hich I still refer to with pleasure.[1] He explained to me
his intentions and motives in the composition of his poem, discussed
with susceptibility and even with some degree of temper concealed under
his gratitude, the strictures mixed with my eulogiums, and finished by
saying: "In conclusion, Sir, you know the tempests raised against my
work, and from whence they proceed. There is another wound, not
exhibited, which is the real source of all this rage. It is that
_Hierocles_ massacres the Christians in the name of _philosophy_ and
_liberty_. Time will do me justice, if my work deserves it, and you will
greatly accelerate this justice by the publication of your articles,
provided you could be induced to change and modify them to a certain
point. Show me my faults, and I will correct them. I only despise those
critics who are as base in their language as in the secret motives which
induce them to speak. I can find neither reason nor principle in the
mouths of those literary mountebanks hired by the police, who dance in
the gutters for the amusement of lacqueys.... I do not give up the hope
of calling to see you, or of receiving you in my hermitage. Honest men
should, particularly at present, unite for mutual consolation; generous
feelings and exalted sentiments become every day so rare, that we ought
to consider ourselves too happy when we encounter them.... Accept, I
entreat you, once more, the assurance of my high consideration, of my
sincere devotion, and if you will permit, of a friendship which we
commence under the auspices of frankness and honour."

Between M. de Chateaubriand and myself, frankness and honour, most
certainly, have never been disturbed throughout our political
controversies; but friendship has not been able to survive them. The
word is too rare and valuable to be hastily pronounced.

When we have lived under a system of real and serious liberty, we feel
both an inclination and a right to smile when we consider what, in other
times, has been classed as factious opposition by the one side, and
courageous resistance by the other. In August, 1807, eighteen months
before the publication of 'The Martyrs,' I stopped some days in
Switzerland, on my way to visit my mother at Nismes; and with the
confident enthusiasm of youth, as anxious to become acquainted with
living celebrities as I was myself unknown, I addressed a letter to
Madame de Stael, requesting the honour of calling upon her. She invited
me to