Frequent mention has been made of M. de Circourt's letters, the writing of which occupied a great part of his time. In a short memoir, or, rather, an appreciation, which Reeve contributed to the 'Edinburgh Review' of October 1881, he wrote: 'It was his pleasure and his desire to live and die comparatively unknown. With an insatiable curiosity and love of knowledge, with an extraordinary facility in mastering languages, and a universal love of literature; with a memory so precise and so inexhaustible that it retained without effort all he had acquired, he found in the mere exercise of these singular gifts a sufficient employment for a long and not inactive life…. He possessed and enjoyed the friendship of an extraordinary number of men of the highest distinction, not only in France, but in all lands. The correspondence he carried on with his friends in Germany, Italy, England, Switzerland, America, and Russia was inconceivably voluminous. To each of them he wrote in their own respective language, equally vehement and profuse in every tongue.'
The bulk of his letters to Reeve alone is truly formidable. But these, and presumably most others, were to a very great extent political or literary pamphlets, which, though not given to the press, were—there can be little doubt—intended to be circulated among a select public such as he delighted in addressing. Two of the latest of these, written very shortly before his death, are here given:—
From M. de Circourt
La Celle, October 27th.
My dear Reeve,—I don't know whether the article 'Germany since the Peace of Frankfort' has done in Great Britain so much noise as the 'Affghanistan,' which has been, over here, an event in the literary-politic world. But the first one is quite equal to the second, and gives career to endless (alas! useless, too!) reflections. It is a sombre picture, quite in the style of Rembrandt, with a chiaroscuro much akin to darkness. It can be objected that the lights are sacrificed to the shades. But, excepting the strong constitution of the Imperial army, and the perfection to which, according to competent judges, the preparations for an offensive and defensive war have been pushed, I cannot see anything, in the condition of finances, industry, husbandry, and, above all, public morals, which is not threatening, if not absolutely disheartening. No traveller comes back from Germany without a tale of woe. Savior armis Luxuria incubuit, victamque ulciscitur Galliam. And while the rancour and the thirst for vengeance are still, in France, what they were in 1871, the whole of power, riches, and fashion in Germany crowding to Paris, give it a sort of transient popularity, and suffers itself to be led by what is among us most frivolous, most immoral, and even less French, in the old and legitimate sense of that word. It is very curious to observe how the strangers flock to Paris in order to enjoy the spectacle of themselves, reckoning the French for nothing save the ministers of their pleasures, et improbi turba impia vici. If, in the midst of these brilliant saturnalia, the pares were to rise, and another Commune spring from the kennel to the day, how many of the lords of the Philistines would be buried under the ruins of the temple of Dagon? But to revert to Germany, or, rather, to her ruler.
Prince Bismarck, I apprehend, has lived too long. He begins to feel the fickleness of fortune. He has never had any friends; he begins to be burdensome to his associates. I don't know whether he could have managed a Parliament elected after the actual method on the Continent; I am certain that he did not, and never was able to, uphold a consistent and honourable system whatever. He is no financier, no economist; and as he does always act upon the interests of the present hour, without regard to past engagements, he can have with him but those who superstitiously deem him a prophet, or those who choose to servir à tout prix. He is rude, suspicious, and vindictive. The only great minister with whom he can be compared, Richelieu, was at least frank and open towards friend and foe. Bismarck has never negotiated with any man, nor charged any man with an important measure, without becoming their ruin, or changed them into implacable enemies—Savigny, Usedom, Arnim, Gortschakoff. The good genius of his country has protected Moltke against his insidious praises and bitter censures. It is easy to prove that, during the late war, all the good advice given to the King came from Moltke; all hurried, or lame, or improvident, or perfidiously cruel measures came from the Chancellor. Why did he leave half of the forts round Paris in the power, not of our army, but of the armed rabble, to which he left the possession of 1,500 field-pieces and 300,000 guns, while he disarmed the regulars to the last man? To his calculations we owe the Commune; posterity will hold him responsible for that incalculable calamity, which it was at every hour in his power to avert, or to crush instantly. Presently his tenure of office is very precarious. The Emperor is eighty-two, and has never liked Bismarck; he has given recently some signs that he feels galled by the chain. The Crown Prince may make use of him, and sacrify his personal feelings to the advantage not to upset suddenly the system of government; but, under Friedrich Wilhelm V., it is more than probable that Bismarck shall have to choose between retire or obey. Even in the present occurrence, considering that France is wholly taken up with her internal dissensions, which are not likely to become soon better, and that Russia has need of time for recruiting her exhausted resources, it was certainly not sound policy to blow the trumpet of a coalition which was, presently, dreamed of by nobody, and shall, in the future, result from the necessity of things.
The article upon the Code of Criminal Law is an excellent treatise of Criminalison; we, too, want a refonte of our criminal law. What is called civilisation has gorged our society with an infinity of malpractices unknown to our ruder but better fathers; and we suffer from the bane of modern civilisation, that idiot charity towards the refuse of mankind, coupled to a perfect indifference for the honest people they assail or bring to ruin. To that endemic disease of the mind no penal statute can afford a remedy. MacMahon was as weak as a school-girl on such occasions; Grévy is scarce better; at least he does not call weakness Christian charity.
'The Impressions of Theophrastus Such' are little intelligible to me, merely because I have read so few books of the authoress. Doudan [Footnote: Ximenes Doudan (1800-72) was in early life a tutor in the family of the Due de Broglie, and remained attached to him. His critical judgement and sparkling conversation made him a special feature of the Duchess's salon. He was well known in literary society, and was compared by Reeve (Ed. Rev., July 1878) with John Allen of Holland House. Like Allen, his reputation was based almost entirely on his conversation and encyclopaedic knowledge. After his death, his few essays and numerous letters were collected and edited by the Comte d'Haussonville, under the title of Mélanges et Lettres(4 tomn. 8vo. 1876).] wrote that he could never be quite unhappy while he had des romans anglais à lire; I confess that, when they are not first-rate, they seem to me to belong rather to the department of industry than to that of literature. The article upon the civil engineers of Britain is an admirable compilation of much that's useful to know and easy to understand; the magnificence of the tableau strikes the fancy and weighs upon the mind. But, after all, is humanity become grander, or better, or happier by so many performances of the inquisitive and constructive genius? That's the question. With trembling hope I'll answer Yes! Life is less dark, a little longer, and better provided against the material plagues of nature: but farther?
I am pent up with a severe cold, and losing the last day of a capricious autumn. Mme. d'Affry has promised me a visit.
What of the parliamentary strife between Disraeli and his rivals? At least, it is Diomedes cum Glauco, statesman pitched against statesman. But in our camp: non melius compositus cum Bitho Bacchius. Yours truly,