain whether any is to be found in the world for you ; — ’tis your tears, young and lovely Idalia, those tears which never would have flowed, happy as you ap- peared, but from the too certain infidelity of a beloved husband. Weep, lovely creature ! alas ! he is far from you, and you think only of him ; — weep ! every thing in your fortune is changed. And you, my beloved wife, fear nothing, a single tear of your’s is death to me. Fear nothing ; my attentive, my vigilant heart will study your troubles from their very begin- ning ; and love, as you know, has rendered me skilful in the art of soothing them. But when ideas equally afflictive to both assail us, when they make us feel the frailty of life MISCELLANIES, 217 and its unequal duration, let us not seek to escape the sentiments by which we are moved ; let us yield to those sweet tears which flow from a celestial origin, to those pious tears which a sacred instinct encourages us to offer up to the sovereign ruler of our destiny ; — ’tis he who, by one of the mysterious opera- tions of his power, has created a solemn re- lation between our tears and his divine good- ness. Yes, in this state of sadness and hu- miliation we feel ourselves nearer to our God than the proudest monarch seated upon the most mighty throne on the earth!* — What a sublime subject for reflection — for conso- lation ! XLI. AFFECTATION. There are few persons who have that con- fidence in themselves to venture to shew themselves in society exactly such as they are, without disguise or art. Sometimes they borrow the manners of others, but more com- monly they have an array of their own com- 218 MISCELLANIES. posing, which serves them on all gala oc- casions. All this avails nothing ; and ’tis much worse when any one is constantly affected, exhausting superlatives at every phrase, and using extravagant gesticulations to impress the idea of being irresistibly led away. Such expressions of feeling and en- thusiasm are always overdone ; and this over- acting, throwing a visible chill over the rest of the circle, the actor believes he has not coloured his part sufficiently, and becomes ten times more extravagant. Thus affectation is an absurdity which is ever in- creasing where it has once been indulged, and which must defeat its own ends. Why force people to lower the reckoning which you demand of them ? — they are always ready enough to do it, and, thus called upon, will do it wdth such a lavish hand, that they will probably subtract from what is really your due. MISCELLANIES. 219 XLII. THE CREDULITY OF PARENTS. Children brought up by credulous pa- rents are almost always alFected. They find themselves praised and caressed for expres- sions of sentiment far beyond the truth, and they make use of this means, this very easy means of pleasing. This does not happen with parents who have just perceptions, and never permit hyperbole in the mouths of their children. XLIII. REPROACHES. If the time to repair a fault be passed, never tell a man that he conducted himself ill on such or such an occasion ; if he have any feeling his own repentance will be his suffi- cient correction. XLIV. MISANTHROPY. Chrysippus gives himself out as a misan- thrope, yet he is exceedingly anxious to stand well in the public opinion. He must then 220 MISCELLANIES. forget that this public consists of men^ the beings whom he hates and despises. I do not love to hear any one say, as is too com- mon, that the more we know of mankind the less we esteem them ; this shews great aspe- rity, and we ought all to wish that it should be unjust. Our imagination does not embellish men whom we see very near; this is their first offence. But when you cast the severest censures upon them, when they appear to you odious, even criminal, it is very likely that you would judge them with less rigour if you knew them better, if you could pene- trate into their very inmost thoughts. You would then, perhaps, see what hesitations, what conflicts preceded the crime — what re- morse followed it; you would perceive what opportunities, what chances, have conducted one person along the straight road, or thrown another into the crooked one. You would see, in reading over, page by page, mys- terious history of the human heart, that a first MISCELLANIES. 221 defeat in a conflict with some violent pas- sion, fixed, perhaps, the fate of a life now tar- nished for ever in the public opinion. You would, perhaps, see two men equally upon the brink of the precipice of vice, the one of w’hom is saved by seizing the arm of a friend held out to his rescue; while the other has fallen in, because no one was near to re- present to him his danger, and take him by the hand to lead him away from it. You will, perhaps, farther observe, that an hour — ■ nay, an instant, more of reflection, v/ould have prevented the fatal determination which destroys the honour and the life of a man ; — you will, perhaps, see, and you cannot see it without emotion, that, by a singular combina- tion of circumstances, this man, who so boldly violates public order, is a good father, an affectionate husband, a faithful friend. Again, may it not happen that a public crime is the effect of mild and gentle habits. Euphemon has just increased, by his vote, the nuniber of suffrages which condemn an 222 MISCELLANIES. innocent man to death ; he has been guilty of a horrible action, for he did not himself be- lieve the victim guilty. But examine his heart, study it, follow all its movements, fear has been the principle which overswayed his better judgment ; he saw an infuriated populace ready to plunge their murderous daggers in his bosom if he dared to oppose the triumphant party ; his resolution failed him at a moment so awful. But if he clung feebly to life, it was that he has a wife whom he adores, and by whom he is adored ; that he has a number of young children, the constant objects of his paternal care and ten- derness, who have no other protector. He was criminal undoubtedly, he feels it him- self, his soul is cruelly troubled with the re- flection ; but since his situation excites your pity, surely your severity would be softened by knowing him better. All my observations, then, have this aim ; to prove that a more intimate knowledge of mankind does not necessarily lead to despis- MISCELLANIES. 223 ing them more. Happy conclusion, which we may very properly class among the num- ber of consolatory truths. Shall we not then indulge the hope that the Sovereign Creator, the God who knows all our secret sentiments, our secret resolutions, the God who sees our thoughts from the beginning to the end, who follows them through all their turnings and their windings : that this God is a God of indulgence and commiseration. We shall thus comprehend more fully why Jesus Christ, that profound instructor, that divine guide, made use — with so much simplicity made use of those memorable words to direct our judgments upon our fellow-creatures— our judgments upon their failings and their w eaknesses : “ He among you who is without guilt cast the first stone at her .’* — “ There is joy in heaven over one sinner that repenteth.” — “ Because she has loved much, much shall he pardoned to her.” — No, no, severe and misanthropic censurers, it is not in knowing man better that you ought to despise him, to hate him the more. 224 MISCELLANIES. XLV. THEY. They condemn you — they accuse you — they expect of you such a justification, such a sacrifice — they say such or such a thing of you — they will say of you, in short ; — What, then, is this monarch they to whose sove- reign authority such constant appeals are made ? He is a king without show, without pomp, without any visible throne, yet whom every one obeys, at whose voice every one trembles ; a king singular in this, that he is equalh'- * master in great, as in little things . — They no longer talk politics, canvass the government, discuss social interests — and at the instant every one avoids these topics of conver- sation, — They no longer wear feathers in the head-dress, and from one end of Europe to the other every lady throws her feathers aside. — They, most puissant monarch ! how delightful it is to set you at defiance, and yet to do so we must live in perfect solitude. — They, most puissant monarch ! continue to MISCELLANIES. 225 hold your jurisdiction in France, ^tis there that you will always find abundant recruits for the militia which constitutes your strength, the immense legion of imitators. XLVI. DEFECTS TRANSFORMED INTO QUALITIES. Cleon, instead of correcting his defects, has taken it into his head to make them received in the world as qualities. He will have us take his indolence for a noble indifference to the vanities of the world, to the different ob- jects which intoxicate mankind ; — he is rritable, and h e talks of nothing but his ex- icessive sensibility ; he is brutal in his man- ners, and he decorates his brutality with the lofty appellation of frankness. His avarice he calls a love of order, and he gives as the origin of his suspicious disposition, a perfect knowledge of mankind. His negligence, his forgetfulness, are purposed delays, intended procrastinations ; in short, even to the steri- lity of his mind, it is not his fault if we do not mistake it, and if it does not pass in the Q 226 MISCELLANIES, public opinion as a circumspection exacted by circumstances. His air of contempt is the only one of his defects which he never tries to explain into some quality ; it is a weapon with which he chuses to arm himself, and he expects it to be feared. — In this he is right, for he never could succeed in putting a new varnish upon the matter ; the self-love of others is too much upon the watch to take in two senses any thing by which that is touched. In line, if Cleon had devoted half the time to improving himself that he has done to endeavouring to make himself appear what he is not, he would have attained a high distinction in society. XLVII. OLD MEN : EXPRESSIONS WHICH DO NOT SUIT THEM. Poor old men ! — The thing which they are the last to learn is, that there are certain modes of expression which they ought to em- ploy very discreetly, even among their chil- dren and grand-children — expressions of ten- derness and fondness. — I doubt whether Ian- MISCELLANIES. 227 guage of this kind suits them towards any person. I love you is a sort of etherial phrase —a phrase from heaven, which seems to re- quire on earth the accompaniment of beauty, and all the lovely array of youth. XLVIII. FRAGMENT UPON THE CUSTOMS OF SOCIETY IN FRANCE IN 1786 . The ceremonials of Germany have never been introduced in France, and the political ranks are not fixed there invariably as they are in England ; ^tis opinion alone that gives the tone to society, which regulates the gra- dations of respect and distinction attached to situation, birth, and rank. There is, indeed, a regular system established in these things, but it may be called traditionary law only, it is nowhere reduced to writing, and it has been refined upon so much in a course of years, the distinctions are become so very nice, that it may be called at present the legislature of well-under stoods. This denomination would be the more just Q 2 228 MISCELLANIES. since even if nobody claims what seems his right, it is nevertheless perfectly obvious that every one is constantly thinking of it, and that all people are tenacious of the place which they know to be their’s ; thus while ranks may seem to be confounded, even the slightest gradation is indicated by some degree of shade. The most important task of the mistress of a house, particularly if she be herself a great lady, is to let every body see that she perfectly understands all these differences, and to do it with so much delicacy that she shall leave no one any just subject of complaint. A great lady, who is in the practice of re- ceiving company, hns alu^ays her own place marked out on one side of the chimney in a manner that cannot be mistaken. Her chair must be of a particular construction, simple, but convenient, so as to admit the supposi- tion that her ordinarv habits are in no w’av V interrupted. A piece of embroidery or tam- bour-work in a frame, w'hich can easily be drawn nearer to her, or pushed farther off, is MISCELLANIES. always before her, through which she passes and repasses a needle with, elegant non cha~ lance. This frame dispenses with the mistress of the house rising entirely, or rising too vul- garly, when anynew guests come into the room. There are some exceptions, however, to this regulation, but they are few, and made only in favour of a prince of the blood-royal, wives of foreigners of the first distinction, a general who has gained a great battle, or a minister in the highest credit ; it is always, however,, to be understood in the case of the latter, that ’tis to his personal merit, not his rank, the compliment is paid. There is also a particular manner of receiving persons who hold what may be called a dubious situation in the world, who are to be inspired with con- fidence. If this be mistaken, a hasty interjo- gation, made in a sharp accent, soon makes them understand that the confidence taken was beyond the mark i ntended . More address is requisite with persons who rank very near your own line, or not so far removed from you 230 MISCELLANIES. as to be decidedly of inferior rank, lest a word or gesture should seem to mark on your part a feeling of superiority. ^Tis taste, ’tis a cer- tain tact which combine to regulate the man- ners of a great lady, mistress of the house, upon occasions of this importance — which prevent her making any mistakes in the nice distinctions necessary to be observed in the midst of her drawing-room. The women of condition, the women of quality, the women of the court, titled women, women who bear a name noted in history, women of high personal birth married to husbands inferior to themselves, women wdio by marriage have changed a common name for a very distinguished one, women whose principal claim to distinction is in hav- ing a good house, an expensive establishment, and giving elegant suppers — towards each of thesesomedistinctceremonial is to beobserved on receiving them. It is very easy to a German genealogist to determine the number of quar- terings necessary to give a title to be received MISCELLANIES. 231 into a chapter, but to seize readily such al- most imperceptible differences, and adapt the proper tone and manner to them is a much more arduous undertaking ; all the French address, and a great habit of mingling with the world, is necessary to get through it with eclat. It is, moreover, amour-propre., ready to take offence at the most trifling deviation, that one of these expert generals has to ma- nage, so that any thing not perfectly correct will be immediately seized. We must not omit, also, to cast a glance over the manner in which each one indivi- dually studies to take their rank in great com- panies ; this is done equally by the nicest, by almost imperceptible refinements. I shall cite the women as examples, since the guar- dianship of these little vanities is more par- ticularly confided to them ; it seems even as if the men will have it thus. They have, from their entrance into the drawing-room, a manner of addressing their acquaintance, of sitting down, of looking around them, which 232 MISCELLANIES. immediately marks their degree of conse- quence, and in what proportion they consider themselves with regard to others. In their manner of speaking, also, there is a sort of drawl or languor, more or less in degree ac- cording to the person they are addressing. But the great essential of all is the curtesy ; in this the shadings are carried almost to in- finity, from the accompaniment of raising a single shoulder, which is almost an imperti- nence, to that noble and respectful curtesy which few women know how to make with perfect grace. The slow bend with the eyes cast down, body upright, and a manner of rising, looking then modestly at the person, and throwing the body back gracefully; all this shews more refinement, more delicacy than the manner of speaking, and is still more expressive as a mark of respect. There is a moment of great conflict to self- consequence, and that is, when the company go from the drawing-room to the dinner-room. The gentlemen do not now hand the ladies, MISCELLANIES. 233 as formerly ; this custom has probably changed in proportion as the system of vanities has been finer spun ; it was necessary then to put the men out of the question, because they have always a knack of introducing some- thing positive in these matters. See, then, the ladies all approaching the door to file off to the dinner-room. One would say, by their decided air, that no idea of rivalship enters into their minds, yet, perhaps, ^tis the reign- ing idea among them all. Some, feigning perfect aSsence of mind, are the first at the door, when, finding they are not followed, they utter an exclamation of astonishment at their own absence, or burst into an immo- derate laugh at it, retiring back a little at the same time, when some others will say, “ Oh pray ladies go on,’’ yet pushing forwards themselves to get before them ; while those who are in advance endeavour to keep so, under the sanction of the go on, which gives them permission to take the precedence. The superiority is much more marked when, to 234 MISCELLANIES. the pray go orif ladies^ is added, you are next the door ; such a reason for desiring them to proceed is extremely humiliating, since it shews decidedly the opinion that they have no other claim to go first. The revenge taken by these ladies is to say ; “ Nay, my lady countess, I cannot think of going before you,” as if it were by grace only that they decline it, that their right to it is clear. The countess yields to the invitation, and leads the van, the others follow ; some, however, have pur- posely remained all the time holding back, not chusing to have their place at all brought into question, one having dropped her fan, another having lost her gloves, as reasons why they were not more in advance. In short, each one has her part to play in this little scene, wdiich is performed by each with the most scrupulous exactness. The men, as I have said, do not enter the lists in these little vanities, but they also have their pretensions. These are directed to more marked objects, which do not occur MISCELLANIES. 235 daily ; such they avoid carefully, because they reciprocally fear the consequences, since opinion, by lessening distances, will not allow any one to refuse a reparation. We all know, however, that the first classes of society have adopted in succession many marks of distinc- tion which have immediately been thrown aside when imitated by the second classes. All sorts of things in this way have been devised; but leave vanity to work its own way, it will never fail to find new modes of displaying itself «*«*** « # * * * -^ 1798 We see, in reading this fragment, that among the customs of society in France at the period immediately preceding the Revo- lution, fresh vanities were every day intro- ducing themselves under the most fine-spun forms. Two years after — only two years — the language had not sufficient force to ex- press the different pretensions, to designate the new sentiments brought into play; — at the conclusion of a period — of a state of so- 236 MISCELLANIES. ciety, where nothing was to be strongly ex- pressed, where forms and manners were al- most become the equivalent of words, the language assumed a roughness of which it is difficult to form an idea. A number of words were introduced more energetic than the things to which they were applied — a number of barbarous words which seemed to have been forged in the dark caverns of Vulcan, by the same hands that moulded the thunder- bolts. What a contrast in so short a space of time ! — ’tis one of the most striking, and the most remarkable, of this most remarkable period. XLIX. HABIT AMONG SERVANTS. Habit is to servants a sort of written law ; we must conform ourselves to it or break with them entirely. L. THE DESPOT. The despot who keeps the. nation at a great distance from all public affairs, finishes by MISCELLANIES. 237 rendering the people indifferent to them : they may still have a native land— they have no longer a country. LI. DANGEROUS DEPOSITARIES OF SECRETS. Never trust your secrets to people with sterile minds, who have at the same time a great desire to make themselves agreeable. Not having any ideas of their own to com- municate, they will repeat with delight those which have been by chance thrown in their way. LII. HABITUAL LAUGHS. That laugh of Fierval’s at whatever you say lively or clever is a mere laugh of habit ; do not be vain of such a tribute, he began to laugh before you began to speak. -- LIII. A HAPPINESS PECULIAR TO THE LOWER CLASSES OF MANKIND. It is a great pity that the lower classes of mankind have not the power of enjoying in 238 MISCELLANIES. perfection the delights of sentiment. If they had, what a singular happiness would they find in the obligation imposed upon them of occupying themselves constantly together upon one common interest — their domestic oeconomy. LIV. LANGUAGE OF MADAME DE STAEL. The language of Madame de Stael has in it I know not what that borders upon beauty. LV. WE MUST NOT EXPECT TOO MUCH OF SUBALTERNS. You ask why the subalterns by whom you are surrounded never think of telling you such and such a thing, very simple, but which you would be delighted to hear. Reflect that, if they had this degree of intellect, they would know what might be done with praise well applied, and would never restrain their am- bition to being your servants. MISCELLANIES. 239 LVI. THE FIRST RECEPTION. When a man in a state inferior to your own is presented to you be careful to give him a very cordial reception ; he will never forget that you inspired him with confidence in a moment of anxiety. Very different should be the conduct observed towards persons in a situation superior to your own ; they come to you persuaded that they are doing you great honour, and you should shew them that you are not of the same opinion. Re- ceive them with an air of respect, but ex- tremely calm ; this is what accords best with the situation of both. LVII. NO MORE. No more ! Never ! — what words for feeble mortals — for they are words which have no bounds. I shall never see him more, would be a phrase which we could not have power to pronounce if we had not the feeling of an existence after this life. 240 MISCELLANIES. LVIII. GLORY. There are men who can obtain glory, but cannot keep it. LIX. CONSCRIPTION. What an immense distance there is in every way between the time when the quarrels of mighty states were terminated by a single combat, and the present, when potentates cannot be satisfied with voluntary enrolments, but must, by compulsion, bring the whole body of citizens into the field. Yes, the distance is great indeed, in every way, be- tween the conscription of our days and the time of the Horatii and the Curiatii. LX. ROBESPIERRE. Robespierre and his accomplices are held in horror by people of the present time, be- cause of their unjust hatreds, their sanguinary dispositions, their abominable acts of violence. By posterity they will be reproached above MISCELLANIES. 241 all things with havin^g thrown a discredit on the name of liberty from having it continually in their mouths, and representing, it as the object of all their thoughts, while in fact their sole aim was the maintenance of their own tyranny, the success of their own hypo- crisy. LXI. SOLITUDE, Happy he who can still esteem himself after having lived for some time in solitude, after having had time to reflect upon the past, after having had time to examine his own heart with nice attention !-~Oh, formidable trial ! LXII. THE WORD TO GUILLOTINE. Men of levity will you never cease to say : “ My father, my brother, my friend, was GUILLOTINED ?^’ — Is it becoming in you to make use of this word ? — a word which has become horrible by the tone of gaiety which our language gives it, and which, as you R 242 MISCELLANIES. know, cherishes in the people an indifference to the lamentable fate of so many innocent victims. LXIII. THE WANT OF INTEREST IN WHAT WE SAY. See the two brothers Bersalis. — They have, perhaps, much the same portion of talents and attainments; but what a difference in the interest inspired by their conversation ! — The one feels before he speaks, his animated features assure me he does : the other, even after he has spoken, does not feel. — The one is a man for the heart — a man full of life : the other is one of the books, sometimes shut, sometimes open, that are scattered here and there around me. LXIV. PERFECT PIETY. Religious upholders of pure morality, faith- ful servants of God, you only have a right to make but one world of this life and the next ; nothing darkens your perspective, nothing MISCELLANIES. 243 checks your hopes. What a noble spectacle is firm faith united with pure virtue ! — There are, I will believe, many examples of such men, but one alone in all its perfection, in all its simplicity was ever known to me. — He rests for ever engraven on my memory. LXV. A SINGULAR PRETENSION. The pretension that Falbert arrogates to himself in society is no less ridieulops than it is inconvenient. He wants to be intreated to do what he wishes, and seeks by every means to make that appear a sacrifice of his tastes w'hich is to him the most agreeable thing in the world. LXVI. THE ART TO BE USED WITH OTHERS. There is a means of'success commonly ne- glected by inferiors, which is to observe the mode of attack chosen by their patron, when he seeks to obtain some object from a man in power. It is rare that a person may not be R 2 -244 MISCELLANIES. taken himself with the same arts which he employs, to gain his point with another. It is that in every way we touch each other, and that our impressions almost always guide our thoughts. LXVII. LIBERTY. The proportion of lofty souls upon the earth is so small that there would be an end for ever of all taste for liberty, if as the price of an entire submission to the will of one alone, the multitude could enjoy in perfect security the good things which they most esteem. But it is not thus that things pass in the social world ; the exchange of obe- dience against repose is not a simple compact, and one which is always offered to the most docile nations. It is by his passions, no less than by his knowledge, that a despot governs; thus arbitrary authority will never be a suffi- cient guarantee to ensure public repose. Silence them, make them obey — these are the vows you address to your master ; but he MISCELLANIES. 245 will not succeed if he is not wise, for the very walls cry out against absurdity and folly. — Well, we will take as our master a man of talents and resolution, courageous, yet full of moderation, severe, yet good. We will take — that is very well said, but it is not we that take^ we are commonly taken. And if it were in our power to take. Nature in all her riches, in all her fecundity, does not in one, two, or many centuries produce such a man. Will you trust to popular elections ? what a blind guide ! the best regulated among these elections furnish nothing but scenes of trouble and confusion.— Will you run the chance of a regular order of succession ? — this is better, but then you draw in a lottery where there are ten blanks to one prize. — Would you have the soldiers, the praetorian bands, give you a master? — they gave the Romans a Nero as well as a Titus, and an authority erected by violence must be sup- ported by the same means. There must be then, in theory, either precautions which direct, which rule, which restrain the people ^246 MISCELLANIES. in republics, or double powers which, by a wise combination, prevent the abuses that arise from a sole authority in monarchies. These two latter questions are, I think, treated in as close a point of view as possible in my work entitled Last View, ^'c . ; it con- tains, at least in the details, many just and new ideas. “ Whatever you please,” I have heard sen- sible men say, “ provided you do not talk to us of liberty; we have just had too fatal an experience of it.” — They are very wrong. — In the first place it is not of liberty that you have had this fatal experience, but of an arbi- trary authority seized by demagogues to which they gave the specious name of liberty. Say that all political revolutions are dangerous and you will be right ; but they are so whe- ther the transition be from liberty to des- potism, or from despotism to liberty. The proof of this truth is to be found in the two epochs which began and finished the Roman Republic. Let us also observe well that the word liberty MISCELLANIES. 247 is a source of great errors. In private life it means the faculty of acting according to our o%vn will ; carry this into social order, into the political system ; we shall find this same word representing much rather the means of preventing than of acting. *Tis on the behalf of liberty that the English laws oppose bar- riers to the regal power, to the authority of a single man, to the insulated authority of either of the two Houses of Parliament, to the authority of the judges, of the civil ma- gistrates. In order, then, to restore liberty to the honour which is so justly her due, to reinstate her in politics, we must give her another name — a name more analogous to her spirit— a name derived from the idea of ob~ Stacies^ of restraint, of prevention. Thus we shall hold to the truth, and perfectly to the truth. LXVIIJ. BEING OCCUPIED WITH ONESELF. If by entertaining others incessantly with myself I cannot get them to think of me, how 248 miscellanies. would it be if 1 were to lose sight of myself, to forget myself for some moments ? — This is a very false mode of reasoning, yet by no means uncommon. LXIX. PUBLIC OPINION. In countries where public opinion is stifled, the rulers govern much more at their ease ; but then the praise they receive has not the character which alone can stamp a value upon it ; it is an uproar of slaves, not an enlightened sentiment, LXX. DEATH. Let us not joke upon death ; we do not know him, so powerful a distraction is life. But when he insists upon being acquainted with us, when he will speak with us tete-d- ttte\ when he banishes da}^ from us to make us accompany him into darkness* when he orders us to follow and will not answer any of our questions,, what trouble must be brought upon us. — Lights of religion ! \-e MISCELLANIES. 249 blessed, ye consolatory lights ! you appear and all is changed. LXXI. LOVE, AND ITS LANGUAGE. The faculty of loving has assuredly a right to claim a high station of honour among the benevolent conceptions of nature ; for among all the sentiments of which man is susceptible it is the only one that no person ever could feign completely. There are a thousand ways of expressing hatred, contempt, indignation ; there is but one tone for saying I love you which can be believed. LXXII. A SPIRIT OF DECISION. Decision is burthensorne to the common people ; every sort of comparison annoys them. Thus, even in details to which they are the most habituated, if you ask them. What should I do P — they will always an- swer : Whatever you please^ sir. They con- sider to will, like science, as ifn appendage to greatness, as a privilege attached to rank. A 250 MISCELLANIES. reason this, combined with many others, for confining the authority of opinion to the higher classes of society ; ^tis there alone that it can acquire sufficient power to guide men, and teach them the way to honour. LXXIII. PRAISE. It is commonly said that praise must be offered with delicacy to men of understand- ing ; the idea is very just; but let us not thence conclude that people of understanding are indifferent to praise. — They love it — per- haps they love it more than others, and it is very natural they should, since they are not satisfied with their own suffrages — since they cannot, like fools, pay themselves implicit homage ; nor are they free, like people of middling talents, from inquietude of imagi- nation. Praise is then salutary to them, it amalgamates perfectly with their nature. Why, then, is it necessary to apply it with so much discretion ? It is that such men perceive more readily than others the moment when MISCELLANIES. 251 we run into extravagance and hyperbole, when we repose ourselves on their amour- propre, when we permit ourselves to treat them as credulous children. They are then angry, but it is not at the praises they take offence, they are angry with the man, who either distributes them awkwardly, or who endeavours to turn him whom he seems to praise ,into ridicule. Praise men of under- standing then, but let it be within bounds and with address ; let it be the expression of your thoughts with, perhaps, something more, but very, very little ;“-this is the mode to support your honour, and attain the end pro- posed. LXXIV. FALSE SHOW OF MODESTY. You are surprised that Clito places himself so low, so very low, when he speaks of his ta- lents, his attainments, his memory. — What modesty ! you say. — It is not that. — What is it then ? — He is afraid above all things that his exact measure should be taken, and he 252 MISCELLANIES. traces a grand circle around him, that he may not be touched by any body. He is a man who, to hide his stature, wraps himself in a long cloak. LXXV. EASE IN YOUR SITUATION. A very essential ingredient to happiness is to be at ease in your situation ; thus we keep at a distance the habitual feeling of what is wanting to us. Ease of situation is an idea which may be applied equally to fortune^ to ambition, and to vanity. You know the ex- tent of your present property and your re- sources ; keep your expenses below this mark, regulate ydur household establishment according to this principle ; 3'^ou will thus guarantee your mind from a state of perpetual alarm lest your affairs should get into derange- ment. There is equally an ease of situation with regard to our amour-propre; confine your pretensions within the circle of your means, you will then be above the reach of humiliation ; you will have nothing to fear MISCELLANIES. 253 from rivalship. With the assistance of habit we may be satisfied in any situation, provided comparisons with others are not perpetually reminding us of what is wanting to our- selves. Women, above all, who are at the age to be admired, would do well to restrain their coquetry within prudent limits. If they would be always exercising their power, they will be always in pain ; if they will expose themselves perpetually to receiving the rude lessons of age, or to experiencing the number- less chances which destroy beauty before the regular termination of its reign, they must expect to endure continual mortifica- tions. '’Tis, then, in every situation and circum- staace of life, not only with respect to for- tune, but to all our wishes, that ease is the first essential to happiness, and that ease is only to be obtained by moderation in our wishes. 254 MISCE1.LANIES. LXXVI. SECOND MARRIAGES. Women are so much in want of a support, men of a confident, both of a near alliance, that not only a first marriage, but a second, nay, a third, is, speaking soberly and calmly, a reasonable engagement to take upon our- selves. Children may in some sort fill up a vacuum in life, but it is only with the love you bear to them ; you cannot make them the confidents of your secret pains, the sharers in all your anguish, both physical and moral. It is not for them to follow and direct all the movements of your heart, to inspire you with courage, to warn you of the advances of age, to tell you when such and such things are no longer suited to your years. It would be to reverse the order of Nature, it would be to a certain degree a want of decorum, at least it would be a want of taste, to make them the companions of your old age, the associates of the little histories of your youth, to which, in old age, we so fondly recur. You may MISCELLANIES. 255 love them, they may honour you, but some other relation is wanting, another kind of love is necessary to the heart, if it would not feel any vacuum. If, then, by the death of a husband or a wife you feel yourself insulated in the world, seek the only refuge that can be found for this desolate feeling — marry again. I would for another reason say marry again— that is, to keep yourself out of the power of servants. You cannot have your children always about you, they too must marry, they must be settled in the world ; and if left to yourself in old age, whether man or woman, you are very likely to become a victim to the tyranny of some favourite servant, one of the worst of tyrannies. I give this advice, though I know that it will not suit all circumstances, all disposi- tions, but I think where it can be followed that it is the path of true wisdom. I know that there are people who, having once loved ardently, would almost consider the admission of any second love as treason to the first. 256 MISCELLANIES. There are, I believe, even hearts so consti- tuted, that the sentiment of the first love can never be extinguished so as to admit of a se- cond — who would find it impossible to form any new tie — nay, who think that death itself cannot dissolve an engagement once made. Ye whose hearts are thus constructed, how much are ye to be pitied ! — but go not a second time to the altar absorbed in the recollection of that look, so mild, so tender, so full of suffering at the idea of the approaching separation, which the dying object of your affection cast upon you ; what a present would a heart thus occu- pied beto onewho expects to be loved as much as it loves. No, no ; if your soul be thus con- stituted, live on your first love alone ; let the remembrance of that rule despotically the destiny of your future life. LXXVII. DEATH. When death deprives us of a friend, we think only of our own grief. We ought to give one moment of recollection to the regrets MISCELLANIES. 257 that friend must have felt at finding himself constrained to quit life. LXXVIII. DEATH. We think meanly of men who evince any fear of death. ’Tis, however, one of th most extraordinary effects of habit that we can in any way familiarize our minds to so tremendous an idea, carrying with it so awful a perspective. LXXIX. POLITICAL MORALS. Experience is about to establish the va- lidity of an abstract truth which has long been maintained by all men of integrity and sound judgment. It is that morality once banished from the political relations between states, nothing is firm, every thing is shaken in the grand social federation ; props will be perpetually wanted. LXXX. MORALITY. You laugh at the excellent Clotus, who in panegyrising any one dwells for a long time s ^258 MISCELLANIES. Upon his goodness, his generosity, his can- dour, and only adverts transiently, and at the conclusion, to the brilliant qualities of his mind. You laugh at the good man, to use your own expression ; — I, for my part, an- swer on his behalf, that morality is the essence of all talents, the first quality of the mind, the spirit of nations, the spirit of ages. The imagination, with all its flashes, is but the spirit of the individual, the spirit of the mo- ment, the spirit which quickly passes away and disappears. LXXXI. MEN OF EDUCATION. *Tis a singular thing to see men become illustrious in the paths of science with the assistance of fortune and the means of edu- cation, yet to think education unnecessary to qualify a man for sharing in the govern- ment of a state. Such was, nevertheless, the system of the Jacobins. MISCELLANIES. 259 LXXXII. TIMIDITY. Timid persons are lost the moment they perceive themselves the subjects of observa- tion ; they seek words but cannot find them. I believe a principal reason why women com- monly speak more fluently than men, is the habit they early contract of having always, in company, some piece of work in their hands. This gives them confidence ; it is a sort of screen behind which they retire, when, being less seen, words flow more freely. LXXXIII. CHARITY. The charity which we prescribe to our- selves— which subjects us to painful sacri- fices, is, perhaps, the most meritorious ; but a charity which results from feeling, which is prompted by a tender sentiment, which is the result of natural benevolence, is undoubtedly the most soothing, the most to be relied on. In loving to do good, to relieve suffering, to spread a calm over an afflicted mind, we s 2 260 MISCELLANIES. make ourselves in some sort the representa- tives of that perfect Being who is a God of goodness and compassion ; we resign our souls to the sweetest thoughts, and catch a ray of hope to enlighten a dark futurity. LXXXIV. THE DURATION OF LIFE. The universe, throughout the whole ex- tent of which Ave have any knowledge, is ■‘composed of multifarious relations, the dis- tinctive stamps of a creative genius, and a directing wisdom. One of these relationships, which has often struck me, and to w'hich I have never found any one pay attention, is the exact proportion established between our interest in the vanities of the world, and the duration of our existence here below. We are only endowed with sufficient emulation, even with sufficient curiosity, for the course of an ordinary life, and if, by a peculiar com- bination of circumstances, these are exhausted at too early a period, Ave must almost inevit- ably fall into ennui when we are obliged to MISCELLANIES. 261 quit a scene so animated, so exciting at its commencement. If, then, we would, in our mortal career, preserve a fund for constantly creating some new interest, we must proceed with measured steps along the high and beaten road which lies open before us. We shew great igno- rance of the nature of happiness, and the means by which it is to be attained, when we frame schemes and washes to acquire a large fortune rapidly, and to arrive, without loss of time, at the highest point of glory or renown. Every thing within us and around us is ordered with the profoundest wisdom ; every thing in the primary ideas, in the elementary causes, of the grand moral phenomenon of which we form a part, is in perfect harmony. When this truth presents itself to my mind under any new relationship, I am the more inspired with the sweetest hopes. In seeing these relationships ever invariable, ever just between every thing that exists around us and within us, I persuade myself that such a 262 MISCELLANIES. relationship exists between my wishes and the future ; — I persuade myself that I shall one day see all the objects of my tenderest affec- tion re-appear in a new country; those that have quitted me, and those that I must quit, the objects alike of my inexhaustible affection. LXXXV. CONFIDENCE IN OURSELVES. Undoubtedly an over-confidence in our- selves leads us to commit very great faults, but want of confidence leads us into more frequent and greater faults. Ye miserable poltroons ! I would gladly say to people when I see them, through diffidence in themselves, borrow a tone, an expression, an opinionj from another ; — ye miserable poltroons ! why have ye not courage to be yourselves ? — you would make a better figure by many degrees. There is no grace, nothing interesting without being natural — nothing determined, nothing com- manding. MISCELLAIflES* 26S LXXXVI. BARREN MINDS. Persons of barren minds are under great perplexity and ill at their ease, when they must either make visits or receive them. They would gladly see a violent tempest in the natural world, or a violent revolution m the moral world, break out on a sudden, that they might be furnished with a topic for be- ginning the conversation. LXXXVII. THE VAGUE. Every thing is positive, every thing is de- cided in the pleasures of the senses ; but the vague is necessary to the enjoyments of the imagination. This truth is striking even in style, where the strongest impressions are often made by the use of a bold expression, by the preference of a vague and half unin- telligible word over one that is clear and de- terminate. Is it that our mind, so different from our physical nature, even now in its 264 MISCELLANIES. corporeal prison, partakes of the indefinite which forms its essence ? LXXXVIII. THE DESPOT. A despot can never arrive at any sure knowledge of the public opinion, for no one will venture to tell him an unpleasant truth. He seems always ready to say like the Em- peror of Mogul to his partner at whist : “ Play hearts^ or your head shall he struck offP LXXXIX. TASTE IN THE MANNERS. Natural grace cannot be given, but a taste in the manners may be acquired, and this taste is an excellent substitute for grace. The people about the court in France all had the appearance of grace, yet they were, in fact, only distinguished by taste in the manners. It was not alone to the flexibility of the na- tional character that they were indebted for this taste, it Avas in great measure the effect of their situation. They were anxious to captivate two masters, the monarch and pub- MISCELLANIES. 265 lie opinion ; the monarch as the source whence lucrative situations and honorary titles were derived ; public opinion as de- termining the rank in society and regulating the degree of esteem and consideration in which every one was to be held. The people of the court seeking both these sorts of re- compense regulated their conduct accordingly, so that by degrees they gave their suppleness an air of something noble, and mingled a sort of ease in their most assiduous attentions. And since the same freedom of language can- not be admitted in the court as in the city, in the presence of the sovereign as in the midst of our equals, it was by their manners that the courtiers were obliged to express the sen- timents imposed upon them. Thus taste in the manners belongs solely to persons arrived at a certain degree of refinement in their civil and political relationships, while grace may ornament those who approach the nearest to nature. 'Tis to flattery and gallantry that taste in 266 MISCELLANIES. the manners more particularly applies ; and this taste, composed of the finest shadings, had become so subtile, that the first influence of the Revolution dissipated it like vapour. XC. AFFLICTIONS OF THE SOUL. There is something so majestic in the afflic- tions of the soul, that we have been able to introduce madness upon the stage without any derogation from the dignity of either. Let us but figure to ourselves an afflicted mother who, after the loss of a beloved daugh- ter, never could divest herself of this mania ; whenever she mentioned her daughter’s name she could not forbear adding the date of her death: My daughter who died the \5th of February^ 1781. — This simple but affecting recapitulation would finish by making every one shudder who heard it.-— Afflictions of the soul ! griefs all-powerful ! whence do you come ? — ’Tis from the same God who has permitted us to love : let us then resume courage. miscellanies. 267 XCI. THE RELIGIOUS VADE-MECUM. How can I possibly doubt that there is an Intelligence which holds authority — which holds supreme authority over the universe? I know a little empire governed by intelli- gence ; that intelligence is in me — that intel- ligence is me. For the least works, the works of man, an intelligence has been found neces- sary, and none is to be allowed in the ordering of the universe, none is to be wanted. — How can such a contradiction be admitted ? This universe is nevertheless splendid, it is magnificent. Why then not associate the most stupendous work we know among all visible things, with the most admirable thing we know among invisible ones, with thought. What order, what regularity do we see in the whole; whatvarietyin the details; whatriches! — every where miracles of wisdom are exhi- bited ; every where is the signet of power im- pressed. Is there any thing that doesnotanswer some end? — and what is an end but the re- 268 MISCELLANIES. suit of reflection ? — what is the constant ten- dency of every thing towards its end but the result of reflection ? — Is it not then madness to think of abstracting intelligence from the organization of the world ? O my God ! what use do men make of that mind which thou hast bestowed upon them to the intent that they might partially know thee ! — They cannot understand thy nature, they say, but the fly who hovers about them does not understand their’s, yet they exist. And why do they say that they do not under- stand God ? — Can w'e not form some idea of him in augmenting hypothetically the prodigy of our own faculties ? The miraculous au- thority of our will over our actions is not more easy to be explained than those beautiful words of the Holy Scriptures : “ He spake the word and they were made ; he commanded and they were created ” — But we see the au- thority of our will over our actions, and can we not see the same influence of the Divine Will over the ordering and motion of the MISCELLANIES. & 6 q universe? Yes, one of these two mysteries is more manifest than the other — at least it is so to us ; but the analogy is perfect ; and not to believe but from experience is to reject two great sources of light — imagination and senti- ment : imagination which, in its perceptions, stretches beyond the truths , discovered by reason, and sentiment which is our innate science. Shall we, enjoying the finest spi- ritual gifts, but renouncing the use of them, reduce ourselves to a level with inferior beings, whose looks cannot be raised to heaven, and whose intelligence is subservient only to gratifying the wishes of their senses ? The noblest advantage man possesses is being endowed with faculties which, when improved by education, approach him to the idea of God. We are very far indeed from being able to form a perfect conception of an infinite Being; but to men of rigorous attention — to men of genius, one degree of increased power, a trifling promotion in the scale of beings, might 270 MISCELLANIES. render evident what they now see confusedly. This time may perhaps come, though it is not come yet ; and, surrounded as we are with mysterious miracles, ought we to be very much surprised if the divine essence is still a secret among us ? Let there be a league made — a league among all men who are friends of order, among all men of sentiment and sensi- bility, to strengthen the belief in the exist- ence of a God, to defend an opinion so ne- cessary, an opinion so consoling, against all the attacks of the age. Human springs are too weak to restrain man within the bounds of his duty, an autho- rity is required which speaks to the con- science, which makes it tremble. O, con- science! thou mighty tribunal in our intel- lectual circle, thou first tribunal in the moral empire of the world, thou art at once the effect and the proof of the existence of a God. Neither is there any happiness, any repose for us but in such a belief. If there were no central mind to this vast universe, we should MISCELLANIES. 271 be, in common with all other beings, the product of necessity ; and necessity is an abstract authority without love, without pity, which cannot be touched with our tears, or won by our prayers. What a horrible sup- position ! But under the idea of a God, such as our mind discovers him, such as our heart receives him, such as our conscience an- nounces him — with this God, greater than his works but united by infinity with them all — with this supreme God, with the full conviction of his existence, we pass through life in the midst of the delights of hope. No ; let us believe that we are permitted to implore this Divine Master of the world, that we are permitted to love him, and we shall then believe that our vows, our wishes, our ideas with respect to the future, with re- spect to our own happiness, are not a vain illusion ; — we shall not believe, moreover, that our imagination has the power of soaring beyond time only to make us its sport ; — indeed, we should scarcely be worth the 272 MISCELLANIES. pains of being deceived, and of being deceived with so much eclat if we were only destined to an ephemeral existence. There is nothing false throughout the universe; every object has its mark, every species its peculiar stamp; such is at least the order of the physical world ; and if we cannot see with equal distinctness the order and system of the moral world, we may reasonably complete our study, and fix our opinions by explaining the spirit of invi- sible things according to the sense of certain truths presented to us by the things that are visible. This we may do reasonably, since every thing emanates from the same intelli- gence and depends on the same power. We wish for more clearness as to our des- tiny, but the knowledge that we have is im- mense, and we should be more struck if we had not arrived at it by degrees. We wish for more clearness as to our destiny, but the obscurity in which it is involved has its mo- tive, its end, in the vast plans of the Supreme Being. We perceive that this obscurity ac- MISCELLANIES. 273 cords perfectly with the love of liberty, with the merit of virtue, but there are still other reasons for all that is, reasons which we can- not penetrate ; — there is some stupendous secret concealed behind the curtain dropped upon the great theatre of the world. Let us receive with respect all that has been con- fided to us respecting the views of the Eter- nal, our God, and let us not yield ourselves up to vain researches, which only contribute to our unhappiness. Here on this earth, ’tis fear, ^tis hope that essentially compose our life, and these two sentiments both had a beginning; thus man, in his moral nature, is not a finished being, he is but on the road, he still proceeds for- wards. But the term of his travels is the se- cret of the author of his existence, the secret of him who governs the universality of worlds, who reigns over the present and over the future — of him who, by a mysterious power, for a sublime purpose, has created the dis- tances in infinite space, has ordered the T 274 MISCELLANIES. divisions of time in the vast cycle of eter- nity. Happy the Christians who, without any effort, without any contention of mind em- brace, through faith, all the truths that are useful to them. A revelation, miraculous to them, astonishing to all the world, has raised them to the knowledge of the primitive truths, and the most fine-spun metaphysics can go no farther. One only God who is to be wor- shipped in spirit and in truth — a God who is served in loving him and in doing good to men — a God who has invested our conscience with a secret authority, a menacing authority, which never fails to accuse him who is guilty — a God who is ready to pardon, and permits the weak to redeem themselves by repent- ance. Besides, while this revelation unfolds so clearly to Christians the divine perfections, it gives them at the same time moral precepts, the simplicity and purity of which enchant the mind, attaching to the observance of these MISCELLANIES. 275 precepts the most magnificent rewards. All is beautifully linked together in this grand sys- tem, from the supreme intelligence to the mind of man, and from that mind, so incon- ceivable in its nature, so admirable in its works to the lowest degree of instinct, to that w’hich seems scarcely superior to the motion of plants. All is beautifully linked together in this grand system ; let us then perform our task and pursue our course through life, regulating our actions by the moral and religious laws which our education, our instinct, and our studies, have engraved on our hearts. Let us not strive against these laws, either from a vain spirit of dogmatizing, from a mean condescension to the derisions of a frivolous world, or from a blind subjection to the empire of our passions ; — let us reflect that there is an end to that time which has been given us as an essay — to the time al- lotted us upon earth. And let us not disguise the importance to man of that moment in which he distinctly 276 MISCELLANIES. sees the approaches of death, when no other spectacle presents itself to distract his atten- tion, when no other thought can occupy his mind. It is not then death such as he had heard it spoken of in the time of his strength, it is not that pompous death painted by the poets in their tragic scenes, that death in the midst of glory, amid the intoxication excited by the noise of drums and the cries of war — that death, in short, which makes a part of the romance of life — it is death in its insulated form in the midst of darkness, of silence, of oblivion ; ^tis a terrible adieu to those we love in a voice which can no longer express its feelings, with a hand which has no longer the power to bless. O, my God ! give us to behold a consola- tory ray of light beyond this gloomy picture L — Is it to be obtained by faith ? we embrace it under any form prescribed by thy divine will. Alas ! it is but too true that ’tis thee alone we ought to serve, but thou hast given us so many objects to love, so many varied MISCELLANIES. 277 interests have distracted us, even from our first entrance into the world, and our reason so weak at first, our reason which experience alone can thoroughly enlighten ...... Ah, pardon, O my God !~we were going to ex- cuse ourselves — we were going to defend our- selves, and we are before a judge who knows all. Let us only pray to him, and since his goodness has given us existence, let us hope that in his mercy we shall find a last and cer- tain resource. XCII. SEVERITY TOWARDS ONE’S-SELF. You are surprized that Theogenes wavers so long before he comes to a resolution. You do not know, then, that he quarrels with himself for the untowardness of events, and that his mind is tormented with remorse be- cause his best-concerted projects have failed from circumstances in which he had himself no share. He is then mad. He is so in this respect. Ah ! how many of our secret pains are never known to casual observers ! 278 MlSCELLANIp:s. XCIII. BEING NATURAL. No one, perhaps, ever formed a just idea of the character of Madame d’Erval, there is so much study in every thing that relates to her person, and so much chance in all the opinions and sentiments she delivers. She would appear in the world before her cha- racter was formed, and to satisfy this preten- sion she adjusted herself for the world so early that she never placed any reliance on what she was by nature. She has understanding and imagination, but we see art always min- gled in every thing which brings them forth; according to the manner in which the business of the toilet is arranged she raises or lowers her voice for nothing, and whispers or bawls out the most common-place things. Come, charming Amelia ! you who never think of yourself, you whose character may be read the moment you are seen. All your qualities are in harmony the one with the other, and, by a happy concurrence, you have MISCELLANIES. 279 the beauty which agrees best with your soul, and the grace which best becomes your beauty. XCIV. PUBLIC OPINION. A man who from the common ranks of society arrives at the supreme power, has had time and opportunity to study public opinion, and is much better acquainted with it than a prince seated upon a hereditary throne. This is an advantage to him ; but then he will respect that opinion less, because brought up in the midst of his equals, he has seen its origin and progress. Major e longinquo re- verentia ; this axiom which was transmitted to us by the ancients, will apply to every thing. XCV. AVARICE. A nice examination of the quantity and species of reproach deserved by avaricious persons will be perhaps a novelty in its way. They accumulate their revenues instead of 280 MISCELLANIES. employing them in a manner favourable to industry ; this is a national crime. Such is a very common accusation brought against them ; the judgment is severe, and too lightly pronounced. A man, however avaricious he may be, does no political wrong to a state if he lends his money, if he puts it into circula- tion. The case is not the same when, through fear or from other motives, the greater part of his fortune, converted into gold or silver coin, is kept idly locked up in his coffers. This is, however, a very uncommon mania, people are deterred by their interest from this, and the evil to society is trifling in it- self, since the reproduction of true riches is not stopped by a slight diminution of the cir- culating medium. Carrying this idea to its farthest extreme, in order to make it under- stood the better, I would affirm that man, to be more reprehensible, to be guilty of a greater wrong to society, who suffers a single pound of bread to be spoiled, than he who keeps a pound of gold useless and inactive. MISCELLANIES. 281 I think, then, that when avaricious men are accused of infringing the laws of political (Economy, the reproach is extremely exagge- rated. There are, however, other relations in which they may be considered, with reason, not only as bad members of the body-politic, but as bad parents and cold friends. Examine their pleasures, you will find them wholly selfish, independent of others as individuals, independent of society at large. The miser, in not expending any thing, forms to himself a picture of the various uses in which his money might be employed, and this enjoy- ment in imagination is sufficient for him ; Tis an enjoyment in which he may partake at his own will, which he can perpetuate in the same way, and he has never any occasion for others to be happy . — We may go still farther, and say that he derives his satisfaction from the faults of others. The affairs of such an one are deranged — such an one is ruined b}^ his misconduct — these words are delightful to the heart of the miser, who applauds him- 282 MISCELLANIES. self, giving to his frigid parsimony the spe- cious names of wisdom and prudence. We cannot restrain a movement of impa- tience, when we study the sentiments of an avaricious man, and think of the origin of his pleasures. We see, as we have observed above, that he is repaid for all his privations by the feeling of what he might enjoy, and perceiving him thus made happy through the medium of imagination, we are tempted to arraign this brilliant queen of our pleasures, this noble dispenser of the highest favours of nature, and ask why she, who embellishes the universe itself to our eyes, why this imagina- tion can be emulous to extend her empire to that remote corner where dwells a sordid miser ; one who, crouched by a handful of fire with a half-burning lamp, sits there the picture of famine and misery. This imagina- tion, however, strange as it may seem, does introduce herself there under her invisible form, and, planted by the side of the sordid wretch, seduces him, and occupies his mind MISCELLANIES. 2S3 entirely by presenting before it the most en- chanting perspectives. What a phaenomenon is this ! — what is this prodigy which ive can- not explain ? — this succession of miracles by ivhi.ch the human mind is encompassed, and which form its very essence? — We cannot ■tell. XCVI. THE FASHION. The authority of fashion is of a very singu- lar nature. The ordonnances which emanate from it are promulgated without noise, yet they are heard all the world over, and obeyed more scrupulously than laws written and pub- lished by sound of trumpet. The fashion is a king w’ithout guards, without a throne, without a palace, and yet is always spoken of as if it were a visible power; it is that the idea is constantly present to the mind of every body, that it governs by faith, and that it in- flicts on miscreants who dare to spurn its ju- risdiction, the most formidable of all punish- ments in the opinion of society, that of ridi- 284 MISCELLANIES. cule. Thus, by a whimsical pre-eminence, the fashion is obeyed, although it is a master whose opinions and tastes change at every moment — it is a sovereign universally re- spected, though it is the fashion to be laugh- ing at it continually. XCVIl. OLD AGE. People in an advanced age should never affect habits or manners that appear in any way extraordinary. Nothing which can have the smallest influence upon the respect and consideration in which w’e are to be held in the world, ought to be put to the hazard, when the future can no longer be reckoned our’s, when we have no longer any retaliation in our power. ’Tis to young persons alone that such sports are permitted, ’tis in them that they are passed over. But the old man, who seems always on the verge of settling his last accounts, ought not to authorize any doubts respecting his wisdom and judgment ; qualities which should be the certain result of MISCELLANIES. 285 experience, and which are the only ornament left us by time. XCVIII. THE ETERNITY OF FUTURE PUNISHMENT. Eternal punishment ! — Power Almighty ! can they who entertain such an idea know thee ? — Eternal fire for those miserable crea- tures who have to resist the seductions of error and the storms of the passions ! — Eter- nal fire for those miserable creatures who have so many combats to sustain, and are armed with such feeble weapons ! — Power Al- mighty! Your goodness preceded our birth, it still subsists, it will subsist after we are cut off by the hand of death. XCIX. SELFISHNESS. It is a common saying, that great men are permitted to be selfish, at least that they may be pardoned if they are so. Yes, in the little things of life ; but if they are selfish in glory, as is too commonly the case, they would be 286 MISCELLANIES. liable to great reproaches; they would de- stroy all distinctions on their route, and this route according to their comprehensive itine- rary is infinity ; for they hope to live to the most remote posterity. The man selfish in glory, if endowed with omnipotence, would strike talents and genius with sterility for ever, the very elements of them would be lost. But nature cannot be conquered thus ; she says to her ungrateful son, much has been given you, but it is an honour of which I am jealous, ’tis the splendour of the world, and I cannot permit any one to snatch it from me. Let others also have the means of shin- ing, nor seek, thou who art so richly endowed, to crush them. See those stars with which the firmament is so richly studded, they are magnificent, yet they are numberless ; it is the law of my empire, and shall not be changed to please you. MISCELLANIES. 287 C. THE GENEVESE. The Genevese are much less superficial than the French, and yet I feel much less dis- posed to communication with themj one cannot perceive that any impression is made upon them ; and I could not forbear saying of them, not long ago, that they reason better than the French, but the French reason more. CI. THE GENEVESE. It is singular, that notwithstanding the con- quest of Geneva by the French, notwith- standing the incorporation of the little state into the great, they still continue to talk of the Genevese and the French. All this will undoubtedly be changed in time, but there is some honour in having resisted the change so long, in having retained the noble recollection of what we were. At the taking of Geneva by surprise, we were nevertheless told of the transports manifested by the inhabitants at becoming French, of their shouts of joy. 28 S MISCELLANIES. Such was the language of the public papers; — what materials for history do these and thousands of other public papers furnish ! CII. POLITICAL (ECONOMY. Poor political oeconomy ! — Men turn and turn in it as in running at the ring. The sub- jects it involves are so run into one another, that people pass and repass them over and over, without ever distinguishing either their beginning or their end. CIII. THE TRIBUNATE. They know not, then, that the Gracchi were tribunes — those modern orators who in pleading for the establishment of certain mu- nicipal imposts are incessantly repeating ; Tribunes ! Tribunes my colleagues ! My col- leagues Tribunes ! — There are people who never feel themselves incommoded by a name, and who would without scruple call them- selves C(Bsai\ w'hen flying from the field of battle with the utmost speed. Every thing is matter of habit, MISCELLANIES. 289 CIV. EXAGGERATION. The good M. de la Houssage, who loves to make a great parade of his knowledge in political (economy, perpetually repeats that in matters of taxation two and two do not make four. We might well observe to him in his quality of complimenter-general, that in complimentary speeches, in flattering ob- servations, two and two also do not make four ; and that exaggeration always weakens the effect it is intended to produce. CV. OTHERS. If we only wish to shew ourselves off to ourselves, to make ourselves admired by our- selves, we may talk to others of our ways, our performances, our pretensions, our hopes. But if we would see their features sparkle with animation, hear them talk with emphasis, see their hands flourished in the air — if we would make the puppet play, and enjoy its anticks, ^tis with their own interests, their darling va- nities, that we must entertain them. u 290 MISCELLANIES. CVI. GRACE. Taste belongs to the highest refinement of mind, but grace is still more useful, grace in the tone, in the words, in the manner; ’tis almost one of the mysteries of our nature which cannot be defined. — I would say, for my part: See Madame de Stael, if this word did not risk one day attaining an age ^ when years derange every thing. evil. THE SAME LANGUAGE WITH AN OPPOSITE CHARACTER. One may oftentimes hold the same lan- guage, having a perfectly opposite character. It is not easy to quarrel with me., was a phrase perpetually in the mouth of the Cardinal de la Roche Aymon, which was often cited as a proof of the meanness of his character. The same language might be held by a person of a different disposition, who soars, as it were, with an eagle’s flight. You neglect me, you are not exact in returning my visits, no mat- ter, I did not pay attention to it. — But will MISCELLANIES. 291 you not -be angry, when you are told that yesterday, only yesterday, it was said of you in a large assembly, that you were extremely awkward, that you had very moderate talents, and a mind quite of an ordinary cast ? — No, let them say what they please — there is me, there is you, let us judge ourselves at our ease, and according to our means. ^Tis thus that from pride, from meanness, or from an impertinent self-love, we may equally say : It is not easy to quarrel vcith me, CVIII. OBEDIENCE. We ought always to bear in mind that the submission of the great number to one single being is not an insulated fact. To accom- plish this end in camps, military discipline has been invented, and the perfection of this science has become the completion of des- potism. The ideas of greatness and majesty have been invented in civil society to accom- plish the same end, and the perfecting these ideas, under favour of habits of respect, has u 2 292 MISCELLANIES. completed the fine system of union between order and liberty. CIX. HEREDITARY DISTINCTIONS. It is worth while to pay attention to a few reflections which may be offered upon the subject of hereditary distinctions. These distinctions are the great support of the mo- narchy, they are essential to the perpetuity of the royal family, and guarantee the conti- nuity of the respect paid to the prince; — a continuity which is the political transmission necessary to the state, and the principal end in view in the establishment of dynasties. When this continuity is stopped or inter- rupted, recourse must be had to despotism to supply its place, and this experiment the reigning power never fails to make. The superior ranks, moreover, serve as an Upper House to public opinion, and conse- crate its power ; instead of which, in a demo- cracy, this opinion has no distinctive charac- ter, nothing fixed in its legislation ; some- MISCELLANIES. 293 times it is hurried away like a savage by a blind spirit of independence, sometimes it is muzzled like a slave by popular tyrants, CX. TltE OPINION OF SOCIETY, I have seen the opinion of society some- times abuse its power, imposing its dictates upon the ministers, and it was well. But many times I have been disposed to defy it, and I certainly should have done so, if the question had been a matter of personal strength. CXI. REMORSE. Alas ! where is life ? — is it in the present, is it in the future, is it in the past? — You cannot judge this, you whom remorse at- taches entirely to one epoch, to one circum- stance. ’Tis to innocent souls, and to them alone, that all periods of time belong. CXII. THE MANNER OF OTHERS WITH US. Words offend more than actions, the tone more than the words, the air more than the 294 MISCELLANIES. tone. I explain this difference thus. The more calm, the more composed is the expres- sion of the sentiments of any one towards us, the more it has the appearance of habit. CXIII. A CONSEQUENCE. Leaving the honours of the world out of the question, you would sooner pardon your inferiors several overt acts of rebellion, than an air of too much ease in your company. CXIV. CIRCUMSTANCES. The measure that we ought to concede to extraordinary circumstances is, among all po- litical decisions, one of the most difficult ; it is a delicate point to allow of any excep- tion to old conservative principles, and we risk, in refusing a trifling act of compliance, to be compelled to make greater sacrifices. CXV. CONJUGAL TIES. A man of the most barren mind can always find topics of conversation with his wife, so numerous are the subjects of common interest MISCELLANIES. 295 between them. Much more intelligence is necessary, much more imagination in the ha- bitual intercourse with a mistress. Women of the world more especially cannot attend to any ideas but such as are half-playful ; nothing belongs to them, and wherever they discover any thing like traces of reason they think they discover an enemy. This reflection in favour of marriage ought to increase the number of its partisans in large towns, where so many people, embarrassed in the midst of society, take a mistress for the ease of their lives and the convenience of their minds. CXVI. FRAGMENT UPON METAPHY- SICAL FREE-WILL. A man of talents yesterday at my house, attacked the existence of free-will in us ; and without bringing forward any new arguments upon the subject, his didactic conclusions and commanding eloquence made a consider- able impression upon the company. He per- sonified the motives of our actions, and at- 296 MISCELLANIES. taching himself to demonstiating how these motives created or fixed all our resolutions, he concluded, that in this state of continued subjection to a regulator, free-will could not exist. The principal error of this reasoning lies in detaching one of the parts, one of the modali- ties of our spiritual organization, to make of it an exterior being under the appellation of motives ; — a being distinct from ourselves to whom all our actions, all the operations of our will are to be subjected. ^Tis, then, in reclaiming these motives as a portion of ourselves, as the works of our own mind that we shall resume that free-will of which some persons would fain deprive us. It is not without us, but within us, that our wills, our opinions, our preferences are formed, and Tis the mind which performs this grand work — this work composed of such nice shadings and such imperceptible elements that it resembles a new creation. The mind collects around it every thing by which it can MISCELLANIES. 297 be enlightened ; recollections of the past, in- sight into the future, views the most distant, which compose the pictures of the imagina- tion. It has still farther the idea of moral sa- tisfaction, of the pleasures of the senses ; it comprehends all our being under the wide extent of its inspection : truths and illusions seem to circle about it, seem in combat be- fore it ; — *tis the mind, in short, which de- crees the palm to the one or to the other. Why are motives dwelt upon thus strenu- ously : — every reasonable thought has its motive, every dangerous seduction has its motive ; and when in the midst of so many movements, in the midst of the torments by which the mind is assailed, it comes at last to some decision : this resolution is evidently the last act of the thought, and not a despotic proclamation addressed to it from without to fix its doubts. Do we not see with what authority the mind examines all the motives presented to it ; how it ranges them, draws them up in a line like soldiers in a field of 298 MISCELLANIES. battle, the better to know them and distin- guish between them ; or how in other moments it makes them appear one by one before its tribunal, when it perhaps first listens to one favourably, then disgraces it, then recalls it; and often a motive which is drawn by it from obscurity, which is rescued by it from obli- vion, triumphs over all the others. Yet, ’tis this sovereign, thi" mind, this sovereign in every way, which the advocates of motives would, by a little art of reasoning, transform into the slave of its own last decision. This is to substitute the most miserable of suppo- sitions to the magnificent system of power and free-will, of which every sentiment of the mind gives us the idea. Certainly if there is something within us superior to thought, it is not a motive placed in authority by the decisions of the schools — it is not one of the modalities without end which the mind discovers, but it is myself, that mysterious, that incomprehensible being of whom thought seems only the agent, whose MISCELLANIES. 299 happiness ’tis the mission of thought to pro- mote by its cares and by its researches. This myself^ the centre of our existence, is susceptible of pains and pleasures; and these pains, these pleasures we owe to the impres- sions made on the senses with which we are endowed, and to ourmoral perceptions, the pro- ductive sources of so many cares, of so many hopes. ’Tis to this myself that the passions address themselves ; ’tis by this myself that reason makes its language understood ; ’tis he alone who decides on all questions interesting to his happiness. Yet, though the supreme decision is his, he seems to let thought act without him, and only to concern himself with the end at which it aims. It should seem that there is in us two faculties constituting our free-will. The one appertaining entirely to the being myself the sovereign of our organization, the master of the house : the other to thought — to that thought which, in the details of every species of research or composition, seems to be moved 300 MISCELLANIES. by causes independent of its sovereign myself. Thus the painter in guiding his pencil, the poet in arranging his harmonious verses, the man of science in pursuing, within his labo- ratory, the hidden secrets of nature, seem to have a freedom of action which belonsrs to O them entirely. But the myself\% there, who enjoys the prospects of glory and fortune that the labours of thoughtpromisehim,orof which they give him hopes ; and if he sees that these labours are nugatory, he commands thought to turn into another route. It should seem, however, as if there were a station above this myself, who deliberates only and guides the action of thought, for a still superior authority. Yet, if men attempt to consider from on high their spiritual power — to undertake, placing themselves through observation above thought, and, if we may thus express ourselves, above that myself, whose conscience is in their power — they are soon made to feel the inutility of the attempt; and if they persisted they would sink into a MISCELLANIES. 301 sort of annihilation. It is that such a station as that to which we would mount belongs to God alone, or to the celestial spirits endowed with a portion of his power. But these are mysteries upon mysteries ; it were better, therefore, in studying the metaphysics of our moral organization, to stop at those observa- tions upon the mind which are approved and confirmed by an innate sentiment. And what is this sentiment in metaphysics ? — it is a light even more penetrating than the light of the mind, and which seems rather referable to the conceptions of our simple faculties, such as thought, free-will, choice, and the obe- dience of our physical to the commands of our moral nature. Is there any thing more miserable than seeking to degrade this sublime system, to abridge this immense conception, by creating modalities never to be ended, which, under the name of motives^ are to be our masters, and our absolute masters. This hypothesis, altogether fantastic, is more absurd than the 302 MISCELLANIES. hypothesis of atoms diffused over all space to explain a 'priori the ordon nance of the uni- verse. For we can conceive, at least, these atoms by breaking in pieces, in imagination, every thing that exists ; but the term mo- tives expresses only an idea, ’tis a word in- vented to explain the action of the mind, and to give more distinct notions of it ; these motives are not, however, the less, as we have observed, the work of the mind, and without that mind, without the faculty of thinking, of examining, and of choosing, what is meant by a motive cannot be conceived ; at the same time that we can conceive the atoms by means of our understanding, inde- pendently of the existence of the harmonious worlds which compose the universe. But let us have done with these sophisms of the schools, and the abuses they display of the art of reasoning; — of that art which, in setting itself up against the mind of man, sets itself up against the Creator. For this art is our work, while our spiritual magnificence is MISCELLANIES. 303 anterior to ourselves, anterior to our labours, anterior to our powers, anterior to sentiment itself. Ah ! as long as the gates of that inte- rior temple which we call our moral organiza- tion shall not be opened to us, let us believe, upon the faith of our intellectual senses, that these words, ancient as the world itself, thought, liberty, will, myself, are significant terms, invented to express the principal cha- racteristics of our divine essence. And what prettiness of invention, like the sports of children, do we impute to the Su- preme Being, in substituting an uniform me- chanism to the grand idea of free-will ! — of free-will united with intelligence. Where would then be the end of the creation, the end of the order and magnificence that reigns in the world ? Let us, in concluding, go still farther. If I admit in hypothesis the metaphysical sys- tem of superior motives which I have just explained, I do not then see how any free- will can exist throughout the universe, how 304 MISCELLANIES. it can be an attribute even of the Supreme Being himself; — for the resolutions of the Sovereign of worlds must be preceded by motives like the resolutions of man. Yes, undoubtedly there must be motives for all actions — ’tis even an indispensable requi- site to free-will ; but these motives are an operation of the mind, not the constrained result of some power independent of our- selves. A terrible system, which would destroy all ideas of honour and glory in the social world, and which, in a more extended view, in our relations with the Deity, would annihilate our emulation, our merit, and our hopes. SKETCH OF THOUGHTS * I. ON MATERIALISM. What good can be derived to us from those writings which are intended to prove the ma- teriality of the soul ?•]• None of us, when we * The here presented are extracted from notes left by my father, none of which were copied out or ar- ranged in any order. He had written with his own hand at the head of these and many others, which I do not publish at present, the title I have preserved : Sketch of Thoughts. It was, therefore, a subject of hesitation with me whether or not I should publish them; yet since these notes, written for his own use, may serve to convey a more intimate knowledge of the view he took of many subjects, I at length determined to give some of them to the world, in the slate he left them. — Note by Madame de Stael. ft •j* My father had written at the head of these reflections : An article not completed ; I must read the work of Cuba- nis again. These are only simple notions which I write down in the mean time, that I may be able to recall them, — In fact, though his opinions were in entire opposition to those of the Senator Cabanis, he had been singularly struck with the energetic talents of this writer, and justly con- sidered him as the adversary who, of all others, merited X 306 MISCELLANIES. talk of the soul, can know it but by its effects, for its essenceis inscrutable to mortal under- standings ; it is to distinguish intelligence from objects of the senses, from what we see, we hear, we touch, that we have adopted the term MIND. *Tis solely from the impressions made upon the soul by our physical sensations that the idea of its being material can arise. But these impressions are derived from some pe- culiar property in each, they are not occa- sioned by two bodies that touch ; we see in the physical world properties of this kind which have a power of acting upon each \ other without touching, and we may easily imagine, in the same way, a spiritual property, which commands our bodies by a power un- known and unperceived. Neither can I ac- cede to those arguments in favour of mate- rialism which are drawn from the influence of corporeal diseases upon the mind — ’tis the harpsichord which is deranged. the most attention and reflection . — Hate by Madame de Siael, MISCELLANIES. 307 What instrument is there which could in- spire one sensible word, or awaken a single recollection ? a recollection which, moreover, may afterwards be consigned to oblivion. We have but two great leading words to em- ploy in these sort of inquiries, mind and mat^ tei'i and to explain common ideas we have many synonymes. II. HEREDITARY SUCCESSION. It might be said that there is a secret in- stinct in political arrangements, and that study confirms what instinct has produced. Take hereditary succession as an instance of this, one of the first innate ideas in the mind of man, and one of the last m re- flection. III. THE MYSTERY OP ONE^S-SELF. Man vainly endeavours to unravel the se- cret of his intellectual organization ; he would, as it were, hear his thoughts. X g 308 MISCELLANIES. IV. REGRETS. How unhappy is that man whose heart cannot be melted by regrets! — it seems as if a gate of brass were shut against him when he would recall a beloved image. V. ENVY. People are much less envious of regulated superiority than of arbitrary gifts. VI. FAMILIARITY. There are people who talk of our Montes- quieu, our Pascal — I do not like such fami- liarity with such kind of men. VII. THE THIRST OF GLORY. We have only to take a survey of what re- mains of great men to check our ambition. VIII. JOKING. You know, madam, said Dorval, how much 1 love joking ; I am even thought to under- MISCELLANIES. 309 stand it a little. Do you know that the good ^terheim is a man of great wit, I can assure you he is ; — we have often said excellent things together on the subject of joking — we have You have talked only, sir, but jok- ing implies the utmost refinement of wit. IX. SUSCEPTIBILITY. We lower ourselves in taking offence too hastily. X. THE IMAGINATION. There must be a conductor to the electric fluid — one is equally wanted to the aetherial flame of the imagination. XI. A WELL-WRITTEN LETTER. You have, you say, written eight pages to the Prince to exculpate yourself from some fault which you are accused of having com- mitted towards him in a hunting party, and you could not succeed in calming his anger, while one of your companions was guilty of 310 MISCELLANIES. a much greater fault, and he repaired it en- tirely by a much shorter letter, and one not near so well reasoned ; — here they are both, read them. — I have read them, you are cer- tainly in the right, yet I am not surprised at the result. — Explain yourself. — It is easy ; only see these four lines which conclude the letter of your friend. — Well! they have no- thing to do with the affair. — True, but they have a great deal to do with the man who is to judge it — with the Prince. XII. FOREIGN TRAVEL. The interdict imposed for a long time by the Emperors of Russia upon their subjects travelling into foreign countries has been con- sidered as a sort of feodal barbarism. The present Emperor, animated by more liberal sentiments, has taken off this interdict, and great numbers of Russians at present leave their own country to travel about Europe, remaining even for a long time in some of MISCELLANIES. Sll the countries they visit. Perhaps, after hav- ing restrained them unreasonably in this re- spect, and in a manner incompatible with the ideas of the present times, there is now some- what of excess in the liberty granted. In a country such as Russia, wanting in so many of the necessaries of life, and which cannot be sure that it may always have the means of procuring them in exchange for its wood and hemp, a watchful eye ought to be kept over the money spent by travellers in foreign coun- tries. This should the rather be done since its territorial fortunes are vested by estates of immense extent in the hands of lords, a small number of whom would expend in themselves a considerable portion of the territorial reve- nues of the empire in foreign countries, if they are allowed to travel without any re- straint on the part of the sovereign. These immense properties vested in single hands are circumstances which require exceptions in the general right that a man has to do what he will with his own. I must think, 312 MISCELLANIES. therefore, that in an empire where, by a double combination, this concentration of riches ex- ists, while the country itself labours under great disadvantages in a commercial point of view, it is proper that some bounds should be set to the indefinite liberty of living for a long time in foreign lands. XIII. PUBLIC OPINION. There can be no public opinion without distinction of classes. Opinion is the result of a choice between ideas, and in order to make this choice there must be a choice of persons. XIV. TRICKS OF SATIRISTS. ’Tis a very common trick among satirists who wish not to commit themselves, to ascribe the severe things they say to some well-known person of talents ; they make use of his name as an instrument of their rancour. MISCELLANIES. 313 XV. OLD MEN. They ought never to make use of the vrord delicious; it is not suited to their age. XVI. A RISK. 'Tis a great risk to think of paying every thing by friendship without praises. XVII. AVIDITY. When the love of money gains too much power over our minds, we should examine well what money can do for us ; it seems to me that this investigation ought to cool it. XVIII. THE REVOLUTION. The Revolution has increased the quantity of talent in France ; — there are more people who have a little. XIX. A WORK. It must be the public that judges a work. ^Tis very probable that among the circle in 314 MISCELLANIES. which you move, there may not be one per- son of an ardent mind — one person of sound understanding; besides, that fear of giving offence commonly dictates the opinion de- livered by families or by coteries. XX. THE PIT AT THE THEATRE. The pit is often composed of men who, each taken separately, would not dare to hazard an opinion ; when collected together they embolden each other, and commonly pass a very correct judgment. XXI. THE VAGUE. Beware of attempting to prove what is not susceptible of perfect demonstration ; — the vague is much better. XXII. A CUSTOM AT GENEVA. There is a charming custom at Geneva, tliat the husband takes the name of his wife. What an admirable invention is a woman! ESSAY VPON CORN LAWS, AND THE CORN TRADE, THE legislator ought to seek the truth. Impressed with a holy awe in contemplating the good which he may do, and which he dares to attempt, he ought to raise himself, by profound reflection above the different mo- tives which put society in action. He ought to consider society in its greatest extent, and combine together in his benevolent views those classes of citizens which are separated by pride and idle pretensions ; — he ought, above all, to be the protector of that multitude of human beings who have no orators through whose organs to prefer their complaints; — whose sufferings should the rather be his study because their voice is never raised but 316 ESSAY UPON CORN LAWS, in the hour of distress ; — who, seeing nothing but the present moment, cannot be served ex- cept by means of a prudent foresight; — whose situation is such that it is impossible to con- fer benefits upon them in a way that they shall be sensible to the good, or that the en- deavours to that effect shall be repaid with their gratitude ; — yet whom it is so grati- fying to defend against oppression and mis- fortunes, though without the hope of fame or reward. In the first place, can any fair comparison be made, whether in morals or in sentiment, between a thousand citizens who actually exist and are perishing, and a hundred thou- sand, the generation of whom is only in pre- paration ? — ’Tis man who is susceptible of happiness, and who suffers, who adheres to life, yet is obliged to renounce it : ’tis he who is my like ; ’tis with him that I have engaged in a compact ; ’tis for him that laws are made. Those laws do not oblige him to mul- tiply his species on earth, but they inflict AND THE CORN TRADE. 31? death on him who gives it ; nor can I under- stand in any way that cold compassion to- wards future generations which closes our hearts against the cries of a thousand sufferers by whom we are surrounded. But to take another view of this singular mode of calculating. — Supposing even that we could not be permitted to discuss the question except with the precision required in sciences the most exactly defined ; — sup- posing even that the present and future gene- rations of mankind were to stand for no more in the calculation than the x in Algebra, still the proposition advanced by so many people would be false. For not alone are the thousand men who perish by the dearness of corn to be brought into comparison with the future increase of population, to this actual loss of a thousand must be added the cala- mitiesof ten millions besides, who escape death but in passing through the severest sufferings : we must think of the sorrows of such a num- ber subjected, as spectators, to all the anguish 518 ESSAY UPOX CORN LAWS, of compassion, and living in a state of alarm amidst a society agitated by the dearness or scarcity of the first article of life. Of all the different sorts of encouragement agriculture is susceptible of receiving, that which results from an increase of price in an article of primary necessity is incontrover- tibly the least expedient ; it is an encourage- ment which cannot have place but at the ex- pense of the general good, and the general tranquillity : it is an encouragement like an enormous and rigorous capitation tax, im- posed for the moment on all the labouring class for the benefit of the great landed pro- prietors. Nor does the evil stop here ; the mode in question would be less objectionable, the bounds of it being known, and that the abuse must cease by its becoming so mani- fest : but when the proprietors raise the price of corn and forbid an increase of the labourer’s wages, a sort of strife is established between these two classes of society — in the dark, in- deed, but terrible — where the number of suf- AND THE CORN TRADE. SJQ ferers cannot be calculated ; where, under shelter of the laws, the strong oppress the weak ; where the man of property, by the weight of his prerogatives, crushes the man who lives by the labour of his hands. When bread is at a moderate price, the artisan can maintain his family and lay by something as a resource in case of illness; if the price is advanced so as to be felt, he is constrained to forego this very desirable sav- ing; perhaps even the quantity of food that can be furnished to his family is necessarilydi- minished: he must either be deaf to their cries or deprive himself of a part of the nourish- ment necessary to maintain his own strength. In short, in proportion as the price of bread increases, the sway of the landed proprietor is extended; for the moment that the labourer or mechanic has no longer the means of saving, that moment they can no longer in any point dispute his will : they must work to-day that they may not die to-morrow ; for in this con- test between the proprietor and the workman, one brings into play his own life and that of 320 ESSAY UPON CORN LAWS, his family, while the other only stakes some lit- tle retrenchment in his accustomed luxuries. Let us here recapitulate the march of this advance in price with its effect upon the fixed expenses of the sovereign, and upon the taxes: 1. An increase in the price of all commo- dities, and of manual labour. 2. A momentary advantage to the pro- prietor of the commodities, and to the labour- ing class, upon that portion of their revenue allotted to the paj^ment of taxes. 3. Suffering to all persons with fixed in- comes ; to those who have pensions, to sol- diers, to sailors, and to every description of persons engaged in the service of the state upon an established stipend. 4. Necessity on the part of the sovereign to increase the pay of these people. 5 . Exhaustion of the treasury from this in- crease of expenditure. 6. Necessity of the increase of taxes to supply this deficiency. 7. From the effect of these new taxes anni- AND THE CORN TRADE. S2\ liilation of the momentary advantage derived by the proprietors and the labouring class from the increased price of the commodities and of manual labour. It is very common in questions of political economy to carry truths to the utmost extre- mity, in order to transform them into errors. There is scarcely any one which can stand this trial, and the reason is very obvious. All questions of commerce hold to certain rela- tions, and these relations are themselves founded upon circumstances ordered by na- ture, and which cannot, therefore, admit any great deviation from them. For instance, we may pronounce affirmatively, that it is con- formable with the interests of the state to prohibit all productions of foreign industry ; for if we compare the fertility of the soil of France with that of other countries, and the intelligence of the inhabitants with that of other men, we shall soon see the bounds of what foreign industry, carried to the utmost degree of which it is capable, can offer us ; Y 322 ESSAY UPON CORN LAWS, it will then be evident, that this economy cannot compensate the sacrifices of population and of money to which such a commerce would expose the kingdom. But supposing that by some miracle the nature of the soil and of the inhabitants should on a sudden, in any one nation of Europe, undergo such a change as that it could give a thousand ells of stuff, for two measures of corn,* our reasoning would then be changed with this great con- vulsion in the world. The man who is born without any other resource than his own strength, is obliged to devote that strength to the use of the pro- prietor, even from the first moment when it is sufficiently developed to be so employed ; and this must be continued during the whole course of his life — daily from sun-rise to the instant when, worn down with exertion, he can go on no longer till his powers have been renewed again with sleep. * A measure of corn contains twelve bushels. iND THE CORN TRADE. 323 It is a grand idea of a sovereign that he should watch over the afflictions of his people in proportion to the ipapotence of their com- plainings, and to the facility he has of oppres- ' sing them. What ! shall the representative of society be endowed with the power of compelling his people to expose their lives in the defence of the state ? — shall he constrain them to come and extinguish the fire which threatens the houses of the rich, and shall he not watch over the means of their subsistence ? — shall he not establish laws which will secure it ? — shall he not fear a deviation from their ordi* nary prices ? — -shall he not, if possible, pre- vent it ? — shall he not moderate the exactions of men of large property towards the indigent; the oppressions of the strong against the weak ? A great distrust ought to be entertained of general terms ; — -the more extended is their sense, the more easy it is to be led into error by them, because we cannot resolve where to Y 2 324 ESSAY UPON CORN LAWS, fix our exception. Nay, even if this be per- ceived, still we are apt to follow them, so much do we class all our ideas under simple relations, so much do we love to find repose by the side of exertion, so easy is it to make proselytes when we can promise them, that by the assistance of two or three principles, they shall be initiated into an understanding of subjects the most abstract. But the social architecture rejects this unity of means, this simplicity of conception so precious to our indolence. At the same time that ideas the most dear to man are attached to the words liberty and property, *tis to the abuse of these words that some of our greatest misfortunes may be at- tributed. To secure your property during peace and during war, society only asks of you the pre- ference in the exchange you are constrained to make of the superfluous productions of your iandagainstlabour,andthisyou refuse. Isyour title to that land, then, derived from heaven ? AND THE CORN TRADE. 32.5 Have you brought it from some neighbouring planet, and can you carry it thither again ? — What powers, what privileges have you which you do not hold from society? — All you en- joy is from the efi’ect of a general convention ; and that which authorises the proprietor to dispose at his will of those articles of neces- sity which are superfluous to him, may well demand that purchasers of their own country should have the preference over foreign ones. This restriction is not a violation of the law of property, it is a clause, like many others in the social compact, which places bounds to the concessions and prerogatives, for the general good. If society makes laws which wholly lock up the commodities, or unreasonably debase their prices, it is much in the wrong ; but in not permitting the constant exportation of corn, in not subjecting public order to the blind caprices of liberty it acts wisely; nor will the proprietors suspend the cultivation of their lands because it may sometimes S26 ESSAY UPON CORN LAWS, happen to them that they shall only be al- lowed to sell the products to a nation consist- ing of foiir-and-twenty millions of people, and have for their market only a kingdom con- taining twenty-seven thousand square leagues, with some colonies. Every thing is distorted by exaggeration. Men begin by confounding first the import- ance of the proprietor of the land, a function very easily filled, with the importance of the land itself ; then the undefinable desires of this proprietor, which interest nobody but himself, with the means by which they may be satisfied which interest society at large. After thus confounding matters, the most trifling fancy of a proprietor is erected into a public idol to which all are commanded to bow down in the respected name of agricul- ture. ’Tis thus that the first step in reason- ing, which deviates ever so little from the paths of truth, leads into great errors, and these are increased in proportion as its in- fluence is extended, and consequences are AND THE CORN TRADE. 327 chained to consequences. I am, then, re- minded of children, who with their eyes blind- folded advance towards one point, 'when the moment they depart, though but the breadth of a hair from the strait line which would lead them right, at every step afterwards taken deviate from it still more and more. There is nothing complete or absolute in the greater part of the principles which can be laid down. Liberty, property, trade, high-prices, money, agriculture, and manyotherwords used as rallying points, to which mankind would submit all combinations of social and political economy, all require equally to be restrained within just limits. Good and evil, truth and error, depend on the degree of wisdom or ex- aggeration which we give to our ideas ; and since a single term can never express all these modifications and shadings, whenever we take upon ourselves to defend a word or a prin- ciple exclusively, we run a great hazard of deceiving ourselves and overshooting our aim. This mode of proceeding should be left to XS ESSAY UPON CORN LAWS, men who, having the desire to be great and the confidence that they are so, without pos- sessing any of the requisite power, would fain, without giving themselves any trouble or in- curring any fatigue, hold in their hands the reins of the world. In pretending to prove that the liberty of exporting corn at all times is the best system, by shewing that a constant prohibition of the exportation has its inconveniences, much the same absurdity is committed as if a man would seek to demonstrate, that white must be the most agreeable of all colours because black is the most melancholy. Nothing announces more strongly the in- fancy of our ideas than this manner of arguing. Men must necessarih’^ at first have separated all .the truths upon which they were led to meditate by some strongly marked boundaries; but in proportion as their minds became more matured, as they became more penetrating and more flexible, the subjects of their obser- vation were multiplied, and their readiness at AND THE CORN TRADE. 329 making distinctions among them increased ; then did they observe great differences where before they had seen nothing but conformities, and relations where they had only seen con- trasts. It was to express these new dis- coveries and not to favour weakness that measured expressions first introduced them- selves. Public opinion is stronger and more en- lightened than the law. It is stronger be- cause it is present every where, that it exer- cises its empire in society, and even in the bosoms of private families ; it is more en- lightened, because if the law be the work of one man alone, who may have deceived him- self, opinion is the result of the thoughts of nations and of ages. This superiority of pub- lic opinion is especially manifested in a mo- narchical state, because the members who compose the society not having any share in making those combinations upon which the laws are founded, carry all their powers to the side of opinion, making it, as it were, the 330 ESSAY UPON CORN LAWS, representative of their thoughts and wishes. Thus they raise a tribunal which we are con- strained to respect, though unsupported by soldiers or civil officers, because it rules with sovereign sway over the two great springs by which civilized society is moved — considera- tion and contempt. Indignation once excited by speculations contrary to the national interest is per- petuated in the public opinion. From a sen- timent founded originally in reason, arises af- terwards an unjust sentiment, such as that which throws opprobrium upon the corn-trade in general, while this trade is often extremely useful to society. But how exact from pas- sions and prejudices a discrimination which often escapes the tranquil meditation of men the most capable of thinking and reflecting! — A sensible line of demarcation between the liberty and the abuse of it ought to be es- tablished, not only in the theory, but in the practice of the corn-trade. Without such a precaution this trade will never receive its 331 AND THE CORN TRADE. laws but from public opinion, and this opinion w ill confound what ought to be distinguished. For its power, so often salutary, has also its inconveniences ; it is rare that its decrees are formed with moderation; it is rare that it stops where it ought to stop ; the impulse re- quisite for it to become a power, and resist the obstacles by which it is opposed, almost always carry it beyond the mark ; its vehe- mence must serve as its support, and its ex- aggeration must give it publicity. But thus does its effect surpass its intentions ; it would only attack avarice, and it throws a ridicule upon economy ; it would only do honour to frankness, and it renders circumspection sus- pected : it would only blast meanness, and it casts a tarnish over prudence ; it would only decry monopoly, and it diffuses odium upon the trade itself. We might almost say, that public opinion can only act by its excess, that it is like those terrible winds of the North which purify the air solely through their vio- lence and impetuosity. 332 ESSAY UPON CORN LAWS, The propensity of every description of per- sons is to generalize their class ; — the pro- prietors thus finish by persuading themselves that they alone compose the state. This disposition to extend the circle to which we belong applies to every kind of ob- ject, and may be continually observed. If a man be wholly disposed to meditation, he composes the universe of beings like himself; every man, according to his ideas, meditates deeply ; — he whose attention is fixed upon the earth, believes man the sole citizen of it, and reckons as nothing the number of beings ca- pable of feeling happiness and misery whose forms differ from his own ; — nay, in concen- trating his regards upon human nature alone, he considers his own colour as the privileged class — the white man as the master, the black as the slave. In the interior of every society the same spirit is to be observed ; — the noble, the rich man, the warrior, the magistrate — each extends his own circle and that of the calling to which he belongs : thus are errors AND THE DORN TRADE. 333 multiplied indefinitely ; they believe in gra- dation that the country was made for towns, towns for courts, empires for sovereigns, and the proprietors celebrate, with the utmost sincerity, in the name of the public good, laws made for themselves alone. It would appear, that the legislator had a confused feeling, that leaving the corn-trade wholly free would have both its advantages and disadvantages ; but that he could not settle precisely in his mind the point at which the utility of this freedom would end, and the abuse of it begin. This uncertainty must necessarily lead to imperfect precautions ; and tolerance being superseded by exaggeration, called, in a deadened voice, upon public opi- nion to fix those barriers which the law had not dared to establish. This spirit in legislation is much more timid than wise; it is to discourage and per- mit, to excite and restrain. If public opinion be reasoDable, the law should conform to it ; if it be adverse to the good of society it ought 334 ESSAY UPON CORN LAWS, not to be strengthened, or even permitted. Doubt, uncertainty, and apprehension ought to agitate the mind of the legislator ; but it is only when this agitation is calmed by the dis- covery of truth, and the assurance of its being really discovered, that the law should be framed ; for the law should be clear and positive, as should be the obedience paid to It. Uncertainty with regard to their rights, a feeling of injustice, the appearance of par- tiality, cherish a constant source of asperity which might easily be forbidden to flow by abolishing all arbitrary institutions not abso- lutely commanded by necessity. The sub- alterns, to whom the different gradations of authority are confided, feel so much gratifica- tion in commanding, that too much distrust of their levity and imprudence cannot be shewn ; but, in order to arrive at a thorough knowledge of all the inconveniences arising from this source, the attention must not be confined solely to the number of abuses ; the AND THE CORN TRADE. 335 extent of the uneasiness created by all the acts of power, the principles of which are not well known, must also be taken into the cal- culation. Thus the taille, the corvee^ the militia, are in themselves sources of great un- easiness, and great caution should be observed in the administration of such institutions ; nothing should be confided to the capricious will of mankind, but what it is the intention to consign to the empire of chance ; and no- thing should be left to chance but what we would increase and multiply through the powers of imagination and the influence of hope. Thus that people would be the most happy who should never know arbitrary power but by acts of beneficence ; for then the less they comprehended that power, the less they would know its march and its means ; and, abandoned to their imagination, the more would their happiness be increased. If there were constantly at the head of the administration a man whose comprehensive genius could always extend itself to all pos- 336 ESSAY UPON CORN LAWS, sible circumstances, whose flexible and unc- tuous mind could always conform to them his will and his purposes ; — who, endowed with a soul full of ardour, yet calm and tran- quil in his reasonings, was passionately de- voted to the wish of doing good, yet discreet in the choice of his means ; — who, full of in- tegrity and understanding in judging the rights of the different classes of society knew how to hold with a firm and steady hand the balance in which was to be weighed the pre- tensions of each ; — who, forming to himself just ideas respecting the public prosperity, en- deavoured to uphold it without performing any act with precipitation ; — who, consider- ing the passions of mankind as a natural fruit of the soil, should proportion his acts to this eternal law of Nature, not forming to himself ideas of perfection in man any farther than to excite his own courage, and not to be irri- tated or thrown into despondency by the ob- stacles he may encounter ; — to such a man, society might say with prudence — “ We pre- AND THE CORN TRADE. 337 fer the constant operation of your enlightened mind to the permanence of the law ; observe our wants, observe the produce of our har- vests, examine what may be for our good, both within and without doors, permit, for- bid, modify, the exportation of our corn, ac- cording to the abundance or scarcity of the year, according to the laws and wants of other nations, according to the state of foreign and domestic politics, according to our cha- racter. Consider with care, pronounce with wisdom, and since it is beyond the power of man to fix circumstances which nature has made vacillating, let the law which emanates from your observations be renewed every year, so that it may be always regulated ac- cording to our wants, and always conduce to our happiness.” But what a refuge against the imperfection of a permanent law is the imperfection of human nature ! What a chimerical system is that which would have no force but inasmuch as the most enlightened understanding, the z 338 ESSAY ON CORN LAAVS, highest virtue should be the constant portion of those by whom we are governed ! If the conditions we have required were faithfully discharged what a burden falls upon the indi- dividual ! What courage would it not require in him, if he has nothing but the resources of his own mind to oppose against numberless inconveniences constantly springing up ! If he must take upon himself the course of events and become the guarantee of every thing in the public opinion, while the most important circumstances on which they de- pend are wholly out of his power, while he has for his judges a blind and ferocious multitude, who always impute their un- happiness to the person in power, without ever turning their reflections to the laws of nature and the inconveniences inseparable from social harmony ! — Ah ! if there existed an administrator capable of varyingcontinually the laws with respect to corn, in a manner conformable to the good of the state, without being deterred by the formidable nature of AND THE CORN TRADE. 339 the enterprize, we should perhaps owe it to his virtues to preserve him from such a rock. He who should write upon this subject only to gratify his own vanity would con- fine his efforts to shewing merely the incon- veniences attendant upon perfect freedom in the corn-trade, and with displaying the insuf- ficiency and the dangerous nature of the prin- ciples on which it is founded. He would leave in obscurity, whether or not he could point out the means which might prevent the abuses he has portrayed, whether amid so many difficulties and intricacies, a straight and certain road might be pointed out. But when we cast our eyes over the vast subjects included in political economy, when we re- flect upon those which seem to belong the most essentially to the happiness of man, the gratification of our own vanity, any calcula- tions upon our own petty fame and honour appear so despicable that we ought to blush at the idea of making the least sacrifice to 340 ESSAY ON CORN LAWS, them. ’Tis not, then, to pusillanimous coun- sels that we would yield obedience, ’tis to the desire, to the enchanting hope of being useful we are emulous to abandon our- selves. There are quacks in all sciences, and in all projects, who think they can persuade us of the clearness of their ideas by the simplicity of their means, and the grandeur of their views by the vastness of their resources. Some- times, even, the more wavering they are in their designs, in their judgment, in their cou- rage, in their knowledge, the more do they affect steadiness and confidence ; tormented by the consciousness of their weakness, the more do they seek to impose on others, and to deceive themselves. If they are alarmed at the labours of an Aristotle or a Buffon, the effects of nature are all submitted to two or three general combina- tions, and the various modifications are rejected with the confidence of men who have studied them all. If they are incapable of under- AND THE CORN TRADE. S41 Standing the anatomy of the human body^ and of attaching an eye of deep observation upon the different diseases to which ft is subjected, an elixir is proposed which is adapted to the cure of all. If they have no opi- nions of their own in society, they only raise their voices the higher when they pronounce decidedly one which they have borrowed-. If they understand nothing of the thousand difficulties and embarrassments belonging to the system of the public finances, they recom- mend an issue of paper money, or one general tax. If they are overpowered by the study of the abstract principles of political economy, they preach absolute liberty or absolute re- straint. With the assistance of this art, invented by ambitious vanity, an air of grandeur is sometimes given to their ideas, which im- poses upon the world. But, more than any other subject, on that of the corn-trade should we arm ourselves against this dazzling weak- 342 ESSAY ON CORN LAWS, ness. We must either renounce the idea of occupying ourselves with the welfare of the people, we must cease to talk of interesting ourselves in the maintenance of the internal tranquillity and prosperity of the state, or we must fix our resting-place in the medium be- tween these two extremes — constant prohibit tion, and constant liberty. Language, which only expresses with ener- gy simple notions and striking subjects, and the indolence of thought, which is apt to rest contented under these shackles, are so many obstacles which must be conquered in treat- ing this great question. But how much so- ever we know that mankind have a distaste for all ideas represented by these words, ex- cepting, so far, sometimes, and many other expressions equally tarnished and discoloured, presenting nothing attractive to the attention, we must dare to set glory aside, and adhere to these restrained ideas, when we think that the highest interests of a nation may depend AND THE CORN TRADE. 343 upon them: and above all, when we feel from the bottom of our hearts that they alone are images of the truth. ^Tis a fine idea to assemble all the men of talents in a country to the discussion of use- ful truths, and ^tis a sign of greatness to per- mit it ; but let those who present themselves at this noble assembly constantly bear in mind, that there are truths which may be changed into errors according to the manner in which they are studied. All which belong to po- litical economy, which relate to the adminis- tration of the government, are particularly liable to be thus travestied ; — they are com- posed of a multiplicity of rays, the power and action of which we cannot know but in collecting them together into a focus through the medium of meditation and reflection. But the art of the sophist is a prism which separates and decomposes them ; whenever it is employed he can multiply errors and con- tradictions at his will ; he can easily impress upon the scattered portions of one grand 344 ESSAY ON CORN LAWS, whole whatever character and form he chuses to give them. The benevolence of sovereigns does not rest upon their justice alone; it depends upon their talents, upon their prudence, upon the extent of illumination which they possess ; upon their constant vigilance, their tender anxiety, and those paternal cares which the strict law of justice does not prescribe, but which are impressed in letters of fire upon every soul anxious to promote the happiness of mankind. Oh you who govern ! never forget that the great mass of mankind were not called upon to assist in framing the laws ; that, condemned to perpetual labour, they cannot participate in the intellectual light which shines around them ; that their weakness, their forsaken situation calls for your incessant care and guardianship. Those who have a share in the property of the soil demand of you only liberty and justice, those who have nothing have claims on your hu- manity, your compassion ; they demand laws AND THE CORN TRADE. 345 which shall temper towards them the power given by property. And since the obtaining mere necessaries is the utmost good to which they aspire, since the means of obtaining them is the sole object which occupies their thoughts, ’tis, above all, by the wisdom of your laws with regard to corn that you will best promote their happiness and repose. Moderation is the most essential quality of every wise administration, and of all durable laws with regard to matters of subsistence. I know not whether this moderation will succeed equally well in matters of opinion. What sentiment has taught us to hate the mind proscribes, and in following the footsteps of truth without overtaking it, in conforming ourselves to her serpentine route, perhaps no one may be pleased. Excess is generally ne- cessary to draw others after us — we must wear a white plume to be followed ; men love to class all opinions under some rallying word, and ’tis this word which attaches them, or drives them away. But can we really love 346 ESSAY ON CORN LAWS. truth, and yet bend our minds to such policy? Of all the sacrifices of our opinions which can be offered, that made to the public voice is undoubtedly the meanest, since it is unat- tended with any kind of danger. THE FATAL CONSEQUENCES OF A SINGLE FAULT. t'{t: .yiL' , C.‘ ,.,'^^''i3'.|!jrA’'l :*i:'^'?ri'^ ■' ' . ^^' %'.'tl!HM<^>«W . sim-!, '» aui;. ^SH|kJ, '. .f' - 01 r ‘ •' » ; .1 1 1 • 1*->5|PI^ .: lir.. •* ■ fit» I :■ .fa- . J ' PREFACE BY MADAME DE STAEL. IN a conversation, occasioned by the novel of Delphine, it was remarked, that conjugal affection was a subject no less proper than the more imperious passion of love, to produce interesting situations, and to form the basis of an affecting tragedy. This opi- nion being warmly contested, the result of the argument was a sort of literary challenge, to which the following tale, unhappily found- ed in fact, owes its existence.” The foregoing paragraph was written by ray father, as an introduction to this little tale, which he then intended to publish in a literary journal. The design was after- wards relinquished. In revising his manu- scripts, however, I was strongly impressed 350 PREFACE BY MADAME DE STAEL. with the conviction, that it would be injus- tice to his memory to withhold from the world what was not only admirable in itself, but singularly interesting as a rare and pre- cious relic of the extraordinary author. It would ill become me to point out the moral application of any work from the pen of M. Necker; but I must be permitted to ob- serve that the disastrous effects of negligence and inattention to private affairs in “ the Fatal Consequences of a Single Fault,” are exem- plified with a strength and fidelity I have never seen equalled in any other production. It is usual to find, in novels of a moral cast, perfect characters contrasted with atro- cious villains, and gigantic vice opposed to chimerical, if not fantastic excellence. It follows, as a natural consequence, that such writings are wholly useless to the only class of readers to whom they might suggest cau- tion or instruction — namely, to those who, though amiably weak, are not radically de- praved, and who are rather their own enemies, PREFACE BY MADAME DE STAEL. 351 than the enemies of virtue. It should ever be the aim of that writer who aspires to the praise of usefulness, to create a salutary terror for those approaches to evil, those indica- tions of feebleness and frailty, by which the amiable may be seduced to the commission of crimes, and the naturally upright heart perverted to falsehood and injustice. It is only to mixed characters that such lessons can be profitable and instructive. The radically vicious are scarcely to be considered within the pale of humanity, and share so little in the common sympathies of nature, that, whatever the admonitions, whatever the examples addressed to them, they must still remain impenetrable to conviction. In their hopes and fears, their language and senti- ments, they belong to another order of beings, and are incapable of receiving any impressions which are not enforced by positive sufferings and personal experience. It is almost superfluous to remind the reader, that a dramatic author is not identified 352 PREFACE BY MADAME DE STAEL. with the personages whom he represents, and that his morality is not more to be impugned, when he traces the inevitable consequences of error or frailty, than when he illustrates the efficacy of virtuous principles, and as- signs to honourable actions their proper re- compense. In the present state of literature and know- ledge in Europe, it is almost ridiculous to recommend ideas generally admitted, or to enforce truisms wffiich cannot be contested. But in France, where the spirit of party, though apparently repressed, continues to vent itself in the narrow track of literature, it is not unnecessary to anticipate and to obviate objections, however trivial or unte- nable, which might otherwise be made sub- servient to invidious remark and unwarranted misrepresentation . THF. FATAL CONSEQUENCES OF A SINGLE FAULTe IT was the fate of Eliza Lesly to become an orphan in the tender years of childhood. But the loss of both parents %¥as well sup- plied by a maternal aunt, a Avoman univer- sally respected, who resided in the country, and devoted herself with unremitted assi- duity to the education of her adopted daughter. Though descended from honourable an- cestors, Miss Lesly inherited but a small property, and her slender income was wholly expended in procuring masters for the various accomplishments suited to her sex and sta- tion, and in cultivating those superior talents A A 354 THE FATAL CONSEQUENCES OF which embellish society and extend the sphere of existence. From nature she had received much that cannot be bestowed by art ; and as she approached maturity the external charms of symmetry and elegance were heightened by that indefinable, enchanting mental grace, which, as it implies the pos- session of taste and delicacy, is often more fascinating than the most perfect beauty. With so many attractions it was impossible not to engage admiration ; but the homage which Miss Lesly had been accustomed to receive, she soon learnt to neglect. In the distinctions so flattering to vanity she found nothing to satisfy that susceptible heart which secretly cherished the endearing image of domestic union. She aspired to the privi- lege of dispensing happiness to some virtuous being worthy of her esteem, her confidence, her love ; capable of sympathizing in her sen- timents and of recompensing her devoted at- tachment. Miss Lesly had scarcely attained her A SINGLE FAULT. 355 twentieth year, when Sir Henry Sommers, a / young man just returned from his travels, who, by the demise of his father, had lately come into possession of a title and estate, ar- rived at his seat in Kent, in the vicinity of the village where the aunt of Miss Lesfy resided. The return of the young baronet after a long interval of absence was an event of no small importance to the neighbourhood, and afforded to the curious and the idle ample matter for in- quiry and speculation. That such a man must marry was obviously a thing of course : that the object of his choice should be a woman of birth and fortune, appeared equally evident ; and many were the matches proposed, and various the ladies chosen as rival candidates for his hand and fortune. When these rumours reached Miss Lesly, she heard them with perfect indifference : but she had no sooner seen Sir Henry than, for the first time in her life, she sighed to reflect that she was not a woman of fortune. In Henry Sommers the most perfect manly A A 2 356 THE FATAL CONSEQUENCES OF beauty was embellished by elegant manners and dignified deportment. His calm coun- tenance, his deep-toned voice might, perhaps, have appeared too serious, but for the sensi- bility beaming from his eyes, the expression of benevolence and candour which lighted up his features and dwelt on his accents. It was, indeed, often objected to him, that he had habitually an air of langour and of melan- choly ; — but that very air which, to superficial observers announced a sombre, repulsive cha- racter, impressed Eliza with far different feelings from the moment that her heart whispered she was the object of his atten- tion, and that to herself she almost ventured to confess she wished to engage his love. She believed that Henry the reserved^ the dig- nified Henry, required the consolations of sympathy, the soothings of female tenderness ; and flattered by this persuasion, she began, un- consciously, to cherish hopes — to indulge an- ticipations of happiness. Eliza was not de- ceived. Sir Henry had at first only paid A SINGLE FAULT. 357 homage to beauty, when he singled her out at the balls and other places of public resort in the neighbourhood. In addressing him her voice became more touchingly sweet. Henry listened with deeper interest, and Eliza, who could not speak without discovering the elevation or delicacy of her mind, the recti- tude of her principles, the propriety of her sentiments, unconsciously completed the en- chantment. He no longer doubted that she united those brilliant qualities included in bis idea of female perfection, and believed with her it might be possible to realize the most romantic dreams of human felicity. The more he reflected on her moral qualities, the more did judgment concur with inclina- tion to ratify his choice ; and in surrender- ing himself to love, he appeared less to fol- low the impulse of passion, than to obey the dictates of duty. With the high spi- rited generosity of a romantic character, he found in the smallness of Miss Lesly’s for- tune an additional cause for satisfaction, he 358 THE FATAL CONSEQUENCES OF exulted in the idea that it was his privilege to raise her to that station which she was formed to adorn, and that in bestowing her hand, she would receive from him all those adyentitiovis advantages of wealth and dis- tinction without which even beauty is ne- glected, and virtue unhonoured by the mer- cenary world. Henry loved too truly to be presuming, and when he at length ventured to disclose his sentiments in a letter expressing his hopes and his wishes, and breathing all the ardour and tenderness of passion, he awaited the result with unspeakable anxiety. “ Can Eliza,” said he, “ esteem me suffi- ciently to unite for ever her destiny with mine ? Does she hold me worthy to be her first friend, to be invested with that most sa- cred title of husband, in which 1 shall glory to my latest breath ?” The answ’er to this appeal was traced noth a trembling hand, but the vows of Sommers were accepted. Miss Lesly confessed, that A SINGLE FAULT. 359 if his happiness depended on her sentiments, she almost feared he had been happy even long before he desired it. This simple avowal €xalted her lover to the summit of human felicity. Transported into a new existence, he found no language to do justice to his feelings ; and it was only in shedding deli- cious tears that he could pour forth his joy and gratitude, whilst he reiterated at Miss Lesly’s feet his protestations of eternal truth and fidelity. If Eliza articulated not the same vows, he read them in her eyes ; he saw them attested by looks of unutterable tenderness ; for they now learnt mutually to divine the latent meaning of every word or movement, and were every hour more ready to believe that heaven had formed them for each other. Marriage fixed and consecrated fheir union. Brilliant with youth, health, and beauty, the favourites of fortune and felicity, they might have excited envy, had they not irresistibly inspired good-will and complacency, and, by 3(iO THE FATAL CONSEQUENCES OF the most engaging attentions and the most unaffected benevolence, obtained a pardon .even for superior happiness. Henry could never shew too much kindness to those that admired Eliza, who, on her part, if she heard him praised, cast on the encomiast a glance of eloquent acknowledgment. Soon after their marriage an entertainment was given at Rose Wood, Sir Henry’s seat, to the principal families in the neighbourhood. Whilst Eliza was at her toilette, he re- peatedly entered the dressing room to inquire whether she was ready to appear; and when she at length presented herself before the circle, he adroitly took his station where he could best form a judgment of the impression pro- duced on the company. With eager delight he watched the symptoms of surprise and admiration awakened by her elegance and beauty. He listened to those rapturous ex- clamations which sometimes escaped the lips of the spectators, and carefully ccjllected the most trite unmeaning phrases which were ut- A SINGLE FAULT. 361 tered in Eliza’s praise. His eyes, constantly following her motions, would alone have been sufficient to direct attention to one object, even if perfect beauty and finished elegance did not always challenge universal homage. But Henry was not satisfied with this super- ficial admiration. He required that Eliza’s mental endowments should be duly appre- ciated, and secretly demanded homage for the elegance of her language, the delicacy of her ideas, the propriety of her sentiments. If he sometimes distressed her modesty by his own undissembled admiration, he often improved her observations with an address or refinement wholly derived from the heart, and infinitely superior to any thing exclu- sively created by the understanding. In fine, Eliza had in Henry a friend so inti- mately associated with all her interests, that she seemed in his society to double her own existence — for she constantly saw her own ideas reflected by his mind, as in a mirror which embellishes the features without de- 362 THE FATAL CONSEQUENCES OF stroying the resemblance. With serene de- light she reposed in the protection of a husband, who, had the merits of his Eliza been disputed, would have assumed a haughty aspect, but who, flattered by the respect and admiration she excited, had only the air of a man who was proud of his wife, and exulted in the tribute offered to her per- fection. At the name of Lady Sommers, that name by which the woman of his choice was for ever identified with himself, his heart throbbed with emotion, and he felt again all the youthful transports of happy, mutual love. Still the felicity of Sommers remained in- complete, till he had prevailed on the high spirited, the delicate, the reserved Eliza to dismiss her scruples with regard to disparity of situation, till he recognised, in the unre- strained freedom with which she disposed of his property, that cordial confidence, which can alone result from an harmonious union. It is only when thou becomes synonimous with and the distinction of thine or mine A SINGLE FAULT. 363 IS wholly lost in ours, that the wedded pair have realized all the refined enjoyments of conjugal affection. It was thus that Henry and Eliza came insensibly to have but one being, and to find in the marriage bond an union infinitely more perfect than could be created by the omnipotence of passion. With reason did they cherish the oaths which sealed their compact, and rendered it immutably sacred in the eyes of God and man. If they formed plans for futurity, they dis- covered in every event the happiest auspices, because they were for ever associated in the same fate, and equally participated in all the good and evil allotted to each other. In ima- gination they contemplated, without repug- nance, the different stages of human existence. They even anticipated old age with compla- cency, as that period, M^hen, having long hand in hand journeyed on together, they should be mutuallysoothed by those tender delicious re- collections, which come at length to supply the place of ardent hopes and eager expectations. 364 THE FATAL CONSEQUENCES OF There were even moments when the image of death was not without its peculiar attrac- tions, since they were pleased to dwell on the idea that the messenger of eternity might summon both on the same day and at the same hour, and that they should together plunge into the awful abyss, with the firm assurance of a joyful and eternal re-union. They looked forward with confidence to fu- turity, since they had in their own hearts a guarantee from destruction. What a pledge of immortality is possessed in strong affections ! blest as they were, su- premely blest, they directed their thoughts to the one eternal source of good, reposed in the protection of their God — loved and be- lieved, enjoyed and adored. Hitherto they had no cause to complain of society. The first disappointment that oc- curred of this nature was in a manner the discovery of a new pleasure. It was so de- lightful to reciprocate benefits — to be under the inestimable obligation of assisting each A SINGLE FAULT. 365 Other! The mutual solace was a mutual treasure that enhanced the privilege of in- timacy. In contending with the little cares and chagrins of life, they learnt the better to define the circle which separated them from the world ; and when driven to that sanctuary within the heart, became even more closely united to each other. It was Henry who most needed the sooth- ing voice of friendship, since it was he alone who was subjected to irritation and chagrin by his intercourse with the capricious world. Entitled by birth and education to claim respect and attention from society, he had ac- quired a relish for distinction which impelled him to adopt all honourable means for en- gaging popularity : but it is scarcely possible to indulge the thirst for emulation, or to enter with eagerness on the career of glory, without experiencing the conflicts of hope and fear, the agitations incident to care and disap- pointment. There are competitors in every pursuit, and rivals in every path, who, if they 366 THE FATAL CONSEQUENCES OF sometimes grace your triumph, more oftea reverse your schemes and baffle your ambition. Eliza sometimes sighed when she perceived that she constituted not to Henry that all which he formed for her, who had no other object : but reason soon suggested, that since men were called upon to act a distinguished part in public life, it was natural that they should take an interest in the pursuits of am- bition, and challenge the perils and chances incident to the situation. Eliza not only ceased to repine at what she had once regretted as an evil, she even came to consider it as a real good, when she discovered that the pains inse- parable from ambition produced a new source of confidence and sympathy between her and Henry, and that it was to her alone, when- ever disappointment occurred, that he looked for encouragement or consolation. And what triumph is so precious to a woman of feeling, as to know by intuition, that in her voice — her tenderness — her sympathy, resides the all-prevailing charm which restores tranquil- A SINGLE FAULT. 36? lity to the agitated heart of a beloved hus- band ! How proud is she of the conviction that she alone possesses the power to calm his perturbation — to revive his hopes — to dispel his apprehensions ; in difficulty to fortify his courage — in disappointment to soften his regrets. Absorbed in one object, Eliza learnt without effort to understand Henry’s cha- racter. The lesson was rather imbibed than studied, for her only teacher was love. She could calculate with exact precision in what manner he would be influenced by the opinion of others. She divined what im- pressions he would be able to resist, and to what illusions of the imagination he must be peculiarly exposed. But such was the purity of his principles, and such the dignity of his sentiments, that her task was easily per- formed. The wounds she occasionally dis- covered were not deep, and with a little care and delicate address, she never failed to re- store his mind to its wonted harmony. Henry 308 THE FATAL CONSEQUENCES OF once uttered a tender complaint that he never was allowed any opportunity of repaying to her this kindness. “ It is not that I am less unreserved in my communication,” replied his devoted wife ; “ I would freely lay my heart open to your view. Not one thought should be concealed from your eye; — hut the world can cause me no chagrin. I have but one interest, my wishes centre in one supreme object; to see that being happy is all my care — my pride— my pleasure — my whole destiny !” “ Well ; act as you will — my benefactress let me call you. Continue to dispense un- numbered blessings, which are only to be repaid with love. Henceforth ray life is at your service; mould me to your wishes; dispose of me as you shall please. I can have no will but your’s.” “ I accept the trust, which I dedicate to your happiness. I am aware that my friend must in some degree enter into the ordinary pursuits of the world. Change of scene is A SINGLE FAULT. 369 necessary to your perfect enjoyment. You have a relish for public life. I ought not to wish 3'ou to sacrifice such tastes, or renounce the dignity attached to political consideration.” Henry seized the idea these words suggested. He had long been disposed to serve in parlia- ment; but desirous of commencing his career under the most honourable auspices, he waited for an opportunity of being returned a county member at the gelieral election which was now approaching. Yet, however he might be dis- posed to embrace Eliza’s suggestions, there un- happily existed an obstacle to their accomplish- ment of which she was wholly unconscious, and which he was most unwilling to communicate. Much as she had studied her husband^s character, there ivas in it one defect, which had hitherto escaped her observation, but wliich she was destined to learn by fatal exi)erience. Seven years had elapsed since their happ.y union, which was crowned by the birth of a daughter in whom each parent delighted to trace a resemblance to the other. Hitherto all had smiled on Eliza’s path ; but some few clouds now occasionally obscured the sunshine of Henry’s cheerfulness. Even in the pleni- tude of mutual confidence, there was one sub- ject on which false delicacy condemned him to silence. B B 370 THE FATAL CONSEQUENCES OF Early in marriage he had sustained some losses of property, but liberal, kind, fond of shew and splendour, he was deaf to the lessons of prudence and economy ; and thus the evil which might have been easily obviated the first year, augmented the second, and was aggravated the third, till finally it produced real pecuniary embarrassment. Independent of his repugnance to retrenchment, he had an insurmountable an- tipathy to accounts and calculations, and was consequently almost totally ignorant of the most common forms of business. His steward had soon occasion to discover his inattention to the state of his affairs, and, not choosing to hazard the loss of his favour, ahvays proposed some temporary expedient — such as the cut- ting down of timber, or the transfer of money in the funds, to supply the casual deficiency. Henr}^ easily reconciled himself to the advice, having great expectations on an uncle, w’ho had returned from India wdth an immense fortune. But these fallacious hopes w'ere soon blasted. The uncle married, and the nephew was completely supplanted b}- the birth of a son-and-heir. It was after this event, that the steward for the first time ventured on some observations respecting the disparity of income and expenditure. But Henry, who still felt it impossible to dispense with his accustomed A SINGLE FAULT. 371 liabits and enjoyments, was no less unwilling to make Eliza the depositary of a secret which might damp her spirits, than to allow her to suspect that he had one thought in which she did not participate. Ele was perfectly aware that the least hint would induce her to propose,, and even to insist on retreijehing every article of expense appropriate to her own share in the establishment: but it had ever been his peculiar pleasure to see her dressed in a style even supe- rior to her station, and to seize every pretext for surprizing her by some elegant device of love, some new and expensive ornament. Once, when he had been closetted with his steward longer than usual, he entered the draw- ing-room with a thoughtfulness on his brow which rivetted Eliza’s attention. In meeting her earnest glance he coloured deeply, and hastily quitted the apartment. The next day Eliza turned the conversation on the folly of indulging in habits of luxury and expense, contrasting with them those simple, quiet com- forts, which are the true sources of domestic enjoyment. Perceiving that this remark drew no explanation, she took occasion to introduce some reflections on the unlimited confidence which ought to form the charm of perfect in- timacy. For the first time, something like restraint B B 2 372 THE FATAL CONSEQUENCES OF and dissatisfaction was mutually experienced by Henry and Eliza ; for nothing can be more painful than when two attached friends are under the necessity of communicating through the medium of general ideas their own personal feelings. In such a situation, it is palpable that one of the two parties, if not both, must be wrong ; a salutary warning that every species of dissimulation or insincerity is wrong, however it may be disguised by delicacy, or excused by tenderness. Unhappily, Eliza wanted cou- rage to enforce an explanation, whilst Henry, too conscious of his error, wanted fortitude to confess that he had acted with culpable impru- dence. Yet, he often wished, and always meant to disclose the embarrassment, till luckily, as he conceived, he discovered an expedient for repairing the dilapidations in his property, and even of procuring a considerable augmentation to his income. As the period of the election approached he had often occasion to visit London ; and one day, at a public dinner, became acquainted with a noted stock-broker, supposed to be one of the most adroit speculators in the funds ; and who, from some accidental questions on the price of stocks, was insensibly permitted to take the lead in the conversation. John Foster (such was the name of this redoubtable personage) A SINGLE FAULT. 373 was a man of fifty, a veteran of the world, who, in spite of a cold, forbidding exterior, drew at- tention, and even inspired confidence, partly by hazarding bold assertions with an imposing air of reserve, and intermingling truths generally known with falsehoods, which could with diffi- culty be either traced or detected. As it was notorious that he had been the successful agent of certain persons of rank and political consider- ation, who, under the cover of his name, traf- ficked in the funds, he might boast, without impropriety, of having safely conducted to for- tune and prosperity, those who had implicitly submitted to his counsel and direction. That very morning, he observed, he had received a letter from a well-known banker,who, after briefly enumerating some lucky hits, for which he was indebted to his good friend Foster, remitted to his care a considerable sum, at that moment in- vested in India bonds. Although Foster searched his pockets for this letter without producing it, his assured look challenged belief, and no one felt disposed to question the accuracy of his statement. Sommers had listened to the conversation with such marked attention that Foster was encouraged to prolong the subject; and he be- gan, with much address, to draw a subtle dis- tinction between speculating and gambling in 374 THE FATAL CONSEQUENCES OF the funds. The former he represented as fair and safe: the latter as difficult and hazardous. He was naturally led to illustrate his observa- tions by anecdotes, which confirmed the favour- able impression already produced on the too facile Sommers. At length,' however, ‘he made a sudden transition, by enquiring whetlier he had not the pleasure to recognize the son of Sir Thomas Sommers. On being answered in the affirmative, he adroitly recollected an in- stance in which he had been so fortunate as to render him some small service. This recogni- tion led to more familiar conversation, and finally produced an appointment for the follow- ing morning. That night Sommers had but little sleep. A new impulse was given to his thoughts, and he Avas wholly occupied with the scheme which promised to extricate him from care and perplexity. To the character and situation of Foster, he would, under other circumstances, have felt in- vincible repugnance ; but, Avith the persuasion that he had the honourable sanction of his fa- ther’s example, his scruples Avere silenced, and he no longer hesitated to cultivate an acquaint- ance from Avhich he hoped to derive consider- able advantage. At the hour appointed, he repaired to Foster’s house, where he met Avith a cordial reception. A SINGLE FAULT. 375 The speculator, whose reputation had been sometime on the wane, took occasion, per- haps with superfluous caution, to remark, that it was a day on which he was not usually at home ; otherwise Sir Henry might have en- countered many Strangers who would have in- terrupted their conversation. A few sentences from Sommers explained the object of the present interview. Foster, easily detecting his ignorance of business, after a short silence, observed : — “ I believe I perfectly com- prehend your situation. You possess a con- siderable landed property : you expend, year by year, seven hundred pounds more than your actual revenue. Your object is to realize twelve or fifteen thousand pounds, the interest of which would replace the deficit which occa- sions your present embarrassment ; and which, as you have justly remarked, must be augmented unless it is diminished. It is certainly pru- dent to provide for the contingency, and I be- lieve I can assist you in facilitating your views ; but trust me, it will be well if you confine yourself to one precise object, without launch- ing into more ambitious speculations. Be satis- fied with retrieving your loss, and do not seek to double your fortune.” Sommers shewed by a look how much he approved of this language, Foster, anxious to fortify the favour- S7S THE FATAL CONSEQUP:XCES OF able impression and strengtlien the confidence in his superior skill and sagacity, entered into copious details on the different funds, and on the nature of the speculation, always taking care to introduce some anecdote which might do credit to his own judgment. At length, per- ceiving that Sommers betrayed some symptoms of weariness and impatience, he added, that he entertained not the least doubt of succeeding in the wished-for object, but that it was im- possible to predict with certainty the favourable moment for engaging in such speculations ; that it would be necessary to raise money by credit, n thing easily accomplished b}' promissory notes, or some similar expedient; that in the mean time he required but a simple affirmation on the part of Sommers to authorize his future operations. With these words he presented a written paper for his signature, the terms of Avhich were somewhat vague and unsatisfactor\\ Sommers hesitated a moment, then re-perusing it, with an air of abstraction signed his name and slowly returned it to Foster, who, throwing it carelessly into his portfolio, put an end to the conversation by assuring Sir Henry’’ he should soon receive good news. This first promise Avas speedily fulfilled. Within ten days Sir Henry received eight hun- dred pounds from Foster with a minute detail A SINGLE FAULT. 37? of his proceedings, which, to an inexperienced person, was scarcely intelligible. Elated with this first success. Sir Henry instantly repaired to London, where, on seeing Foster, he eagerly poured forth his heart-felt acknowledgments. Foster listended with indiflference, and, open- ing a drawer, produced an additional surplus of three hundred and twenty-seven pounds, which were still due on the speculation. Sommers, still more delighted, observed, that Foster de- ducted from this sum too moderate a profit. F'oster replied, that it v/as according to the re- gular terms of commission, and that he never deviated from the established practice. As Sommers persisted in wishing to oflfer a more adequate remuneration, he replied, that if he should be so fortunate as to secure for his re- spected friend Sir Henry Sommers the augmen- tation which he expected, he would then accept, as a token of mutual friendship, a diamond of a moderate value. Sommers was enchanted with this apparent sincerity and moderation. Foster perceived his advantage, and hastily profited of the favourable moment. — “ You are too liberal of acknowledgments for this petty service Sir Henry. I regret having missed the opportunity of procuring a far greater advantage. Had you but invested me with more power I could have turned it to better account. Unfortunately, there was not time to apprize you of the favour- 378 THE FATAL CONSEjRUENCES OF able opportunity, and if another should occur, it might again be lost from the same cause.” — “ What then should be done?” exclaimed Som- mers, whose ardour was animated by success, and who felt his confidence but a tribute of gratitude to his benefactor. “ I have been thinking,” said Foster, “ that by adding your endorsement to my promissory notes, I might raise on credit an adequate sura for the under- taking.” So saying, he placed on the table half a dozen notes, to which he had already affixed his own signature, and which the unsus- picious Sommers signed with impatience, till he observed, what had before escaped him, that the sum was not specified, a blank being left between the first and the last figure, which rendered the amount indefinite. Alarmed for the first time, he made a sudden exclamation, to which Foster replied by saying carelessly ; “ Oh, that is a thing of course, the regular form in these transactions ;” preventing further enquiry by an anecdote of an East India Director who had obtained, through his means, an im- mense fortune. Sommers continued to sign, but with a thoughtful countenance. At length, laying down his pen, and looking earnestly at Foster, who had locked up the notes in his desk, he exclaimed : — “ I trust, 1 confide in you implicitly, Mr. Foster: I commit every thing to your pru- A SINGLE FAULT. 379 dence.” — ‘‘ With your permission, I have had in my hands a more precious trust.” — “ Lately!” reiterated Sommers. “ Yes, lately ; besides, I stake my credit with your safety; nay, I trust my very existence to your honour.” These words restored to Sommers a momentary confi- dence, and Foster hastily ended the conference. It was true that Foster staked his credit ; but his reputation was already declining, and he determined, by one desperate effort, to re-esta- blish himself or to involve another in his ruin. If he succeeded in the speculation, it was his real intention to admit Sommers to a share of the profits. If he failed, he should devolve on another the tremendous obligation. For him- self, he had little to lose, and was therefore re- solved to put this last and only chance to the issue of one hazardous experiment. In the meanwhile Sommers returned home more uneasy than ever. The sight of Eliza served but to aggravate his inquietude ; and, for the first time, he experienced only pain in her society. It was in vain that he sought to banish his apprehensions by reflecting on Fos- ter’s former conduct. Several days elapsed and no letter arrived, although it had been stipulated at parting that intelligence should be regularly communicated. At length he was briefly in- formed, by a hasty billet, that his agent was. 380 THE FATAL CONSEQUENCES OF suddenly obliged to leave town ; that his specu- lations had hitherto proved unsuccessful; that the loss had even been considerable: but that he hoped on his return to obtain an ample in- demnification. Sommers discovered in this lukewarmness, so foreign to his character, something to redouble his apprehensions ; and, unable to endure the torment of suspence, hastened to London, with the hope that Foster had not left it : but on reaching his house he had the mortification to learn from a domestic, who was evidently tutored to parry his enquiries, that Foster had departed on the preceding evening, that the object of his journey was not known, and that he was not expected to return for several days. The first thought of Sommers was to remain in London until Foster should re-appear ; but a second and stronger impulse recalled him to his Eliza, in whose faithful bosom he longed to deposit his secret cares. Whilst he was agitated by suspence, Eliza, unconsciously, participated in his inquietude. • Alarmed by her husband’s unusual absence, she reverted with terror to the perplexity and dejection she had formerly observed in his countenance; and when, after many anxious hours of torturing expectation, she saw him enter her apartment, pale, gloomy, and ex- A SINGLE FAULT. 381 liausted, she rushed into his arms, exclaiming — “ Henry, my own Henry, hast thou then a sorrow that I am not permitted to share ? Are we no longerone ? Oh! if it be indeed true that we are disunited, let this moment be my last.” “ My Eliza, you shall know all ; I will no longer withhold the truth. I had already re- solved on this communication ; my resolution was taken even before you asked it. I feel that the world is but a desolation ; that I wander in eternal night when I cease to think with thee. Let us be seated. I have much to reveal, and must throw myself on your clemency.” — “ Ah I believe me, the judge you have chosen already acquits you of blame.” Then, placing herself beside him, and leaning on his arm, she re-as- sured him by a glance of ineffable tenderness, whilst Sommers commenced his narration, by avowing his embarrassments, the motives for his application to Foster, and the confidence which he had been induced to place in his pru- dence and integrity. “ You see my error, Eliza; you see all my fault. Overwhelmed as I am with self-reproach, can I, dare I, hope to obtain your pardon ?” Before he had pronounced these words, before his lips had even formed them, Eliza was at her husband’s feet. She even knelt there some moments before he per- 382 THE FATAL CONSEQUENCES OF ceived it. Unwilling- to interrupt him, she had listened to his recital in silence, wholly absorbed b}^ the powerful emotions it excited ; but when she heard that friend, who had been so lonsr habituated to the voice of praise, execrate his own folly with all the bitter asperity of self- reproach ; when she saw her husband, her pro- tector, the dignified being to whom she had been accustomed to look up with reverence, confused, interdicted, self-convicted, self-con- demned at the sight of that noble mind, that honourable character ; surprized by shame, and overwhelmed wdth remorse, Eliza beheld the image of Adam, at the fatal moment when he first heard that sin had made him mortal. From all these mingled sentiments had she felt the sudden impulse to throw herself at the feet of her astonished husband. “ What means this, my Eliza ? After the humiliating confes- sion I have been constrained to make, it is rather for me to kneel as your suppliant.” — “Yes; this is m}’- place,” exclaimed Eliza; “ when my Henry appears to distrust himself, he assumes a new character, and teaches me to love and honour him more than ever.” Astonished at this language, Henry raised her with emotion, whilst she continued — “ No, my friend, you are not culpable. How w^as it pos- sible that a suspicion of perfidy should be ad- A SINGLE FAULT. 383 mitted to that breast which is the seat of honour? It is I only who have been to blame, in thoughtlessly permitting you to increase your expenses after our marriage. Alas ! too happy in seeing the constant object of all my thoughts, I became almost criminally inattentive to every other.” — Gracious God! who but Eliza should dare to utter this reproach ? The agitation of Henry was insensibly soothed by these tender demonstrations of affection from the wife he adored, and he soon became suf- ficiently composed to consult on what steps he should pursue with regard to Foster. After some deliberation, Eliza proposed writing to invite him to their seat, where she hoped, by civility and attention, to conciliate his good will, or at least to penetrate his real views, and put her husband on his guard against his future machinations. It was not without difficulty that she won Henry’s consent to this proposal, for to him it appeared little short of sacrilege that any lines traced by Eliza’s pen should be addressed to a stock -broker. Hisconsent was nosoonerobtained than she dispatched an old confidential servant, who returned in a few hours with the welcome information that Foster would be at Rose Wood that afternoon. On being privately interrogated by Lady 384 THE FATAL CONSEQUENCES OF Sommers, Belton related that he had been obliged to force his way to Foster’s apartment, where he found him surrounded by men of business, with some of whom he appeared to have had an unpleasant altercation. Belton added, that in reading Lady Sommers’ letter he became agitated ; that he began to write in reply ; and after blotting two or three sheets, suddenly started from his desk, exclaiming, no ; I’ll answer it myself. We may then expect Mr. Foster this afternoon — in half an hour. Thank you, Belton. I am obliged by your punctuality. You must be tired ; go and rest yourself. Belton cast a wistful glance at his honoured mistress as he retreated to the door ; then re-advancing towards her, he said in a low voice, that he had never before found it so dif- ficult to deliver a message; that whilst he was waiting to seize the opportunity, he had over- heard a disagreeable conversation, to which he should not have listened, but for his master’s name being mentioned. Lady Sommers was now all attention — Belton still wanted courage to proceed. At length, with some hesitation, he added : Some one en- quired of Foster, who and where is this Sir Henry Sommers who makes you his agent? The answer to this question escaped me ; but i heard another person say, the bills must bt A SINGLE FAULT, 385 taken up, or we come upon Sir Henry Sommers in two days. And you heard no more, Belton ? No more, JMadam. I thank you; 1 sincerely thank you ; and hastily withdrawing to conceal her emotion, she rejoined her husband, to whom she communicated the intelligence. — ■“ I see it all,” exclaimed he ; “ the storm approaches ; the thunder rolls over my head ; I am cast from happiness and prosperit}^ and laid level with the lowest dust. And you, Eliza, who might have done honour to the first peer in England, you who must have been raised to the highest station, but for the chance I have hitherto thought so happy.” He paused ; unable to proceed from the violence of his emotion. — No, Henry, you pity jne,” exclaimed Eliza, “ but with little reason — were I plunged into poverty, I should still be grateful to Providence for having united me to the husband of my choice — for having in him bestowed a treasure far more precious than every other blessing. Prove to me that I am sufficient to your hap- piness, and never shall I breathe a sigh of envy or regret. Come, my dear Henry, let us be prepared for the worst. What if we should leave this splendid mansion, if I still lean on your arm, I shall have no cause to lament the change ; for in comparing what I leave with what I carry with me, believe me 1 shall still c c 386 THE FATAL CONSEQUENCES OF boast of my unbounded wealth,” “ Oh ! Eliza, what words are these ? It is the dew of heaven which sheds on ray soul a delicious balm ! I am no longer disturbed with the phantoms which oppressed me. Elope revives ; — I am born again; I owe my very existence to your match- less love.” At this moment they were interrupted by the sound of a carriage, and in a few moments Foster was announced. At the first glance, Sommers wdiispered to Eliza, “ How is this man’s countenance altered!” — “His coun- tenance is indeed clouded,” replied Eliza; “ ’tis the expression of remorse.” — “Incomparable creature! you anticipate my meaning; you generously suggest my excuse ; — you have learnt to divine my most secret thoughts ; — you alone have the power to mitigate my sufferings.” Foster approached the unhappy pair in evident confusion; but quickly recalling his confidence, he began with the dry prolixity of a man of business to detail his various operations in the public funds, all, he insisted, undertaken at the express desire of Sir Henry Sommers — at his instance, and with his authority. He then en- larged on the unforeseen circumstances which had thwarted his plans, solemnly protesting he had always considered his own interest as iden- tified with that of Sommers, and that he was in A SINGLE FAULT. 387 fact equally involved in his misfortune. He only blamed himself for not having transmitted daily intelligence, though to little purpose, since they who once adventured on speculation can- not recede without certain loss, and by confi- dence alone can obtain success. “ Whence had you the money employed in this disastrous speculation?” interrupted Henry. — “ Of course the money was raised by bills to which you had signed an indorsement.” At these words Eliza, by an involuntary movement, pressed her husband’s arms, and not darin^ to trust her- self or him at that moment, she led the way to an apartment, in which an hospitable repast was provided for their fatal guest. The servant being dismissed, the subject was resumed by Eliza, who wished, if possible, to be the medium of communication between Foster and her husband. In answer to her inquiries, Foster frankly confessed that the loss would be considerable, but he conceived not irreparable. Sommers eagerly demanded the sum — reiterating the question with unusual vehemence. “ I am unable to speak with precision, but I should conceive it will not exceed Sir Harry’s fortune. Sommers darted on his wife a look of unutter- able import, accompanied with an indignant ex- clamation. “ We must keep our temper,” re- joined Foster, coolly. I have been exposed to c c 2 388 THE FATAL CONSEQUENCES OF many casualties, and I always kept my temper — with patience and courage.” — “Aye, sir, patience and courage might do for you ; but you forget 1 have been hitherto a man of honour.” Hold ! Henry,” exclaimed Eliza ; “ for heaven’s sake be calm ;” and following him to the sopha, on which he had thrown himself w’ith the violence of de- speration, she whispered : “ Do not rashly irritate the man who has our fate in his power ; — at least command your feelings till we have dis- covered our real situation.” — Then turning to Foster, who had risen, apparently with the inten- tion to withdraw, in evident displeasure, she thus addressed him : “ Hear me, sir ; I trust I am able to speak to you with composure.” She paused, with an air so gentle, so serene, and yet so dignified, that even Foster was not in- sensible to her influence. He bowed with in- voluntary respect; and she continued — “ It has unhappily been your misfortune — I well know it was not your intention — to bring desolation on a prosperous, a happy family, who had never injured you, nor perhaps one human being. It has pleased that Providence, which so long showered on us its choicest blessings, to prove our constancy by afflictions, which, I trust, we shall learn to support with patient resignation. We have but one child, a daughter, for whom we should perhaps have formed ambitious A SINGLE FAULT. 389 hopes. It will be our future task to prepare her for a new, and perhaps a more happy sta- tion.” Here her voice faltered ; unutterable anguish was painted on her husband’s counte- nance ; even Foster cast down his eyes with some emotion. “ What my husband now re- quests of you,” continued Eliza, “ is an exact statement of his affairs ; a written affirmation of the obligations he has contracted to your cre- ditors. Can you, and will you, Mr. Foster, in this instance satisfy us ?” — I will, madam ; to- morrow Sir Henry shall be in possession of every circumstance: — I pledge my word.” — “ It is not to me alone that it must be given,” exclaimed Henry : “ this angel requires it, and if you deceive her — a terrible vengeance shall pursue the falsehood. Foster retreated ; he even appeared to tremble ; then bending with reverence to Eliza, he replied, in faltering ac- cents — “ Yes, I pledge myself to that incom- parable being whom man could not wrong. I will keep my word sacred. Would that for her sake I could recall the past!” He then quitted them with agitation, and even with contrition. As Foster receded from the house, the af- flicted pair, side by side, continued to watch his steps ; his image seemed to haunt them like a phantom by which they had been ap- palled, and from which they could not avert their gaze. “ At length, then,” said Henry, we sgo THE FATAL CONSEQUENCES OF communicate our thoughts without the inter- vention of words. We understand each other without explanation. Thou art good, su- premely good, and I am all unworthy of the goodness — Enough of this ; till to-morrow ar- rives we will not resume the subject,” — Agreed,” cried Eliza, “ and let us admit to our tea-table our dear little Clara, who has been almost exiled from us these two last days.” At the name of his daughter, Henry breathed a deep sigh, and mechanically fol- lowed his wife to the drawing room, where the little Clara sprung towards him, and with open arms invitino; his accustomed caresses. But she was no longer welcomed with gladness. Henry kissed her cheek whilst tears swam in his eyes ; then assuming a languid smile — soon chased by the bitterness of self-reproach — he gazed alternately on the mother and the daugh- ter with an unutterable expression of mournful tenderness. The apartment in which they were sitting was furnished with peculiar elegance. The long Grecian window opened on a beautiful lawn, and faced a hill crowned with the luxuriant verdure of May. The superb vases were embel- lished wdth flowers, which diffused through the air delicious fragrance. Still these agreeable im- pressions served but to fill Sir Henry with the melancholy presage, that they were never to be A SINGLE FAULT. 391 renewed, and that this was the last time he should enjoy them. At length, drawing Clara towards him, and placing her on his knee, he said : “ Clara, dear Clara, I see thou art thy mother’s own girl ; thou hast the same angelic expression of innocence and goodness.” — And whose girl should I be,” cried Clara, “ if I am not my mamma’s girl ?” Then, with roguish smiles, half-whispering, she continued : “ The new doll does not come — the fine puppet that papa pro- mised me — a great tall thing as big as I am, that was to cost I do not know how many guineas ! Why does not slie come, papa — why ?” Lady Sommers cast on her daughter a reproving glance. “ No, let her laugh,” said Henry; “ see how well gaiety becomes those little cheeks, that move like the leaves of the rose, touched by the zephyr. Laugh, dear Clara ; let not your fa- ther damp your smiles; life is happy to those who commit no faults: and,” added he, in a lower voice, " to those who can be satisfied with the good that Providence allots them.” — “ It is in vain,” said Eliza, “ you would dis- claim this girl ; all her looks are your’s ; she is your living image.” — “ I could have wished she had resembled her mother so perfectly as to be another Eliza ; but now, tell me, Clara, what should she do who resembles me ?” — “ Love mamma.” — “ Charming child ! — to what truth 392 THE FATAL CONSEQUENCES OF is she prompted by the heart ! Yes ! if you re- semble me, you will love your mother ; you will know that she is the first of women ; you will study to please her ; you will be devoted to her happiness ; you will never leave her — never ; you will have but to call yourself Henry, and she will caress you.” Here he was interrupted by the screams of Clara, who, rushing from his arms, exclaimed “ Mamma is crying! — oh, help poor mamma!” Without articulating a single word, Henry dropt on one knee ; whilst Eliza, covering her eyes, sobbed out, “ One word more, and I must die.” — “ I’ardon, my best beloved, pardon — make peace for me with your mamma, my child, and retire to rest.” The little girl, half playfull^^ led him to her mother, joined their hands together, received their mingled caresses and benedictions, and then cheerfully obeyed the summons of the maid, who came to announce the hour of bed-time. At the same moment another servant entered with a newspaper, which Sommers eagerly snatched from him, with the hope of beguiling his suspense : but he had scarcely glanced his eyes over the page, when turning pale, he sunk on his chair, and in answer to Eliza’s inquiring glance, only pointed to the following paragraph: “The noted speculator Foster falls not alone. A baronet is associated with him in those des- A SINGLE FAULT. 39s perate enterprizes on the public funds to which he has been madly devoted. It is supposed that this gentleman, whose honour and respect- ability were never before impeached by suspi- cion, was allured to the undertaking by the hope of gaining a seat in parliament, or by the prospect of being raised to a peerage. His loss is severe ; but however we may pity him, as an unfortunate individual, we must be permitted to observe that the nation would be ill repre- sented by a stock-jobber, who, after having bought the votes of others, might very naturally be expected to sell his own” For some moments both Henry and Eliza were wholly silent. At last he repeated, “ ‘ Whose honour was never before impeached by suspicion.’ It is too true. I am no longer honourable. I have forfeited that title: — 1 must assume another.” He suddenly raised his head, and fiercely added, “ Yet where is the man who shall dare to pronounce that name before me, however crushed and disgraced ?” — “Oh, Henry! even the feeble Eliza is sufficient to protect thee from such imputations. Leave her to attest before God and man that thou art the noblest, the most honourable of human be- ings. Renounce the world. Despise those that wrong you. Let us for ever quit this splendid mansion, to enjoy, uninterruptedly, 394 the fatal consequences of the privileges of intimacy, and the luxury of domestic affection. I cannot indeed promise you more love, but I shall invent new signs to communicate to you my feelings: I shall de- scend without a sigh from the station to which you raised me. In domestic occupations I shall but find amusement — even cares shall minister to our mutual enjoyment.” — “ Enchantress’.” exclaimed Henry, “why cannot I accept such an asylum? Yes ! I doubt not Eliza would embel- lish poverty; Eliza could atone for the absence of luxury,for the injustice of mankind, for the malice of destiny. We might still be happy; — but, dearest friend — I cannot dissemble the truth — I am unable to stifle the conviction that I have been guilty. I have to face something worse than ruin. . . .disgrace, . . .absolute disgrace. . . .irre- trievable infamy ... .insupportable despair. I know not the extent of Foster’s engagements — I am not even able to conjecture them ; but if it should appear that they exceed the limits of my fortune — if I and my folly must be dragged forth to open infamy — if I should have to pass under the yoke of the merciless creditor, or be exposed to the horrors of a prison — covered with shame — pursued by ignominy; — if I should be reduced to this, after my former peace and prosperity; — why then what should I do? — how would it become me to act? What w^ould be A SINGLE FAULT. 395 the suggestions of an Eliza, of a guardian angel, of a being unsullied by shame and reproach ?” During this agitated speech, Eliza listened in silent agony, her hands clasped in prayer, her eyes cast on the ground, or only raised to heaven with an ineffable expression of impassioned grief, her cheeks overspread with the paleness of despair. “ Let us drop this conversation,” cried Heniy, “ to-morrow will decide every thing. To-morrow makes or mars me,” With these words he threw himself on a couch, where he long remained in gloomy silence. Eliza took her seat by his side; but had no longer courage to address him. A few broken words alone be- trayed the secret of their thoughts. Yet Eliza, reclining on her husband’s shoulder, still shewed by every look and movement the tenderness of her sympathy, till at length exhausted by the violence of her emotions, she closed her heavy eye-lids and sunk into a disturbed slumber. — Henry watched her with melancholy satisfac- tion, fearing to disturb even this imperfect re- pose. As he gazed on her pale but beautiful countenance, he experienced a new and inde- finable feeling which prompted him for the first time to address to her thoughts and expressions of love, of which she should be wholly uncon- scious. He scarcely knew whether he was stiff 396 THE FATAL CONSEQUENCES OF in existence, so ominous were his presages, so dark the aspect of his future destiny. “ Gra- cious heaven !” exclaimed he, “ and was it for me to change the happy fate allotted us r Foul man, rapacious fool ! never enongh of honour, of glory, of fortune. We are misled by our am- bitious views, our restless aspirations, and se- duced from the simple path of peace and safety. Sleep on, dear Eliza; let tranquillity remain in thy heart ; let the guilty suffer ; it is for me alone to pay the penalty. What do I say? we form but one being ; it is I that have struck the arrow into thy soul. Miserable fate ! even from what exquisite happiness have I fallen !” “Yes,” murmured Eliza in her agitated slumber ; “ yes, I dearly loved him — Henry.” At the sound of these broken words, so strangely accordant with his own thoughts and situation, the un- happy husband penetrated with anguish shed a torrent of tears. At that moment Eliza un- closed her eyes. The morning sun illumined her apartment, and starting from her couch, with a sudden and confused recollection of the preceding day, she exclaimed, “ Is the letter ar- rived ?” “ Not yet,” said Henry, w^ith a mourn- ful sigh. “ Not yet, you are sure? — Whence then this unmeasurable grief? Come there is now no secret between us,” “ None my be- loved ; we have but one soul, and till this fatal A SINGLE FAULT. 397 missive arrives, let us brace our strength, and jf possible, renovate our spirits. Come, the rising sun has a chearful smile, let us breathe the pure air, and open our hearts to the blessed influences of nature.” Though Eliza was still feeble, she made an effort to obey, and, supported by Henry, rambled through the park in which she had spent so many happy hours, and visited the spot which her elegant taste had so richly embellished. It was not till the afternoon that the pro- mised letter arrived. Henry instantly went with it to his own apartment, unwilling that even Eliza should witness his first emotion. The communication of Foster was brief but decisive. It confirmed the total failure of his desperate speculations ; it explained the use he had made of Sir Henry’s imprudent confidence, and finally announced a defalcation which greatly exceeded his whole fortune. But the most important part of the communication was contained in the postscript. He stated, that for the present he judged it necessary to ab- scond, and that as this measure, to which he had been compelled by self-preservation, might subject the Baronet to trouble and importunity, he earnestly recommended to him to follow his example. When Henry had read the letter, he continued to gaze on the paper almost uncoo- 398 THE FATAL CONSEQUENCES OF scious of its import. He still held it in his hand when his faithful servant Belton presented to him several demands for mone}^, which the news of his misfortune had quickly brought upon him. “ I know not what is passing, said the good old man, but it is right. Sir, to tell — “ Leave me to myself,” cried Henry, “ when I want your services, I will call for them.” Scarcely had his servant obeyed his last injunc- tion, than Henry reproached himself for the im- perious manner with which he had rebuked his intrusion, “ A gentler tone would have better become thee now miscreant,” cried he, striking his fore-head, “ bereaved of every thing, no longer possessing rank or fortune, or even honor, is there a wretch on earth more base than I am ? It is enough, let destiny be accomplish- ed.” With these words he rang the bell and Belton re-appeared. “ Excuse my impatience, Belton, I remarked your absence yesterday ; tell me where you were?” “ In the porter’s lodge, where I had been the preceding day.” “ And for what purpose ?” With evident re- luctance Belton replied, he had been endea- vouring to drive away the insolent people wdio wanted to force themselves and their bills on Sir Henry Sommers. “ Why should you call them insolent, they are entitled to justice? I perceive how it is ; they abused me, Belton.-— A SINGLE FAULT. 399 What did they say ? “ Excuse me, Sir, their language was shameful.” “ Let me hear it, Belton, if you still consider me as your master, let me hear it this instant.” “ They are impu- dent slanderers ; they pretended to say, that Sir Henry Sommers did not keep his word. What, said I, when he pays his tradesmen’s bills re- gularly, and his servants’ wages punctually, and is the best and kindest of masters ? They an- swered, that it was with another’s money, and that Sir Henry would soon be called to account, and that there would be people in the house to - morrow. If I had not been afraid to disturb you. Sir, 1 should have begged you to give me a warrant to commit them.” “ I am satisfied, Belton, you are a good servant, and an honest man ; retire to rest. To-morrow, you say — to-morrow ; good night, Belton.” “ To-morrow,” reiterated he, when he was alone ; “ it is enough. I am pleased to find there is so little in the world to regret. Men are hard unfeeling beings, and I shall not be loath to leave them. I have been more sinned against than sinning. The loss of life and for- tune will be some expiation for my impru- dence ; my personal degradation could be useful to none. For me the world shall have passed away, when my patrimony is alienated, and my memory disgraced. I will not live to be the 400 THE FATAL CONSEQUENCES OF spectator of my own shame. I shall not taste the dregs of that bitter cup, which folly pre- pared for my presumption.” At this moment, glancing at the letters which Belton had placed before him, he had the courage to break the seals, and to examine their contents. An in- dignant blush overspread his cheeks, and his eyes flashed with disdain. “ What language is this !” cried he, “ is it that of the master to his slave ? And is it thus that Lord Weston, who was once so servile and so fawning presumes to arraign my conduct ? Am I then condemned to every species of degradation ? What is here — a letter from a friend, an intimate friend ; I re- cognise the well known characters, and recall the intimacy which has long united us ; in this there may be some consolation.” Sir Henry perused the letter, then laying it aside with a sarcastic smile, exclaimed, “ admirable gene- rosity. He asks me privately to take up one of Foster’s bills of which he has accidentally become proprietor. Such are friends, all but one incomparable woman ; and how have I re- quited her constancy and affection ?” At this moment he seized a pistol, which had been ac- cidentally left in his apartment. He found it charged ; — a desperate impulse directed his movements ; another moment and he should be relieved from the burthen of existence ; one i A SINGLE FAULT. 401 cherished iaiage still flitted before his eyes, and the name of Eliza rose to his lips. At that mo- ment he felt his arm arrested, the faithful Eliza stood before him, and snatching from his hand the fatal weapon, sunk almost breathless at his feet. “ Thy friend is here Elenry, ihy last, thy inalienable, thy everlasting friend.” Hepry opened his arms to receive her, and they both shed torrents of tears. “ Eliza, you now know all — you are convinced that poverty is not my worst misfortune ; to that I would have sub- mitted with patience. In the evils I once, thought so terrible, I could have acquiesced with chearful resignation : but my whole pro- perty is not equal to the engagements which I am bound to fulfil. Ruin is my portion, dis- grace attaints my name, even ray personal liberty is at the mercy of creditors ; I already see myself within the walls of a prison. I might indeed evade the penalty by an ignomi- nious flight, but I dare not offer such violence to the laws of my country. In this extremity there is but one path to pursue, a hard resolu- tion perhaps to one who has so largely tasted of happiness ; yet more terrible in the image than the reality. Eliza, I cannot support disgrace, that last worst of evils, the sum of human misery. “ 1” — he paused one moment, then added in a lower voice — “ have thought of every D D 402 THE FATAL CONSEQUENCES OF thing for the future.” “ Stop Henry, you abuse my weakness, my husband shall never desert me ; whithersoever he shall go, thither will I follow, such is my last and unalterable resolu- tion.” “ No, Eliza, thou art still in the flower of youth and beauty ; remain on earth to ex- piate my offence, to implore ray pardon ; and when thou shalt be called to the regions of eternal bliss, where virtue receives her recoin- pence, then perhaps thy prayers may prevail, and I too shall be admitted for thy sake to a share of thy felicity,” “ There can be no feli- city without thee ; I can form no conception of the paradise to which thou art not admitted. We must both become guilty in the sight of Heaven ; and both be suppliants for divine mercy ; together we shall be rejected or ac- cepted. Oh God 1 always together, never dis- united.” “ Tempt me not Eliza to accept thy devotion ; I grow enamoured even of the evil which is shared with thee ; my soul recoils not as it ought to do from this fatal image ; that word together, eternally united bewilders my reason. That thus a wedded pair should have lived and died together intermingling their last sighs is an idea that annihilates even death. Oh God ! what is my language ? I no longer know myself.” “ Be calm Henry, compose your spirits. Thy happiness w^as ever dearer A SINGLE FAULT. 403 than my own ; I Avould have given my life blood a thousand times to spare thee a single pain, and yet I recoil not at the idea that thou hast offered to my mind.” “ What am I a ferocious ruffian, or only an impassioned lover ? What if I should detect in myself the jealous tyrant, who would hide from all other eyes the idol of his heart ? Must I then on the verge of death forfeit my own esteem ? I have need of reflec- tion ; Eliza is too indulgent a judge. I may perhaps become better after a few moments of quiet examination.” Do not imagine Henry, you could change my purpose, though you should unkindly deprive me of the consolation of dying with you ; for here I swear from that moment in which your fate shall be accomplish- ed, I will pursue your steps : to live or die with Henry is my only hope, my unchangeable de- termination. Yet reflect, whether thy devoted wife could not soften even poverty and dis- grace. I feel myself rich in the resources of affection and consolation; perhaps our new situa- tion includes other evils than poverty, and such as may at first glance appal your soul. Exa- mine whether you are sufficiently fortified by patience to support calamity, or whether love alone may not counterbalance all the evils of existence. Fear not to apprize me of the deci- sion, though in that you should pronounce my D D 2 404 THE FATAL CONSEQUENCES OF sentence.” Henry listened in silence, or re- plied but by the pressure of her hand, which he bathed with his tears. Eliza seized the mo- ment to conjure him to take repose. He no longer resisted her wishes, and both exhausted by previous conflicts and agitation, had this night that heavy sleep which sometimes visits despair, as the gloomy harbinger of death. To awake to misery is like returning from a state of suspended animation tothepainfulconsciousness of existence. Eliza had hoped, that when the feverish agitation of Henry’s spirits was allayed, he would contemplate with more firmness the evils of his situation. She was deceived. With newly invigorated strength, he acquired new fa- culties for suffering, and existence so clogged with misery, so polluted by self-reproach, and the sense of degradation, became more than ever the object of his execration and abhorrence. The more, however, he reflected on the generous self-devotion of Eliza, the more he revolted from the idea of permitting such a sacrifice. To prevent its accomplishment was now his great object, and he allowed himself to hope, that by assuming an air of serenit}", he might elude her vigilance ; soothed by this persuasion when she tenderly inquired for his health, he replied that he was better, and that he would take a solitary walk to collect his thoughts, and steadily examine his situation. A SINGLE FAULT. 405 At parting Eliza detached from her neck his miniature, which she presented to him with these words : “ I had thought never to part from this pledge but with life. I now resign it to your care. If it should be returned at our next meeting, I will consider it as an indication that we are both to continue to endure existence ; otherwise I shall conclude that our sentence is passed, and only await your summons for the second time to unite our destinies.” She paused, but suppressing her feelings, added, in a sweet familiar tone : “ You accept my pledge. I am sure you would not deceive me. I know you will not be long absent.” Henry pressed her hand with an expression of acquiescence. “ I will but take my morning walk and rejoin you as usual. My Eliza, I shall not be long absent ; the moments are too precious to be wasted. With this assurance she was tran- quillized, whilst with the yearnings of a fond maternal heart, she hastened to her daughter’s chamber, with that mournful impatience which is sometimes the presage of an unhappy des- tiny. In her way she had to pass through her dressing-room, where she had collected her fa- vourite books, her best drawings, and above all a portrait of her husband in his happiest hours, when flushed with hope and joy, and exqui- sitely alive to all the charms of existence. She scarcely ventured to raise her eyes to that face 406 THE FATAL CONSEQUENCES OF beaming with love and happiness. Whilst her imagination rapidly passed over the departed period, she seemed separated from it by an im- measurable distance. She shuddered in con- templating the abyss on which she stood, that fatal abyss of death, so revolting to one who had hitherto been occupied but with the dreams of hope, and the smiles oflove ; but unknown to herself she possessed a natural courage which was now fortified by the fear of sinking in the esteem of Henry ; and after a momentary struggle she regained her firmness, and secretly confirmed her former resolution. Was it the approach of death that appalled her soul ? How often had it been the aspiration of her soul that it might be permitted to her and Henry to close their eyes at the same moment. But to die by means so horrible, so repugnant to nature, to duty, to religious resignation. — Eliza ventured not to pursue the thought, and desperately throwing herself on the mercy of Heaven, she could only articulate, “ I cannot survive him, we must live or die together.” With trembling steps she approached her daughter’s couch. She hoped to gaze undisturbed on her lovely face, and once more at least to watch her inno- cent slumbers ; but to her surprise, she found the little girl already risen, with the intention of selecting the most beautiful flowers, having ac- cidentally discovered that this was her mother’s A SINGLE FAULT. 407 birth-day. At the sight of her amiable parent, the delighted Clara rushed into her arms ; but in separating with her little hands the beautiful ringlets which fell in disorder on the mother’s cheeks, she felt the trickling tears and eagerly exclaimed, “You weep mamma; what has happened to papa ?” “ Nothing yet my Clara, but life is full of thorns which thou hast not yet felt. God grant thou may’st for ever be spared them. She drew Clara on her lap, and repeated her tender caresses. “ Do you know Clara w'hat it is to be a mother ?” “ ’Tis to be j/of^mamma.” “What should that mother be to a daughter who is as good as Clara?” “What you are mamma.” Eliza smiled through her tears. The fond mother doats on her child, and would see and caress her every hour. Nothing but ne- cessity can lead her to quit this cherished object. She is unhappy and must submit to an inexor- able destiny — such a mother must be remem- bered and pitied. In looking at her portrait, the little girl must think of that mother who so dearly loved her child.” Eliza’s voice faltered, and she had to turn away her face, to conceal the fast flowing tears. At that moment the maid entered who was to attend Clara on her morning walk. A sudden hope dashed into Eliza^s mind, that if this beloved child pre- sented her offering before Henry, it might divert him from his fatal purpose. She therefore 408 THE FATAL CONSEQUENCES OF hastily dismissed the little girl and her attend- ant with a strict injunction, that she should seek her in the park, in a summer-house which had received the name of the observatory. As Clara withdrew Eliza listened to the light trip- ping step, and then sunk on the sopha in an in- describable state of perturbation, uncertain whe- ther she was to live or die, and onlv fixed in the resolution never to survive her husband. Forcing herself from this half unconscious reverie, she hastily traced a few lines to the wife of Sir Thomas Mortimer, recommendins: her daughter to her care, and imploring her to watch her unprotected childhood. Eliza would have addressed the aunt, who had taken cliarge of her own education, but, sens ibie of her strict principles, she despaired of being able to soften her rigid judgment. — “ And who,” cried she, “ could comprehend the union that existed be- tween me and Henry ? If I am precipitated by affection into guilt, it is to God alone, and not to man, that I am accountable.” She again took the pen, and addressed a few parting lines to her daughter ; after which her mind became more composed. She felt re-assured, or at least prepared to brave the greatest evils, and once more repaired to the breakfast room, where, with emotions of jo^’ful surprise, she beheld her husband awaiting her approach. From the rapid succession of ideas in her A SINGLE FAULT. 409 mind, she could have conceived, that a long interval had elapsed since their last interview, and to behold him again was to welcome him from a tedious absence. Henry shared her feel- ings ; but this sudden gleam of gladness was soon obscured. There was a pale placidity iii his dejected countenance; its expression was no longer passion but resignation — calm and subdued, the conflict had ceased,' he was evidently prepared and resolved — but for what destiny? Eliza could not utter the enquiry. She espied the miniature she had suspended to his neck, but ventured not to ask an explana- tion. During their repast he assumed an air of cheerfulness, and even affected to speak of in- different subjects. Unwilling as she was to in- terrupt this serenity, Eliza would have put the awful question, but the words died on her lips. She almost flattered herself that the storm of passion had passed away, and in that persuasion forebore to hazard one word, or even one look, which might, recall its fearful agitation. Once only Henry appeared affected ; the tears came into his eyes. Ele hastily arose, and, to hide his emotion, withdrew to a window. ’Twas the weakness but of a few moments. He re- sumed his seat, and the slight blush which passed over the pallid cheeks but heightened the mournful expression of his haggard counte= nance. 410 THE FATAL CONSEQUENCES OF “ You are not well,” exclaimed Eliza, with a wistful look. — “ I shall soon be better,” he replied, “ if you will but join me in a walk.” — “ To the observatory?” interrupted Eliza. Henry suppressed a sigh as he answered: “That is too proud a title.” — “ Call it then Elizas fancy ” — “ No,” returned he, with a mournful smile ; “ Henry’s folly.” She took his arm, and as they slowly proceeded on their walk both felt the reviving influence of the sweet morning air. For some time they advanced in silence, but on approaching a stately cedar, re- markable for its height and foliage, Eliza said : “ Let us hail this tree with a last adieu : let us sit one moment beneath its majestic shade. This rural bench was placed here by your order Henry ; and how often on this spot have we here breathed aspirations that we might close our eyes at the same moment.” Here grief suppressed her utterance. Henry experienced the same emotion, and both wept in silence. At the sound of the village clock Henry started. — “ Another hour has elapsed : that bell strikes,” cried he, “ to warn men of their progress towards the end of life ! Alas ! to those who are near the last stage, what im- ports the subdivision ?” — “ Then we are both on the brink of eternity,” cried Eliza, interpret- ing his meaning by a mournful presage ; “ be it so : — to live or die with Henry is all I ask A SINGLE FAULT. 411 for!” — “Hold, Eliza! you misconceive me.” — “ No, Henry, I read your thoughts : — I anticipate you intentions and am satisfied.” After a short pause, she added : “ Methinks I should like to be buried under this statel}^^ cedar.” She took out her pencil and wrote a few words on the bench. — “ What are you doing Eliza? This is rashly to prejudge the cause. It is true we must leave this spot ; the place of my birth, the asylum in which are de- posited my father’s ashes ; -the abode of my youth, in which I have passed so many happy years as a lover and a husband. Unworthy of that felicity which I have for ever forfeited, I had bequeathed to my Eliza this house, these gardens, the whole demesne, and yet basely risked the property thus transferred to another. I have squandered the fortune I had consecrated to your use. Like a prodigal and a villain, I have added fraud to improvidence and unkindness.” — “ Hold, Henry ! I will not listen to these un- just aspersions. I see our destiny is fixed. I am ready to accomplish the sacrifice. Let us speak no longer of the future but as it belongs to another state — to a better world.” Then, grasping Henry’s hand, and kneeling with him, she cried : “ Almighty Maker of the universe ! behold two poor suppliants, too weak, too frail, to endure to live under the stigma of disgrace. They approach with humility towards their judge! For themselves, they presume not to 412 THE FATAL CONSEQUENCES OF offer defence or justification ; — they bow tlieir heads with the oppressive consciousness of shame and guilt ! Thou hadst showered on them thy most precious bounties — wealth, ho- nour, distinction, conspired in their happy lot ; and in the bosom of their family, the endear- ments of conjugal and parental love, filled up the measure of their felicity. Loaded with favours, accustomed but to blessings, they want courage and firmness to support the bitterness of adversity. In their happiest days, they have, perhaps, done some little good ; and never have they ceased, by praise and thankfulness, to bless that God whom they worship : the author of their faith, the arbiter of their conscience, the ruler of their destiny; — shall such be judged with rigour by thee who, though just, art merci- ful ; good, supremely good, and overflowing with love for thy unworthy creatures — hear me whilst I implore thy pardon; — w’hilst I pray for Henry, and supplicate for both !” “Oh God!” exclaimed Henry; “it is she alone who may ask to be forgiven ; — that match- less woman who has created whatever virtues I possess, and who would now even plunge her innocent soul into guilt for my worthless sake 1” Here, overpowered with the violence of his emotions, be covered his face with his hands, and his sobs became audible. During some moments Eliza uttered not a single word, so much was she impressed with awe by the sacred A SINGLE FAULT. 413 majesty of grief. At length, Henry looking up beheld the innocent little Clara advancing to meet both parents : her face radiant with joy ; grace, sprightliness, and gaiety in every move- ment. At the sight of this lovely child, Henry uttered an exclamation of horror and astonish- ment : — “ What brings her hither ? Must she too be sacrificed ?” — “ She comes but to pre- sent me with these flowers, which she has gatliered in honour of ray birth-day — her mo- ther’s birth-day : and shall she be robbed of a mother’s tenderness, a father’s protection ?” — “ Merciful God ! what a wretch have I been ! Pardon my rashness, and here I swear never again to spurn the precious gifts thou hast offered to my acceptance.” — “ And wilt thou indeed consent to live for thy Mife, thy child ?” Henry fell on her neck, and struggling to suppress his tears, softly murmured : “ If it be the will of God, if he will indeed preserve me for virtuous exertion and salutary repentance, I swear never to violate the first law of nature. Let us return to the house : it may not yet be too late. Oh, were this cup passed from me, all should be well.” The little Clara had by this time joined them, and with unwonted loquacity was expatiating on the beauty and delicacy of her flowers. Henry whispered to Eliza to dismiss the pretty 414 THE FATAL CONSEQUENCES OF prattler, as he felt not quite well. Alarmed by this intimation, the mother instantly reminded her daughter of her morning task. Clara’s sparkling eyes were instantly suffused with tears ; but a kiss and a smile reconciled her to the injunction, and she quietly yielded obe- dience. — “ Innocent creature !” cried Henry, “ she deserved a better father !” — “ Say not so, Henry ; if you but live to form her mind, to guard her conduct, she will never have reason to repine at her humble lot. — But you are pale ; you surely tremble !” — “ No, it is nothing but a momentary pang r — I am already better ; — I shall soon be well ; — P know what medicine will effect my cure.” — “ You are, then, really ill. You could not, surely, abuse my unsus- pecting confidence.” — “ I would not forfeit thy esteem for a thousand worlds !” — Eliza pressed his hand with transport. Henry returned the pressure with a deep-drawn sigh, in which ap- prehension was mingled with remorse. Natu- rally ingenuous, he knew not how to conceal, yet was utterly unable to confess that he had swallowed a slow poison, since he still hoped, by the timely application of an efficient antidote, to arrest its mortal progress ; hitherto he had experienced no symptoms of indisposition, and he firmly believed it was not too late to coun- teract the effects of his former desperation. They now approached the house ; but instead A SINGLE FAULT. 415 of entering by the common outlet, Henry passed through a private door to the library, where he knew he could easily procure the antidote, to which he trusted his future safety. On enter- ing this apartment, the first object that met his eyes was the pistol which Eliza had the preced- ing day wrested from his grasp, and which, in his agitation, he had suffered to remain without discharging its contents. Shuddering at this recollection, his first impulse was to render it innoxious; and he was proceeding to execute his purpose, when an exclamation from Eliza ri- vetted him to the spot; and the nextmoment,the voice of Belton from an adjoiningroom explained the mystery. — “ Where is Sir Henry ? where is our good master ? let him conceal himself or fly: the bailiffs are already in the house ; he will be dragged away by force ! — Oh, that I should live to see my young master conducted to jail !” At these words Eliza cast a fearful glance on Henry, in whom surprise and horror produced an alarming change. The poison, which had been before dormant, was instantly excited to activity ; and with a ghastly aspect he staggered tow-ards a chair, his eyes still fixed on the pistol with some vague consciousness of his former purpose. Eliza now first perceiving the object to which they were directed, her terrors were renewed : — “ Hasten from this house ; — steal through the garden to the Par- 416 the fatal consequences, &c. sonage, where you may have a temporary asylum. Leave me to receive these men. I fear them not. They cannot injure — they will not insult an unoffending woman.” — But for the first time Eliza’s words were unnoticed, by her husband. Whilst she spoke, his features became distorted. A convulsive shivering- ran through his veins, and, writhing with torture, he attempted to speak, but the imperfect, ac- cents died on his lips. — “ Oh, God! what means that awful look ? — speak, let me once more hear that voice. Henry, my best beloved Henry, what have you done?” — “ Forgivo, for- give me I” was all he could articulate. Eliza gazed on her dying husband with speechless anguish. The whole truth flashed on her mind. She exclaimed : “ It is well. I atn not yet too late !” She eagerly snatched the pistol, and true to her aim, the ball was lodged in her bosom ; she fell, clasping the knees of her husband, who had made a last effort to rise, but sunk by her side with his arms outstretched to support her. In this attitude were the faith- ful pair discovered by the terrified domestics. Interred in the same grave, their mournful his- tory terminated with this simple inscription : — “ IN DEATH THEY WERE NOT DIVIDED !” Printed by J. GiUet, Crown Court, Fleet Street, London. y W VJ I h' S ’ 7 7 ti;, ' ' ' CALL NUMBER /V