Bastiat’s career was in reality fast drawing to a close. His end was calm and serene. He seemed himself to regard it as an indifferent spectator, conversing with his friends on his favourite topics,—Political Economy, Philosophy, and Religion. He desired to die as a Christian. To his cousin the Abbé Monclar, and his friend M. Paillottet, who stood by, he said—“On looking around me, I observe that the most enlightened nations of the world have been of the Christian faith, and I am very happy to find myself in communion with that portion of the human race.” “His eye,” says M. Paillottet, “sparkled with that peculiar expression which I had frequently noticed in our conversations, and which intimated the solution of a problem.” He beckoned his friends to come near him, as if he had something to say to them—he murmured twice the words ‹La verité›—and passed away. His death took place at Rome, on the 24th of December 1850, in the fiftieth year of his age. His obsequies were celebrated in the church of Saint Louis des Français. It was in the year 1845 that he took up his residence in Paris, so that his career as an [p032] Economist had extended over little more than five years. He died a martyr to his favourite science, and we may well apply to him the beautiful lines of Lord Byron,— Oh! what a noble heart was here undone, When Science’ self destroy’d her favourite son! Yes, she too much indulged his fond pursuit, She sow’d the seeds, but death has reap’d the fruit. ’Twas his own genius gave the final blow, And help’d to plant the wound that laid him low: So the struck eagle, stretch’d upon the plain, No more through rolling clouds to soar again, View’d his own feather on the fatal dart, And wing’d the shaft that quiver’d in his heart; Keen were his pangs, but keener far to feel He nursed the pinion which impell’d the steel; While the same plumage that had warm’d his nest Drank the last life-drop of his bleeding breast. TO THE YOUTH OF FRANCE. Love of study, and lack of fixed opinions,—a mind free from prejudice, a heart devoid of hate, zeal for the propagation of truth,—ardent sympathies, disinterestedness, devotion, candour,—enthusiasm for all that is good and fair, simple and great, honest and religious,—such are the precious attributes of youth. It is for this reason that I dedicate my work to you. And the seed must have in it no principle of life if it fail to take root in a soil so generous. I had thought to offer you a picture, and all I have given you is a sketch; but you will pardon me; for who, in times like the present,[12] can sit down to finish a grave and important work? My hope is that some one among you, on seeing it, will be led to exclaim, with the great artist, ‹Anch’ io son pittore!› and, seizing the pencil, impart to my rude canvas colour and flesh, light and shade, sentiment and life.