ment: the last books of the Confessions appeared in 1788; since which period, new accounts have been gradu ally appearing, almost yearly, to throw light on his character and actions. The Memoires of Madame d'Epinay, and Grimin's Literary Correspondence in particular, renewed the whole controversy, some twelve or thirteen years since. There have been no less than eleven different publications-Voyages to the Hermitage, which is not three leagues from Paris. And to crown all, a work has appeared the other day, which has for its scope, an utter annihilation of all the antagonists of the philosopher.

Any one that has heard of the famous Confessions, would suppose that a life of the author was needless. But, besides that the Confessions are a closed volume, even for men who have any regard for decency and their own dignity, they convey little intelligence of that part of literary life which would be valuable to know. The first six books are mere annals of debauchery, which the wretched old man, when he wrote, dwelt on, in spite of years and disease, with a fondness that is disgusting. He confesses, with deep contrition, having forsaken his friend in an epileptic fit, and having purloined a piece of red ribband; but he details with a jocularity and enjoyment in conceivable, and without the least symptom of shame, habits and actions so filthy, so horrible, so beastly-our language, thank heaven! has no name for them. The six last books, with the exception of his account of his productions, which is extremely interesting, are a kind of thermometer of friendship, containing an accurate memorial of kisses given and received, visits, slights, huffs, quarrels, mysteries, and suspicions. Diderot misses an appointment with him-Grimm sits down in his chair-the young Duke of Villeroi quizzes him for calling his dog Duke, and then changing it to Turk, for fear of giving offence; and this, he observes, brought a scolding on the Duke from his mamma, which made him poor Jean Jacques's enemy for life -the Marechale de Luxembourg did not hug him tight enough at partingt -his friends did not shed tears of joy

when they met him;-these are the serious complaints and miseries of a watchmaker's son, who, after forty years of indigence and vagabondism, is admitted into the first societies and friendships of Europe-lodged by marshals, caressed by duchesses, served with game by the very hands of a prince of the blood, and sought after by royalty itself, which introduction he was obliged to refuse, because his debauched life had entailed on him a disease, that rendered him incapable of remaining in the antichamber for an hour without retiring. His refusal was nevertheless attributed to his independence.

The verdict of English juries on unfortunate suicides is much the same, and produced by the same motive, as the public opinion of Rousseau. The word insanity is allowed to cover and excuse his sins;- the worst that an enemy can do, is to apologize for him, and this is the attempt of the author of the Life lately published. The work is merely one of compilation and research, it contains some letters that have not before seen the light, and its attempts at exculpation are narrowly spiteful, and at times ignorant (espe cially in the case of Hume) without producing the least effect. The his tory of the works of J. Jacques, with which it closes, and which is the only part of the volumes worthy of attention, had appeared word for word some years back, prefixed to an edition of "Emile," &c.

Jean Jacques Rousseau was born at Geneva in the year 1712. He was bound apprentice, first to a register keeper, then to an engraver, from whom he ran away. Having turned Catholic for food, he became a cate chumen at Turin, then a lackey; after having inspired a noble family with interest for him, he was in the high road to preferment, and even one of the sons of his noble benefactor took upon him to instruct the little vagabond. Jean Jacques, however, vanished, and occupied various stations in a few years,-interpreter to a Greek archimandrite, a music-master,—a tutor,--gentleman of the chamber to Madame de Warens; till having hit upon what he thought a discovery-a new

mode of noting music, he set off for Paris in the year 1741, being nearly thirty years of age.

Rousseau has given us, in his Confessions, ample details of the develope ment of his youthful intellect-they are impossible to relate; suffice it to say, that they are a disgrace to human nature. With the help of his father, J. Jacques exhausted a library of romances at seven years of age, an occupation not likely to improve his tendencies. While at Madame de Warens, she sent him to M. D'Aubonne, a man of intrigue, and an adventurer, to see what he was fit for. "The result of his observation was, that in spite of an animated physiognomy and pleasing exterior, he was, if not quite a fool,at least a child of little spirit, without ideas or acquirements, of a very limited capacity, and that the highest honour he could look forward to, would be at most a village curacy at some distant day." Rousseau confesses that his appearance and conversation justified the unfavourable impression. His remarks on the opinion of D'Aubonne are worthy of quotation :

"This langour of thought, united with this vivacity of feeling, I experience not only in conversation, but even when alone, and occupied with reflection. My ideas arrange themselves in my head with incredible difficulty. They circulate dully-ferment in my mind to distraction,-put me into a sweat and palpitation; in the midst of this emotion I see nothing clearly, and cannot write a word -I must wait.* Insensibly the distraction subsides, the chaos dissipates; each idea steps into its place, but slowly, and after long and confused agitation. Have you ever seen the opera in Italy? During the changes of the scene there reigns a long and disagreeable disorder-all the decorations are intermingled, pulled and hawled about, and seem ready to overturn. Nevertheless, in an instant every thing is set to rights and arranged, and one is surprised to see such a tumult succeeded by a delightful spectacle. Thus it is with my brain when I would write. If I had known at first to wait, and then render into beauty the images that have presented themselves, few authors would have surpassed me.

"Hence comes the extreme difficulty with which I compose. My manuscripts are scratched, scribbled, jumbled, illegible, and attest the pain they have cost me. There is not one which I have not been obliged to transcribe four or five times ere I sent it to press. I could never do any thing with pen in hand over a table and paper:-it is in walking through rocks and woods, in the night, while in bed and sleepless, that I write in my brain, and people may judge with what difficulty and length of time, since I am totally deprived of all power of verbal memory, and never in my life could retain six verses by heart. There are some of my periods that I have turned over and over in my head for six nights, ere they were in a state to be put on paper. Hence it is, that I have succeeded better in those kinds of composition which demand labour, than in those which require lightness, as letters-a species of writing of which I have never been able to catch the tone, and which puts me to the torture. I never write a letter on the most trivial subject that does not cost me hours of fatigue; or if I write what first comes into my head, I know not how to commence or finish-my letter is a long and confused verbiage, that scarce can be understood when read.

"It costs me this trouble not only to render my ideas, but to receive them. I have studied men ; I think myself an acute observer, nevertheless I know nothing of what I see. I see nothing well but what I recall, and have no power but in my recollections. Of all that is said and done in my presence, I neither can perceive, nor penetrate the motive-it is merely the exterior sign that strikes me. But afterwards the whole scene returns-the place, the time, the tone, the look, the gesture, the circumstance,-nothing escapes me. Then I find the motives and the meaning of all that was said or done; and rarely am I deceived."– Confessions, Livre 3.

This sottish stupidity at the time that presence of mind was most wanting, and this habit of recollective penetration afterwards, were the principal causes of all the miseries of the philosopher. Happy enough when in

stant," says he, " I saw another universe, and became another man," according to his account, it put him all in a perspiration; we think that he might account for any extraordinary heat, by the walk in the middle of summer, from Paris to Vincennes. Diderot tells another story, and quite as circumstantial, that Jean Jacques had determined on the same side of the question, but that he shewed the advantage of paradox-I induced him to take the part he did;-the question is not worth deciding.

The discourse was written in 1749, and Rousseau quitted Paris for Mont morenci in 1756. These seven years may be considered the first epochs of his literary life ;-during it he produced the " Devin du Village," and the Essay "Sur l'inégalite des Conditions." This latter is a sequel of his first paradox, which he subsequently carried to its extent in the Contrat Social. The literary connexions which had such influence on his future temper and actions, and concerning which there have arisen so many subjects of debate, were formed, or at least established, during this period. His chief intimacy was with Grimm, who was, at best, a worthless puppy; and with Diderot, whose literary fame, already established, did not allow him to meet Rousseau's friendship on an equality. Jean Jacques was, in simplicity and forwardness, all his life a child, and could never comprehend those different shades of intimacy which are so distinet, although politeness veils them with the same mask. He gave his whole heart to the persons he had taken a fancy to, and expected, without any compromise or delay, a like return. The act of shaking hands was a scene with him, and he was equally disappointed and ashamed when he found these emotions confined to himself. Upon his first visit to Diderot, at Vincennes, he rushed into the arms of his friend, and dissolved into tears; he afterwards complained bitterly, that Diderot, instead of weeping, as in duty bound, merely observed to the company, "You see how my friends love

me.

The very same omission is one of his chief complaints against David Hume, who, in one of his letters, as serts, that he was much affected:Rousseau, however, was not satisfied, he wanted tears, and that from two

materialists, who would belie their creed at every sob. Grimm was a hypocrite, a mere pretender in feeling as in every thing else; of his conduct there might be reason to complainbut it never appears that Diderot made a promise of any romantic attachment. The sentence of the latter," none but the wicked love solitude," or something to that effect, was the commencement of the quarrel;-mark the sophism by which Rousseau replics :

If a man be alone, what harm can he offer to any one?" as if wickedness consisted solely in our relations with others. But this was evidently his morality: the least harm to another is marked by deep contrition in his Confessions, while the abominable sins that he committed against himself are told without the least remorse. It was at this period that Rousseau, who could not meet his friends without tears in his eyes, packed off his five children, one after another, to the foundling establishment at Paris; the first was sent with a cipher, but even that precaution was not thought worth taking with the others. Of this his enemies made a fertile subject of accusation in the sequel; and, as may be supposed, all his attempts at exculpation but aggravated his crime.

After the success of his little opera, in which Madame de Pompadour even deigned to act the part of Colin, Rousseau fancies that all his friends grew cold towards him. "They could have pardoned me," says he, for having written books, and excellent books, but having succeeded in an opera, a path in which they could never follow me, I could never obtain forgiveness." This is manifestly the surmise of narrow vanity and suspicion; had his friends been envious, they could not have met any thing more to their wishes, than to see him distracted from literature by musical composition. His removal from Paris soon effected a total separation from his old friends. While walking with Madame d'Epinay on her domain of La Chevrette, Jean Jacques admired the situation of the hermitage, and seemed struck with the beauty and retirement of the spot. Madame d'Epinay made no remark on the occasion, but immediately employed workmen to fit up the residence, and leading Rousseau one day unexpectedly to the place,-" My