He was desperately resolved to rush into this solitude, notwithstanding all my remonstrances; and I foresee, that he will be unhappy in that situation, as he has indeed been always in all situations. He will be entirely without occupation,
without company, and almost without amusement of any kind. He has read very little during the course of his life, and has now totally renounced all reading: He has seen very little; and has no manner of curiosity to see or remark: He has reflected, properly speaking, and studied very little; and has not indeed much knowledge: He has only felt, during the whole course of his life; and in this respect, his sensibility rises to a pitch beyond what I have seen any example of: but it still gives him a more acute feeling of pain than of pleasure. He is like a man who were stript not only of his clothes, but of his skin, and turned out in that situation to combat with the rude and boisterous elements, such as perpetually disturb this lower world. I shall give you a remarkable instance of his turn of character in this respect: It passed in my room, the evening before his departure.
He had resolved to set out with his gouvernante in a post-chaise; but Davenport, willing to cheat him and save him some money, told him that he had found a retour chaise for the place, which he might have for a trifle, and that luckily it set out the very day in which Rousseau intended to depart. His purpose was to hire a chaise, and make him believe this story. He succeeded at first, but Rousseau afterwards ruminating on the circumstances, began to entertain a suspicion of the trick. He communicated his doubts to me, complaining that he was treated like a child; that though he was poor, he chose rather to conform himself to his circumstances, than live like a beggar on alms; and that he was very unhappy in not speaking the language familiarly, so as to guard himself against these impositions. I told him that I was ignorant of the matter, and knew nothing more of it, than I was told by Mr. Davenport, but if he pleased I should make inquiry about it. "Never tell me that," replied he, "if this be really a contrivance of Davenport's, you are acquainted with it, and consenting to it; and you could not possibly have done me a greater displeasure." Upon which he sat down very sullen and silent; and all my attempts were in vain to revive the conversation, and to turn it on other subjects; he still answered me very drily and coldly. At last, after passing near an hour in this ill-humour, he rose up and took a turn about the room. But
judge of my surprise, when he sat down suddenly on my knee, threw his hands about my neck, kissed me with the greatest warmth, and bedewing all my face with tears, exclaimed, "Is it possible you can ever forgive me, my dear friend? After all the testimonies of affection I have received from you, I reward you at last with this folly and ill behaviour: but I have notwithstanding a heart worthy of your friendship; I love you, I esteem you, and not an instance of your kindness is thrown away upon me." I hope you have not so bad an opinion of me as to think I was not melted on this occasion; I assure you I kissed him and embraced him twenty times, with a plentiful effusion of tears. I think no scene of my life was ever more affecting.[315:1]
I now understand perfectly his aversion to company; which appears so surprising in a man well qualified for the entertainment of company, and which the greater part of the world takes for affectation. He has frequent and long fits of the spleen, from the state of his mind or body, call it which you please; and from his extreme sensibility of temper, during that disposition, company is a torment to him. When his spirits and health and good humour return, his fancy affords him so much and such agreeable occupation, that to call him off from it gives him uneasiness; and even the writing of books, he tells me, as it limits and restrains his fancy to one subject, is not an agreeable entertainment. He never will write any more; and never should have wrote at all, could he have slept a-nights. But he lies awake commonly; and to keep himself from tiring, he usually composed something, which he wrote down when he arose. He assures me, that he composes very slowly, and with great labour and difficulty.
He is naturally very modest, and even ignorant of his own superiority. His fire, which frequently rises in conversation, is gentle and temperate; he is never in the least arrogant and domineering, and is, indeed, one of the best bred men I ever knew. I shall give you such an instance of his modesty as must necessarily be sincere. When we were on the road,
I recommended to him the learning of English, without which, I told him, he would never enjoy entire liberty, nor be fully independent, and at his own disposal. He was sensible I was in the right, and said, that he heard there were two English translations of his "Emile, or Treatise on Education;" he would get them as soon as he arrived in London; and as he knew the subject, he would have no other trouble, than to learn or guess the words: this would save him some pains in consulting the dictionary; and as he improved, it would amuse him to compare the translations and judge which was the best. Accordingly, soon after our arrival, I procured him the books, but he returned them in a few days, saying that they could be of no use to him. "What is the matter?" replied I. "I cannot endure them," said he, "they are my own work; and ever since I delivered my books to the press, I never could open them, or read a page of them without disgust." "That is strange," said I, "I wonder the good reception they have met with from the world has not put you more in conceit with them." "Why," said he, "if I were to count suffrages, there are perhaps more against them than for them." "But," rejoined I, "it is impossible but the style, and eloquence, and ornaments must please you." "To tell the truth," said he, "I am not displeased with myself in that particular: but I still dread, that my writings are good for nothing at the bottom, and that all my theories are full of extravagance. Je crains toujours que je pèche par le fond, et que tous mes systèmes ne sont que des extravagances." You see that this is judging of himself with the utmost severity, and censuring his writings on the side where they are most exposed to criticism. No feigned modesty is ever capable of this courage. I never heard —— reproach himself with the ——: nobody ever heard you express any remorse, for having put Ossian on the same footing with Homer!
Have I tired you, or will you have any more anecdotes of this singular personage? I think I hear you desire me to go on. He attempted once to justify to me the moral of his New Heloisa, which, he knew, was blamed, as instructing young people in the art of gratifying their passions, under the cover of virtue, and noble refined sentiments. "You
may observe," said he "that my Julia is faithful to her husband's bed, though she is seduced from her duty during her single state; but this last circumstance can be of no consequence in France, where all the young ladies are shut up in convents, and have it not in their power to transgress: it might, indeed, have a bad effect in a Protestant country." But notwithstanding this reflection, he told me, that he has wrote a continuation of his "Emilius," which may soon be published. He there attempts to show the effect of his plan of education, by representing Emilius in all the most trying situations, and still extricating himself with courage and virtue. Among the rest, he discovers that Sophia, the amiable, the virtuous, the estimable Sophia, is unfaithful to his bed, which fatal accident he bears with a manly superior spirit. "In this work," added he, "I have endeavoured to represent Sophia in such a light that she will appear equally amiable, equally virtuous, and equally estimable, as if she had no such frailty." "You take a pleasure, I see," said I, "to combat with difficulties in all your works." "Yes," said he, "I hate marvellous and supernatural events in novels. The only thing that can give pleasure in such performances is to place the personages in situations difficult and singular." Thus, you see, nothing remains for him but to write a book for the instruction of widows! unless perhaps he imagines that they can learn their lesson without instruction. Adieu, dear doctor; you say that you sometimes read my letters to our common friends; but you must read this only to the initiated.[317:1]
Almost the only other matter which appears conspicuously in Hume's correspondence during his intercourse with Rousseau, is the death of a dear friend, often mentioned in his previous letters—Dr. Jardine. He was a man of strong judgment, and much sarcastic wit; but his articles in The Edinburgh Review of 1755, are almost the only specimens of his ability which he has left to posterity. He was born