Dear Sir,—I went over to Wooton on Tuesday: had a long conference with Mr. Rousseau on the subject of your last letters; gave into his hands yours addressed to him, (which he had not read before:) showed him those I received from you; and in the most earnest manner insisted upon his giving you an open answer to all your questions, which I told him you had certainly a right to ask, and he could not have any pretence whatever to refuse. His spirits seemed vastly fluttered. However, he told me a long history of the whole affair. I said, that as my knowledge of the French language was very imperfect, I might easily misrepresent things, so begged him to write down the whole matter. Before he began his discourse, I could not help speaking a deal to him on the subject of the pension, and expressed my astonishment at his even ever having had the least thought of refusing the favours of the greatest king in the world. To my infinite surprise, he directly returned this answer, That he never had refused, or any thing like it; spoke with the greatest respect and veneration of his majesty, and with all sort of acknowledgments of gratitude to General Conway, &c.

You may well imagine my surprise increased. He then began his story: but that I entirely leave to his pen, as he has faithfully promised to perform. I am really sorry for him; he's uneasy, frets perpetually, and looks terribly. 'Tis almost impossible to conceive the oddness of his extreme sensibility; so that I conclude, when he's guilty of an error, his nerves are more in fault than his heart. Things vex him to the utmost extent of vexation, which would not even move such a dull soul as mine is. In short, I perceive his disorder is jealousy: he thinks you are fond of some savans hommes, whom he unfortunately calls his enemies. It will give me the greatest satisfaction to hear that you have received a satisfactory answer, and that every thing is set right again.[337:1]

At last came the full outpouring of the long-treasured wrath, in a letter dated the 10th of July, as long as an ordinary pamphlet, and penned with the same neat precision as its predecessor. The reader will not expect a document so well known and easily accessible to be reprinted; and an abridgment would fail to give any notion of the rabid eloquence with which the most paltry incidents are made to assume the appearance of portentous charges; until, through vehemence of expression and multitude of powerful words, they seem for the moment to acquire substantial shape. Many of the charges contained in this "indictment" have been already alluded to. The document begins with a statement of its author's candour,[337:2] and hatred of every kind of artifice;

and no one can read the charges which follow, monstrously absurd as they are, without seeing that they are made in the perfect sincerity of a mind that saw all things through its own diseased medium. The following is one of the substantive charges:—

I was informed that the son of the quack Tronchin,[338:1] my most mortal enemy, was not only the friend of Mr. Hume, and under his protection, but that they both lodged in the same house; and when Mr. Hume found that I knew this, he imparted it in confidence to me; assuring me that the son by no means resembled the father. I lodged a few nights myself, together with my governante, in the same house; and from the kind of reception with which we were honoured by the landladies, who are his friends, I judged in what manner either Mr. Hume, or that man, who, as he said, was by no means like his father, must have spoken to them both of her and me.

All these facts put together, added to a certain appearance of things on the whole, insensibly gave me an uneasiness, which I rejected with horror.

The description of the following scene must have been, to those who knew Hume personally, irresistibly ludicrous. The picture of the phlegmatic reserve of English manners, is made perfect by contrast. It appears from Hume's letter, that the scene arose out of the dispute about the return chaise.

One evening, after supper, as we were sitting silent by the fireside, I caught his eyes intently fixed on me, as indeed happened very often; and that in a manner of which it is very difficult to give an idea. At that time he gave me a steadfast, piercing look, mingled with a sneer, which greatly disturbed me. To get rid of my embarrassment, I endeavoured to look full at him in my turn; but, in fixing my eyes upon his, I felt the most inexpressible terror, and was soon obliged to turn them away. The speech and physiognomy of the good David are those of an honest man; but where, great God! did this honest man borrow those eyes which he fixes on his friends?

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 a flood of tears, I must have 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, and 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." David Hume politely returned my embraces, and gently tapping me on the back, repeated several times, in a placid 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.

There is another charge against Hume, of once muttering in his sleep the words Je tiens J. J. Rousseau; which he did not deny, saying, that he could not feel certain as to what he might or might not have done when asleep, though he doubted if it was his practice to dream in French.[339:1] The proffered hospitalities and kindnesses of Hume are a running charge throughout; wound up with the conclusion, that as he must have seen that Rousseau was estranged