copying the first two parts of the "Nouvelle Heloise." When spring
returned he again delivered himself up to his entrancing reveries, and
wandered in the woods, as he composed the latter parts of his work. In
these there reigns a sort of paradisaical peace--a voluptuous yet
innocent transport of acknowledged bliss, that charms the reader, as it
inspired the writer. That to be thus engrossed by ideas of passionate
love, however we may imagine that we can restrain them within proper
bounds, leads at last to the errors of passion, cannot be doubted.
Rousseau instinctively felt this truth when he made death the
catastrophe of his novel; not so much to mar the scene, as to prevent
sin and remorse from defacing it still more; he felt it in his own
person, when his unguarded and softened heart was suddenly possessed by
a passion the most vehement and unfortunate that ever caused a frail
human being to thrill and mourn.
The countess d'Houdetot was the sister of M. d'Epinay, and was married
to a young noble, who had been given her as a husband in her youth, in
the way marriages were made in France, neither knowing nor caring for
the other. He was an insignificant person, very fond of money, and
totally neglectful of his wife. The usual course in such marriages was,
that the wife should have a lover, and if the husband were content to
shut his eyes, and she continued constant to one person, she was looked
on as living respectably. Madame d'Houdetot was not even pretty; but she
had a look of youth, preserved by the ingenuousness of her mind and the
kindness of her heart. Every one loved her. Gay, gentle, full of
tenderness, and admirably true and sincere; she added to these qualities
a giddiness of disposition--a childish but bewitching frankness--a wit
that never hurt, but always charmed, as springing from the natural
gladness of an innocent heart; and, protected by these genuine virtues,
she escaped the contamination of Parisian society. Her lover, M. de
Saint Lambert, was a man distinguished for his talents, moving in the
highest society, a gallant soldier, an admired poet, a handsome man; his
attachment, according to the code of morals of the society to which they
belonged, reflected honour on its object.
She came several times, at the desire of Saint Lambert, to visit
Rousseau at the Hermitage. He had desired her to go, believing that the
ties of friendship established between the three would be of mutual
benefit; and Rousseau being aware of their attachment, the openness of
heart that reigned in the intercourse was another attraction. She spoke
of her lover with enthusiasm: Rousseau listened, and before he was
aware, felt for her all that she expressed for another. When, after her
departure, he turned his thoughts to Julie, hitherto the idol of his
imagination, he found her image displaced by that of madame d'Houdetot,
and with a pang recognised the new power that possessed him.
Sophist, as on many occasions Rousseau undoubtedly was, he reasoned on
his feelings till the very causes that ought to have made him resolve to
crush the nascent passion, were changed by him into motives for
fostering it. He had enounced a severe code of morality, and called the
permitted liaisons of Parisian society by the harsh name of adultery;
and it would have been base indeed to have been tempted into forming
such himself. There was no danger of this. Madame d'Houdetot loved
another, superior to himself in all qualities that attract, with warmth
and truth. He duped himself, therefore, by the vain sophism, that he
only injured himself by nourishing an unreturned passion.
Could he have confined it to his own heart, the injury would have been
great enough; disturbing his peace, wrecking the little of proud
consolatory thoughts which he preserved. But from the first he avowed
his love to its object, and continued to pour the fervent expressions it
inspired into her ear; secure in the mistaken notion, that as he did not
seek to win her, but only to unburden his heart, the indulgence was
innocent. He says that he should blame madame d'Houdetot for listening,
had he been young and good-looking: still he was not so very old;
perhaps suffering added years to his appearance; but at all events the
lady acted with great imprudence. Her artless noble character lifts her
far above unworthy suspicion; but she was thoughtless and inexperienced;
the dupe of mistaken compassion. She allowed Rousseau to visit her
frequently; to write to her; to pour out the declarations of his love;
never feeling inclined to participate in his sentiments, she yet wished
to preserve his friendship and to enjoy his society. For four months
they were continually together. He walked over to her house at
Eaubonne--they met half-way--they rambled together in the neighbouring
country. Such unguarded conduct excited remark. Madame d'Epinay, to say
the least, was exceedingly annoyed that her sister-in-law should thus
expose herself to calumny. We have two accounts of these unfortunate
events, one by Rousseau, the other from her pen. She passes rather
slightly over them, but expresses even disgust; she was aware, she says,
of her sister's innocence, but pained by her imprudent conduct. Theresa
became violently jealous; and while she tried to pacify her, she blamed
those who so needlessly excited her jealousy. Rousseau, on the contrary,
accuses her of the utmost baseness; of fostering remark; of writing to
Saint Lambert a garbled and false statement of facts; of exciting
Theresa's jealousy, and even instigating her to steal any letters she
might find, and betray them to her. There is, probably, exaggeration in
this; at the same time it is plain that the intercourse between Rousseau
and madame d'Houdetot was the chief topic of conversation at the chateau
of her sister-in-law; that they were greatly blamed; and it is certain
that Saint Lambert received an anonymous letter, informing him of what
was going on. Probably Therese or her mother wrote it; we can hardly
suspect madame d'Epinay of so base and vulgar a proceeding. It is
remarkable that these accounts not only differ materially in
circumstances, but that the notes of madame d'Epinay, as given by her,
are written in quite another tone from those quoted in the Confessions.
As whenever Rousseau's copies have been collated with the originals,
they have been found faithful, we suspect the lady of falsifying hers.
In fact, while Rousseau gains our confidence, even while we perceive
that he acted a highly blameable part, there is a studied, though
apparently negligent, glozing of facts in madame d'Epinay's which
excites suspicion.
Saint Lambert did not suspect madame d'Houdetot; but he thought that
Rousseau was highly blameable for declaring love for her; and that she
was very unwise in listening to him. He interfered, though with kindness
and consideration for his unhappy rival; the intercourse was broken off.
Rousseau, with a heart worn by passion, and bursting with the struggles
that tormented it, was thrown back on himself, to find his friends
alienated, his home disquieted, and sympathy nowhere.
Many other circumstances contributed to his unhappiness; circumstances
which would scarcely enter into the history of any other man as eminent
as Rousseau; apparently trifling, but rendered important through his
sensitive and umbrageous disposition. He had two intimate male friends:
Diderot, whom he had known many years, and to whom he was sincerely
attached; and Grimm. Diderot was a singular man, and enjoyed during life
more reputation than has afterwards fallen to his lot. He had great
talents, joined to a sensibility, which was real in him, but which
produced a style in France, that may be termed the ejaculatory, the most
affected and tiresome in the world. His opinions became feelings; these
feelings engrossed him; he was in a perpetual state of exaltation and
enthusiasm about trifles. As an instance, we are told, that at one time
he could not sleep at nights, because Virgil had not praised Lucretius,
till at length he found a verse in the Georgies--
"Felix qui potuit rerum cognosccre causas;"
and interpreting it into an encomium on the great metaphysical poet of
antiquity, he regained his tranquillity. He had a tender heart, but
though he possessed some genius, he had not understanding enough to
serve as an equilibrium. Rousseau was in very bad hands as regarded the
_gouverneuses_, as he called them. The mother of Theresa was a grasping,
artful, gossiping, selfish old woman. Rousseau was poor; she complained
to his friends, and Diderot and Grimm thought it right to make her a
small allowance. They did this unknown to their friend, and were
certainly wrong; for there is nothing more improper than to interfere
secretly with the household of others. Giving this money, they thought
they had a right to interfere further. The le Vasseurs, mother and
daughter, had no desire to pass the winter, away from their Parisian
acquaintance, in the forest of Montmorenci. They complained bitterly,
and Diderot wrote to remonstrate with Rousseau. To read his letter, you
would imagine that his friend thought of wintering at the North Pole;
his earnestness on stilts on such a petty occasion ought to have excited
a smile; it gave birth to a storm in the breast of the sensitive
philosopher--this was at last appeased--but still the thunder growled.
The unfortunate passion of Rousseau for madame d'Houdetot at first made
him solitary and abstracted--then miserable. Every demonstration of
suffering was interpreted as springing from melancholy engendered by
solitude.
His other friend, Grimm, was German, who had appeared in Paris in an
obscure situation, as tutor to the children of the count de Schomberg.
Rousseau was one of his first acquaintance; their common love of music
brought them together. Grimm was a man of ambition as far as society
went. His personal affectations did not stop at brushing his nails,--a
mark of effeminacy indignantly related by Rousseau,--but by painting his
cheeks white and red, which gained for him the nickname of Tyran le
Blanc. Rousseau introduced him to madame d'Epinay. This lady was
suffering bitterly from the infidelity of her lover Franceuil;--she
permitted herself to be consoled by Grimm; who, while he became _l'ami
de maison_, seems to have determined that he should be single in that
character. He did all he could to undermine Rousseau with madame
d'Epinay, inducing her to resent his faults, his sensitiveness, his
imperious calls for sympathy and service, which she had hitherto
regarded with affectionate indulgence. She was slow to submit to the
law, and placed him in the Hermitage against Grimm's will;--to eject him
from this abode was the aim of his false friend.
Of course, there are a thousand contradictions in the various accounts
given of these quarrels; and we seek the truth rather from the letters
written at the time, if these be not falsified. Grimm accused Rousseau
of being in love with madame d'Epinay: he denies this; and at least,
when he loved madame d'Houdetot, he no longer cared for her
sister-in-law. Was she piqued by his coldness, as Rousseau insinuates;
or was it merely that she yielded more and more to Grimm's
representations that he was a dangerous person? The final cause of her
quarrel, as she relates, was his speaking of her detractingly to
Diderot, who refused to be acquainted with her. There seems some
foundation for this accusation. She accuses him of speaking falsely; and
there are certainly traces of his having spoken unreservedly. This was
inexcusable, admitted as he was familiarly, and covered with benefits
and kindness;--especially to one to whom she was a stranger. Grimm
pushed things to extremities: he kept madame d'Epinay firm in her
resentment; he embittered Diderot's feelings. The latter acted with his
usual exaggerated and absurd sentimentality. Madame d'Epinay was very
ill, and resolved on going to Geneva to consult the famous Tronchin.
Diderot wrote a violent letter to Rousseau, insisting on his
accompanying her, and saying, that, if his health did not allow him to
bear the motion of a carriage, he ought to take his staff and follow her
on foot. There is no trace that madame d'Epinay wished him to accompany
her; on the contrary, she was doing all she could to throw him off.
Rousseau felt himself outraged by this letter--he fell into a transport
of rage--he complained to every body, and took the resolution of
quitting the Hermitage. When it came to the point, winter setting in, he
found this inconvenient; and wrote to madame d'Epinay, then at Geneva,
to mention his intention of staying till spring. In her answer, she very
decidedly tells him that he ought not to delay his departure so long.
Why this abrupt and rude dismissal? Did it spring from Grimm's advice;
or did she really feel resentment arising from the knowledge that he had
either traduced her, or revealed her secrets to Diderot? On careful
examination, we own, we incline to the latter opinion, and cannot
exculpate Rousseau.
What a pitiful and wretched picture of society does all this present!
People of refinement, of education, and genius,--Rousseau, a man so
richly gifted with talent--Diderot, enthusiastic on the subject of every
social duty--Grimm, a man of sense--madame d'Epinay, a woman of talent,
whose disposition was injured by the state and opinions of society, but
who was naturally generous, confiding, and friendly,--yet each and all
acting with intolerance and bitterness. The passions were the sources of
these dissensions,--Rousseau's for madame d'Houdetot--Grimm's for madame
d'Epinay;--but why should not these feelings have inspired toleration
and kindness? They were fostered unfortunately by temper and vanity.
Each had microscopic eyes for the faults of the other--neither could
perceive his own. Had they at once dismissed their mutual cavillings,
reproaches, and explanations, and gone their own way in silence and
toleration, they might have been unhappy,--for such must be the result
of illicit love,--but they had not presented to all the world, and to
posterity, so humbling a proof of the worthlessness of talent in
directing the common concerns of life.
Rousseau, of course, at once quitted the Hermitage. He had a horror of
entering Paris: he was greatly embarrassed as to where to go, when M.
Mathas, procureur-fiscal to the prince of Condé, hearing of his
uncomfortable situation, offered him a small house in his garden of Mont
Louis, at Montmorenci: he accepted it at once, and removed thither. But
his soul was still in tumults; still passion convulsed his heart, which
would not be at peace. He desired to establish a friendship between
himself, St. Lambert, and madame d'Houdetot; but they drew back--from
the alleged motive that "Rousseau's attachment was the talk of Paris,
and that therefore she could not have any intercourse with him." It was
likely enough that the old woman, le Vasseur, or twenty others, might
have been the cause of this gossip; but Rousseau chose to fix the blame
on Diderot, and to quarrel with him outright. Strange that these
sensitive men should have so little real affection in their nature that,
for the sake of personal offences, real or imagined, they could at once
throw off those whom they had loved, as they pretended, so well and so
long; showing how much more deeply rooted and engrossing was _self_,
than the interests and intercourse of their friends. A few years after,
Diderot sought to be reconciled to his former friend; he engaged a
mutual acquaintance to mediate between them. Rousseau declined his
advances. He replied:--"I do not see what M. Diderot, after seven years'
silence, all at once demands of me. I ask nothing of him--I have no
disavowal to make. I am far from wishing him ill--and am yet further
from doing or saying aught to injure him. I know how to respect the ties
of an even extinguished friendship to the end; but I never renew
it--that is my inviolable maxim." Rousseau was in exile and misfortune
when Diderot made this advance, which was honourable to him; he was
doubtless piqued by the refusal; but we cannot excuse him when, many
years afterwards, after the death of his friend, he attacked him in one
of his works. It would have been better to forget. And gladly would we,
in spite of the publicity given, have passed over these details--but
that they formed an intrinsic portion of the picture of Rousseau's life;
and were the cause why, in after times, he became suspicious even to
madness--miserable even to death.
[Sidenote: 1758.
Ætat.
46.]
With the new year, Rousseau, quitting the Hermitage, began a new life;
as much as an entire casting away of old friends, and seeking fresh
ones, can change the tenor of existence. But Rousseau was ever the same.
His passions, masked even to himself by their intensity, ruled his
destiny; and it was a miserable one. The semblance of tranquillity,
however, awaited him at first; and he gave himself to study and
authorship uninterruptedly. The "Encyclopædia" undertaken by d'Alembert
and Diderot engaged the attention of the literary world: it was made the
vehicle of their opinions, and the engine for propagating them. Voltaire
was residing at the Délices. He was disgusted by the pedantic, austere,
puritanic tone of society at Geneva: he considered the drama as an
admirable means of enlightening and refining a people; and, in concert
with him, D'Alembert, in his article on "Geneva," wrote in favour of the
establishment of a theatre in that city, where hitherto it had been
forbidden. Rousseau, in his dreams of primitive innocence, considered
this as an innovation on the simple manners of his country-people; and
he took up his pen in opposition. He wrote with fervour and eloquence:
he detailed the miseries resulting from a sophisticated state of
society; and argued that the drama, by treating concerning, nourished
the passions, and weakened the principles of morality. In the state in
which society was in Paris, he had many arguments in his favour; and he
might well consider the introduction of libertinism and luxury as
pernicious, contrasted even with the narrow, bigoted spirit reigning at
Geneva. The eloquence of his letter gave it vogue. In a note appended,
he announced his rupture with Diderot,--accusing him at the same time of
betraying him. This was fairly regarded as an unwarrantable attack,
though he imagined it to be an act of heroism. It was an error, to make
the public a confidant in their quarrel; and the doing so arose from the
belief that all the world was occupied with him: but it was worse
publicly to accuse a former friend.
Rousseau does his best, in the "Confessions," to show how contented and
happy he was in his new abode--the number of friends he still
retained--and his delight at being still at a distance from Paris. He,
with proper pride, boasts of his contempt for party spirit, and the
formation of cabals in literature, in which Paris was rife. Nothing
debases literary men more than owning dependence, for praise or blame,
on aught but the public at large.
Not far from his abode of Mont Louis was the chateau of Montmorenci,
where the marshal duke de Luxembourg, with his family, usually passed
the summer. On their first visit after his arrival, they seem courteous
messages and invitations; but Rousseau, with proper pride, shunned
advances, the nature of which he did not fully comprehend. This
occasioned further demonstrations. The duke visited him--he became an
habitual guest at the château--rooms were furnished for him in a sort
of pleasure-house, or smaller château, in the grounds--and he was
treated by the whole family with all that cordial and winning grace
peculiar to French persons of rank in those days. He read the "Nouvelle
Heloïse" and "Emile" to the duchess, who paid him the most flattering
attentions. Both she and her husband displayed warm interest in his
fortunes; and the noble, amiable character of the marshal was a pledge
that such would prove neither treacherous nor evanescent. They were
serviceable, without impertinent interference--kind, without pretension.
This may be considered a happy period in Rousseau's life. The works on
which his fame is chiefly founded were finished or composed during these
years. The "Nouvelle Heloïse" was published at the end of 1760. With
all its errors, this novel is full of noble sentiments and elevated
morality--of true and admirable views of life--and an eloquence burning
and absorbing. Its success was unparalleled. Parisian society, engrossed
by intrigues and follies, yet felt at its core that passion was the root
even of these--depraved and distorted as passion was by their social
laws and opinions; and, thus brought back to its natural expression,
they were carried away by enthusiastic admiration. The women in
particular, who are always the losers in a system of heartless
gallantry,--since they seldom, if ever, cultivate a love of pleasure
destitute of sentiment--as is the case with a number of men,--were
charmed by a book which increased their influence by exalting love.
Another interest was excited by the notion generally spread, that the
book contained the history of the author's early life. Rousseau was
identified with St. Preux, and gained by the idea. This work was
followed by the "Emile,"--a book that deserves higher praise. That he
adopted certain views from Locke and others, who had previously written
on education, does not in the least deteriorate from its merit; that, as
a system, it is full of faults and impracticability takes little from
its utility. He shows the true end of education; and he first explained
how children ought to be treated like younger men, not as slaves or
automata. His success in casting an odium on the habit of putting
infants out to nurse--his admirable aphorism, that children ought to be
rendered happy, since childhood is all of life they may ever know--his
exhortations to prepare the pupil to be a man in the first place,
instead of considering him as a noble or gentleman in embryo--are among
the most admirable of his principles. Others may regard the work
disparagingly; but every parent who in any degree superintends the
education of his offspring--every mother who watches over the health and
welfare of her babes--will readily acknowledge the deepest obligations
to the author of "Emile."
It fills the soul with bitterness to think that this admirable work,
whence generations of men derive wisdom and happiness, was the origin of
violent persecution against the author; and, by expelling him from his
home, and exposing him bare to the assaults of his enemies, drove him
into a state of mind allied to madness, and devoted him to poverty and
sorrow to the end of his life.
The printing and publishing of the work had been greatly assisted, not
only by the duke and duchess de Luxembourg, but by M. de Malesherbes, a
man of known probity and kindness of disposition. Rousseau had a
quality, belonging to the warm of heart, and unknown to the cold and
dull,--that of desiring to confide in, and to be fully known to, those
whom he respected and loved. The benevolent attentions of M. de
Malesherbes, even to the whims and groundless suspicions of a man who,
from his state of health, believed himself to be dying, and feared to
leave his unpublished works in the hands of enemies, evinced that warmth
and truth of sympathy which is the golden treasure of human nature,
wherever it be found. Won by his benevolence, Rousseau addressed four
letters to him, explaining and describing his opinions, motives, and
conduct. These letters are, as it were, an introduction to the
"Confessions." They are written with the same persuasive eloquence, and
passionate love for the good and beautiful, that reigns in the last
parts of the "Nouvelle Heloïse," and forms their charm.
He had been ill during the publication of the "Emile," and rendered
vehemently anxious by delays of the press. At length the book
appeared;--but it bore a stamp to intimidate his admirers and silence
their public applause; and it was therefore received more silently than
any other of his works. The Confession of the Vicar of Savoy is a
declaration of pure deism; and, in particular, is levelled against
various pernicious errors of Catholicism. The great foundation stone of
papacy is auricular confession, which enables the clergy to put all sins
against the ordinances of the church in the first class; and to look on
falsehood, treachery, and intolerance, as virtues, when exercised for
its sake. The Confession allies religion and morals--makes the Gospel a
rule of conduct; and, though it doubts the mysteries of the Christian
faith, it speaks of them with reverence, but in a protestant spirit,
totally at variance with Catholicism. This portion of his book excited
remark, and exposed the author to the persecutions of the French
priesthood.
But Rousseau felt perfectly secure. There was nothing said in the
Confession of the Vicar of Savoy that had not appeared before in the
last part of the "Nouvelle Heloïse." He had himself, notwithstanding
these considerations, been exceedingly averse to publishing his work in
France: the method then, with any book bringing forward forbidden
opinions, being to publish it at Brussels, which sheltered the author
from the French laws. But the duchess of Luxembourg and M. de
Malesherbes persuaded him to let them undertake an edition in France;
and it was brought out at their instigation, against his own conviction:
they, therefore, were responsible for his security; and he did not
entertain the slightest doubt but that they would provide against his
incurring any evil consequences.
It was as the shock of an earthquake, therefore, when, a few days after
the publication of the "Emile," he was disturbed in the middle of the
night by a message from the duchess of Luxembourg, saying that a decree
of arrest of his person would be executed on the following morning, at
seven o'clock, if he remained, but that, if he fled, he would not be
pursued; and begging him to come to her immediately. It was greatly to
the interest of the duchess to get Rousseau away, that the whole affair
might be hushed up; since any examinations would betray her connivance
in the publication. Rousseau was aware of this.
[Sidenote: June.
15.
1762.
Ætat.
50.]
He saw the duchess agitated;--he felt that, however much
he might wish to shield her during his examination, any mistake on his
part might compromise her; and he knew his habitual want of presence
of mind. He consented at once to fly--he was not allowed to
deliberate; the morning was given to preparations and adieus; at four
o'clock in the afternoon he departed. His friends were safe--he
alone the sufferer.
His first idea was to establish himself in his native town; but this
plan was speedily deranged. Nine days after the decree of the parliament
of Paris, the council of Geneva, instigated by the French government,
sentenced the "Emile" to be burnt, and its author to be imprisoned if he
entered their territory. Rousseau might well feel disdain and
indignation for the folly and intolerance of his country-people; nor was
it in human nature for his heart not to ferment with resentment and
scorn at the universal attack levelled against him from all sects, all
parties, all countries, on account of a book whose chief pretension was
to bear the stamp of impartial truth, and to become (and he succeeded in
his attempt) highly beneficial to the human race. Its fault is that it
is anti-christian; but the most devout follower of our Saviour, if
charitable, must be impressed by the sincerity of the author, and
respect the love of truth that dictated his declarations.
Rousseau had arrived at Iverdun, in the canton of Berne. Exiled from
Geneva, he resolved to remain there. He had friends; and a house was
offered him, which he had accepted--when he heard that the council of
Berne had sent an order desiring him to quit their state. Thus
persecuted, he had but one resource. Neufchâtel and its territory
belongs to the kingdom of Prussia: he believed that he should find
toleration at the hands of Frederic the Great.
He found far more in the governor of Neufchâtel--marshal lord Keith, a
man eminent for his virtue. Marshal Keith had entertained many false
notions with regard to Rousseau; but he was filled with sentiments of
benevolence towards him; and the king of Prussia, influenced by him, was
desirous of rendering his residence in his stated agreeable. Rousseau
refused the offers of a house, and of supplies of wood, corn, wine, &c.,
which were offered him in lieu of money, as likely to be more readily
accepted; indeed, in his "Confessions," he speaks with contempt of these
offers, as coming from Frederic: but he acquired the friendship--the
affection--of the amiable and benevolent lord Keith; and found in it,
while it was spared to him, the consolation of his life.
He took up his residence in the village of Motiers, in the
Val-de-Travers, in the comté of Neufchâtel. If we read the
correspondence of Voltaire, and other writings of his enemies, we should
believe that he lived in a state of habitual warfare;--that his soul,
ever in tumults, continually exhaled itself in vituperation and
philippics; that he was perpetually engaged in underhand cabals and
petty manœuvres. Rousseau disdained to be of any party. He admired
Voltaire, as a man of vast genius--but refused to bow before the
literary throne on which he had seated himself. This was his crime; and
his punishment was the insolent sarcasms and brutal railleries of the
great master of wit.
We may turn in all security from such false pictures to the reality,
depicted not only in his "Confessions," in his letters, and in his
"Promenades d'un Solitaire"--these, as written by himself, might be open
to suspicion--but to accounts afforded by impartial persons. Among
these, the comte d'Escherney gives an interesting narration of his
intercourse. A little distrust was shown on one occasion by the
persecuted philosopher, but their friendship, except on this one
occasion, was unclouded. The comte habitually dined with Rousseau: he
praises his simple table, and the excellent cooking of Thérèse; whom,
at the same time, he blames severely for the mischief she did by her
unbridled and malicious tongue,--exciting against herself, and
consequently against Rousseau, a spirit of dislike in the neighbourhood.
He felt this--and at one time wished to remove; but did not put his
desire in execution. While at Motiers he addicted himself sedulously to
botany. In his herborising expeditions, he was accompanied by M. du
Peyrou, an American settled at Bié--an excellent and respectable man,
who became his fast friend; by the colonel De Puri, father-in-law of M.
du Peyrou--both good botanists; and by the comte--who was obliged to
learn the science, not to be thrown out entirely in conversation. Some
of these expeditions were extensive; and the comte, after the lapse of
years, speaks of them with pleasure, and dwells on the charm thrown over
them by the conversation, the genius, the kind heart of Rousseau. The
latter had many other friends in the neighbourhood, whom he tenderly
loved. He remained at Motiers-Travers three years: he might have spent
his life there, honoured, happy, and independent. When we relate the
circumstances that drove him from it, we leave to impartial judges to
decide whether he were in fault or his persecutors--who, for the most
part, _soi-disant_ philosophers and free thinkers, excited the spirit of
bigotry against him, and did not hesitate hypocritically to assume the
language of religion to destroy him.
Of what was he guilty? The accusations against him are few. The first,
that he desired to attain notoriety by assuming the Armenian dress. All
singularity in externals is foolish; and, though he excuses himself on
the score of convenience, it was certainly unwise in him to dress so as
to attract universal observation--especially in a country where the
ignorant are easily taught to hate and fear that which they do not
understand. But this fault is trivial. His second crime was his
participating in the communion. He had re-entered the protestant church,
some years before, at Geneva. He announced the greatest respect for the
religion of the Gospel; but, as his Confession of a Savoyard Vicar
argues against the divine nature of our Saviour, he had better have
abstained from making this outward manifestation of orthodox belief.
The fault most urged against him was his renunciation of the citizenship
of Geneva. No further attack on him had been made by the government of
that city during the space of a year; and, considering the spirit of
persecution abroad against him, it had been more prudent to have
remained tranquil: but this very spirit, manifested in all writings, in
all societies, roused him to assert himself. He had committed no crime,
and he was sentenced as guilty. He had endeavoured to persuade his
fellow citizens to rescind their decree; various representations were
made to the council, not only by himself, but by the citizens and
burgesses of Geneva. There could be no evil motive in his desire, or in
the attempts he made to be reinstated in his rights in his native city;
but this justice was refused him; and with anger and disdain he
renounced his claims as citizen, and thus withdrew from their
jurisdiction. This act can scarcely be deemed blameable; he, however,
was attacked, and the council was defended, in several pamphlets, with
acrimony and violence. The chief among these were "Lettres écrites de
la Campagne," by M. Tronchin. The talent of the author gained the field
fora moment. "Siluit terra!" Rousseau exclaims: no defender rose for
him; it was deemed that he alone was able to reply. For a time he
refused; but at last yielded to the representations of his friends, and,
parodying the title of the attack, brought out his "Lettres écrites de
la Montagne." This had no influence over the council: they persisted in
their refusal--and even reiterated their decree. From that moment
Rousseau declared that he would mingle no more in public affairs;--and
he kept his word.
But the mischief was already done. The quarrel between the citizens and
council of Geneva, on the subject of the right of the latter to enact
decrees without consulting the former, was attended with disturbances
and bloodshed. The whole country was in tumults. The "Letters from the
Mountain" were more anti-christian than any of his preceding works. The
clergy were enraged: the peasantry of Neufchâtel were taught to regard
him as a monster; from execration they proceeded to personal attack;
stones were thrown at him during his walks--and at last, the ferment
arriving at its height, his house was attacked in the night by the
country people: it appeared certain that his life was in the utmost
danger; the officers of government were disquieted by the apprehension
of more fatal disturbances, and the probability of his being
assassinated: he himself was sick at heart at finding himself the object
of open and loud execration. Resolving to leave Motiers, he felt
uncertain whither to go. His Parisian friends had interested David Hume
in his behalf, and exhorted him to take up his abode in England.
Frederic invited him to Berlin, where the friendship of lord Keith
assured him a cordial welcome from at least one friend. He was inclined
to a far wilder scheme;--the Corsicans had asked him to frame a code of
laws, and he entertained the idea of establishing himself in their
island. The sudden necessity of instant removal drove this idea from his
mind; and another presented itself that accorded with his tastes. During
his botanical rambles he had visited the island of St. Pierre situated
in the lake of Bienne, and dependent on the canton of Berne. The aspect
of the isle had enchanted him. A difficulty arose, from his having been
ordered to quit the state of Berne on first arriving in Switzerland;
but, on sounding the chiefs of the state, he was told that they were
ashamed of their past conduct, and very willing that he should establish
himself at St. Pierre.
[Sidenote: 1765.
Ætat.
53.]
Here, then, in the month of September, he took up his abode: Theresa
joined him: they boarded with the receiver of the island, who was its
only inhabitant: the profits of his works, and a slight pension allowed
him by lord Keith, assured him a frugal subsistence. Recurring, in after
years, to his brief residence in this island, he fondly dilates on his
excursions on the water--on his botanical studies--on the calm that
possessed his soul, and his total indifference to all intercourse with
the world. As an excuse for the persecutions he suffered, he is accused
of intriguing and creating disturbances even in his solitude; but no
facts are mentioned--no proofs are advanced. We cannot, indeed, believe
that the morbid spirit of distrust so fatal to his peace, which soon
afterwards manifested itself, did not in any degree exist; but there are
no letters, no documents, to support the accusations--made principally,
indeed, by the _soi-disant_ philosophers--and, above all, by Voltaire,
who could not endure that any other than himself should be a subject of
interest; and who, more than an infidel--a blasphemer--joined with the
most bigoted religionists in persecuting Rousseau.
Rousseau was not permitted long to enjoy the tranquil pleasures of his
island residence. Suddenly, without preparation, he received an order
from the state of Berne to quit their territory in three days. It was a
clap of thunder--he could but obey--again he was a wanderer: some
friends implored him to take up his residence at Bienne, an independent
town; he almost consented, when a popular tumult, of which he was the
object, drove him away.
He quitted Switzerland on the 29th of October. His first idea was to
repair to Berlin. On arriving at Strasbourg he changed his mind: he
gives no reason for this, except that he did not think that he could
support the journey; and that the kindness of the Strasburghers made him
meditate passing the winter in their city. He was, in fact, deliberating
between Prussia and England. He feared the influence of the Parisian
philosophers on Frederic's mind; he knew that the king preferred the
writings of Voltaire to his; he felt that they would not suit--that
Frederic would neither take pleasure in his society, nor reverence him:
he would fall into a subordinate position and humble obscurity--not as a
private man, whose independence repays him for all, but as a neglected
courtier and pensioner of royalty. These natural struggles, founded on
common sense and knowledge of the world, were misinterpreted by his
enemies.--Horace Walpole, who did not appreciate his genius, wrote a
burlesque letter, as if from the king of Prussia--the point of which
was, that Rousseau could not be happy unless persecuted: the sorrowful
truth, and the miserable effects of persecution which were subverting
even his reason, found no pity at the hands of these men.
But he had friends. The duchess of Luxembourg (the duke had died in the
interim) and the countess de Boufflers, who were aware of the generosity
of his conduct when he fled from France, exerted themselves to procure
him an asylum. David Hume offered to escort him to England, and to
establish him respectably there. Rousseau did not like the English; but
the plan offered many advantages, and he consented. He took Paris in his
way, where the prince of Conti received him with princely hospitality.
"The prince," Rousseau writes, "chooses that I should be lodged and
entertained with a magnificence which he well knows does not suit my
tastes; but I comprehend that, under the circumstances, he wishes to
give public testimony of the esteem with which he honours me." He
received a great many visits; crowds followed him when he walked in the
streets;--it is no wonder that he loved a people and a country where he
received such flattering tokens of kindness and admiration.
Yet he was eager to quit Paris; he was in France on sufferance; he even
received intimation from the duke de Choiseul not to prolong his stay.
[Sidenote: 1766.
Ætat.
54.]
On the 2d of January, he departed with Hume and a M. de Luze, a Genevese
and a friend of his. There was great difficulty in knowing where to
place the exile, when he arrived in England: his scanty income was far
too slight to afford mere necessaries in this country: many plans were
discussed; Rousseau rejected several. Thérèse le Vasseur was the great
obstacle to his comfort. It was with difficulty that the prejudice
against her as Rousseau's mistress could be got over; but worse remained
in her own character. De Luze represents her as ignorant, mischievous,
and quarrelsome; add to this, that heretofore Rousseau had treated her
as a mere housekeeper, and she did not dine at table with his
guests--now he insisted that she should be placed on an equality with
himself.
Still he and Hume continued on friendly terms; and the latter
entertained a sincere esteem for him. He wrote: "He is mild, gentle,
modest, affectionate, disinterested, and, above all, endowed in a
supreme degree with sensibility of heart." Rousseau insisted on
establishing himself in solitude at a distance from London: an eligible
residence was at last found for him. He passed two months in London and
Chiswick. He was visited by all persons of distinction. "English
manners," he wrote to a friend, "suit my taste; they can testify esteem,
without cajolery." He then repaired to Wotton in Derbyshire--a house
belonging to Mr. Davenport, but seldom inhabited by him: his host, to
satisfy his delicacy, received nominal payment for his board and
lodging; and here Rousseau and Thérèse took up their abode.
Here he wrote the first portion of his "Confessions;" and for a short
time he appeared to take pleasure in his retreat, and to feel grateful
to the friend who had procured it for him. A few weeks altered his
feelings. He became acquainted with the pretended letter of the king of
Prussia, fabricated by Horace Walpole: he began to suspect that Hume
allied himself to his detractors and enemies, and he renounced all
commerce with him. So far indeed were his suspicions founded, that Hume
had changed his opinion with regard to him. He still spoke of him as the
most delightful man in the world, when in good humour, but found his
distrust and suspicions, and accesses of melancholy, detract from the
pleasure which his society afforded. He had joined also in the laugh
raised by Walpole's letter, which, considering that Rousseau was his
peculiar guest and friend, was indelicate and insulting. Brooding in
loneliness, with only the ignorant, mischief-making Thérèse for a
companion, during a dreary English winter, Rousseau's mind, ever
distrustful, at once became fraught with suspicion. He felt himself
deserted by Hume,--he believed himself to be betrayed. Living in
obscurity and neglect in a country of the language of which he was
ignorant, his imagination suggested that his enemies had entered into a
combination to keep him there, so to gain an opportunity, undetected, of
falsifying his writings and calumniating his character. These thoughts
fermented in his brain till a species of insanity ensued. He fancied
that all his letters were opened; that he was, in a manner, imprisoned
at Wotton; and that the object of his enemies was to seize on his
"Confessions;" the knowledge of their existence having excited this
persecution. A pension of 100_l_. a year, which was conferred on him by
George III. in honourable terms, did not appease his anxieties nor calm
the fever of his mind. Under the dominion of these false
ideas,--suddenly, after a year's residence, during which he had been
treated with singular consideration and kindness, he left Wotton,
traversed England, embarked; and when he arrived at Calais congratulated
himself on his escape, as if honour and life had depended on it. The
letter he left behind addressed to Mr. Davenport, and those he wrote to
his friends, accusing his English protectors of treachery, and
denouncing an universal conspiracy against his reputation and writings,
by proving that he was possessed by insanity, ought to have excited
pity;--he met with none. An indignant cry was raised by Hume and echoed
by his enemies, accusing him of base ingratitude, and a wicked intention
to vilify his friends. This conduct served to excite his monomania to
its highest pitch, by giving some colour to his suspicions; and he
appeared to himself most calm and reasonable while he was the most
entirely under the dominion of the species of insanity that had come
over him. We must not, however, be misunderstood. Rousseau was very
ill-treated; Voltaire and his sect spared no ridicule, no opprobrium;
his friends, even Hume, would join in the laugh excited by Horace
Walpole's fabrication; Baron d'Holbach and his coterie, reigned over by
Grimm, never spoke of him except as a mixture of impostor and madman.
Here was much for Rousseau to resent. But his madness consisted in the
idea that there was an organised combination formed against him, which
was to destroy his reputation while living, falsify his writings, and
hand him down to posterity in the darkest colours. Such combinations are
never formed; and those who fancy themselves the object of such are
decidedly insane.[9]
[Sidenote: 1767.
Ætat.
55.]
The consequence was that his personal friends continued to treat him
with consideration. The prince of Conti offered him an asylum in his
chateau de Trie, near Amiens. He remained there about a year. The
unfortunate disposition of Thérèse soon turned all the servants and
dependants of the place into enemies. He quickly felt the effects of the
mischief she excited, and fancying that the cause existed not in her,
but others, was glad to get away.
An exile and a wanderer, he could not tell where to take up his abode.
At one time he appears to have become aware of the bad disposition of
Thérèse, and to have resolved to separate from her. It would appear
that at this time he was married to her; but this act did not satisfy
her discontent. She deserves blame certainly; but he deserves more for
having chosen, in the first place, an ignorant woman, who had no
qualities of heart to compensate for stupidity; and, secondly, for
having injured instead of improving her disposition by causing her to
abandon her children, and taking from her the occupations and interests
that attend maternity. Dragging about with him this companion, he
resided for some time in Dauphiné. His time was chiefly spent in
herborising. He seemed
"The world forgetting, by the world forgot;"
but he was not satisfied. His restless dissatisfaction, and the
unfortunate notion that an universal conspiracy was formed against him,
caused him to renounce the pension which the king of England had
conferred. The same passions engendered a thousand varying plans. He
contemplated returning to Paris. As a first step, he remained for a
short time at Lyons, and here satisfied his vanity as well as his better
feelings by subscribing to the erection of a statue of Voltaire. The
subscription, and the letter accompanying it, were applauded, much to
the mortification of the latter, who tried vainly to have his name
erased. Soon after, he repaired to the capital. As a preliminary, he
quitted the Armenian dress which he had worn nearly ten years, being
told officially that he would not be allowed to remain in Paris, if he
attracted public attention by his singular costume. The permission he
received to inhabit that city was, indeed, only tacit, and burdened with
the condition that he should not publish any work,--a condition that
displays in its most odious light the intolerance and tyranny of the old
regime of France,
[Sidenote: 1770.
Ætat.
58.]
His arrival in Paris created a sensation; he was welcomed with
enthusiasm. Madame du Deffand, who did not know him, and who dared not
like him, since Horace Walpole spoke of him with contempt, and who only
saw through the eyes of the high society she frequented, speaks
slightingly of his reception by what she calls "the populace of _beaux
esprits_;" but she mentions also that he will have nothing to do with the
great ladies of her acquaintance, nor their friends, and courtiers.
Grimm (and we must remark that, though Grimm often speaks disparagingly
of Rousseau, there is nothing absolutely false in his accounts in his
Correspondence) writes that his return was the subject of conversation
for many days. The people followed him in crowds in the street; he was
invited out to dinner every day; and it only rested with him to frequent
Parisian society most distinguished for talent and rank.
His object in returning to Paris appears to have been, in the first
place, to give publicity to his "Confessions." Soon after his arrival he
read them aloud before the count and countess d'Egmont, prince
Pignatelli, the marquise de Mesmes, and the marquis de Juigné. We
cannot justify his thus dragging the private life of his existent
friends before the world: it is the most flagrant dishonesty in
civilised society, and ought to be put on a par with picking pockets. We
excuse Rousseau in a slight degree, since his act sprung from insanity.
He believed that his enemies coalesced to defame him; that he could
exculpate himself only by these "Confessions;" which, unless rendered
public during life, would be falsified after he was dead; and he
endeavoured to keep the secrets of his friends; though he limited his
complaisance in this to hinting how much he could tell, if he liked.
Madame d'Epinay was justly annoyed, and even alarmed, at the idea of
being made the fable of the day. This lady had no excess of delicacy,
since she left behind her memoirs that unveil the secrets of her life;
but she could not endure that her name and actions should be made topics
of public conversation during her life. She applied to M. de Sartine,
lieutenant of police, to suppress any future readings; and apparently he
complied with the wish, as there is only trace of one more, before seven
auditors, which took place at the instigation of a man who sought to
establish an intimate friendship with their author.
Rousseau now established himself at Paris. Several persons have detailed
their recollections of him during this latter part of his life; and
there is something touching in the mixture of friendliness and distrust,
of gloom and gaiety, of frugality and hospitality, which the various
details record. Every word we read stamps the "Confessions" with truth,
and animates them with a living image; for when we find how eloquent,
agreeable, and warm-hearted he was, even when oppressed by long physical
suffering and heavy mental disquietudes, we may believe that he was
fascinating in his younger days.
He lived in Paris, in Rue Platiere, in a fourth story. His one room was
furnished with mere necessaries--two little beds, a chest of drawers, a
table, a spinnet, and some chairs; and he was triumphantly happy when,
having paid for these few things, he could call them his own. Some boxes
and pots filled with plants stood in his window, where he often
scattered crumbs for the sparrow's: all was neat and clean; and the
simplicity and peace that reigned in the little chamber imparted the
most agreeable impressions. He occupied himself by copying music, which
he did with exquisite neatness and correctness: the only use he made of
his celebrity was to ask rather a high price for his work. Many persons
employed him, so to find a pretence for intruding on his solitude and
staring at him. He did not scruple to be rude to those whom he saw were
attracted by mere impertinent curiosity--to all others he was civil if
not complaisant. The sole real blot on his household was Thérèse, whom
every one mentions with dislike and disrespect.
The prince de Ligne describes the visit he paid: he went under the
pretence of seeking a M. Rousseau of Thoulouse, and contrived, while
excusing himself for the mistake, to slide into conversation. Rousseau
submitted to be drawn out by an utter and unnamed stranger, without the
slightest appearance of distrust. The prince asked him about his music,
and then alluded to literature, and quoted one of the opinions Rousseau
had himself advanced, of the danger of certain literary acquirements: in
a moment he was on the alert to reply, entering into the argument with
more eloquence than he had ever showed in his writings, and developing
his ideas with delicacy and precision; for it is remarkable that the
embarrassment and confusion of ideas, of which Rousseau complains as
habitual to him in conversation, never occurred, except when he fancied
that something was expected, and his extreme shyness interfered to
perplex his ideas, and even his utterance. But in the common course of
conversation all agree in describing him as more than entertaining, as
fascinating, through his eloquence, his perspicuity, and the vivacity
and energy of his imagery and ideas; but these were not to be exercised
on the trivial topics of the day, but on the high moral and
philosophical sentiments and opinions that warmed his soul. On leaving
him, the prince wrote him a letter, telling him who he was, and offering
him an asylum in his states. His letter is a singular one; he tells him
that no one knew how to read in his country, and that he would neither
be admired nor persecuted. He continues: "You shall have the key of my
books and my gardens; you shall see me or not as you please; you shall
have a small country-house a mile from mine, where you can sow and plant
just as you like; as, like you, I dislike thrones and dominations, you
shall rule no one, and no one will rule you. If you accept my offers. I
will lead you myself to the Temple of Virtue--such shall be the name of
your abode, though we will not call it thus; I will spare your modesty
all the triumphs you have well deserved."
The prince declares that this letter was written in the sincerity of his
heart; afterwards it was spread through Paris as a bad imitation of
Horace Walpole's fabrication, and Rousseau himself believed that it was
a trick. However, at first he took it as sincere, and called on the
prince: he described his misfortunes, his enemies, the conspiracy of all
Europe against him, with an eloquence that charmed while it inspired
pity. "His eyes were two stars," the prince writes: "his genius shone in
his face and electrified me; he was touched by the effect he produced,
and, convinced of my enthusiasm, he showed gratitude for the interest I
took in his welfare."
Madame de Genlis made acquaintance with him soon after his return to
Paris. She says she never met a literary man with less pretension, and
more amiable: he spoke of himself with simplicity, and of his enemies
without bitterness; he did entire justice to the talents of Voltaire; he
had a most agreeable smile, full of delicacy and gentleness; he was
communicative, and often very gay. He talked extremely well on music, in
which he was a real connoisseur. Rousseau dined with this lady and her
husband frequently. Their first quarrel arose from M. de Genlis sending
him two dozen bottles of a wine he had praised, instead of two, which he
had consented to accept. Nothing could be in worse taste than the
pleasure which all the rich acquaintance of Rousseau took in making him
presents, after he had declared he would not receive any. He always sent
them back; and they reaped the pleasure of at once displaying their
generosity without expense, and of railing at his misanthropy. The
quarrel which put an end to his acquaintance with madame de Genlis is
somewhat unintelligible. Rousseau took offence at something that passed
at a theatre; and, instead of supping with his friends as he had agreed,
walked sullenly away. Madame de Genlis was offended in her turn, and
their intercourse was never renewed.
Bernardin de Saint Pierre, author of "Paul and Virginia," has left
delightful details of his visits to the recluse. They are far too long
to quote: we can only mention that they impress the reader with love and
esteem for Rousseau. Sometimes Saint Pierre was hurt by outbursts of
Rousseau's umbrageous temper, and on one occasion complained of his
morose manner and unjust suspicions, and asked whether he desired to
quarrel with him. Rousseau replied, with emotion, "I should be sorry to
see you too often, but still more sorry not to see you at all. I fear
intimacies, and have closed my heart against them; my temper masters me,
do you not perceive it? I suppress it for a time, but at last it
overcomes me, and bursts forth in spite of my endeavours. I have my
faults; but, when we value the friendship of any one, we must take the
benefit with all its burdens." Saint Pierre adds, "that these fits of
distrust were rare, that he was usually gay, confiding, and frank; when
I saw him gloomy, I knew some sad thought perplexed him: I began talking
of Plutarch, and he came to himself as if awakening from a dream."
Saint Pierre gives a pleasing account of the respect in which the
Parisians held him. They went together to hear the "Iphigenia" of Gluck:
the crowd and pressure were great; Rousseau was old; Saint Pierre felt
desirous to name him, and so to obtain protection: he hesitated, fearful
to offend; at length he whispered it to one or two, begging them to keep
the secret. Scarcely was the word uttered than a deep silence ensued,
the crowd looked respectfully on him, and emulated each other in
shielding him from pressure, without any one repeating the name that had
been revealed. At one time he suspected Saint Pierre of being in league
with his enemies; his friend insisted on an explanation, and succeeded
in convincing him of his innocence, though he still believed that his
enemies had endeavoured to make a cat's-paw of him.
He thus lived for some years in Paris, occupied by copying music, and
sometimes seized with a desire for composing it; herborising in the
environs of the capital, seeing a few friends, and too often brooding in
solitude over the combination he believed formed against him throughout
Europe. As his health grew worse, these last fatal ideas became more and
more engrossing. He quarrelled with Gluck for writing music to French
words, saying that his only object was to give him the lie, because he
had declared the French language to be unfit for music. He was angry
when he heard that the "Divin du Village" was represented and applauded;
saying that it was done under the pretence that the music was stolen. He
occupied himself on his unfortunate work of "Rousseau Juge de Jean
Jaques," which is a monument of the frenzy which it served to confirm;
yet at the same time he wrote his "Promenades d'un Solitaire," which,
with the exception of some of the letters of the "Nouvelle Heloise," and
a few passages in the "Confessions," are the most finished, the most
interesting, and eloquent of his works: the peculiar charm of Rousseau
reigns throughout; a mixture of lofty enthusiasm, of calm repose, and of
the most delicate taste.
The friends about him saw traces of attacks of absolute madness: he
could no longer apply himself to his task of copying music, and the
miseries of poverty began to be felt in his household. M. de Corancez
tried to bring a remedy, by offering him a house at Sceaux, in which to
live: Rousseau refused, yet hesitated. M. de Girardin offered his house
at Ermenonville, where the superb gardens, of which he was proprietor,
might well tempt a lover of nature. Thérèse favoured this
offer--Rousseau consented to accept it, and his removal was effected
with some precipitancy. It might have been supposed that the charm of
his new abode would have calmed his mind and restored his health. It was
not so. Great obscurity hangs over the last scene of his life.
[Sidenote: 1778.
Ætat.
66.]
He died suddenly at Ermenonville, on the 2d of July, two months after
his departure from Paris. The surgeons who examined his body pronounced,
at their examination, that he died of a serous apoplexy.
Many circumstances combine to engender the suspicion that this opinion
was given merely to prevent scandal, and that in reality he shot
himself. It is certain that, at the moment of death, instead of being
senseless, he was carried to the window, which he caused to be thrown
open; the weather was beautiful, and he contemplated the fair scene
spread around, the shady gardens and serene sky, while he bade a calm
adieu to life.
The cause of his suicide, if he really committed it, must be found in
his perpetual physical sufferings, in his weariness of life, and in the
accesses of insanity with which he was certainly sometimes visited: to
this M. de Corancez adds a discovery of the worthless character of
Thérèse. The last is merely conjecture. She married a groom of M.
Girardin, a year after her husband's death; and he gives her credit for
a criminal intercourse with this man, discovered by Rousseau, during his
life.
His existence had become a dream of bodily and mental suffering; and
whether the disease that preyed on him affected his brain with death, or
excited him to arm himself against his own life, is a secret difficult
to penetrate. The latter seems most probable. He died peacefully, and
the heart that had beat so wildly, and the brain pregnant with an ardent
love of truth, and with so many wild delusions, were delivered over to
the peace of the grave.
As a protestant he could not be buried in sacred ground, he was
therefore interred in the island of Poplars, in the gardens of
Ermenonville. The funeral took place in the evening. The solitary spot
shadowed over by trees, through whose foliage the moon shone, the calm
of the evening hour, and the lonely grave, were in accordance with the
singular but noble character of the man.