"We began with the
_Engagement temeraire,_" says Madame d'Epinay in her Memoires: "it is a
new play by M. Rousseau, a friend of M. de Francueil's, who introduced
him to us. The author played a part in his piece. Though it is only a
society play, it was a great success. I doubt, however, whether it would
be successful at the theatre, but it is the work of a clever man and no
ordinary man. I do not quite know, though, whether it is what I saw of
the author or of the piece that made me think so. He is complimentary
without being polite, or at least without having the air of it. He seems
to be ignorant of the usages of society, but it is easy to see that he
has infinite wit. He has a brown complexion, and eyes full of fire light
up his face. When he has been speaking and you watch him, you think him
good-looking; but when you recall him to memory, it is always as a plain
man. He is said to be in bad health; it is probably that which gives him
from time to time a wild look."

It was amid this brilliant intimacy, humiliating and pleasant at the same
time, that Rousseau published his _Discours sur les Sciences et les
Arts_. It has been disputed whether the inspiration was such as he
claimed for this production, the first great work which he had ever
undertaken and which was to determine the direction of his thoughts.
"I was going to see Diderot at Vincennes," he says, "and, as I walked, I
was turning over the leaves of the _Mercure de France,_ when I stumbled
upon this question proposed by the Academy of Dijon: Whether the advance
of sciences and arts has contributed to the corruption or purification of
morals. All at once I felt my mind dazzled by a thousand lights, crowds
of ideas presented themselves at once with a force and a confusion which
threw me into indescribable bewilderment; I felt my head seized with a
giddiness like intoxication, a violent palpitation came over me, my bosom
began to heave. Unable to breathe any longer as I walked, I flung myself
down under one of the trees in the avenue, and there spent half an hour
in such agitation that, on rising up, I found all the front of my
waistcoat wet with tears without my having had an idea that I had shed
any." Whether it were by natural intuition or the advice of Diderot,
Jean Jacques had found his weapons; poor and obscure as he was, he
attacked openly the brilliant and corrupt society which had welcomed him
for its amusement. Spiritualistic at heart an