es relating to the frame of man. While I stayed with
him he shewed me a number of letters from Morgagni and Pontedera, a
professor of botany, a science of which Haller had an extensive
knowledge. Hearing me speak of these learned men whose works I had read
at an early age, he complained that Pontedera's letters were almost
illegible and written in extremely obscure Latin. He shewed me a letter
from a Berlin Academician, whose name I have forgotten, who said that
since the king had read his letter he had no more thoughts of suppressing
the Latin language. Haller had written to Frederick the Great that a
monarch who succeeded in the unhappy enterprise of proscribing the
language of Cicero and Virgil from the republic of letters would raise a
deathless monument to his own ignorance. If men of letters require a
universal language to communicate with one another, Latin is certainly
the best, for Greek and Arabic do not adapt themselves in the same way to
the genius of modern civilization.

Haller was a good poet of the Pindaric kind; he was also an excellent
statesman, and had rendered great services to his country. His morals
were irreproachable, and I remember his telling me that the only way to
give precepts was to do so by example. As a good citizen he was an
admirable paterfamilias, for what greater proof could he give of his love
of country than by presenting it with worthy subjects in his children,
and such subjects result from a good education. His wife was still young,
and bore on her features the marks of good nature and discretion. He had
a charming daughter of about eighteen; her appearance was modest, and at
table she only opened her mouth to speak in a low tone to a young man who
sat beside her. After dinner, finding myself alone with M. Haller, I
asked him who this young man was. He told me he was his daughter's tutor.

"A tutor like that and so pretty a pupil might easily become lovers."

"Yes, please God."

This Socratic reply made me see how misplaced my remark had been, and I
felt some confusion. Finding a book to my hand I opened it to restore my
composure.

It was an octavo volume of his works, and I read in it:

"Utrum memoria post mortem dubito."

"You do not think, then," said I, "that the memory is an essential part
of the soul?"

"How is that question to be answered?" M. de Haller replied, cautiously,
as he had his reasons for being considered orthodox.

During dinner I asked if M. de Volt