to hear you reproaching me for this conceited
dogmatism, this lawless arrogance, which respects nothing, claims a
monopoly of justice and good sense, and assumes to put in the pillory
any one who dares to maintain an opinion contrary to its own. This
fault, they tell me, more odious than any other in an author, was too
prominent a characteristic of my First Memoir, and I should do well to
correct it.

It is important to the success of my defence, that I should vindicate
myself from this reproach; and since, while perceiving in myself other
faults of a different character, I still adhere in this particular to
my disputatious style, it is right that I should give my reasons for my
conduct. I act, not from inclination, but from necessity.

I say, then, that I treat my authors as I do for two reasons: a REASON
OF RIGHT, and a REASON OF INTENTION; both peremptory.

1. Reason of right. When I preach equality of fortunes, I do not advance
an opinion more or less probable, a utopia more or less ingenious, an
idea conceived within my brain by means of imagination only. I lay down
an absolute truth, concerning which hesitation is impossible, modesty
superfluous, and doubt ridiculous.

But, do you ask, what assures me that that which I utter is true?

What assures me, sir? The logical and metaphysical processes which I
use, the correctness of which I have demonstrated by a priori reasoning;
the fact that I possess an infallible method of investigation and
verification with which my authors are unacquainted; and finally, the
fact that for all matters relating to property and justice I have found
a formula which explains all legislative variations, and furnishes a
key for all problems. Now, is there so much as a shadow of method in M.
Toullier, M. Troplong, and this swarm of insipid commentators, almost
as devoid of reason and moral sense as the code itself? Do you give the
name of method to an alphabetical, chronological, analogical, or merely
nominal classification of subjects? Do you give the name of method
to these lists of paragraphs gathered under an arbitrary head, these
sophistical vagaries, this mass of contradictory quotations and
opinions, this nauseous style, this spasmodic rhetoric, models of which
are so common at the bar, though seldom found elsewhere? Do you take for
philosophy this twaddle, this intolerable pettifoggery adorned with a
few scholastic trimmings? No, no! a writer who respects himself, never
will c