and opened his tin box to put his book back in it.

The stranger asked him with a smile if he might without impertinence ask
the name of it. My father answered that it was Rousseau'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