"From what has been already said of him, it is apparent that his conversation to strangers, and particularly to Frenchmen, could be little delightful, and still more particularly, one would suppose, to French women: and yet no lady's toilette was complete without Hume's attendance. At the opera his broad unmeaning face was usually seen entre deux jolis minois. The ladies in France gave the ton, and the ton was deism: a species of philosophy ill suited to the softer sex, in whose delicate frame weakness is interesting, and timidity a charm. . . . . How my friend Hume was able to endure the encounter of these French female Titans, I know not. In England, either his philosophic pride or his conviction that infidelity was ill suited to women, made him perfectly averse from the initiation of ladies into the mysteries of his doctrine."[223:1]
The same characteristics are recorded by Grimm.[223:2] We have his position still more vividly painted by Madame d'Epinay, according to whom he must have undergone not a small portion of the martyrdom of lionism. One of the "rages" of the day was the holding of cafés, or giving entertainments in private houses, according to the arrangements and etiquette of a public café. Among the amusements of the evening were pantomimes, and acted tableaux. In these it was necessary that Hume should take a rôle, and as he was always willing to conform to established regulations, we find him seated as a sultan between two obdurate beauties, intending to strike his bosom, but aiming the blows at le ventre, and accompanying his acting with characteristic exclamations.[224:1]
Hume's popularity in Paris appears to have somewhat disturbed Horace Walpole's equanimity. He was too good an artist to be very angry, or to express himself in terms of aggravated bitterness; but it is clear from occasional notices, that, notwithstanding his professed admiration of Scotsmen, it displeased him to find Hume the Scotsman sitting at the king's gate. Writing to Lady Hervey on 14th Sept. 1765, he says, "Mr. Hume, that is the mode, asked much about your ladyship."[225:1] Then to Montague, on the 22d of the same month, and in allusion to the conversation of the dinner-table in Paris:
For literature, it is very amusing when one has nothing else to do. I think it rather pedantic in society: tiresome when displayed professedly; and, besides, in this country, one is sure it is only the fashion of the day. Their taste in it is the worst of all; could one believe, that when they read our authors, Richardson and Mr. Hume should be their favourites? The latter is treated here with perfect veneration. His History, so falsified in many points, so partial in as many, so very unequal in its parts, is thought the standard of writing.[225:2]
Thus, and in the like strain, do the French suffer in his good opinion, for their offence in making an idol of Hume. So, on the 3d October, when writing to Mr. Chute,—
Their authors, who by the way are every where, are worse than their own writings, which I don't mean as a compliment to either. In general, the style of conversation is solemn, pedantic, and seldom animated, but by a dispute. I was expressing my aversion to disputes: Mr. Hume, who very gratefully admires the tone of Paris, having never known any other tone, said with great surprise, "Why, what do you like, if you hate both disputes and whisk?"[225:3]
Then, on the 19th of the same month, to Mr. Brand:
I assure you, you may come hither very safely, and be in no danger from mirth. Laughing is as much out of fashion as pantins and bilboquets. Good folks, they have no time to laugh. There is God and the king to be pulled down first; and men and women, one and all, are devoutly employed in the demolition. They think me quite profane for having any belief left. But this is not my only crime; I have told them, and am undone by it, that they have taken from us to admire the two dullest things we had—Whisk and Richardson. It is very true that they want nothing but George Grenville to make their conversations, or rather dissertations, the most tiresome upon earth. For Lord Lyttelton, if he would come hither, and turn freethinker once more, he would be reckoned the most agreeable man in France,—next to Mr. Hume, who is the only thing in the world that they believe implicitly, which they must do, for I defy them to understand any language that he speaks.[226:1]
At this time Adam Smith was travelling in France, with his pupil, the young Duke of Buccleuch. On 5th July, 1764, he writes from Toulouse, requesting Hume to give him and his pupil introductions to distinguished Frenchmen, the Duc de Richelieu, the Marquis de Lorges, &c. He says, that Mr. Townsend had assured him of these and other introductions, from the Duc de Choiseul, but that none had made their appearance in that quarter. Smith seems to have been heartily tired of the glittering bondage of his tutorship, and to have sighed for the academic conviviality he had left behind him at Glasgow. He says:—
"The Duke is acquainted with no Frenchman whatever. I cannot cultivate the acquaintance of the few with whom I am acquainted, as I cannot bring them to our house, and am not always at liberty to go to theirs. The life which I led at Glasgow, was a pleasureable dissipated life in comparison of that which I lead here at present. I have begun to write a book, in order to pass away the time. You may believe I have very little to do. If Sir James would come and spend a month with us in his travels, it would not only be a great satisfaction to me, but he might, by his influence and example, be of great service to the Duke."[228:1]
There is little doubt that the book he had begun to write, was the "Wealth of Nations:" and we have here probably the earliest announcement of his employing himself in that work. On the 21st of October, he writes from Toulouse, stating that the letters of introduction had reached him, and that his noble pupil was well received. He says, "Our expedition to Bourdeaux, and another we have made since to Bagneres, has made a great change upon the Duke. He begins now to familiarize himself to French company; and I flatter myself I shall spend the rest of the time we are to live together, not only in peace and contentment, but in great amusement."
Amidst the multiplied attractions of Paris, Hume's thoughts were often turned to his native city, and the circle of kind friends and admirers he had there left behind him. Such reminiscences of home doings as are contained in the following letters, would doubtless ensure his warm attention. On 1st July, Blair writes:
Robertson has, of late, had worse health than usual, which has somewhat interrupted his studies. He talked once of a trip to France this season; but his want of the language is so discouraging, as seems to have made him lay aside thoughts of it for the present. It will be a twelvemonth more, I suppose, before his Charles V. shall see the light.
I dined this day with Sir James Macdonald, on whose praises I need not expatiate to you. Much conversation we had about you; and a great deal I heard of your flourishing state. You write concerning it yourself, like a philosopher and a man of sense. The first splendour and eclat of such situations soon loses its lustre, and often, as you found it, is burdensome. Ease and agreeable society are the only things that last and remain; and these, now that you are quite naturalized, and have formed habits of life, I imagine you enjoy in a very comfortable degree. The society at Paris, to one who has all your advantages for enjoying it in its perfection, is, I am fully convinced, from all that I have heard, the most agreeable in the whole world.
Our education here is at present in high reputation. The Englishes are crowding down upon us every season, and I wish may not come to hurt us at the last.[229:1]
Jardine writes, on 1st August:—
I have attempted, four or five times, to write to you but this poor church has, for some time past, been in such danger, that I could never find time for it. She has employed all my thoughts and care for these twelve months past. The enemy had kindled such a flame, that the old burning bush was like to have been consumed altogether. I know it will give you pleasure to hear that my endeavours to preserve her have been crowned with success. She begins to shine forth with her ancient lustre; and will very soon be, not only fair as the sun, but, to all her enemies, terrible as an army with banners.[230:1]
It is pleasing to find one whose name has been so much associated with the later school of our national literature, as Mrs. Cockburn, the early friend of Scott, enjoying the intimacy of the sages of the philosophical age of Scottish letters. This accomplished lady, well known as the authoress of one of the versions of "The Flowers of the Forest," was a correspondent of Hume. A few of her letters have been preserved; and the following are her free and animated remarks on Hume's flattering reception in France,—remarks written in the full assurance that neither adulation nor prosperity would diminish the regard of that simple manly heart, for the chosen friends he had left in his native soil.
From the bleak hills of the north, from the uncultured daughter of Caledon, will the adored sage of France deign to receive a few lines: they come from the heart of a friend, and will be delivered by the hand of an enemy. Which, O man of mode, is most indifferent to thee? Insensible thou art alike to gratitude or resentment; fit for the country that worships thee. Thou art equally insensible to love or hate. A momentary applause, ill begot, and worse brought up,—an abortion, a fame not founded on truth,—have bewitched thee, and thou hast forgot those who, overlooking thy errors, saved thy worth. Idol of Gaul, I worship thee not. The very cloven foot, for which thou art worshipped, I despise: yet I remember thee with affection. I remember that, in spite of vain philosophy, of dark doubts, of toilsome learning, God had stamped his image of benignity so strong upon thy heart, that not all the labours of thy head could efface it. Idol of a foolish people, be not puffed up; it is easy to overturn the faith of a multitude that is ready to do evil: an apostle of less sense might bring to that giddy nation—libertinism; liberty they are not born to. This will be sent to you by your good friend, Mr. Burnet; who goes much such an errand as you have given yourself through life, viz., in search of truth; and I believe both are equally impartial in the search; though, indeed, he has more visible interests for darkening it than ever you had.
Castlehill, Baird's Close, Aug. 20th, 1764.[231:1]
Hume to Andrew Millar.
"Paris, 3d September, 1764.
"It is certain that nothing could be a greater inducement to me to continue my History, than your desiring so earnestly I should do so. I have so great reason to be satisfied with your conduct towards me, that I wish very much to gratify you in every thing that is practicable; and there want not other motives to make me embrace that resolution. For, though I think I have reason to complain of the blindness of party, which has made the public do justice to me very slowly, and with great reluctance, yet I find that I obtain support from many impartial people; and hope that I shall every day have more reason to be satisfied in that particular. But, in my present situation, it is impossible for me to undertake such a work; and I cannot break off from Lord Hertford, as long as he is pleased to think me useful to him. I shall not, however, lose sight of this object; and any materials that cast up, in this country, shall be carefully collected by me.
"I am glad you are satisfied with the publication of the new edition of my Essays. I shall be obliged to you if you will inform yourself exactly how many copies are now sold, both of that edition and of the octavo edition of my History. I think both these editions very correct. I did little more than see your friends, Mr. Buchanan and Mr. Wilson, at Paris, and present them to Lord Hertford. We returned not from Compiegne till a few days before they left Paris. . . . . . I think the Duchess of Douglas has chosen well in making Mallet one of her commissioners. I have no good opinion of that cause. Mrs. Mallet has retired into the forest of Fontainbleau with a Macgregor. I fancy she is angry with me, and thought herself neglected by me while in Paris. I heard of her thrusting herself every where into companies, who endeavoured to avoid her; and I was afraid she would have laid hold of me to enlarge her acquaintance among the French. I have not yet executed your commission with Monsr. le Roy, but shall not forget it. I am very glad that Mrs. Millar is so good as to remember me. I shall regard it as one agreeable circumstance attending my return to England, that you and she will have leisure to give more of your company to your friends; and I shall always be proud to be ranked in the number.
"The lowness of stocks surely proceeds not from any apprehension of war: never was a general peace established in Europe with more likelihood of its continuance; but I fancy your stocks are become at last too weighty, to the conviction of all the world. What must happen, if we go on at the same rate during another war? I am, with great sincerity, dear sir, your most obedient humble servant."[233:1]
The course of correspondence with Elliot, which commences with the next following letter, relates, in a great measure, to the disposal of his two sons at Paris, and to their future training and education.[233:2] There could be no better evidence of the reliance placed in Hume's honourable principles and knowledge of the world, by those friends who were sufficiently intimate with him, fully to appreciate his character; while his whole conduct in the transaction shows kindness of heart, with a warm attachment to friends, and an earnest disposition to serve them.
Gilbert Elliot of Minto to Hume.
My Dear Sir,—My departure from Paris was so very sudden, that I was obliged to leave many of my little schemes uncompleted; and, what was still more mortifying, to see the progress of all my growing attachments cruelly interrupted. I reached this place just in time, though not a little retarded by the Russian chancellor and his forty horses. Had I but foreseen this obstruction, I might as well have set out on Wednesday morning at two o'clock; and in that case, my dear philosopher, what a delicious evening should I have passed in your company.
Upon full deliberation I am determined to send you my boys, if a tolerable place can be found for their reception. I did not much like that talking professor, who undertakes so largely: if nothing better can be done, pray take the trouble to renew my negotiation with Madame Anson. Her house, though not just what I could wish, is, however, not much amiss. I must not lose this occasion of sending my children to France. I shall never find any other so favourable. It will be no small consolation to their mother, from whom they are now to be separated for the first time, to know that we are not without a friend in Paris, who will sometimes have an eye to their conduct. If I am not too partial, I think you will find in their character much native simplicity, and perhaps some little elevation of mind. Send them back to me, my dear sir, with the same qualities, tempered, if you will, but not impaired by the acquisition of some few of those graces which spread such an inexpressible charm through those societies where even you are not ashamed to pass so many precious hours.
If you should find no leisure to give them a moment's instruction, tell them at least to look up to the conduct and character of a young friend of ours at Paris.[234:1] There they will find a model, which, without hoping to equal, it will, however, become them to copy. But, after all, what am I about? At Paris, to have children at all, is de plus mauvais ton de monde, and I forgot to inform myself, when one happens to have them, whether it be permitted to take any thought about them. I am impatient to hear from you at London. I shall not be long there. I desire you would take this important business into your hands and settle it for me entirely. I will send them over the moment you desire me, and consigned to whom you direct,—the sooner the better: you will settle all other particulars as you find proper. Before I conclude, allow me in friendship also to tell you, I think I see you at present upon the very brink of a precipice. One cannot too much clear their mind of all little prejudices, but partiality to one's country is not a prejudice. Love the French as much as you will. Many of the individuals are surely the proper objects of affection; but, above all, continue still an Englishman. You know, better than any body, that the active powers of our mind are much too limited to be usefully employed in any pursuit more general than the service of that portion of mankind which we call our country. General benevolence and private friendship will attend a generous mind and a feeling heart, into every country; but political attachment confines itself to one.
I have not now leisure to trouble you with the few observations my too short stay at Paris had but imperfectly furnished me with. Irreconcileable to the principles of their government, I am delighted with the amenity and gentleness of their manners. I was even pleased to find that the severity and rigour of our English climate had not rendered me altogether insensible to the kind impressions of a milder sky. May I trouble you with my most cordial and sincere respects to Lord and Lady Hertford. Some French names, too, I could mention, but I am not vain enough to imagine that I can, upon so short an acquaintance, have a place in their remembrance. Believe me, very dear sir, yours very sincerely, and most affectionately,
(I set out this moment.)
Brussels, 15th September, 1764.
Hume to Gilbert Elliot of Minto.
"Paris, 22d Sept. 1764.
"As soon as I received yours from Brussels, I set on foot my inquiries. I spoke to Abbé Hooke, to Père Gordon, to Clairaut, to Madame de Pri, and to others, with a view of finding some proper settlement for your young gentlemen. Every body told me, as they did, of the difficulty of succeeding in my scheme; and nothing yet has been offered me, that I would advise you to accept of. I went to Madame Anson's, and found that family a very decent, sensible kind of people. I came in upon them about seven o'clock, and found a company of eight or nine persons assembled, whose aspects pleased me very much. The only objection that occurred to me with regard to this family, is the quarter of the town, which is not only so unfashionable, that my coachman was astonished when I ordered him to drive thither, but, what is worse, it is far from all walks and places of exercise. However, it is near the university; and, consequently, it is in that quarter where all the youth of France are educated. If nothing better present itself, I shall conclude a bargain with this family for a thousand crowns a-year, without firing or washing, according to the terms proposed to you, which they said they could not depart from. The misfortune is, that I must go to Fontainbleau in about a fortnight, and, consequently, am straitened in my time of inquiry; but, in all cases, I shall certainly conclude with somebody before my departure. We stay six weeks at Fontainbleau, during which time, if you send your sons to Paris, I shall take a journey thither to receive them. In all cases, they must come immediately to the Hotel de Brancas, where they will not want friends.
"I do not like the talking man more than you do; and a flattering letter I have since received from him, does not augment my good opinion. I went to Monsieur Bastide, he who proposed the scheme for ten thousand livres a-year. He seems to be a genteel, well-bred man; lives in a very good house in an excellent quarter of the town; is well spoke of by D'Alembert and others; and has with him two very agreeable boys, Russian princes, who speak French very well. I should have given him the preference, had it not been the price. He asks ten thousand livres a-year for your two sons and their governor, without supplying them either with clothes or masters. You know his ten thousand a-piece included all expenses. If you can resolve to go so far in point of expense, it is the best place that occurs, or is likely to occur.
"Since I wrote the above, I went to see Mademoiselle L'Espinasse, D'Alembert's mistress, who is really one of the most sensible women in Paris. She told me that there could not be a worthier, honester, better man, than Bastide. I told her that I had entertained the same opinion, but was afraid his head-piece was none of the best. She owned that he did not excel on that side; and a proof of it was, that he had wrote several books, all of which were below middling. On my return home, I found the enclosed letter from him.[237:1] I have promised him an answer by the return of the post from England. On the whole, the chief advantage, as it appears to me, which his house will have above Anson's, consists in the air and situation. It lies on the skirts of the town, in an open street near the rampart; but five thousand livres a-year is paying too dear for the advantage.
"I cannot imagine what you mean by saying I am on a precipice. I shall foretell to you the result of my present situation almost with as great certainty as it is possible to employ with regard to any future event. As soon as Lord Hertford's embassy ends, which probably may not continue long, some zealot, whom I never saw, and never could offend, finding me without protection, will instanter fly, with alacrity, to strike off that pension which the king and the ministry, before I would consent to accept of my present situation, promised should be for life. I shall be obliged to leave Paris, which I confess I shall turn my back to with regret. I shall go to Thoulouse or Montauban, or some provincial town in the south of France, where I shall spend, contented, the rest of my life, with more money, under a finer sky, and in better company than I was born to enjoy.
"From what human motive or consideration can I prefer living in England than in foreign countries? I believe, taking the continent of Europe, from Petersburg to Lisbon, and from Bergen to Naples, there is not one who ever heard of my name, who has not heard of it with advantage, both in point of morals and genius. I do not believe there is one Englishman in fifty, who, if he heard I had broke my neck to-night, would be sorry. Some, because I am not a Whig; some because I am not a Christian; and all because I am a Scotsman. Can you seriously talk of my continuing an Englishman? Am I, or are you, an Englishman? Do they not treat with derision our pretensions to that name, and with hatred our just pretensions to surpass and govern them? I am a citizen of the world; but if I were to adopt any country, it would be that in which I live at present, and from which I am determined never to depart, unless a war drives me into Switzerland or Italy.
"I must now inform you what passed with regard to my affair at L'ile-Adam.[238:1] My friend showed me a letter, which she had lately received from Lord Tavistock, by which it appears he had fallen into great friendship, and bore a great regard to Lady Sarah Bunbury. I instantly forbade her to write to England a line about my affair. I bear too great a respect to her, to expose her to ask a favour, where there was so little probability of success: thus have vanished my best hopes of obtaining justice in this point. Here is surely no new ground of attachment to England."[239:1]
Hume to Gilbert Elliot of Minto.
"Hotel de Brancas, 30th Sept. 1764.
"After acknowledging that I received both your letters, that from Brussels, and that from Calais, I should be ashamed to appear before you with so late a letter. This day fortnight, Lord March and Selwin appointed to go off. I sent March a very long letter for you, and enjoined him, as he lived next door to you, to deliver it the moment he arrived; and having thus done my duty, I went very contentedly to L'ile-Adam, where I remained for four days. On my return to Paris, I was much surprised to hear that March, after his post-chaise was yoked, had changed his mind, and was still in Paris. When I appeared alarmed at this intelligence, I was told that he had sent off an express to London with letters, which composed my mind. Next day I saw him, and he fairly confessed, that from forgetfulness, he had not sent off my letter. I begged him to send it to me; he promised it, delayed it, promised again, and at last owns that he has lost it; which gives me great vexation, both on your account, and my own, for I spoke to you with great freedom, and am infinitely uneasy lest my letter should fall into bad hands.[241:1] When I rail at March, I get no other reply than, 'God damn you! if your letter was of consequence, why the devil did you trust it to such a foolish fellow as me?' I am therefore obliged, in a great hurry, to give you some imperfect account of what I have done. I went to Ansons', who seem a discreet, sober set of people. I came in upon a mixed company, whose looks pleased me: the only objection is the quarter of the town, which is straitened; but it is near the University, and consequently where all the youth of France are educated. I do not like the talking man more than you; and a very flattering letter he wrote me, helped further to disgust me. La Bastide, the 10,000 livres man, I went to see: he seems an agreeable man, and is well spoke of; he lives in an agreeable house, and in a good air, and has two young Russian princes with him, who speak very good French; he offers to take your two boys and preceptor for 8000 livres on the whole, but without paying either clothes or master. I suppose you would not choose to pay 5000 livres a-year, merely for the advantage of better air. I have heard a very good character of one Eriot, professor of rhetoric in the Collège de Beauvais, who offers to take them: they would live in the house with him alone; but he proposes that they should go to all the classes of the university, where they would make acquaintance with French boys, and nobody would ever ask questions about their religion: But as I heard you declare against their going to the university, (which yet I should highly approve of,) I cannot make any bargain with Eriot. The misfortune is, I go to Fontainbleau to-morrow se'ennight, and must conclude a bargain without hearing from you, by this fine trick Lord March has played me. It is probable, therefore, it will be with Anson, because you yourself did not disapprove of that plan; and I should be afraid to depart from it considerably, without your authority. If you give me information in time, I shall come from Fontainbleau to settle your boys. In any case make them come immediately to the Hotel de Brancas, where they will not want friends if any of the family be in town.
"Since I wrote the above, one of my numerous scouts came to me, and told me, that within gunshot of the Hotel de Brancas, there was to be found all I could wish, and more than I could have imagined. It is called La Pension Militaire. I immediately went to see it. I found there an excellent airy house, with an open garden belonging to it. It is the best house but one in Paris; has a prospect and access into the large open space of the Invalids, and from thence into the fields. The number of boys is limited to thirty-five, whom I saw in the court, in a blue uniform with a narrow silver lace. They left off their play, and made me a bow with the best grace in the world, as I passed. I was carried to their master the Abbé Choquart, who appeared to me a sensible, sedate, judicious man, agreeable to the character I had received of him. He carried me through the boys' apartments, which were cleanly, light, spacious, and each lay in a small bed apart. I saw a large collection of instruments for experimental philosophy. I saw an ingenious machine for teaching chronology. There were plans of fortification. While I was considering these, I heard a drum beat in the court. It was the hour for assembling the boys for their military exercises. I went down. They had now all got on their belts, and had their muskets in their hands. They went through all the Prussian exercises with the best air and greatest regularity imaginable. Almost all were about your son's age, a year or two more or less. They are the youth of the best quality in France; their air and manners seemed to bespeak it. The master asked only about thirteen hundred livres a-year for each of your boys, five hundred for the preceptor. He supplies them with all masters, except those of dancing, music, and designing; for these they have masters that come in, who take only eight livres a-month, though they require from others three louis-d'ors. There is a riding master belonging to the house. Your sons need never go to mass unless they please, and nobody shall ever talk to them about religion; the master only requires, that you should write him a letter, which he will read to every body, by which you desire . . . ."[243:1]
The following short letter was addressed to Mr. Elliot on the same day with the preceding one, for the reason which the letter itself states. The anxious care with which Hume endeavoured not only to be punctual and exact himself in the performance of the business he had undertaken, but to remedy the consequences of the absence of these qualities in others, may afford a useful reproof to those who demean themselves as above the exercise of these homely virtues; and shows that the practice of them has been, in one instance at least, considered not incompatible with the design and achievement of intellectual greatness.
Hume to Gilbert Elliot of Minto.
"Hotel de Brancas, 30th September, 1764.
"I have wrote you a long letter to London, a short one to Harrowgate, and now I write to you to Minto. Not to lose time, you must have a little implicit faith; without making further questions, give instantly orders that your sons be sent to me, and that they come instantly to the Hotel de Brancas. Within less than a gunshot of this, I have found a place which has all advantages beyond what your imagination could suggest; it is almost directly opposite to my friend the Marechale de Mirepoix's, by whose advice I act. I tell you this, lest your opinion of my discretion be not the highest in the world. There are there about thirty boys of the best families in France. The house is spacious, airy, clean, has a garden, opens into the fields; the board costs only thirteen hundred livres a-year for each boy, five hundred for the tutor; the boys have almost all masters for this sum. I have concluded the bargain for a quarter; the payment runs on from the first of October, because the course of studies begins then; there will be no question about religion or the mass. I have been more particular in my letter to London. Nothing was ever so fortunate for your purpose."
"Hotel de Brancas, 9th October, 1764.
"I go to Fontainbleau to-day; my Lady and Lord Beauchamp go also. Mr. Trail, the chaplain, and Mr. Larpent, my lord's secretary, follow in a few days. All these arrangements are unexpected; but the consequence is, that there will be nobody in the Hotel de Brancas for some weeks; but this need not retard a moment your sending the young gentlemen. I have spoke to the master of the academy, who says that the moment they arrive they shall be settled as well as if all their kindred were there. I have sent the enclosed letter to him, which the gentleman who attends them may deliver immediately on his arrival in Paris. Vive valeque."[245:1]
In 1764, the Comte de Boufflers died, and his widow expected to be made Princess of Conti. Hume seems to have seen from the first that this expectation was likely to lead to manifold mortifications, and that it was the duty of a true friend to prepare her mind for disappointment. In this spirit he wrote her the following long and carefully considered letters, in answer to some communications from her, full of hopes and fears, and all a Frenchwoman's nervous agitations.
Hume to the Comtesse de Boufflers.
Wednesday, 28th of November, 1764.
You may believe that, ever since my return to Paris, I have kept my eyes and ears open with regard to every thing that concerns your affair. I find it is the general opinion of all those who think themselves the best informed, that a resolution is taken in your favour; and that the resolution will probably have place. But you do not expect surely, that so great an event will pass without censure. It would ill become my friendship to flatter you on this head. The envy and jealousy of the world would alone account for a repugnance in many. Nobody has been more generally known than you; both of late and in your early youth. Will so numerous an acquaintance be pleased to see you pass, from being their equal, to be so much their superior? Will they bear your uniting the decisive elevation of rank to the elevation of genius, which they feel, and which they would in vain contest? Be assured, that she is really and sincerely your friend, who can willingly yield you so great advantages.
But though I hear some murmurs of this kind, I have likewise the consolation to meet with several who entertain opposite sentiments. I was told of a man of superior sense, nowise connected with you, who maintained in a public company, that, if the report was true, nothing could give him a higher idea of the laudable and noble principles of your friend. The execution of his purpose, he said, could not only be justified, but seemed a justice due to you. The capital point is to interpose as few delays as possible. Time must create obstacles, and can remove none. While the matter seems in suspense, many will declare themselves with violence against you, and will render themselves irreconcilable enemies by such declarations. They might be the first to pay court to you, had no leisure been allowed them to display their envy and malignity.
On the whole, I am fully persuaded, from what I hear and see, that the matter will end as we wish. But in all cases, I foresee, that, let the event be what it will, you will reap from it much honour and much vexation. Alas! dear madam, the former is never a compensation for the latter: especially to you, whose delicate frame, already shaken by an incident of much less importance surely, is ill calculated to bear such violent agitations. Pardon these sentiments if you think them mean. They are dictated by my friendship for you. I am indeed so mean as to wish you alive and healthy and gay in any fortune. A fine consolation for us truly, to see the epithet of princess inscribed on your grave, while we reflect that it contains what was the most amiable in the world? I propose to pay my respects to you the beginning of next week.
10th December, 1764.
It is needless to inform you, how much you employed my thoughts in this great crisis of your fortune, of your health, of your life itself. You could perceive, by undoubted signs, that I partook sincerely of the violent anxieties, by which I found you agitated; and that, after having endeavoured in vain to appease the tumult of your passions, I was at last necessitated myself to take part in your distress. My sympathy is not abated by absence. I find myself incapable almost of other occupation or amusement.
You still recur to my memory. The chief relief I have is in writing to you, and throwing together some thoughts, which occur to me, on your subject.
They are mostly the same which occurred in conversation, and which I have already suggested to you. They will acquire no additional authority at present in writing, except by convincing you that they are the result of my most mature reflections.
Of all your friends, I, as a foreigner, am perhaps the least capable of giving you advice on so delicate a subject: I only challenge the preference, in the warmth of my affection and esteem towards you; and I am, as a foreigner, the farther removed from all suspicion of separate interests and regards.
I cannot too often repeat, what I inculcated on you with great earnestness, that, even if your friend should fix his resolution on the side least favourable to you, you ought to receive his determination without the least resentment. You know that princes, more than other men, are born slaves to prejudices, and that this tax is imposed on them, as a species of retaliation by the public. This prince in particular is in every view so eminent, that he owes some account of his conduct to Europe in general, to France, and to his family, the most illustrious in the world. It is expected, that men, in his station, shall not be actuated by private regards. It is expected, that with them friendship, affection, sympathy, shall be absorbed in ambition, and in the desire of supporting their rank in the world; and, if they fail in this duty, they will meet with blame from a great part of the public. Can you be surprised, that a person covetous of honour, should be moved by these considerations? If he neglected them, would not your grateful heart suggest to you, that he had taken an extraordinary step in your favour? And can you, with any grace, complain, that an extraordinary event has not happened, merely because you wished for it, and found it desirable?
I am fully sensible, madam, of the force of those arguments which you urged, not to justify your resentment, [from] which you declared you would ever be exempted, but to maintain the reasonableness of your expectations. I am fully sensible of the regard, the sacred regard, due to a long and sincere attachment, which, passing from love to friendship, lost nothing of its warmth, and acquired only the additional merit of reason and constancy. This regard, I own, is really honourable and virtuous; and may safely be opposed to the maxims of an imaginary honour, which, depending upon modes and prejudices, will always be regarded, by great minds, as a secondary consideration. I shall add, what your modesty would not allow you to surmise, or even, perhaps, to think, that an extraordinary step, taken in favour of extraordinary merit, will always justify itself; and will appear but an ordinary tribute. Allow me to do you this justice in your present melancholy situation. I know I am exempt from flattery: I believe I am exempt from partiality. The zeal and fervour which move me, are the effects, not the causes of my judgment.
But, my dear friend, the consideration, which is the most interesting, the most affecting, the most alarming, is the immediate danger of your health and life, from the violent situation into which fortune has now thrown you. You continued long to live, with tolerable tranquillity, though exposed to many vexations, in a state little befitting your worth and merit; and you still comforted yourself by reflecting that you could not change it, without withdrawing from a friendship dearer to you than life itself. You still could flatter yourself, that the person, for whose sake you made this sacrifice, if he had it in his power, would, at any price, repair your honour, and fortify his connexions with you. The unexpected death of M. de Boufflers has put an end to these illusions. It has at once brought you within reach of honour and felicity: and has thrown a poison on your former state, by rendering it still less honourable than before.
You cannot say, madam, that I do not feel, and with the most pungent sensation, the cruelty of your situation. I am sensible too, that time will scarcely bring any remedy to this evil.
The loss of a friend, of a dignity, of fortune, admits of consolation, if not from reason, at least from oblivion; and these sorrows are not eternal. But while you maintain your present connexions, your hopes, still kept alive, will still enliven your natural desire of that state to which you aspire, and your disgust towards that state in which you will find yourself. I foresee that your lively passions, continually agitated, will tear in pieces your tender frame: melancholy and a broken constitution may then prove your lot, and the remedy which could now preserve your health and peace of mind, may come too late to restore them.
What advice, then, can I give you, in a situation so interesting? The measure which I recommend to you requires courage, but I dread that nothing else will be able to prevent the consequences, so justly apprehended. It is, in a word, that after employing every gentle art to prevent a rupture, you should gradually diminish your connexion with the Prince, should be less assiduous in your visits, should make fewer and shorter journeys to his country seats, and should betake yourself to a private, and sociable, and independent life at Paris. By this change in your plan of living, you cut off at once the expectations of that dignity to which you aspire; you are no longer agitated with hopes and fears; your temper insensibly recovers its former tone; your health returns; your relish for a simple and private life gains ground every day, and you become sensible, at last, that you have made a good exchange of tranquillity for grandeur. Even the dignity of your character, in the eyes of the world, recovers its lustre, while men see the just price you set upon your liberty; and that, however the passions of youth may have seduced you, you will not now sacrifice all your time, where you are not deemed worthy of every honour.
And why should you think with reluctance on a private life at Paris? It is the situation for which I thought you best fitted, ever since I had the happiness of your acquaintance. The inexpressible and delicate graces of your character and conversation, like the soft notes of a lute, are lost amid the tumult of company, in which I commonly saw you engaged. A more select society would know to set a juster value upon your merit. Men of sense, and taste, and letters, would accustom themselves to frequent your house. Every elegant society would court your company. And though all great alterations in the habits of living may, at first, appear disagreeable, the mind is soon reconciled to its new situation, especially if more congenial and natural to it. I should not dare to mention my own resolutions on this occasion, if I did not flatter myself that your friendship gives them some small importance in your eyes. Being a foreigner, I dare less answer for my plans of life, which may lead me far from this country; but if I could dispose of my fate, nothing could be so much my choice as to live where I might cultivate your friendship. Your taste for travelling might also afford you a plausible pretence for putting this plan in execution: a journey to Italy would loosen your connexions here; and, if it were delayed some time, I could, with some probability, expect to have the felicity of attending you thither.[251:1]
Hume had the happiness of Madame de Boufflers sincerely at heart; and we find him, on 24th June, 1765, thus writing to his brother:—
"I had great hopes, all the winter, of seeing the Countess in a station suitable to her merit, and of paying my respects to her as part of the royal family. Several accidents have disappointed us; and the various turns of this affair have more agitated me than almost any event in which I was ever engaged."
The following correspondence exhibits a feature in Hume's character, which to many readers will be new, and perhaps unpleasing. It shows that he was by no means exempt from the passion of anger, and that when under its influence he was liable to be harsh and unreasonable. The general notion formed of his character is, that he passed through life unmoved and immovable, a placid mass of breathing flesh, on which the ordinary impulses which rouse the human passions into life might expend themselves in vain. We have seen that very early in life he had undertaken the task of bringing his passions and propensities under the yoke, and directing all his physical and mental energies to the accomplishment of his early and never fading vision of literary renown. From many indications which petty incidents in his life afford, it would appear that the ardour of his nature, if thus regulated, was not eradicated; and one cannot, in a general survey of his course and character, reject the conclusion, that his early resolution not to enter the lists as a controversial writer, mentioned in the following letter, was suggested by a profound self-knowledge, and a consciousness of his inability to preserve his temper as a controversialist.
The person against whom all the wrath of the following letter is directed, is the respectable author of the "Historical and Critical Inquiry into the Evidence produced by the Earls Murray and Morton against Mary Queen of Scots." That, assailed as he often was by attacks so much more vehement and unscrupulous, Hume should have taken so deep umbrage at this piece of free historical criticism, is a problem not easily to be explained. It is not a little remarkable that the bitterest remark on any contemporary contained in his published works, is a note to his History, in which he has abbreviated the purport of the letter.[252:1]