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 air and coldness with which we were received 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. In the mean time, the letters I wrote did not come to hand; those I received had often been opened; and all went through the hands of Mr. Hume. If at any time a letter escaped him, he could not conceal his eagerness to see it. One evening in particular I remember a circumstance of this kind, which greatly struck me. After supper, as we were sitting silent by the fire-side, I caught his eyes intently fixed on mine, as indeed happened very often; and that in a manner of which it is difficult to give an idea. At that time he gave me a stedfast, 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 is that 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 choaked 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.

"Arrived at this agreeable asylum, to which I have travelled so far in search of repose, I ought to find it in a retired, convenient, and pleasant habitation; the master of which, a man of understanding and worth, spares in nothing to render my residence agreeable. But what repose can be tasted in life, when the heart is agitated? Afflicted with the most cruel uncertainty, and ignorant what to think of a man whom I ought to love, I sought to get rid of the fatal doubt, by placing confidence in my benefactor. For from what inconceivable caprice should he display so much apparent zeal for my happiness, and, at the same time, entertain secret designs against my honour? Among the observations which disturbed me, each fact was in itself of no great moment; it was their concurrence that was surprising; yet I thought, perhaps, that Mr. Hume, informed of other facts of which I was ignorant, could

have given me a satisfactory solution of them, if we had come to an explanation. The only inexplicable thing was, that he refused to come to such an explanation; which both his honour and his friendship for me rendered equally necessary. I perceived there was something in the affair which I did not comprehend, and which I earnestly wished to know. Before I came to an absolute determination, therefore, with regard to him, I was desirous of making a last effort, and to write him with a view to try to recover him, if he had permitted himself to be seduced by my enemies, or to prevail on him to explain himself one way or other. Accordingly I wrote him a letter, which he ought to have found very natural, if he were guilty; but very extraordinary, if he were innocent. For what could be more extraordinary than a letter full of gratitude for his services, and, at the same time, of distrust of his sentiments; and in which, placing, as it were, his actions on one side, and his sentiments on the other, instead of speaking of the proofs of friendship he had given me, I besought him to love me, for the good he had done me. I did not take the precaution to preserve a copy of this letter; but as he has done so, let him produce it; and whoever reads it, and sees in it a man labouring under a secret trouble, which he is desirous of expressing, but is afraid to do so, will, I am persuaded, be curious to know what eclaircissement it produced, especially after the preceding scene. None: absolutely none. Mr. Hume contented himself, in his answer, with telling me the obliging offices Mr. Davenport proposed to do for me. As for the rest, he said not a word on the principal subject of my letter, nor on the situation of my heart, of the distress of which he could not be ignorant. I was more struck with this silence, than I had been with his phlegm during our last conversation. I was wrong: this silence was very natural after the other, and was no more than I ought to have expected. For when one has ventured to declare to a man's face, I am tempted to believe you a traitor, and he has not the curiosity to ask you for what, it may be depended on he will never have any such curiosity as long as he lives and it is easy to judge of this man from these slight indications

"After the receipt of his letter, which was long delayed, I determined to write to him no more. Soon after, every thing served to confirm me in the resolution to break off all farther correspondence with him. Curious to the last degree concerning the minutest circumstance of my affairs, he was not content to learn them of me in our conversations; but, as, I learned, never let slip an opportunity of being alone with my governante, to interrogate her even importunately concerning my occupations, my resources, my friends, my acquaintances, their names, situations, places of abode; nay, with the most jesuitical address, he would ask the same questions of us separately. One ought undoubtedly to interest one's-self in the affairs of a friend; but one ought to be satisfied with what he thinks proper to tell of them, especially when people are so frank and confiding as I am. Indeed all this petty inquisitiveness is very little becoming a philosopher. "About the same time I received two other letters which had been opened. The one from Mr. Boswell, the seal of which was in so VOL. VIII.

I

bad a condition, that Mr. Davenport, when he received it, made the same remark to Mr. Hume's servant. The other was from M. d'Ivernois, in Mr. Hume's packet: it had been sealed up again by means of a hot iron, which, being awkwardly applied, had burnt the paper round the impression. On this I wrote to Mr. Davenport, and desired him to take charge of all letters which might be sent to me, and to trust none of them in any body's hands, under any pretext whatever. I know not whether Mr. Davenport, who certainly was far from thinking that precaution regarded Mr. Hume, shewed him my letter; but I know that Mr. Hume had every reason to think he had lost my confidence, and that he proceeded nevertheless in his usual manner, without troubling himself about the recovery of it.

"But what was to become of me, when I saw, in the public papers, the pretended letter of the king of Prussia, which I had never before seen; that fictitious letter, printed in French and English, given for genuine, even with the signature of the king, and in which I recognized the pen of M. d'Alembert as certainly as if I had seen him write it.

"In a moment, a ray of light discovered to me the secret cause of that touching and sudden change in the English public respecting me; and I saw that the plot, which was put in execution at London, had been laid in Paris.

"M. d'Alembert, another intimate friend of Mr. Hume, had been long my secret enemy, and lay in watch for opportunities to injure me without exposing himself. He was the only person among the men of letters, of my old acquaintance, who did not come to see me, or send their civilities during my last journey through Paris; I knew his secret disposition, but I gave myself very little trouble about it, contenting myself with occasionally apprising my friends of it. I remember, that being asked about him one day by Mr. Hume, who afterwards asked my governante the same question; I told him that M. d'Alembert was a cunning, artful man. He contradicted me with a warmth that surprised me; who did not then know that they stood so well with each other, and that it was his own cause he defended.

"The perusal of the letter above-mentioned alarmed me a good deal, when, perceiving that I had been brought over to England in consequence of a project which began to be put in execution, but of the end of which I was ignorant, I felt the danger without knowing where it was, or on whom to rely. I then recollected four terrifying words which Mr. Hume had made use of, and of which I shall speak hereafter. What could be thought of a paper in which my misfortunes were imputed to me as a crime, which tended, in the midst of my distress, to deprive me of the compassion of the world, and, to render its effect still more cruel, pretended to have been written by a prince who had afforded me protection? What could I divine would be the consequence of such a beginning? The people in England read the public papers, and are in no wise prepossessed in favour of foreigners. Even a coat, cut in a different fashion from their own, is sufficient to excite their ill-humour. What then had not a poor stranger to expect in his rural walks, the only pleasures of his life,

when the good people were persuaded he was fond of being pelted with stones? Doubtless they would be ready enough to contribute to his favourite amusement. But my concern, my profound and cruel concern, the bitterest indeed I ever felt, did not arise from the danger to which I was exposed. I had braved too many others to be much moved by that. The treachery of a false friend to which I had fallen a prey, was the circumstance that filled my too susceptible heart with deadly sorrow. In the impetuosity of its first emotions, of which I never yet was master, and of which my enemies have artfully taken the advantage, I wrote several letters full of distress, in which I did not disguise either my uneasiness or indignation.

"I have, sir, so many things to mention, that I forget half of them by the way. For instance, a narrative in form of a letter, on my mode of living at Montmorency, was given by the booksellers to Mr. Hume, who shewed it me. I agreed to its being printed, and Mr. Hume undertook the care of editing it; but it never appeared. I had brought over with me a copy of the letters of M. du Peyrou, containing a relation of the treatment I had met with at Neufchatel. I gave them into the hands of the same booksellers at their own request, to have them translated and reprinted. Mr. Hume charged himself with the care of them; but they never appeared. The supposititious letter of the king of Prussia, and its translation, had no sooner made their appearance, than I immediately comprehended why the other pieces had been suppressed, and I wrote as much to the booksellers. I wrote several other letters also, which probably were handed about London: till at length I employed the credit of a man of quality and merit, to insert a declaration of the imposture in the public papers. In this declaration I concealed no part of my extreme concern; nor did I in the least disguise the cause.

"Hitherto Mr. Hume seems to have walked in darkness. You will soon see him appear in open day, and act without disguise. We have only to act ingenuously towards cunning people: sooner or later they will infallibly betray themselves.

"When this pretended letter from the king of Prussia was first published in London, Mr. Hume, who certainly knew that it was fictitious, as I had told him so, said nothing of the matter; he did not write to me, but was totally silent; and did not even think of making any declaration of the truth, in favour of his absent friend. It answered his purpose better to let the report take its course, as he did. "Mr. Hume having been my conductor into England, was in a manner my protector and patron. If it were natural in him to undertake my defence, it was not less so, that, when I had a public protestation to make, I should address myself to him, but having already ceased writing to him, I had no wish to renew our correspondence. I addressed myself therefore to another person. This was the first slap on the face I gave my patron. He felt nothing of it.

"In saying that the letter was fabricated at Paris, it was of very little consequence to me whether it was understood particularly of M. d'Alembert, or of Mr. Walpole, whose name he borrowed on the occasion. But in adding that what afflicted and tore my heart was, that

the impostor had got his accomplices in England, I expressed myself very clearly to their friend, who was in London, and was desirous of passing for mine. For certainly he was the only person in England, whose hatred could afflict and rend my heart. This was the second slap of the face I gave my patron. He felt nothing of it.

"On the contrary, he maliciously pretended, that my affliction arose solely from the publication of the above letter, in order to make me pass for a vain man, who was excessively affected by satire. Whether I am vain or not, certain it is I was mortally afflicted: he knew it, and yet wrote me not a word. To this affectionate friend, who had so much at heart the filling of my purse, it gave little trouble to think that my heart was bleeding with sorrow.

"Another piece appeared soon after, in the same papers, by the au thor of the former, and still, if possible, more cruel, in which the writer could not disguise his rage at the reception I met with at Paris. This, however, did not affect me; it told me nothing new. Libels may take their course without giving me any emotion; and the inconstant public may amuse themselves as long as they please with the subject. This is not an affair of conspirators, who, bent on the destruction of my honest fame, are determined by some means or other to effect it: it was necessary to change the battery.

"The affair of the pension was not determined. It was not difficult, however, for Mr. Hume to obtain its settlement, from the humanity of the minister and the generosity of the prince. He was charged with informing me of it, and he did so. This, I must confess, was one of the most critical moments of my life. How much did it cost me to do my duty. My preceding engagements, the necessity of shewing a due respect for the goodness of the king, the honour of being the object of his attentions and those of his minister, with the desire of shewing how sensible I was of both, and the advantage of being made a little more easy in circumstances in the decline of life, surrounded as I was by enemies and evils; in fine, the embarrassment I was under to find a decent excuse for declining a benefit already half accepted: all these together made the necessity of that refusal very difficult and cruel; for necessary it was, else I should have been one of the basest of mankind to have voluntarily laid my. self under an obligation to a man who had betrayed me.

"I did my duty, though not without reluctance. I wrote immediately to general Conway, and, in the most civil and respectful manner possible, without giving an absolute refusal, excused myself from accepting the pension for the present.

"Mr. Hume had been the negociator of this affair, and the only person who had spoke of it. Yet I not only did not give him any answer, though it was he who wrote to me on the subject, but did not even so much as mention him in my letter to general Conway. This was the third slap on the face I gave my patron; which, if he does not feel, it is certainly his own fault: he can feel nothing.

"My letter was not clear, nor could it be so to general Conway, who did not know the motives of my refusal; but it was very plain to Mr. Hume, who knew them but too well. He nevertheless pre