By the irony of fate a letter came from Mr. Jefferson announcing Jones's appointment as commissioner for treating with the Dey and government of Algiers. But it was too late, for before the letter arrived in Paris Paul Jones was dead. On July 11, 1792, a week before he died, he had attended a session of the French Assembly and had made a felicitous speech. He expressed his love for America, for France, and for the cause of liberty, and regretted his failing health as interfering with his activity in their service. He closed with the pathetic words:—
"But ill as I am, there is yet something left of the man—not the admiral, not the chevalier—but the plain, simple man whom it delights me to hear you call 'Paul Jones,' without any rank but that of fellowship, and without any title but that of comrade. So now I say to you that whatever is left of that man, be it never so faint or feeble, will be laid, if necessary, upon the altar of French Liberty as cheerfully as a child lies down to pleasant dreams! My friends, I would love to pursue this theme, but, as you see, my voice is failing and my lower limbs become swollen when I stand up too long. At any rate I have said enough. I am now ready to act whenever and wheresoever bidden by the voice of France."
Jones's cough and the swelling in his legs continued; a few days later jaundice and dropsy set in, and it was clear to his friends that the end was near. Aimée de Thelison, Gouverneur Morris, and some of the distinguished revolutionists were about him during the last few days of his life. On the afternoon of July 18, 1792, his will was witnessed, and about seven o'clock in the evening he was found in his room, lying with his clothes on, face down across the middle of the bed, dead.
The next day the National Assembly passed a resolution decreeing "that twelve of its members shall assist at the funeral of a man who has so well served the cause of liberty."
True or not, the words attributed to Napoleon after Trafalgar, in 1805, are no more than justice to Paul Jones.
"How old," Napoleon asked, "was Paul Jones when he died?"
On being told that Jones was forty-five years old at the time of his death, Napoleon said:—
"Then he did not fulfill his destiny. Had he lived to this time, France might have had an admiral."
Paul Jones has been called by his friends patriot, and by his enemies pirate. In reality he was neither. He was not one of those deeply ethical natures that subordinate personal glory and success to the common good. As an American he cannot be ranked with his great contemporaries, for his patriotism consisted merely in being fair and devoted to the side he had for the time espoused rather than in quiet work as a citizen after the spectacular opportunity had passed. He was ready to serve wherever he saw the best chance for himself, whether it was with the United States, Russia, or France. In no unworthy sense of the word, however, was he an adventurer. The deepest thing in his soul, the love of glory, rendered him incapable at once of meanness and of true patriotism. In search for fame he gave up family, friends, and religion. In these relations of life he would have been and was, as far as he went, tolerant and kind; but in them he was not interested. Love of glory made him a lonely figure. It rendered him a poseur, vain and snobbish, but it also spurred him on to contend, with phenomenal energy, against almost innumerable difficulties.