despot at heart, and he came to a despot's end. He might have foreseen a
violent death, for throughout his life he was always provoking men to the
point of despair. There can be no comparison between him and Frederick.

The Marquis d'Argens made me a present of all his works, and on my asking
him if I could congratulate myself on possessing the whole number, he
said yes, with the exception of a fragment of autobiography which he had
written in his youth, and which he had afterwards suppressed.

"Why so?" I asked.

"Because I was foolish enough to write the truth. Never give way to this
temptation, if it assails you. If you once begin on this plan you are not
only compelled to record all your vices and follies, but to treat them in
the severe tone of a philosophical historian. You must not, of course,
omit the good you may have done; and so praise and blame is mingled on
every page. All the evil you say of yourself will be held for gospel,
your peccadilloes will be made into crimes, and your good deeds will not
only be received with incredulity, but you will be taxed with pride and
vanity for having recorded them. Besides, if you write your memoirs, you
make an enemy in every chapter if you once begin to tell the truth. A man
should neither talk of himself nor write of himself, unless it be to
refute some calumny or libel."

I was convinced, and promised never to be guilty of such a folly, but in
spite of that I have been writing memoirs for the last seven years, and
though I repent of having begun, I have sworn to go on to the end.
However, I write in the hope that my Memoirs may never see the light of
day; in the first place the censure would not allow them to be printed,
and in the second I hope I shall be strong-minded enough, when my last