under the picture were
written some lines (which I cannot now recollect) by Rousseau himself;
the other engraving, which hung opposite, was the likeness of a very
tall, thin, old man, whose dress was nearly concealed by the dirt which
had been allowed to accumulate upon it; I could only distinguish that
it was ornamented with a broad riband. When I had sufficiently surveyed
this chamber, the simplicity of which, so closely bordering on want
and misery, pained me to the heart, I directed my attention to the
extraordinary man who was the occasion of my visit. He was of middle
height, slightly bent by age, with a large and expansive chest; his
features were common in their cast, but possessed of the most perfect
regularity. His eyes, which he from time to time raised from the music
he was considering, were round and sparkling but small, and the heavy
brows which hung over them, conveyed an idea of gloom and severity; but
his mouth, which was certainly the most beautiful and fascinating in
its expression I ever saw, soon removed this unfavourable impression.
Altogether there belonged to his countenance a smile of mixed sweetness
and sadness, which bestowed on it an indescribable charm.

To complete my description, I must not forget to add his dress, which
consisted of a dirty cotton cap, to which were fixed strings of a
riband that had once been scarlet; a pelisse with arm-holes, a flannel
waistcoat, snuff-coloured breeches, gray stockings, and shoes slipped
down at the heel, after the fashion of slippers. Such was the portrait,
and such the abode of the man who believed himself to be one of the
potentates of the earth and who, in fact, had once owned his little
court and train of courtiers; for, in the century in which he lived,
talent had become as arbitrary as sovereign power--thanks to the
stupidity of some of our grandees and the caprice of Frederick of
Prussia.

Meanwhile my host, undisturbed by my reflections, had quietly gone over
his packet of music. He found amongst it an air from "_Le Devin du
Village_," which I had purposely placed there; he half turned towards
me and looking steadfastly at me, as if he would force the truth from my
lips.

"Madam," said he, "do you know the author of this little composition?"

"Yes," replied I, with an air of as great simplicity as I could assume,
"it is written by a person of the same name as yourself, who writes
books and composes operas. Is he any relation to you?"

My