and mentioned in particular their several prices, which I do not now remember. That of Emile was seven thousand francs. "But," said I," you might now write more.' "Would to God," said he," that I had never written any thing. My books have been the cause of all my misfortunes, as Fontenelle predicted to me that they would be. When he read my first publications he said to me-'I see what your success will be, but remember what I now tell you. I have turned my literary talents to as good an account as most persons. They have procured me wealth, rank, and reputation, but with all this I have never received so much pleasure as pain from any one of my productions. When you take your pen in hand, you must bid farewell to repose and happiness.' And I find he was right. I was never quiet again till I laid it aside. It is now ten years

since I have written any thing." Racine is reported to have said the same thing. Here then are three literary men of the highest reputation and all unhappy. The profession of authorship must be a very miserable one in France.'

The conviction here expressed by St Pierre of the wretchedness of the literary profession in France did not prevent him from devoting himself to it for the rest of his life, and from finding much more tranquillity and happiness in the pursuit, than he had derived from the more active enterprises of his earlier years. In reality the misery inflicted upon two or three distinguished authors, by their own morbid sensibility, is no argument against the profession of letters. This unfortunate disposition of mind is more the result of temperament than of particular intellectual qualities or professional pursuits. It may be observed in persons of every employment, and we are not inclined to think that the proportion of those who suffer from it is unusually great among literary men of eminence. If Pascal, Racine, and Rousseau in Franceif Swift, Cowper, and Johnson in England were the victims. of nervous disease, we may find among their contemporaries in both countries examples not less illustrious of an opposite kind. Fontenelle himself, one of the luckless wights mentioned by St Pierre, sustained the weight of its sorrows for a century, and was acknowledged to the last to be the gayest and most gallant man in Paris. In general it has been observed that men of letters are uncommonly vivacious-no bad proof that their condition is at least tolerable. Montesquieu says of himself, that every morning when he opened his eyes,

he enjoyed a secret satisfaction at beholding the light of another day; and that he had never in the course of his life felt a chagrin which was not removed by an hour or two of reading. The cheerfulness and gaiety of Voltaire are sufficiently known, and are the more remarkable as his health was generally bad. In England, if report say true, we need not go beyond the wits of the present age to find examples of the happiest and most amiable social qualities united with the highest poetical and literary talent: although it must be allowed on the other hand that the sentimental sorrows of lord Byron and the Lake poets are entitled to their full share of compassion. Dr Johnson was morose; but his great contemporaries, Burke, Hume, and Adam Smith, were uncommonly amiable; and our own Franklin, not inferior to any of them in genius, was still more remarkable for the cheerful sweetness of his temper. If Pope was occasionally splenetic, his disposition seems to have been radically good, and his life on the whole as happy a one as could well have been passed by a man of so many infirmities. He tells us himself that Rowe would laugh all day, and dwells with enthusiasm on the social qualities of Bolingbroke. Shakspeare and his contemporary poets we know were happy to a fault; and the wits of Charles will not be accused of having been uncommonly miserable. In short, we apprehend that a general survey of the private history of men of literary eminence would shew that instead of being as wretched as they are here and elsewhere represented, they enjoy life as much as any other class of persons.

For, to touch the matter a little more deeply and not to rest wholly in examples, it would be rather singular if the case were otherwise. If literary talent supposes an acuteness of sensibility which makes its possessor more vulnerable to the common accidents of life, it implies in like manner the divine philosophy,' which cures the wounds they inflict, and is itself, as the poet says, ' a perpetual feast of nectared sweets.' Success in letters, if not so intoxicating and brilliant at the moment as some others, is a pure and lasting source of enjoyment. It is true that like all other success it makes enemies; but their malicious attacks are only testimonials of merit in a particular form, and will be so considered by an author who makes a just estimate of his own worth. The radiant queen of the ball room regards the sneers and sidelong looks of rival belles as not less essential to her triumph, than the homage of the admiring beaux. The mistake seems to arise from confounding the New Series, No. 11.

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condition of the successful and unsuccessful candidates for literary distinction. The profession of letters is rather a dangerous one to embark in, at least as a means of support; because while the highest talents are requisite for success, mediocrity is less valued and worse paid than in most other pursuits. The unsuccessful candidates in this as in all other professions are necessarily dissatisfied and unhappy; nor is it unnatural that they should attribute their misfortunes to the injustice of the world, rather than their own defect of talent. These persons complain of course very loudly of slighted merit and public caprice. But to say that the few who have reached the envied heights of literary eminence, and are basking in the full sunshine of general favor, are also of necessity miserable, is, we apprehend, a rash and hazardous assertion, neither consistent with abstract probability, nor supported by actual experience. We might as well predicate unhappiness of a young beauty at the opening of her first winter in town-of a king on his coronation day--or of a pair of lovers at the close of a novel.

But however this may be in general, there have been doubtless individual cases, in which the highest and most extensive reputation has failed to secure the happiness of its possessor, and that of Rousseau was among the number. The nervous disease under which he labored embittered all his triumphs in the field of letters, rendered him through the whole of his life one of the most miserable of human beings, and quite deprived him at times of the use of his reason. His irritability displayed itself occasionally in forms bordering very nearly on the comic, as in the following instance related by St Pierre.

'One day I was going to call upon Rousseau to return a botanical work which I had borrowed of him, and met his wife coming down the stair case of his lodgings. She gave me the key of his apartment, saying that her husband was at home, and I opened the door. He received me in perfect silence and with a severe and solemn air. I spoke to him, but he replied only in monosyllables, still copying his music, and often erasing and blotting what he had written. To relieve the embarrassment of the situation, I opened a book which was lying on the table. "The gentleman is fond of reading," said he with a troubled voice. Upon this I rose to go, and he, rising at the same time, conducted me to the head of the stairs. I begged of him not to take this trouble, and he observed in answer, that this was the proper way to treat strangers. I made no reply,

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but retired in great emotion, and with a settled determination never to visit him again.

'I had not seen him for two months and a half, when we met one afternoon at the corner of a street. He came up to me and inquired why I had ceased to visit him. "You know the reason," said I. "There are some days," said he, "in which I wish to be alone. I return from my solitary walk so quiet and happy-I have there offended nobody-nobody has offended me. I should regret," said he, with an air of tenderness, "to see you too often; but I should be still more grieved not to see you at all. I am afraid of intimate friendships, but nevertheless I have a project, when the proper time comes."-"Why," said I, "do you not hang out a signal at your window, when you wish to receive my visit? or if you choose to be alone, why not tell me so when I come?" "Do you not perceive," said he, "that my ill humour gets the better of me? I struggle with it awhile, but it finally prevails, and breaks out in spite of me. I have my faults, but if we value a person's friendship, we must take him as we find him." He then invited me to dine with him, the next day.'

The following anecdotes, related by Corancez, indicate very clearly an occasional aberration of intellect.

I had perceived for some time, says this narrator, a striking change in the habits of Rousseau, and I often found him in a state of convulsion, which altered his physiognomy entirely, and gave it an expression really frightful. His looks were vacant and wild: he would turn half round on his seat, and passing his arm over the frame of his chair, move it rapidly, backward and forward, in the manner of a pendulum. Whenever at my entrance, I saw him take this posture, I expected the most extravagant conduct, and I was never deceived. On one of these distressing occasions he said to me," do you know why I feel so remarkable a partiality for Tasso ?" "No," said I," but I think I can guess. Tasso, united with the utmost richness of imagination, and the highest poetical talent, the advantage of being posterior to Virgil and Homer, and was able of course to profit by their beauties, and their faults." "Yes," said he, "there is something in that: but I value him because he predicted my misfortunes." I made a motion, as if intending to speak, but he checked me. "I understand you," said he, "you mean to say that Tasso lived a long time ago, and could have no knowledge of the events of my life. Of this I

were numerous and considerable. There is also an entire absence of literary talent in the execution of the work, and it has no other merit than that of bringing together from various quarters all the facts that are known respecting the life of the famous Genevan, and of rendering more accessible several detached accounts, which had previously appeared of particular passages in his history.

The Essay of Bernardin de St Pierre is of a different description, as may be supposed from the name of the writer. It has the attraction of style, which uniformly marks his productions, and the interest which necessarily attends the observations of one deep and powerful thinker upon the character of another. It is however only an unfinished fragment of less than a hundred pages, which the author did not complete, and which has lately appeared with some other unpublished writings in the edition of his works which we noticed in a former number. One or two passages contained in it were inserted by the author in the Studies of Nature. We propose to lay before our readers several extracts from this interesting little sketch, and shall afterwards add a few others from the materials collected by the new biographer.

The acquaintance of Rousseau and Bernardin de St The latter was Pierre commenced in the following manner. returning home in the year 1771 from the Isle of France after his long and unsuccessful chase in pursuit of fortune; and touched in his way at the Cape of Good Hope, where he was detained for some time. In a letter from this place he dwells in strong language upon the pleasure, which he promised himself from his return of enjoying two summers in the same year-the month of January when he wrote being the time of vintage at the Cape and corresponding with that of August in France. The person to whom this letter was sent communicated it to Rousseau, who immediately expressed a desire to become acquainted with the writer. Upon his arrival at Paris, St Pierre was accordingly introduced to the eccentric philosopher. The latter received him with great cordiality, and said that he should always esteem a man, whose mind, on returning from the land of fortune, was occupied with the expectation of enjoying two summers in one year. Such was the beginning of their acquaintance, which grew into a lasting and intimate friendship. These facts are His own narrative related by the biographer of St Pierre.