he pushed the introspective method to its farthest limits; the sanctity
of the individual seemed to him not only to dignify the slightest
idiosyncrasies of temperament and character, but also, in some sort of
way, to justify what was positively bad. Thus his book contains the
germs of that Byronic egotism which later became the fashion all over
Europe. It is also, in parts, a morbid book. Rousseau was not content
to extenuate nothing; his failings got upon his nerves; and, while he
was ready to dilate upon them himself with an infinite wealth of detail,
the slightest hint of a reflection on his conduct from any other person
filled him with an agony and a rage which, at the end of his life,
developed into madness. To strict moralists, therefore, and to purists
in good taste, the _Confessions_ will always be unpalatable. More
indulgent readers will find in those pages the traces of a spirit which,
with all its faults, its errors, its diseases, deserves something more
than pity--deserves almost love. At any rate, it is a spirit singularly
akin to our own. Out of the far-off, sharp, eager, unpoetical,
unpsychological eighteenth century, it speaks to us in the familiar
accents of inward contemplation, of brooding reminiscence, of
subtly-shifting temperament, of quiet melancholy, of visionary joy.
Rousseau, one feels, was the only man of his age who ever wanted to be
alone. He understood that luxury: understood the fascination of silence,
and the loveliness of dreams. He understood, too, the exquisite
suggestions of Nature, and he never wrote more beautifully than when he
was describing the gentle process of her influences on the solitary
human soul. He understood simplicity: the charm of little happinesses,
the sweetness of ordinary affections, the beauty of a country face. The
paradox is strange; how was it that it should have been left to the
morbid, tortured, half-crazy egoist of the _Confessions_ to lead the way
to such spiritual delicacies, such innocent delights?