would
have entertained a friendship for me had it been in my power to have seen
her oftener; at Geneva, that of M. de Closure, the French Resident, who
often spoke to me of my mother, the remembrance of whom neither death nor
time had erased from his heart; likewise those of the two Barillots, the
father, who was very amiable, a good companion, and one of the most
worthy men I ever met, calling me his grandson. During the troubles of
the republic, these two citizens took contrary sides, the son siding with
the people, the father with the magistrates. When they took up arms in
1737, I was at Geneva, and saw the father and son quit the same house
armed, the one going to the townhouse, the other to his quarters, almost
certain to meet face to face in the course of two hours, and prepared to
give or receive death from each other. This unnatural sight made so
lively an impression on me, that I solemnly vowed never to interfere in
any civil war, nor assist in deciding our internal dispute by arms,
either personally or by my influence, should I ever enter into my rights
as a citizen. I can bring proofs of having kept this oath on a very
delicate occasion, and it will be confessed (at least I should suppose
so) that this moderation was of some worth.

But I had not yet arrived at that fermentation of patriotism which the
first sight of Geneva in arms has since excited in my heart, as may be
conjectured by a very grave fact that will not tell to my advantage,
which I forgot to put in its proper place, but which ought not to be
omitted.

My uncle Bernard died at Carolina, where he had been employed some years
in the building of Charles Town, which he had formed the plan of. My
poor cousin, too, died in the Prussian service; thus my aunt lost, nearly
at the same period, her son and husband. These losses reanimated in some
measure her affection for the nearest relative she had remaining, which
was myself. When I went to Geneva, I reckoned her house my home, and
amused myself with rummaging and turning over the books and papers my
uncle had left. Among them I found some curious ones, and some letters
which they certainly little thought of. My aunt, who set no store by
these dusty papers, would willingly have given the whole to me, but I
contented myself with two or three books, with notes written by the
Minister Bernard, my grandfather, and among the rest, the posthumous
works of Rohault in quarto, the margins of which wer