end him; but the monomaniac was
incapable of being befriended. Nothing could be more pitiful than were
the decline and the extinction that occurred of so much brilliant
genius, and so much lovable character. It is even doubtful whether
Rousseau did not at last take his own life. The voice of accusation is
silenced, in the presence of an earthly retribution so dreadful. One may
not indeed approve, but one may at least be free to pity, more than he
blames, in judging Rousseau.

Accompanying, and in some sort complementing, the "Confessions," are
often published several detached pieces called "Reveries," or "Walks."
These are very peculiar compositions, and very characteristic of the
author. They are dreamy meditations or reveries, sad, even sombre, in
spirit, but "beautiful exceedingly," in form of expression. Such works
as the "Rene" of Chateaubriand, works but too abundant since in French
literature, must all trace their pedigree to Rousseau's "Walks." We
introduce two specimen extracts. The shadow of Rousseau's monomania will
be felt thick upon them:--

It is now fifteen years since I have been in this strange
situation, which yet appears to me like a dream; ever imagining
that, disturbed by indigestion, I sleep uneasily, but shall soon
awake, freed from my troubles, but surrounded by my friends....

How could I possibly foresee the destiny that awaited me?... Could
I, if in my right senses, suppose that one day, the man I was, and
yet remain, should be taken, without any kind of doubt, for a
monster, a poisoner, an assassin, the horror of the human race, the
sport of the rabble, my only salutation to be spit upon, and that a
whole generation would unanimously amuse themselves in burying me
alive? When this strange revolution first happened, taken by
unawares, I was overwhelmed with astonishment; my agitation, my
indignation, plunged me into a delirium, which ten years have
scarcely been able to calm: during this interval, falling from
error to error, from fault to fault, and folly to folly, I have, by
my imprudence, furnished the contrivers of my fate with
instruments, which they have artfully employed to fix it without
resource....

* * *

Every future occurrence will be immaterial to me; I have in the
world neither relative, friend, nor brother; I am on the earth as
if I had fallen into some unknown pl