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in fact, Pascal was an enthusiastic valetudinarian, with perhaps as little good faith as his antagonists. He spoke to us of his brother, the Jansenist, who, he said, was so fond of martyrdom, that he told a friend who thought as he did, but who argued against doing any thing to court persecution: "Zooks, if you have no desire to be hanged, at least do not set others against h."

.... By the side of Voltaire's bed hung two engravings of the family of Galas; I had never before seen that which represents the wife -and children of this victim of fanaticism embracing him at the very moment in which his enemies were leading him to death, and it made the most painful impression on me. I reproached Voltaire for having placed them so as to have them constantly under his eye: .his answer is very remarkable, and, if founded in truth, it did the greatest credit to his feelings;—"Ah, Madam! during eleven years I was taktn up with this unhappy family, and with that of the Servens; and, during that time, every smile that escaped me I regarded as a crime." This he related to me in an accent so natural and so moving, , as deeply to affect me.

.... In.hia conversation with me, continues the fair

temper and turn of mind. He possessed a laudable aversion to persecution, and we see him indulging in the spirit of it, to the utmost, against the memory of the matchless Pascal. Is not the temper the same, whether the injustice be done to the memory, the reputation, the property, or the person of the object of it, as in the case of Calas, whom Voltaire very eloquently defended?

writer, he did not represent himself as by any meant sanguine respecting the progress of those views which he was so indefatigably engaged in propagating. "Th« nurse," he said, pointing to the whole length of hii arm, "leaves traces as long as this; while reason, when it arrives in its turn, only makes impressions of the length of one's finger." Among his disciples he seems to have regarded Condorcet with most expectation. According to his account to me, even his lattef days were embittered with apprehension of harsh treatment on the part of the government; and he told me, that M. Seguier, having been recently at Ferney, had called on him, and threatened to denounce him to his corps, the parliament of Paris, who would burn him if he, Seguier, urged the matter. I exclaimed, "Sir, they will not dare to do it!"—"What is to hinder them?"—"Your genius, your age, the services which you have rendered to humanity, the voice of all Europe, all the honour that exists, all the humanity and toleration which you have called forth, will lift up their heads in your favour,"—" Alas, Madam! they would be glad to see me burned; and at night, perhaps, they would say, it was a great pity."—I desired him to dismiss forebodings so distressing, and added, "I will poniard the executioner, if he dares attempt so execrable a deed*." He kissed my hand, and replied: "You are an amiable girl; yes, I rely upon you."

• To the fair writer of these anecdotes Voltaire was an ob. ject of admiration. He is the great master of the drama; the rich-genius pouring out the happiest effusions; the protector of the oppressed j the avenger of the persecuted, whom she

.... Voltaire, adds the interesting fair writer, was, very gallant and polite with the ladies; he was fond of seeing them well dressed. The commendations which I bestowed on his appearance, induced him to dress himself with those habiliments which he regarded as setting him off to the most advantage; yet he was more than eighty years old at the time of my visit. The utmost order prevailed in his cabinet; every thing was in its proper place, and he knew the precise situation of each book; no heaps of books, no bundles of papers scattered in confusion, were seen in his apartment. A great abundance of pens lay on his desk; I begged one of him, and he kindly sought for one which he thought he had most used.

M. Condorcet, in his performance, has given to the world rather a critical account of Voltaire's work, than a description of the man, of whom he was too much a partisan to delineate him with fidelity. But the various anecdotes here given, are sketches by which the true character of this astonishing personage is lo b* developed; a character certainly different from any that have been furnished by his biographers.

always panegyrises, without ever attempting to justify or palliate the deformities and defects with which he was chargeable. Our readers must not wonder, to see her transforming herself into an heroine and a martyr, to defend or avenge the object of her idolatry.

MANNERS OF EUROPEANS IN THE WEST INDIES.

"Quserenda pecunia primum,

Virtus post nummos." Ho*.

"Get money, money still;

And then let virtue follow, if she will." Popi.

The agriculture of the West Indian settlements ha* always been of a nature nearly allied to mercantile adventure. The persons who emigrated thither, have accordingly been either those who wished to derive vast profits from a large capital, with considerable risk; or, those who, without any substance, and ruined perhaps at home, wished to catch, by other arts than laborious industry, some of the overflowings of the wealth accumulated by the former class. The spirit of adventure, which has for its object either the rapid increase of stock, with proportionate risk; or, the acquisition of some fortune, without the ordinary means of toil and hardship, is unfavourable to morals and manners. In the class which possesses capital, it is allied to the love of deep play; in the class which has nothing to lose, it gives birth to meanness and dishonesty.

A colony, composed of such adventurers, is peopled bjr a race of men all hastening to grow rich, and eager to acquire wealth for the gratification of avarice or voluptuousness. It is an association formed for one common end, which, in the eyes of all, justifies any means; and that indulgence which every one requires, no one is. disposed to refuse. The continuance of the members in this society is as short as possible; and the same prospect of soon leaving the spot—the same ?iews which induce a sacrifice of present ease to future luxury, and a neglect of the common conveniences of polished society—leads also to an indifference about those higher ornaments which become the mind, and, when once given up, cannot again be assumed. *' Let «9 make money, that we may spend it in London, Am«terdam, or Bourdeaux. We are now in the mine: though it be unpleasant and unwholesome, we shall *oon repose on beds"of down; only let us get wherewithal to purchase them, and the object may justify the means, as it reconciles us to the toil. What, though our conduct is incorrect, and our manners dissolute, we shall accommodate them to those of our European countrymen when we return, as we threw off the hampering trammels of European maxims when we crossed the Atlantic. Let us but make money now, and we jhall afterwards have time to build churches and endow hospitals." Such, I fear, is the natural language of imen in tho^e circumstances. But their manners are aftected also by other peculiarities in their situation: the want of modest female society; the necessity of gratifying the desires engendered by a burning climate; the abundance of unhappy women, whose blood boils with still stronger passions, and renders them, in the European eyes, only an inferior race formed for the corporeal convenience of their masters; these are other causes of dissolute morals. The want of female society, while it brutalizes the minds and manners of men, necessarily deprives them of all the virtuous pleasures of domestic life, and frees them from those restraints which the presence of a family always imposes on the conduct of the most profligate men. The wit

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