Paris.
There is an absolute penury of public news. I have nothing particular to
inform you of concerning myself; but you hold me to my engagement: So
here I am seated to write to you, without having as yet determined upon a
subject, in hopes, however, that my pen may gather materials as it moves.
In whatever light this prejudice in favour of monarchy may appear to the
eye of philosophy; and though of all passions the love of a King, merely
because he is a King, is perhaps the silliest; yet it surely ought to be
considered as meritorious by those who are the objects of it.
No people existing, or who did ever exist, have had so just a claim to
the gratitude and affections of their sovereign, as the French. They
rejoice in his joy, are grieved at his grief, proud of his power, vain
of his accomplishments, indulgent to his failings. They cheerfully yield
their own conveniences to his superfluities, and are at all times willing
to sacrifice their lives for his glory.
A King, one would imagine, must be a perfect monster of selfishness and
insensibility, who did not love such subjects, and who did not bestow
some time and attention to promote their happiness: Yet the French nation
has not had a Monarch worthy of all this regard since the days of Henry
IV. and of all their kings they used him the worst.
Of the three brothers who immediately preceded him, the first was a
sickly creature, as feeble in mind as in body; the second, a monster of
superstition and cruelty; and the third, after a dawn of some brightness,
allowed his meridian to be obscured by the grossest clouds of effeminacy
and voluptuousness. Their Italian mother, who governed all the three,
seems to have been perfectly unrestrained by any feelings of humanity or
of conscience, and solely guided by motives of interest, and the most
perfidious policy.
The princes who have succeeded, as well as those who reigned before the
fourth Henry, serve as foils which display his bright qualities with
double lustre.
Notwithstanding all the inducements which the French Kings have to
promote the happiness of their subjects, it may be many centuries before
they are blessed with one who shall have that passion in such a high
degree.
A character in which the great and amiable virtues are so finely blended,
is very rarely produced in any nation. How small then must be the chance
that this prize shall fall to the individual who is destined for the
throne? Henry received an education very different from that which is
generally bestowed on Kings. His character was formed in the hardy school
of adversity: his mind was strengthened by continual exertions of courage
and prudence. He was taught humanity by suffering under the rod of
tyranny, and experiencing the pangs of the unfortunate. Having frequently
stood in need of friends, he knew the value of their attachment, and his
heart became capable of friendship.
Difficulties and dangers often strike out particles of genius which
otherwise might remain latent and useless, and contribute to the
formation of a vigorous character, by animating those sparks of virtue
which a life of indolence would have completely extinguished.
Those people who, from their earliest infancy, have found every thing
provided for them, who have not much ambition, and consequently are
seldom excited to any great exertion of their faculties, generally feel
these faculties dwindle and grow weak, for the same reason that a man’s
arms would become gradually feeble, and at length perfectly useless, if
he were to wear them in a scarf for any considerable time.
That the faculties of the understanding, like the sinews of the body,
are relaxed by sloth and strengthened by exercise, nobody will doubt. I
imagine the same analogy holds in some degree between the body and the
qualities of the heart. Benevolence, pity, gratitude, are, I suspect,
exceedingly apt to stagnate into a calm, sluggish insensibility in that
breast which has not been agitated by real misfortunes.
People do not fully enter into distresses which they never have felt, and
which they think they run but a small risk of feeling. Accordingly it
has been remarked, that those who have been favoured through life with
the smiles of fortune, and whose time has been spent in the amusements
of courts, and luxurious indulgences, very often acquire an astonishing
insensibility to the misfortunes of others. The character the most
perfectly cold of all I ever knew, devoid of friendship, gratitude,
and even natural affection, belongs to a person, whose life has been a
continued series of fortunate events.
Yet while all their cares are contracted, and all their feelings
absorbed, within the compass of their own skin, such people seem often
convinced, that they themselves are of the most humane dispositions, and
the most extensive benevolence, upon no better foundation, than because
they have felt themselves affected by the artful distresses of a romance,
and because they could shed a few barren tears at a tragedy.
If to these symptoms of sensibility, they can add, that of having
occasionally given a guinea when the contribution has been set a going,
or have parted with a little superfluous money to free themselves from
importunity, they have then carried benevolence to the utmost length of
_their_ idea of that virtue.
They have no notion of any thing beyond this; nor would they make one
active exertion, postpone a single party of pleasure, or in any shape
interrupt the tranquillity of their own indolence, to perform the most
essential service (I will not say to a friend, such people can have
none) to any of the human race.
There are many exceptions, but in general those persons who are exposed
to _the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune_, who have experienced
the base indifference of mankind, and have in some degree _felt what
wretches feel_, are endued with the truest sympathy, and enter, with the
most lively sensibility, into the situation of the unfortunate.
Non ignara mali, miseris succurrere disco,
said Dido, who had been obliged to fly from her country, to Æneas, who
had been witness to the destruction of his.
Dido and Æneas!—How in the name of wandering have we got into their
company? I could no more have guessed at this, than at the subject of
one of Montaigne’s Essays from the title. We set out, I believe, with
something about France;—but you cannot expect that I should attempt to
take up a thread which is left so far behind.
Adieu.