You see I venture still to join these two epithets as inseparable, and almost synonymous, though you seem inclined to regard them almost as incompatible. And here I have a strong inclination to say a few words in vindication, both of myself and my friends; venturing even to comprehend you in the number. What new prepossession has seized you, to beat in so outrageous a manner your nurses of Mount Helicon, and to join the outcry of the ignorant multitude against science and literature? For my part, I can scarce acknowledge any other ground of distinction between one age and another, between one nation and another, than their different progress in learning and the arts. I do not say between one man and another, because the qualities of the heart and temper, and natural understanding, are the most essential to the personal character; but being, I suppose, almost equal among nations and ages, do not serve to throw a peculiar lustre on any. You blame France for its fond admiration of men of genius; and there may no doubt be, in particular instances, a great ridicule in these affectations; but the sentiment, in general, was equally conspicuous in ancient Greece; in Rome, during its flourishing period; in modern Italy; and even, perhaps, in England about the beginning of this century. If the case be now otherwise, it is what we are to lament and be ashamed of. Our enemies will only infer, that we are a nation which was once, at best, but half civilized; and is now relapsing fast into barbarism,
ignorance, and superstition. I beg you also to consider the great difference, in point of morals, between uncultivated and civilized ages. But I find I am launching out insensibly into an immense ocean of commonplace. I cut the matter, therefore, short, by declaring it as my opinion, that if you had been born a barbarian, and had every day cooked your dinner of horse flesh, by riding on it fifty miles between your breech and the shoulder of your horse, you had certainly been an obliging, good-natured, friendly man; but, at the same time, that reading, conversation, and travel, have detracted nothing from these virtues, and have made a considerable addition of other valuable and agreeable qualities to them. I remain, not with ancient sincerity, which was only roguery and hypocrisy, but very sincerely, dear sir, &c.
Rousseau did not resign his pension, and made it be very distinctly known that he would insist upon his claims to be paid what had been promised; but he would not owe it to the intervention of David Hume. He continued to reside for several months at Wooton, where he made some progress in his renowned "Confessions." "He is, I am sure," says Mr. Davenport, in one of his letters, "busy writing; and it should be some large affair, from the quantity of paper he bought." Like other mental patients, when long separated from his favourite excitement, his mind became attuned to less tumultuous movements; and he ceased, in some measure, to feel the want of notoriety. The visions of conspiracy and treachery gradually disappeared, and now we find him, in his letters, only saying; "Je n'ai rien à dire de M. Hume, sinon que je le trouve bien insultant pour un bon homme, et bien bruyant pour un philosophe." He had a genuine love of nature and of rural pursuits; and he appears to have varied his literary labours, by joining in some projects of Mr. Davenport for the cultivation of forest lands.
Writing to Blair, on 14th February, 1767, Hume says:—
"General Conway told me, on my arrival, that Rousseau had made an application to him, through the canal of Mr. Davenport, to have his pension granted to him. The general's answer was, that I was to be in town in a few days; and, without my consent, and even full approbation, he would take no step in that affair. You may believe that I exhorted him to do so charitable an action. I wish he may not find a difficulty with the King, who is very much prejudiced against Rousseau.[365:1] This step of my old friend confirms the suspicion which I always entertained, that he thought he had interest enough to obtain the pension of himself; and that he had only picked a quarrel with me in order to free himself from the humiliating burden of gratitude towards me. His motives, therefore, were much blacker than many seem to apprehend them.
"A gentleman told me that he heard, from the French ambassador, that his most Christian Majesty had given an arrêt, prohibiting, under the severest penalties, the printing, vending, or dispersing, any paper of Rousseau, or his partisans, against me. I dine with the ambassador to-day, so shall know the truth of the matter, which scarce appears credible. It is surely very honourable for me; but yet will occasion that strange man to complain, that he is oppressed with power all over the world. I am,"[365:2] &c.
At length, on the 31st of April, 1767, Rousseau and Mademoiselle Le Vasseur suddenly disappeared from Wooton together. Hume thus describes the incident in a letter to Blair:—
"You may, perhaps, have heard that Rousseau has eloped from Mr. Davenport, without giving any warning; leaving all his baggage, except Mademoiselle, about thirty pounds in Davenport's hands, and a letter on the table, abusing him in the most violent terms, insinuating that he was in a conspiracy with me to ruin him.[366:1] He took the road to London, but was missing for about a fortnight. At last he emerges at Spalding in Lincolnshire, whence he writes a letter to the Chancellor, informing him that the bad usage he had met with in England, made it absolutely necessary for him to evacuate the kingdom, and desiring his lordship to send him a guard to escort him to Dover—this being the last act of hospitality he will desire of the nation. He is plainly mad, though I believe not more than he has been all his life. The pamphlet you mention was wrote by one as mad as himself, and it was believed at first to be by Tristram Shandy, but proves to be [by] one Fuseli an engraver. He is a fanatical admirer of Rousseau, but owns he was in the wrong to me. The pamphlet I sent to you was wrote by an English clergyman, whom I never saw; a man of character, and rising in the church,[366:2] for which reason it is more prudent in
me to conceal his name. When would you have done so much for me."[367:1]
As Rousseau did not favour the world in his "Confessions," with the adventures he encountered during this flight, it is of some interest, in the absence of a personal narrative, to mark the impression produced by the incident on an onlooker, whom it seems to have filled with mingled feelings of compassion and astonishment. The following are some extracts from Mr. Davenport's letters to Hume:—