ought not to be examined like that of a theologian; that a bad interpretation does not condemn a proposition, and that it may injure the weak to see an ill-timed suspicion of heresy thrown upon geniuses of the first rank.  In spite of this unjust accusation, M. de Montesquieu was always esteemed, visited, and well received by the greatest and most respectable dignitaries of the Church.  Would he have preserved this esteem among men of worth, if they had regarded him as a dangerous writer?

M. de Montesquieu’s death was not unworthy of his life.  Suffering greatly, far from a family that was dear to him, surrounded by a few friends and a great crowd of spectators, he preserved to the last his calmness and serenity of soul.  After performing with decency every duty, full of confidence in the Eternal Being, he died with the tranquillity of a man of worth, who had ever consecrated his talents to virtue and humanity.  France and Europe lost him February 10th, 1755, aged sixty-six.

All the newspapers published this event as a misfortune.  We may apply to M. de Montesquieu what was formerly said of an illustrious Roman:  that nobody, when told of his death, showed any joy or forgot him when he was no more.  Foreigners were eager to demonstrate their regrets:  my Lord Chesterfield, whom it is enough to name, wrote an article to his honor—­an article worthy of both.  It is the portrait of Anaxagoras drawn by Pericles.  The Royal Academy of Sciences and Belles-Lettres of Prussia, though it is not its custom to pronounce a eulogy on foreign members, paid him an honor which only the illustrious John Bernoulli had hitherto received.  M. de Maupertuis, though ill, performed himself this last duty to his friend, and would not permit so sacred an office to fall to the share of any other.  To these honorable suffrages were added those praises given him, in presence of one of us, by that very monarch to whom this celebrated Academy owes its lustre; a prince who feels the losses which Philosophy sustains, and at the same time comforts her.

The 17th of February the French Academy, according to custom, performed a solemn service for him, at which all the learned men of this body assisted.  They ought to have placed the ‘Spirit of Laws’ upon his coffin, as heretofore they exposed, opposite to that of Raphael, his Transfiguration.  This simple and affecting decoration would have been a fit funeral oration.

M. de Montesquieu had, in company, an unvarying sweetness and gayety of temper.  His conversation was spirited, agreeable, and instructive, because he had known so many great men.  It was, like his style, concise, full of wit and sallies, without gall, and without satire.  Nobody told a story more brilliantly, more readily, more gracefully, or with less affectation.