ſoon became laſcivious. Had he given way to theſe deſires, the fire would have extinguiſhed itſelf in a natural manner; but virtue, and a romantic kind of delicacy, made him practiſe ſelf-denial; yet, when fear, delicacy, or virtue, reſtrained him, he debauched his imagination, and reflecting on the ſenſations to which fancy gave force, he traced them, in the moſt glowing colours, and ſunk them deep into his ſoul.
He then ſought for ſolitude, not to ſleep with the man of nature; or calmly inveſtigate the cauſes of things under the ſhade where Sir Iſaac Newton indulged contemplation, but merely to indulge his feelings. And ſo warmly has he painted, what he forcibly felt, that, intereſting the heart and inflaming the imagination of his readers; in proportion to the ſtrength of their fancy, they imagine that their underſtanding is convinced when they only ſympathize with a poetic writer, who ſkilfully exhibits the objects of ſenſe, moſt voluptuouſly ſhadowed or gracefully veiled—And thus making us feel whilſt dreaming that we reaſon, erroneous concluſions are left in the mind.
Why was Rouſſeau's life divided between ecſtacy and miſery? Can any other anſwer be given than this, that the efferveſcence of his imagination produced both; but, had his fancy been allowed to cool, it is poſſible that he might have acquired more ſtrength of mind. Still, if the purpoſe of life be to educate the intellectual part of man, all with reſpect to him was right; yet, had not death led to a nobler ſcene of action, it is probable that he would have enjoyed more
