conversations, and will attribute to you words that you have never
spoken and actions that you have never done. Never write to your
friends--your letters are opened on the way. Beware of all who are
kindly to you in exile; they are ruining you in Paris. You are isolated
as a leper. A mysterious stranger whispers in your ear that he can
procure the assassination of Bonaparte; it is Bonaparte offering to kill
himself. Every day of your life is a new outrage. Only one thing is open
to the exile; it is to turn his thought to other subjects.

He is at least beside the sea; let its infinity bring him wisdom. The
eternal rioting of the surges against the rocks is as the agitation of
impostures against the truth. It is a vain convulsion; the foam gains
nothing by it, the granite loses nothing, and only sparkles the more
bravely in the sun.

But exile has this great advantage--one is free to contemplate, to
think, to suffer. To be alone, and yet to feel that one is with all
humanity; to consolidate oneself as a citizen, and to purify oneself as
a philosopher; to be poor, and begin again to work for one's living, to
meditate on what is good and to contrive for what is better; to be angry
in the public cause, but to crush all personal enmity; to breathe the
vast, living winds of the solitudes; to compose a deeper indignation
with a profounder peace--these are the opportunities of exile. I
accustomed myself to say, "If, after a revolution, Bonaparte should
knock at my door and ask shelter, let never a hair of his head be
injured."

Yes, an exile becomes a well-wisher. He loves the roses, and the birds'
nests, and the flitting hither and thither of the butterflies. He
mingles with the sweet joys of the creatures, and learns a changeless