Rousseau also is an artisan， a man of the people， ill-adapted to elegant and refined society， out of his element in a drawing room and， moreover， of low birth， badly brought up， sullied by a vile and precocious experience， highly and offensively sensual， morbid in mind and in body， fretted by superior and discordant faculties， possessing no tact， and carrying the contamination of his imagination， temperament and past life into his austere morality and into his purest idylls；[34] besides this he has no fervor， and in this he is the opposite of Diderot， avowing himself" that his ideas arrange themselves in his head with the utmost difficulty， that certain sentences are turned over and over again in his brain for five or six nights before putting them on paper， and that a letter on the most trifling subject costs him hours of fatigue，" that he cannot fall into an easy and agreeable tone， nor succeed otherwise than "in works which demand application."[35] As an offset to this， style， in this ardent brain， under the influence of intense， prolonged meditation， incessantly hammered and rehammered， becomes more concise and of higher temper than is elsewhere found. Since La Bruyère we have seen no more ample， virile phrases， in which anger， admiration， indignation， studied and concentrated passion， appear with more rigorous precision and more powerful relief. He is almost the equal of La Bruyère in the arrangement of skillful effects， in the aptness and ingenuity of developments， in the terseness of impressive summaries， in the overpowering directness of unexpected arguments， in the multiplicity of literary achievements， in the execution of those passages of bravura， portraits， descriptions， comparisons， creations， wherein， as in a musical crescendo， the same idea， varied by a series of yet more animated expressions， attains to or surpasses， at the last note， all that is possible of energy and of brilliancy. Finally， he has that which is wanting in La Bruyère； his passages are linked together； he is not a writer of pages but of books； no logician is more condensed. His demonstration is knitted together， mesh by mesh， for one， two and three volumes like a great net without an opening in which， willingly or not， we remain caught. He is a systematizer who， absorbed with himself； and with his eyes stubbornly fixed on his own reverie or his own principle， buries himself deeper in it every day， weaving its consequences off one by one， and always holding fast to the various ends. Do not go near him. Like a solitary， enraged spider he weaves this out of his own substance， out of the most cherished convictions of his brain and the deepest emotions of his heart. He trembles at the slightest touch； ever on the defensive， he is terrible，[36] beside himself；[37] even venomous through suppressed exasperation and wounded sensibility， furious against an adversary， whom he stifles with the multiplied and tenacious threads of his web， but still more redoubtable to himself than to his enemies， soon caught in his own meshes，[38] believing that France and the universe conspire against him， deducing with wonderful subtlety the proofs of this chimerical conspiracy， made desperate， at last， by his over-plausible romance， and strangling in the cunning toils which， by dint of his own logic and imagination， he has fashioned for himself.
With such weapons one might accidentally kill oneself， but one is strongly armed. Rousseau was well equipped， at least as powerful as Voltaire； it may be said that the last half of the eighteenth century belongs to him. A foreigner， a Protestant， original in temperament， in education， in heart， in mind and in habits， at once misanthropic and philanthropic， living in an ideal world constructed by himself， entirely opposed to the world as it is， he finds himself standing in a new position. No one is so sensitive to the evils and vices of actual society. No one is so affected by the virtues and happiness of the society of the future. This accounts for his having two holds on the public mind， one through satire and the other through the idyll.-These two holds are undoubtedly slighter at the present day； the substance of their grasp has disappeared； we are not the auditors to which it appealed. The famous discourse on the influence of literature and on the origin of inequality seems to us a collegiate exaggeration； an effort of the will is required to read the " Nouvelle Hélo？se." The author is repulsive in the persistency of his spitefulness or in the exaggeration of his enthusiasm. He is always in extremes， now moody and with knit brows， and now streaming with tears and with arms outstretched to Heaven. Hyperbole， prosopopaeia， and other literary machinery are too often and too deliberately used by him. We are tempted to regard him now as a sophist making the best use of his arts， now as a rhetorician cudgeling his brains for a purpose， now as a preacher becoming excited， that is to say， an actor ever maintaining a thesis， striking an attitude and aiming at effects.
Finally， with the exception of the "Confessions" his style soon wearies us； it is too studied， and too constantly overstrained. The author is always the author， and he communicates the defect to his personages. His Julie argues and descants for twenty successive pages on dueling， on love， on duty， with a logical completeness， a talent and phrases that would do honor to an academical moralist.
