fection for his wife and daughter. It was during his concealment of ten months at Paris that he wrote his excellent history of the progress of human understanding.-I hus perished one of the most illustrious of the French literari that the present age had produced.

Biographical Anecdotes of the Count de Buffon, extracted from a Manuscript Journey to Montbart in 1785, by Herault de Sechelles.

I beheld a fine figure noble and placid. Notwithstanding he is 78 years old, one would not attribute to him above 60 years; and al. though he had spent sixteen sleepless nights, in consequence of being afflicted with the stone, he looked as fresh as a child, and as calm as if in health. His bust, by Houdon, appears to me very like; although the effect of the black eyes and brows is lost.

His white hair was accurately drest: this was one of his whims, and he owns it. He has it papered at night, and curled with irons sometimes twice a day, in the morning and before supper. He had five small curls on each side. His bed. gown was a yellow and white strije, flowered with blue.

His voice is strong for his age, and very pleasant in general, when he speaks, his looks are fixed on nothing, but roll unguard. edly about. His favourite words are tout ça and pardieu, which recur perpetually. His vanity is undisguised and prominent; here are a few instances.

I told him I read much in his works, "What are you reading?" said he. I answered, the Vues sur la Nature. "There are passages of the highest eloquence in them:" replied he instantly.

.

Excelsa turri bumilis c·lumna Parenti su filius BUFFON, 1785. The father burst into tears on seeing this monument, and said to the young man, "Son, this will do you honour."

The son shewed me about the grounds. We came to the closet in which this great man laboured ; it is in a pavilion called the tower of Saint Louis, and it is up stairs. The entrance is by a green folding dcor. The simplicity of the laboratory astonishes. The ceiling is vaulted, the walls are green, the floor is in squares: it contains an ordinary wooden desk, and an arm chair; but not a book nor a paper. This nakedness has its effect. The imagination clothes it with the splendid pages of Buffon. There is another sanctuary in which he was wont to compose; "the cradle of natural history," as prince Henry called it, when he went thither. It was there that Rousseau prostrated himself and kissed the threshold. I mentioned this circumstance to Buffon. "Yes," said he," Rousseau bowed down to me.” This cabinet is wainscoted, furnish. cd with screens, a sofa, and with drawings of birds and beasts. The chairs are covered with black leather, and the desk is near the chimney, and of walnut tree. A trea tise on the loadstone, on which he was then employed, lay on it.

His example and his discourse convince me, that he who passionately desires glory, is sure in the end to obtain it. The wish must not be a momentary, but an every day emotion, Buffon said to me

on this subject a very striking :thing one of those speeches which may be the cause of a great man hereafter: "Genius is only a great er aptitude to patience." Observe, that patience must be applied to every thing patience in finding out one's line, patience in resisting the motives that divert, and patience in bearing what would dis. courage a common man.

I will mention some facts of Buffon. He would sometimes return from the suppers of Paris at two in the morning, when he was young. A boy was ordered to call him at five, however late he returned: and, in case of his linger. ing in bed, to drag him out on the floor. He used to work till six at night. "I had at that time (said he) a mistress of whom I was very fond: but I would never allow my self to go to her till six, even at the risk of finding her gone out." He thus distributes his day. At five o'clock he rises, dresses, pow. ders, dictates letters, and regulates his household matters. At six he goes to the foresaid study, which is a furlong distant from the house, at the extremity of the garden. There are gates to open and terraces to climb by the way. When not en. gaged in writing, he paces up and down the surrounding avenues. No one may intrude on his retreat. He often reads over what he has written, and then lays it by for a time. "It is important," said he to me, 66 never to be in a hurry: review your compositions often, and every time with a fresh eye, and you will always find that they can be mended." When he has made many corrections in a manuscript, he employs an amanuensis to transcribe it, and then he cor.

rects again. He told M. de S→→→→ that the Ep ques de la Nature were written over eighteen times. He is very orderly and exact. "I burn (said he to me) every thing which I do not intend to use: not a paper will be found at my death."

I resume the account of his day. At nine, breakfast is brought to him in the study. It consists of two glasses of wine and a bit of bread. He writes for about two hours after breakfast, and then returns to the house. He does not love to hurry over his dinner; during which he gives vent to all the gaieties and trifles which suggest themselves while at table. He loves to talk smuttily; and the ef. fect of his jokes and laughter are heightened by the natural serious ness of his age and calmness of his character! but he is often so coarse as to compel the ladies to with. draw. He talks of himself with pleasure, and like a critic. He said to me, "I learn every day to write; in my latter works there is infinitely more perfection than in my former. I often have my works read to me, and this mostly puts me uppn some improvement. There are, however, passages which I cannot improve.' In this open

ness there is a something interesting, original, antique, attractive.

Speaking of Rousseau, he said, "I loved him much until I read his Confessions, and then I ceased to esteem him, I cannot fancy the spirit of the man; an unusual process happened to me with respect to him: after his death I lost my reverence for him.”

This great man is very much of a gossip, and, for at least an hour in the day, will make his hairdresser and valets tell all the scan

Ꮓ 4

dal

dal of the village. He knows every minute event that surrounds him. His confidence is almost wholly engrossed by a Mademoiselle Bles. seau : a woman now forty years old, well-made, who has been pretty, and has lived with him about twenty years. She is very attentive to him, manages in the house, and is hated by the servants. Madame de Buffon, who has long been dead, could not endure this woman. She adored her husbund, and is said to have been very jealous of him.

Mademoiselle de Blesseau is not the only one who manages Buffon. Father Ignatius Prouzut, a capuchin friar, born at Dijon, divides her empire. He is, it seems, a convenient confessor. Thirty years ago the author of the Epoques de la Nature sent for him at Easter, and confessed to him in the very labo. ratory in which he had put to. gether his materialism, in which Rousseau prostrated himself at the threshold. Ignatius told me that M. de Buffon, when about to sub. mit to this ceremony, hesitated awhile-"the effect of human weakness" added he—and insisted on his valet-de-chambre's confess. ing himself first. This will sur prise at Paris. Yes: Buffon, when at Montbart, receives the annual communion in his seignoral chapel, goes every Sunday to high mass, and distributes a Louis weekly amongst different descriptions of pious beggars. M. de Buffon tells me that he makes a point of re specting religion; that there must be a religion for the multitude; that in little places every one is observed; and that we should avoid giving offence. "I am persuaded, (said he to me,) that in your

speeches you take care to let nothing escape you that should be remarked, or excite alarm on this head. I have ever had that atten. tion in my writings, and have published them separately, that ordinary men may not catch at the connexion of ideas. I have always named the Creator, but it is only putting, mentally, in its place, the energy of nature, which results from the two great laws of attraction and impulse. When the Sorbonne plagued me, I gave all the satisfactions which they solicited: 'twas a form which I despised, but men are silly enough to be so satisfied. For the same reason, when I fall dangerously ill, I shall not hesitate to send for the sacra ments. This is due to the public religion. Those who act otherwise are madmen. The arietation of Voltaire, of Diderot, of Helvetius, often wounded themselves. The latter was my friend; he spent more than four years at Montbart on different occasions. I recommended more reserve to him. Had he attended to me, he would have been better of.”

In fact, this spirit of accommodation answered to M. de Buf. fon. His works demonstrate materialism; yet they were printed at the royal press.

My early volumes appeared, (said he), at the same time with the Spirit of Laws. We were teazed by the Sorbonne, both Mon. tesquieu and I, and assailed by the critics. The president was quite furious: "What shall you an swer?" said he to me, "Nothing at all, president," replied I. He could not understand such cold. bloodedness.

I was reading to Buffon one even.

:

ing some verses of Thomas on the immortality of the soul. "Pardieu, (said he), religion would be a noble present, it all that were true.” He criticised these lines severely he is inexorable as to style, and does not love poetry. "Never write verses, (said he), I could have made them as well as others; but I soon abandoned a course in which reason marches in fetters: she has chains enough already, without looking about for new ones."

Buffon willingly quits his grounds, and walks about the village with his son among the peasantry. At these times he always appears in a laced coat. He is a stickler about dress, and scolds his son for wearing a frockcoat. I was aware of this, and had taken care to arrive in an embroidered waistcoat and laced clothes. My precaution succeeded wonderfully; he shewed me repeatedly to his son. "There's a gentleman for you!" He loves to be called monsieur le Comte..

.. After having risen from dinner, he pays little attention either to his family or his guests. He sleeps for an hour in his room, then takes a walk alone; after which he will perhaps come in and converse, or sit at his desk and look over papers that are brought for his opinion. He has lived thus these fifty years. To some one who expressed asto. nishment at his great reputation, he replied, "Have not I passed fifty years at my desk?" At nine he goes to bed.

He is at present afflicted with the stone, which suspends his employ. ments. While I was at his house he had acute pains, shut himself up in his chamber, would scarcely see his son, and not his sister. He admitted me repeatedly. His hair was always drest; and he retained

his fine calm look. He complained mildly of his ill health, and bore his pangs with a smile. He opened his whole soul to me: made me read to him the treatise on the loadstone, and, as he listened, would reform the phrases. Sometimes he would send for a volume of his works, and request me to read aloud the finer efforts of style; such as the soliloquy of the first man, the description of an Arabian desert in the article camel, and a still finer piece of painting (in his opinion) in the article Kamichi. Sometimes he would explain to me his system of the formation of the universe, the genesis of beings, the internal moulds, &c. Sometimes he would recite whole pages of his compositions; for he knows them almost. all by heart. He listens gladly to objections, discusses them, and sur. renders to them when his judgment is convinced.

Of natural history and of style he loves to talk, especially of the latter. No one better understands the theory of style, unless it be Beccaria, who did not possess the practice. "The style is the man, (said he); our poets have no style; they are coerced by the rules of metre, which makes slaves of them." "How do You like Thomas ?" I asked. “ Pretty well, (said he), bat he is stiff and bloated." "And Rousseau?" "His style is better: but he has all the faults of bad education, interjec. tion, exclamation, interrogation for ever." Favour me with your leading ideas on style."'" They are recorded in my discourse at the academy: however, two things form style, invention and expression. In. vention depends on patience; conteinplate your subject long: it will gra. dually unrol and unfold-tilla sort of

electric

electric spark convulses for a mo. ment the brain, and spreads down to the very heart a glow of irritation. Then are come the luxuries of genius, the true hours for production and composition-hours so delightful, that I have spent twelve and fourteen successively at my writing-desk, and still been in a state of pleasure. It is for this gratification, yet more than for glory, that I have toiled. Glory comes if it can, and mostly does come. This pleasure is greater if you consult no books: I have never consulted authors, till I had nothing left to say of my own."

I asked him what is the best method of forming one's self. He answered, "Read only the capital works, read them repeatedly, and read those in every department of taste and science; for the framers of such works are, as Cicero says, kindred-souls, and the views of one may always be applied with ad. vantage in some very different branch by another. Be not afraid of the task. Capital works are scarce. I know but five great geniuses-Newton, Bacon, Leib. nitz, Montesquieu, and my self. Newton (continued he,) may have discovered an important principle, but he spent his life in frivolous calculations, and was no master of style." He thought higher of Leib. nitz than of Bacon. He spoke of Montesquieu's genius, but thought his style too studied, and wanting evolution. "This, however (said he), was a natural consequence of his frame of body. I knew him well; he was almost blind, and very impatient. If he had not clipt his ideas into short sentences, he would have lost his period be. fore the amanuensis had taken it down."

He spoke to me of the passion for study, and of the happiness which it bestows. He told me that he had voluntarily secluded him. self from society; that at one time he courted the company of learned men, expecting to acquire much from their conversation, but he had discovered that little of value could be so gleaned, and that, in order to pick up a phrase, an evening was ill squandered: that labour way become a want to him, and he hoped to consecrate to it much of the three or four years of life which probably remained to him; that he feared not death-that the hope of an immortal renown was the most powerful of death-bed consolations.

He shewed me a letter from prince Henry of Prussia, and an. other from the empress of Russia, with his answers. Over this lofty correspondence between power and genius, where the latter retained its innate ascendancy, I felt my soul swell. Glory seemed to assume, as it were, a substantial form, and to bend down at its feet what the world has most exalted.

In a few days, I left this good and great man; repeating, as I withdrew, two lines of the Oedipus of Voltaire :