Chapter III: Part IV (3)

The impression of this look remained with me, and gave me
much uneasiness. My trouble increased even to a degree of
fainting; and if I had not been relieved by an effusion
of tears, I had been suffocated. Presently after this I
was seized with the most violent remorse; I even despised
myself; till at length, in a transport which I still
remember with delight, I sprang on his neck, embraced him
eagerly; while almost choked with sobbing, and bathed in
tears, I cried out, in broken accents, _No, no, David
Hume cannot be treacherous. If he be not the best of men,
he must be the basest of mankind_. David Hume politely
returned my embraces, and, gently, tapping me on the back,
repeated several times, in a good-natured and easy tone,
_Why, what, my dear Sir! Nay, my dear Sir! Oh, my dear
Sir!_ He said nothing more. I felt my heart yearn within
me. We went to bed; and I set out the next day for the
country.

Arrived at this agreeable asylum, to which I have travelled
so far in search of repose, I ought to find it in a
retired, convenient, and pleasant habitation; the master
of which, a man of understanding and worth, spares for
nothing to render it agreeable to me. But what repose can
be tasted in life, when the heart is agitated? Afflicted
with the most cruel uncertainty, and ignorant what to think
of a man whom I ought to love and esteem, I endeavoured to
get rid of that fatal doubt, in placing confidence in my
benefactor. For, wherefore, from what unaccountable caprice
should he display so much apparent zeal for my happiness,
and at the same time entertain secret designs against my
honour. Among the several observations that disturbed me,
each fact was in itself of no great moment; it was their
concurrence that was surprising; yet I thought, perhaps,
that Mr Hume, informed of other facts, of which I was
ignorant, could have given me a satisfactory solution of
them, had we come to an explanation. The only thing that
was inexplicable, was, that he refused to come to such
an explanation; which both his honour and his friendship
rendered equally necessary. I saw very well there was
something in the affair which I did not comprehend, and
which I earnestly wished to know. Before I came to an
absolute determination, therefore, with regard to him,
I was desirous of making another effort, and to try to
recover him, if he had permitted himself to be seduced by
my enemies, or, in short, to prevail on him to explain
himself one way or other. Accordingly I wrote him a letter,
which he ought to have found very natural,[20] if he were
guilty; but very extraordinary, if he were innocent.
For what could be more extraordinary than a letter full
of gratitude for his services, and at the same time, of
distrust of his sentiments; and in which, placing in a
manner his actions on one side, and his sentiments on the
other, instead of speaking of the proofs of friendship
he had given me, I desired him to love me, for the good
he had done me![21] I did not take the precaution to
preserve a copy of this letter; but as he hath done it,
let him produce it: and whoever shall read it, and see
therein a man labouring under a secret trouble, which he is
desirous of expressing, and is afraid to do it, will, I am
persuaded, be curious to know what kind of éclaircissement
it produced, especially after the preceding scene. None.
Absolutely none at all. Mr Hume contented himself, in his
answer, with only speaking of the obliging offices Mr
Davenport proposed to do for me. As for the rest, he said
not a word of the principal subject of my letter, nor of
the situation of my heart, of whose distress he could not
be ignorant. I was more struck with this silence, than I
had been with his phlegm during our last conversation. In
this I was wrong; this silence was very natural after the
other, and was no more than I ought to have expected. For
when one hath ventured to declare to a man's face, _I am
tempted to believe you a traitor_, and he hath not the
curiosity to ask you _for what_,[22] it may be depended
on he will never have any such curiosity as long as he
lives; and it is easy to judge of him from these slight
indications.

After the receipt of his letter, which was long delayed, I
determined at length to write to him no more. Soon after,
every thing served to confirm me in the resolution to
break off all farther correspondence with him. Curious to
the last degree concerning the minutest circumstance of
my affairs, he was not content to learn them of me, in
our frequent conversations; but, as I learned, never let
slip an opportunity of being alone with my governante,[23]
to interrogate her even importunately concerning my
occupations, my resources, my friends, acquaintances, their
names, situations, place of abode, and all this after
setting out with telling her he was well acquainted with
the whole of my connections; nay, with the most jesuitical
address, he would ask the same questions of us separately.
One ought undoubtedly to interest one's self in the affairs
of a friend; but one ought to be satisfied with what he
thinks proper to let us know of them, particularly when
people are so frank and ingenuous as I am. Indeed all this
petty inquisitiveness is very little becoming a philosopher.

About the same time I received two other letters which had
been opened. The one from Mr Boswell, the seal of which
was so loose and disfigured, that Mr Davenport, when he
received it, remarked the same to Mr Hume's servant. The
other was from Mr d'Ivernois, in Mr Hume's packet, and
which had been sealed up again by means of a hot iron,
which, awkwardly applied, had burnt the paper round the
impression. On this I wrote to Mr Davenport to desire him
to take charge of all the letters which might be sent for
me, and to trust none of them in any body's hands, under
any pretext whatever. I know not whether Mr Davenport, who
certainly was far from thinking that precaution was to be
observed with regard to Mr Hume, showed him my letter or
not; but this I know, that the latter had all the reason
in the world to think he had forfeited my confidence, and
that he proceeded nevertheless in his usual manner, without
troubling himself about the recovery of it.

But what was to become of me, when I saw, in the public
papers, the pretended letter of the King of Prussia which
I had never before seen, that fictitious letter, printed
in French and English, given for genuine, even with the
signature of the King, and in which I knew the pen of Mr
d'Alembert as certainly as if I had seen him write it?[24]

In a moment a ray of light discovered to me the secret
cause of that touching and sudden change, which I had
observed in the public respecting me; and I saw the plot
which was put in execution at London, had been laid in
Paris.

Mr d'Alembert, another intimate friend of Mr Hume's, had
been long since my secret enemy, and lay in watch for
opportunities to injure me without exposing himself. He
was the only person, among the men of letters, of my old
acquaintance, who did not come to see me,[25] or send their
civilities during my last passage through Paris. I knew his
secret disposition, but I gave myself very little trouble
about it, contenting myself with advising my friends of it
occasionally. I remember that being asked about him one day
by Mr Hume, who afterwards asked my governante the same
question, I told him that Mr d'Alembert was a cunning,
artful man. He contradicted me with a warmth that surprised
me; not then knowing they stood so well with each other,
and that it was his own cause he defended.

The perusal of the letter above mentioned alarmed me a
good deal, when, perceiving that I had been brought over
to England in consequence of a project which began to be
put in execution, but of the end of which I was ignorant,
I felt the danger without knowing what to guard against,
or on whom to rely. I then recollected four terrifying
words Mr Hume had made use of, and of which I shall speak
hereafter. What could be thought of a paper in which my
misfortunes were imputed to me as a crime, which tended, in
the midst of my distress, to deprive me of all compassion,
and, to render its effects still more cruel, pretended
to have been written by a Prince who had afforded me
protection? What could I divine would be the consequence
of such a beginning? The people in England read the public
papers, and are in no wise prepossessed in favour of
foreigners. Even a coat, cut in a different fashion from
their own, is sufficient to excite a prejudice against
them. What then had not a poor stranger to expect in his
rural walks, the only pleasures of his life, when the good
people in the neighbourhood were once thoroughly persuaded
he was fond of being persecuted and pelted? Doubtless
they would be ready enough to contribute to his favourite
amusement. But my concern, my profound and cruel concern,
the bitterest indeed I ever felt, did not arise from the
danger to which I was personally exposed. I have braved
too many others to be much moved with that. The treachery
of a false friend,[26] to which I had fallen a prey, was
the circumstance that filled my too susceptible heart with
deadly sorrow. In the impetuosity of its first emotions, of
which I never yet was master, and of which my enemies have
artfully taken the advantage, I wrote several letters full
of disorder, in which I did not disguise either my anxiety
or indignation.

I have, Sir, so many things to mention, that I forget half
of them by the way. For instance, a certain narrative
in form of a letter, concerning my manner of living at
Montmorency, was given by the booksellers to Mr Hume, who
showed it me. I agreed to its being printed, and Mr Hume
undertook the care of its edition; but it never appeared.
Again, I had brought over with me a copy of the letters
of Mr du Peyron, containing a relation of the treatment I
had met with at Neufchâtel. I gave them into the hands of
the same bookseller to have them translated and reprinted.
Mr Hume charged himself with the care of them; but they
never appeared.[27] The supposititious letter of the King
of Prussia, and its translation, had no sooner made their
appearance, than I immediately apprehended why the other
pieces had been suppressed,[28] and I wrote as much to
the booksellers.[29] I wrote several other letters also,
which probably were handed about London; till at length
I employed the credit of a man of quality and merit, to
insert a declaration of the imposture in the public papers.
In this declaration, I concealed no part of my extreme
concern, nor did I in the least disguise the cause.

Hitherto Mr Hume seems to have walked in darkness. You will
soon see him appear in open day, and act without disguise.
Nothing more is necessary, in our behaviour towards cunning
people, than to act ingenuously; sooner or later they will
infallibly betray themselves.

When this pretended letter from the Ring of Prussia was
first published in London, Mr Hume, who certainly knew that
it was fictitious, as I had told him so, yet said nothing
of the matter, did not write to me, but was totally silent;
and did not even think of making any declaration of the
truth, in favour of his absent friend.[30] It answered his
purpose better to let the report take its course, as he did.

Mr Hume having been my conductor into England, he was of
course in a manner my patron and protector. If it were but
natural in him to undertake my defence, it was no less
so that, when I had a public protestation to make, I
should have addressed myself to him. Having already ceased
writing to him,[31] however, I had no mind to renew our
correspondence. I addressed myself therefore to another
person. The first slap on the face I gave my patron. He
felt nothing of it.

In saying the letter was fabricated at Paris, it was of
very little consequence to me whether it was understood
particularly of Mr d'Alembert, or of Mr Walpole, whose
name he borrowed on the occasion. But in adding that, what
afflicted and tore my heart was, the impostor had got his
accomplices in England; I expressed myself very clearly
to their friend, who was in London, and was desirous of
passing for mine. For certainly he was the only person in
England, whose hatred could afflict and rend my heart. This
was the second slap of the face I gave my patron. He did
not feel, however, yet.

On the contrary, he maliciously pretended that my
affliction arose solely from the publication of the
above letter, in order to make me pass for a man who was
excessively affected by satire. Whether I am vain or not,
certain it is I was mortally afflicted; he knew it, and
yet wrote me not a word. This affectionate friend, who had
so much at heart the filling of my purse, gave himself no
trouble to think my heart was bleeding with sorrow.

Another piece appeared soon after, in the same papers,
by the author of the former, and still if possible more
cruel, in which the writer could not disguise his rage
at the reception I met with at Paris.[32] This however
did not affect me; it told me nothing new. Mere libels
may take their course without giving me any emotion;
and the inconstant public may amuse themselves as long
as they please with the subject. It is not an affair of
conspirators, who, bent on the destruction of my honest
fame, are determined by some means or other to effect it.
It was necessary to change the battery.

The affair of the pension was not determined. It was
not difficult, however, for Mr Hume to obtain, from the
humanity of the minister, and the generosity of the King,
the favour of its determination. He was required to inform
me of it, which he did. This, I must confess, was one of
the critical moments of my life. How much did it cost me
to do my duty! My preceding engagements, the necessity
of showing a due respect for the goodness of the King,
and for that of his minister, together with the desire of
displaying how far I was sensible of both; add to these the
advantage of being made a little more easy in circumstances
in the decline of life, surrounded as I was by enemies
and evils; in fine, the embarrassment I was under to find
a decent excuse for not accepting a benefit already half
accepted; all these together made the necessity of that
refusal very difficult and cruel: for necessary it was, or
I should have been one of the meanest and basest of mankind
to have voluntarily laid myself under an obligation to a
man who had betrayed me.

I did my duty, though not without reluctance. I wrote
immediately to General Conway, and in the most civil and
respectful manner possible, without giving an absolute
refusal, excusing myself from accepting the pension for the
present.

Now, Mr Hume had been the only negociator of this affair,
nay the only person who had spoke of it. Yet I not only
did not give him any answer, though it was he who wrote to
me on the subject, but did not even so much as mention him
in my letter to General Conway. This was the third slap of
the face I gave my patron, which if he does not feel, it is
certainly his own fault, he can feel nothing.

My letter was not clear, nor could it be so to General
Conway, who did not know the motives of my refusal; but
it was very plain to Mr Hume, who knew them but too well.
He pretended nevertheless to be deceived as well with
regard to the cause of my discontent, as to that of my
declining the pension; and, in a letter he wrote me on the
occasion, gave me to understand that the King's goodness
might be continued towards me, if I should reconsider the
affair of the pension. In a word, he seemed determined,
at all events, to remain still my patron, in spite of my
teeth. You will imagine, Sir, he did not expect my answer;
and he had none. Much about this time, for I do not know
exactly the date, nor is such precision necessary, appeared
a letter, from Mr de Voltaire to me, with an English
translation, which still improved on the original. The
noble object of this ingenious performance, was to draw
on me the hatred and contempt of the people, among whom
I was come to reside. I made not the least doubt that my
dear patron was one of the instruments of its publication;
particularly when I saw that the writer, in endeavouring
to alienate from me those who might render my life
agreeable, had omitted the name of him who brought me over.
He doubtless knew that it was superfluous, and that with
regard to him, nothing more was necessary to be said. The
omission of his name, so impoliticly forgot in this letter,
recalled to my mind what Tacitus says of the picture of
Brutus, omitted in a funeral solemnity, viz. that every
body took notice of it, particularly because it was not
there.

Mr Hume was not mentioned; but he lives and converses
with people that are mentioned. It is well known his
friends are all my enemies; there are abroad such people
as Tronchin, d'Alembert, and Voltaire;[33] but it is much
worse in London; for here I have no enemies but what are
his friends. For why, indeed, should I have any other?
Why should I have even them?[34] What have I done to Lord
Littleton,[35] whom I don't even know? What have I done to
Mr Walpole, whom I know full as little? What do they know
of me, except that I am unhappy, and a friend to their
friend Hume? What can he have said to them, for it is only
through him they know any thing of me? I can very well
imagine, that, considering the part he has to play, he does
not unmask himself to every body; for then he would be
disguised to nobody. I can very well imagine that he does
not speak of me to General Conway and the Duke of Richmond
as he does in his private conversations with Mr Walpole,
and his secret correspondence with Mr d'Alembert. But let
any one discover the clue that hath been unravelled since
my arrival in London, and it will easily be seen whether Mr
Hume does not hold the principal thread.

At length the moment arrived in which it was thought proper
to strike the great blow, the effect of which was prepared
for by a fresh satirical piece put in the papers.[36] Had
there remained in me the least doubt, it would have been
impossible to have harboured it after perusing this piece,
as it contained facts unknown to any body but Mr Hume;
exaggerated, it is true, in order to render them odious to
the public.

It is said in this paper that my door was opened to the
rich, and shut to the poor. Pray, who knows when my door
was open or shut, except Mr Hume, with whom I lived, and by
whom every body was introduced that I saw? I will except
one great personage, whom I gladly received without knowing
him, and whom I should still have more gladly received if
I had known him. It was Mr Hume who told me his name when
he was gone; on which information, I was really chagrined,
that, as he deigned to mount up two pair of stairs, he was
not received in the first floor. As to the poor, I have
nothing to say about the matter. I was constantly desirous
of seeing less company; but as I was unwilling to displease
any one, I suffered myself to be directed in this affair
altogether by Mr Hume, and endeavoured to receive every
body he introduced as well as I could, without distinction,
whether rich or poor. It is said in the same piece that I
received my relations very coldly, _not to say any thing
worse_. This general charge relates to my having once
received, with some indifference, the only relation I have,
out of Geneva, and that in the presence of Mr Hume.[37] It
must necessarily be either Mr Hume or this relation who
furnished that piece of intelligence. Now, my cousin, whom
I have always known for a friendly relation and a worthy
man, is incapable of furnishing materials for public
satires against me. Add to this, that his situation in life
confining him to the conversation of persons in trade, he
has no connection with men of letters or paragraph writers,
and still less with satirists and libellers; so that the
article could not come from him. At the worst, can I help
imagining that Mr Hume must have endeavoured to take
advantage of what he said, and construed it in favour of
his own purpose? It is not improper to add, that, after my
rupture with Mr Hume, I wrote an account of it to my cousin.

In fine, it is said in the same paper that I am apt to
change my friends. No great subtlety is necessary to
comprehend what this reflection is preparative to.

But let us distinguish facts. I have preserved some very
valuable and solid friends for twenty-five to thirty years.
I have others whose friendship is of a later date, but no
less valuable, and which, if I live, I may preserve still
longer. I have not found, indeed, the same security in
general among those friendships I have made with men of
letters. I have for this reason sometimes changed them, and
shall always change them when they appear suspicious; for I
am determined never to have friends by way of ceremony; I
have them only with a view to show them my affection.

If ever I was fully and clearly convinced of any thing, I
am so convinced that Mr Hume furnished the materials for
the above paper.

But what is still more, I have not only that absolute
conviction, but it is very clear to me that Mr Hume
intended I should: For how can it be supposed that a man of
his subtlety should be so imprudent as to expose himself
thus, if he had not intended it? What was his design in
it? Nothing is more clear than this. It was to raise my
resentment to the highest pitch, that he might strike the
blow he was preparing to give me with greater eclat. He
knew he had nothing more to do than put me in a passion,
and I should be guilty of a number of absurdities. We are
now arrived at the critical moment which is to show whether
he reasoned well or ill.

It is necessary to have all the presence of mind, all
the phlegm and resolution of Mr Hume, to be able to
take the part he hath taken, after all that has passed
between us. In the embarrassment I was under in writing
to General Conway, I could make use only of obscure
expressions, to which Mr Hume, in quality of my friend,
gave what interpretation he pleased. Supposing, therefore,
for he knew very well to the contrary, that it was the
circumstance of secrecy which gave me uneasiness, he
obtained the promise of the General to endeavour to remove
it; but before any thing was done, it was previously
necessary to know whether I would accept of the pension
without that condition, in order not to expose his Majesty
to a second refusal.

This was the decisive moment, the end and object of all
his labours. An answer was required: he would have it. To
prevent effectually indeed my neglect of it, he sent to Mr
Davenport a duplicate of his letter to me; and, not content
with this precaution, wrote me word, in another billet,
that he could not possibly stay any longer in London to
serve me. I was giddy with amazement on reading this note.
Never in my life did I meet with any thing so unaccountable.

At length he obtained from me the so much desired answer,
and began presently to triumph. In writing to Mr Davenport,
he treated me as a monster of brutality and ingratitude.
But he wanted to do still more. He thinks his measures
well taken; no proof can be made to appear against him. He
demands an explanation: he shall have it, and here it is.

That last stroke was a masterpiece. He himself proves every
thing, and that beyond reply.

I will suppose, though by way of impossibility, that my
complaints against Mr Hume never reached his ears; that he
knew nothing of them; but was as perfectly ignorant as if
he had held no cabal with those who are acquainted with
them, but had resided all the while in China.[38] Yet the
behaviour passing directly between us; the last striking
words which I said to him in London; the letter which
followed replete with fears and anxiety; my persevering
silence still more expressive than words; my public
and bitter complaints with regard to the letter of Mr
d'Alembert; my letter to the Secretary of State, who did
not write to me, in answer to that which Mr Hume wrote to
me himself, and in which I did not mention him; and in fine
my refusal, without deigning to address myself to him, to
acquiesce in an affair which he had managed in my favour,
with my own privity, and without any opposition on my part;
all this must have spoken in a very forcible manner, I will
not say to any person of the least sensibility, but to
every man of common sense.

Strange that, after I had ceased to correspond with him for
three months, when I had made no answer to any one of his
letters, however important the subject of it, surrounded
with both public and private marks of that affliction
which his infidelity gave me; a man of so enlightened an
understanding, of so penetrating a genius by nature, and
so dull by design, should see nothing, hear nothing, feel
nothing, be moved at nothing; but, without one word of
complaint, justification, or explanation, continue to give
me the most pressing marks of his good will to serve me,
in spite of myself? He wrote to me affectionately, that he
could not stay any longer in London to do me service, as if
we had agreed that he should stay there for that purpose!
This blindness, this insensibility, this perseverance, are
not in nature; they must be accounted for, therefore, from
other motives. Let us set this behaviour in a still clearer
light; for this is the decisive point.

Mr Hume must necessarily have acted in this affair, either
as one of the first or last of mankind. There is no medium.
It remains to determine which of the two it hath been.

Could Mr Hume, after so many instances of disdain on my
part, have still the astonishing generosity as to persevere
sincerely to serve me? He knew it was impossible for me to
accept his good offices, so long as I entertained for him
such sentiments as I had conceived. He had himself avoided
an explanation. So that to serve me without justifying
himself, would have been to render his services useless;
this therefore was no generosity. If he supposed that in
such circumstances I should have accepted his services, he
must have supposed me to have been an infamous scoundrel.
It was then in behalf of a man whom he supposed to be a
scoundrel, that he so warmly solicited a pension from his
Majesty. Can any thing be supposed more extravagant?

But let it be supposed that Mr Hume, constantly pursuing
his plan, should only have said to himself, This is the
moment for its execution; for, by pressing Rousseau to
accept the pension, he will be reduced either to accept or
refuse it. If he accepts it, with the proofs I have in hand
against him, I shall be able completely to disgrace him:
if he refuses, after having accepted it, he will have no
pretext, but must give a reason for such refusal. This is
what I expect; if he accuses me, he is ruined.

If, I say, Mr Hume reasoned with himself in this manner,
he did what was consistent with his plan, and in that
case very natural; indeed this is the only way in which
his conduct in this affair can be explained, for upon
any other supposition it is inexplicable: if this be not
demonstrable, nothing ever was so. The critical situation
to which he had now reduced me, re-recalled strongly to my
mind the four words I mentioned above; and which I heard
him say and repeat, at a time when I did not comprehend
their full force. It was the first night after our
departure from Paris. We slept in the same chamber, when,
during the night, I heard him several times cry out with
great vehemence, in the French language, _Je tiens J. J.
Rousseau._ 'I have you, Rousseau.' I know not whether he
was awake or asleep.[39]

The expression was remarkable, coming from a man who is too
well acquainted with the French language, to be mistaken
with regard to the force or choice of words. I took these
words, however, and I could not then take them otherwise
than in a favourable sense: notwithstanding the tone of
voice in which they were spoken, was still less favourable
than the expression. It is indeed impossible for me to
give any idea of it; but it corresponds exactly with those
terrible looks I have before mentioned. At every repetition
of them I was seized with a shuddering, a kind of horror I
could not resist, though a moment's recollection restored
me, and made me smile at my terror. The next day all this
was so perfectly obliterated, that I did not even think of
it during my stay in London, and its neighbourhood. It was
not till my arrival in this place, that so many things have
contributed to recall these words to my mind; and indeed
recall them every moment.

These words, the tone of which dwells on my heart, as if
I had but just heard them; those long and fatal looks so
frequently cast on me; the patting me on the back, with the
repetition of _O, my dear Sir_, in answer to my suspicions
of his being a traitor: all this affects me to such a
degree, after what preceded, that this recollection, had I
no other, would be sufficient to prevent any reconciliation
or return of confidence between us; not a night indeed
passes over my head, but I think I hear, _Rousseau, I have
you_, ring in my ears as if he had just pronounced them.

Yes, Mr Hume, I know you _have me_; but that only by
mere externals: you have me in the public opinion and
judgment of mankind. You have my reputation, and perhaps my
security, to do with as you will. The general prepossession
is in your favour; it will be very easy for you to make me
pass for the monster you have begun to represent me; and
I already see the barbarous exultation of my implacable
enemies. The public will no longer spare me. Without any
farther examination, every body is on the side of those who
have conferred favours; because each is desirous to attract
the same good offices, by displaying a sensibility of the
obligation. I foresee readily the consequences of all this,
particularly in the country to which you have conducted me;
and where, being without friends, and an utter stranger
to every body, I lie almost entirely at your mercy. The
sensible part of mankind, however, will comprehend that I
must be so far from seeking this affair, that nothing more
disagreeable or terrible could possibly have happened to me
in my present situation. They will perceive that nothing
but my invincible aversion to all kind of falsehood, and
the possibility of my professing a regard for a person who
had forfeited it, could have prevented my dissimulation,
at a time when it was on so many accounts my interest. But
the sensible part of mankind are few, nor do they make the
greatest noise in the world.

Yes, Mr Hume, you _have me_ by all the ties of this life;
but you have no power over my probity or my fortitude,
which, being independent either of you or of mankind, I
will preserve in spite of you. Think not to frighten me
with the fortune that awaits me. I know the opinions of
mankind; I am accustomed to their injustice, and have
learned to care little about it. If you have taken your
resolution, as I have reason to believe you have, be
assured mine is taken also. I am feeble indeed in body, but
never possessed greater strength of mind.

Mankind may say and do what they will, it is of little
consequence to me. What is of consequence, however, is,
that I should end as I have begun; that I should continue
to preserve my ingenuousness and integrity to the end,
whatever may happen; and that I should have no cause to
reproach myself either with meanness in adversity, or
insolence in prosperity. Whatever disgrace attends, or
misfortune threatens me, I am ready to meet them. Though I
am to be pitied, I am much less so than you, and all the
revenge I shall take on you is, to leave you the tormenting
consciousness of being obliged, in spite of yourself,
to have a respect for the unfortunate person you have
oppressed.

In closing this letter, I am surprised at my having been
able to write it. If it were possible to die with grief,
every line was sufficient to kill me with sorrow. Every
circumstance of the affair is equally incomprehensible.
Such conduct as yours hath been, is not in nature: it is
contradictory to itself, and yet it is demonstrable to me
that it has been such as I conceive. On each side of me
there is a bottomless abyss! and I am lost in one or the
other.

If you are guilty, I am the most unfortunate of mankind;
if you are innocent, I am the most culpable.[40] You even
make me desire to be that contemptible object. Yes, the
situation to which you see me reduced, prostrate at your
feet, crying out for mercy, and doing every thing to obtain
it; publishing aloud my own unworthiness, and paying the
most explicit homage to your virtues, would be a state of
joy and cordial effusion, after the grievous state of
restraint and mortification into which you have plunged me.
I have but a word more to say. If you are guilty, write
to me no more; it would be superfluous, for certainly
you could not deceive me. If you are innocent, justify
yourself. I know my duty; I love, and shall always love
it, however difficult and severe. There is no state of
abjection that a heart, not formed for it, may not recover
from. Once again, I say, if you are innocent, deign to
justify yourself; if you are not, adieu for ever.

J. J. R.

[5] The fact was this. My friend, Mr Ramsay, a painter of eminence, and a man of merit, proposed to draw Mr Rousseau's picture; and when he had begun it, told me he intended to make me a present of it. Thus the design of having Mr Rousseau's picture drawn did not come from me, nor did it cost me any thing. Mr Rousseau, therefore, is equally contemptible in paying me a compliment for this pretended gallantry, in his letter of the 29th March, and in converting it into ridicule here.--Mr HUME.

[6] Mr Rousseau forms a wrong judgment of me, and ought to know me better. I have written to Mr Davenport, even since our rupture, to engage him to continue his kindness to his unhappy guest.--Mr HUME.

[7] How strange are the effects of a disordered imagination! Mr Rousseau tells us he is ignorant of what passes in the world, and yet talks of the enemies he has in England. How does he know this? Where did he see them? He hath received nothing but marks of beneficence and hospitality. Mr Walpole is the only person who hath thrown out a little piece of raillery against him; but is not therefore his enemy. If Mr Rousseau could have seen things exactly as they are, he would have seen that he had no other friend in England but me, and no other enemy but himself.--Mr HUME.

[8] That a general outcry should prevail against Mr Rousseau's persecutors in England, is no wonder. Such an outcry would have prevailed from sentiments of humanity, had he been a person of much less note; so that this is no proof of his being esteemed. And as to the encomiums on him inserted in the public newspapers, the value of such kind of puffs is well known in England. I have already observed, that the authors of more respectable works were at no loss what to think of Mr Rousseau, but had formed a proper judgment of him long before his arrival in England. The genius which displayed itself in his writings did by no means blind the eyes of the more sensible part of mankind to the absurdity and inconsistency of his opinions and conduct. In exclaiming against Mr Rousseau's fanatical persecutors, they did not think him the more possessed of the true spirit of martyrdom. The general opinion indeed was, that he had too much philosophy to be very devout, and had too much devotion to have much philosophy.--_English Translator_.

[9] Mr Rousseau knows very little of the public judgment in England, if he thinks it is to be influenced by any story told in a certain Magazine. But, as I have before said, it was not from this time that Mr Rousseau was slightingly spoke of, but long before, and that in a more consequential manner. Perhaps, indeed, Mr Rousseau ought in justice to impute great part of those civilities he met with on his arrival, rather to vanity and curiosity than to respect and esteem.--_English Translator_.

[10] So then I find I am to answer for every article of every Magazine and newspaper printed in England. I assure Mr Rousseau I would rather answer for every robbery committed on the highway; and I am entirely as innocent of the one as the other.--Mr HUME.

[11] This relates to my friend Mr John Stewart, who entertained Mr Rousseau at his house, and did him all the good offices in his power. Mr Rousseau, in complaining of this gentleman's behaviour, forgets that he wrote Mr Stewart a letter from Wooton, full of acknowledgments, and just expressions of gratitude. What Mr Rousseau adds, regarding the brother of Mr Stewart, is neither civil nor true--Mr HUME.

[12] I shall mention only one, that made me smile; this was, his attention to have, every time I came to see him, a volume of _Eloisa_ upon his table; as if I did not know enough of Mr Hume's taste for reading, as to be well assured, that of all books in the world, Eloisa must be one of the most tiresome to him.--Mr ROUSSEAU.

[13] The reader may judge from the two first letters of Mr Rousseau, which I published with that view, on which side the flatteries commenced. As for the rest, I loved and esteemed Mr Rousseau, and took a pleasure in giving him to understand so. I might perhaps be too lavish in my praises; but I can assure the reader he never once complained of it.--Mr HUME.

[14] I don't recollect a single circumstance of this history; but what makes me give very little credit to it, is, that I remember very well we had settled two different days for the purposes mentioned, that is, one to go to the Museum, and another to the play.--Mr HUME.

[15] I conceive Mr Rousseau hints here at two or three dinners, that were sent him from the house of Mr Stewart, when he chose to dine at his own lodgings; this was not done, however, to save him the expense of a meal, but because there was no convenient tavern or chop-house in the neighbourhood. I beg the reader's pardon for descending to such trivial particulars.--Mr HUME.

[16] We have not been authorized to suppress this affronting term; but it is too gross and groundless to do any injury to the celebrated and respectable physician to whose name it is annexed.--_French Editors_.

[17] Thus am I accused of treachery, because I am a friend of Mr Walpole, who hath thrown out a little raillery on Mr Rousseau, and because the son of a man whom Mr Rousseau does not like lodges by accident in the same house; because my landladies, who do not understand a syllable of French, received Mr Rousseau coldly. As to the rest, all that I said to Mr Rousseau about the young Tronchin was, that he had not the same prejudices against him as his father.--Mr HUME.

[18] The story of Mr Rousseau's letters is as follows. He had often been complaining to me, and with reason, that he was ruined by postage at Neufchâtel, which commonly cost him about 25 or 26 louis d'ors a year, and all for letters which were of no significance, being wrote, some of them by people who took that opportunity of abusing him, and most of them by persons unknown to him. He was therefore resolved, he said, in England to receive no letters which came by the post; and the same resolution he reiterates in his letter to me dated the 22d of March. When he went to Chiswick, near London, the postman brought his letters to me. I carried him out a cargo of them. He exclaimed, desired me to return the letters, and recover the price of postage. I told him, that, in that case, the clerks of the Post Office were entire masters of his letters. He said he was indifferent: they might do with them what they pleased. I added, that he would by that means be cut off from all correspondence with all his friends. He replied, that he would give a particular direction to such as he desired to correspond with. But till his instructions for that purpose could arrive, what could I do more friendly than to save, at my own expense, his letters from the curiosity and indiscretion of the clerks of the Post Office? I am indeed ashamed to find myself obliged to discover such petty circumstances.---Mr HUME.

[19] It is necessary to explain this circumstance. I had been writing on Mr Hume's table, during his absence, an answer to a letter I had just received. He came in, very anxious to know what I had been writing, and hardly able to contain himself from desiring to read it. I closed my letter, however, without showing it him; when, as I was putting it into my pocket, he asked me for it eagerly, saying he would send it away on the morrow, being post-day. The letter lay on the table. Lord Newnham came in. Mr Hume went out of the room for a moment, on which I took the letter up again, saying I should find time to send it the next day. Lord Newnham offered to get it inclosed in the French ambassador's packet, which I accepted. Mr Hume re-entered the moment his Lordship had inclosed it, and was pulling out his seal. Mr Hume officiously offered his own seal, and that with so much earnestness, that it could not well be refused. The bell was rung, and Lord Newnham gave the letter to Mr Hume's servant, to give it to his own, who waited below with the chariot, in order to have it sent to the ambassador. Mr Hume's servant was hardly got out of the room, but I said to myself, I'll lay a wager the master follows. He did not fail to do as I expected. Not knowing how to leave Lord Newnham alone, I staid some time before I followed Mr Hume. I said nothing; but he must perceive that I was uneasy. Thus, although I have received no answer to my letter, I doubt not of its going to hand; but I confess, I cannot help suspecting it was read first.--Mr ROUSSEAU.

[20] It appears from what he wrote to me afterwards, that he was very well satisfied with this letter, and that he thought of it very well.--Mr ROUSSEAU.

[21] My answer to this is contained in Mr Rousseau's own letter of the 22d of March; wherein he expresses himself with the utmost cordiality, without any reserve, and without the least appearance of suspicion.--Mr HUME.

[22] All this hangs upon the fable he had so artfully worked up, as I before observed.--Mr HUME.

[23] I had only one such opportunity with his governante, which was on their arrival in London. I must own it never entered into my head to talk to her upon any other subject than the concerns of Mr Rousseau.--Mr HUME.

[24] See Mr d'Alembert's declaration on this head, annexed to this narrative.

[25] Mr Rousseau declares himself to have been fatigued with the visits he received; ought he therefore to complain that Mr d'Alembert, whom he did not like, did not importune him with his?--Mr HUME.

[26] This _false friend_ is, undoubtedly, myself. But what is the treachery? What harm have I done, or could I do to Mr Rousseau? On the supposition of my entering into a project to ruin him, how could I think to bring it about by the services I did him? If Mr Rousseau should gain credit, I must be thought still more weak than wicked.--Mr HUME.

[27] The booksellers have lately informed me that the edition is finished, and will shortly be published. This may be; but it is too late, and what is still worse, it is too opportune for the purpose intended to be served.--Mr ROUSSEAU.

[28] It is about four months since Mr Becket, the bookseller, told Mr Rousseau that the publication of these pieces was delayed on account of the indisposition of the translator. As for any thing else, I never promised to take any charge at all of the edition, as Mr Becket can testify.--Mr HUME.

[29] As to Mr Rousseau's suspicions of the cause of the _suppression_, as he calls it, of the Narrative and Letters above mentioned, the translator thinks it incumbent on him to affirm, that they were entirely groundless. It is true, as Mr Becket told Mr Hume, that the translator of the letters was indisposed about that time. But the principal cause of the delay was, that he was of his own mere motion, no less indisposed to those pieces making their appearance in English at all;(*) and this not out of ill will to Mr Rousseau, or good will to Mr Hume, neither of which he ever saw, or spoke to, in his life; but really out of regard to the character and reputation of a man, whose genius he admired, and whose works he had translated: well knowing the publication of such squabbles could do Mr Rousseau no good in the opinion of the more judicious and sensible part of mankind. With regard to the translation of the narrative of his manner of living at Montmorency, I never saw it till it was actually printed, when Mr Becket put it into my hands, and I frankly told him that I thought it a very unseasonable, puerile affair, and could by no means serve to advance Mr Rousseau's estimation in the eyes of the public. It was certainly of great importance to the good people of England, to know how Mr Rousseau amused himself seven or eight years ago at Montmorency, that he cooked his own broth, and did not leave it to the management of his nurse, for fear she should have a better dinner than himself! Yet this is one of the most remarkable circumstances contained in that narrative, except indeed that we are told, Mr Rousseau is a most passionate admirer of virtue, and that his eyes always sparkle at the bare mention of that word.--O Virtue! how greatly is thy name prostituted! And how fair, from the teeth outward, are thy nominal votaries!--_English Translator_.

(*) For, so far were the booksellers from intending to _suppress_ these pieces, that they actually reprinted the French edition of Peyrou's Letters, and published it in London.

[30] No body could possibly be mistaken with regard to the letter's being fictitious; besides it was well known that Mr Walpole was the author of it--Mr HUME.

[31] Mr Rousseau forgets himself here. It was but a week before that he wrote me a very friendly letter. See his letter of the 29th of March.--Mr HUME.

[32] I know nothing of this pretended libel.--Mr HUME.

[33] I have never been so happy as to meet with Mr de Voltaire; he only did me the honour to write me a letter about three years ago. As to Mr Tronchin, I never saw him in my life, nor ever had any correspondence with him. Of Mr d'Alembert's friendship, indeed, I am proud to make a boast.--Mr HUME.

[34] Why indeed? except that sensible people in England are averse to affectation and quackery. Those who see and despise these most in Mr Rousseau, are not, however, his _enemies_; perhaps, if he could be brought to think so, they are his best and truest friends.--_English Translator_.

[35] Mr Rousseau, seeing the letter addressed to him in the name of Voltaire advertised in the public papers, wrote to Mr Davenport, who was then in London, to desire he would bring it him. I told Mr Davenport that the printed copy was very faulty, but that I would ask of Lord Littleton a manuscript copy, which was correct. This is sufficient to make Mr Rousseau conclude that Lord Littleton is his mortal enemy, and my intimate friend; and that we are in a conspiracy against him. He ought rather to have concluded, that the printed copy could not come from me,--Mr HUME.

The piece above mentioned was shown to the _Translator_ before its publication, and many absurd liberties taken with the original pointed out and censured. At which time there did not appear, from the parties concerned in it, that Mr Hume could have the least hand in, or could have known any thing of the edition.--_English Translator_.

[36] I have never seen this piece, neither before nor after its publication; nor has it come to the knowledge of any body to whom I have spoken of it--Mr HUME.

The _translator_, who has been attentive to every thing that has come out from, or about Mr Rousseau, knows also nothing of this piece. Why did not Mr Rousseau mention particularly in what paper, and when it appeared?--_English Translator_.

[37] I was not present when Mr Rousseau received his cousin. I only just saw them afterwards together for about a minute on the terrace in Buckingham Street.--Mr HUME.

[38] How was it possible for me to guess at such chimerical suspicions? Mr Davenport, the only person of my acquaintance who then saw Mr Rousseau, assures me that he was perfectly ignorant of them himself.--Mr HUME.

[39] I cannot answer for every thing I may say in my sleep, and much less am I conscious whether or not I dream in French. But pray, as Mr Rousseau did not know whether I was asleep or awake when I pronounced those terrible words, with such a terrible voice, how is he certain that he himself was well awake when he heard them?--Mr HUME.

[40] And does it depend on an _if_, after all Mr R's positive conviction, and absolute demonstrations?--_English Translator_.

I hesitated some time whether I should make any reply to this strange memorial. At length I determined to write Mr Rousseau the following letter.

MR HUME TO MR ROUSSEAU.

_Lisle-street, Leicester-fields, July_ 22_d_, 1766.

SIR,