charming place, but not so the road to it, which, being paved, is very
tiresome.

We visited the hermitage where Rousseau wrote so many of his works, but
in which this strange and unhappy man found not that peace so long
sought by him in vain, and to which his own wayward temper and
suspicious nature offered an insurmountable obstacle.

As I sat in this humble abode, and looked around on the objects once
familiar to his eyes, I could not resist the sentiment of pity that
filled my breast, at the recollection that even in this tranquil
asylum, provided by friendship [2], and removed from the turmoil of the
busy world, so repugnant to his taste, the jealousies, the
heart-burnings, and the suspicions, that empoisoned his existence
followed him, rendering his life not only a source of misery to
himself, but of pain to others; for no one ever conferred kindness on
him without becoming the object of his suspicion, if not of his
aversion.

The life of Rousseau is one of the most humiliating episodes in the
whole history of literary men, and the most calculated to bring genius
into disrepute: yet the misery he endured more than avenged the wrongs
he inflicted; and, while admiring the productions of a genius, of which
even his enemies could not deny him the possession, we are more than
ever compelled to avow how unavailing is this glorious gift to confer
happiness on its owner, or to secure him respect or esteem, if
unaccompanied by goodness.

Who can reflect on the life of this man without a sense of the danger
to which Genius exposes its children, and a pity for their sufferings,