“I am writing to you from an island in the least known of the Swiss lakes, lying beneath the Jura. The island is the size of a small farm. It is crossed by a thickly-wooded ridge, and there are reed-grown marshes on one side, and on the other meadows and gardens and a homely inn. The inn has grown out of an older cottage or farmhouse, and certain rooms in the more ancient part of the building have become a place of local pilgrimage. On Sundays and holidays the workmen of the small neighbouring towns come here to drink and dance. But the foreign tourist is more rarely seen here, and the English tourist would most likely shun the spot if he had heard of it. For these rude quarters were the refuge, more than a hundred years ago, of a man who, more or less against his will, lit the great bonfire of the feudal system. “It was during one of those breaks in his life when, like Jonah of old, he seemed to be trying to flee from his allotted task, that Rousseau came and hid himself for this little isle. But the feudal society craved for destruction, and, like all societies in that condition, it first bred its destroyer and then steadily goaded him to the work. The young Marat, from his home a few miles away, must have looked on while the prophet of the Revolution was being hunted out of this retreat by the Prussian police, and, as it were, ordered to resume his terrible apostolate. “If imagination were possible for public bodies, if gratitude were conceivable on the part of the Socialist democracy, this isle would not be turned into a restaurant for bank-holiday workmen. It would be made a fit memorial of Rousseau by being set apart for the benefit of his heirs. Every man of genius, driven like him into exile by poverty and love of freedom, would find here a retreat in which he could rest from the storms of the world. Or if stupidity were not the curse of gold, the millionaires themselves would raise a voluntary tax to build an alms-house for Rousseau and Marat, instead of flogging them on to the work of anarchy with the sharp goads of hunger and contempt. “I find that my brother’s unexpected death has made no difference in my feelings towards England, although I find it has made a great difference in the feeling of England towards me. My godfather, the Archbishop, has written to me in the most cordial spirit about my Church patronage, thanking me in advance for my gracious patronage of Christianity. He hints that I may play an important part in bringing the Roman and Anglican communions closer together as the sole means of preserving society. But I do not want to preserve society. The Prime Minister’s letter of condolence also contains a hint that in a year or two, if I behave, I may succeed to the Home Secretaryship--I think he means all the Cabinet offices to become hereditary in course of time. But I am not going to behave. England expects every man to be a humbug, but she will be disappointed as far as I am concerned.