u's Emile.

The stranger immediately became grave.

They walked for some time side by side, my father expressing, with the
warmth of a heart still throbbing with emotion, all that this work had
made him feel; his companion remaining cold and silent. The former
extolled the glory of the great Genevese writer, whose genius had made
him a citizen of the world; he expatiated on this privilege of great
thinkers, who reign in spite of time and space, and gather together a
people of willing subjects out of all nations; but the stranger suddenly
interrupted him:

"And how do you know," said he, mildly, "whether Jean Jacques would not
exchange the reputation which you seem to envy for the life of one of the
wood-cutters whose chimneys' smoke we see? What has fame brought him
except persecution? The unknown friends whom his books may have made for
him content themselves with blessing him in their hearts, while the
declared enemies that they have drawn upon him pursue him with violence
and calumny! His pride has been flattered by success: how many times has
it been wounded by satire? And be assured that human pride is like the
Sybarite who was prevented from sleeping by a crease in a roseleaf. The
activity of a vigorous mind, by which the world profits, almost always
turns against him who possesses it. He expects more from it as he grows
older; the ideal he pursues continually disgusts him with the actual; he
is like a man who, with a too-refined sight, discerns spots and blemishes
in the most beautiful face. I will not speak of stronger temptations and
of deeper downfalls. Genius, you have said, is a kingdom; but what
virtuous man is not afraid of being a king? He who feels only his great
powers, is--with the weaknesses and passions of our nature--preparing for
great failures. Believe me, sir, the unhappy man who wrote this book is
no object of admiration or of envy; but, if you have a feeling heart,
pity him!"

My father, astonished at the excitement with which his companion
pronounced these last words, did not know what to answer.

Just then they reached the paved road which led from Meudon Castle to
that of Versailles; a carriage was passing.

The ladies who were in it perceived the old man, uttered an exclamation
of surprise, and leaning out of the window repeated:

"There is Jean Jacques--there is Rousseau!"

Then the carriage disappeared in the distance.

My father remained motionless, confounded, and amazed, his