Before leaving England, Rousseau had received more than one long and rambling letter from a man who was as unlike the rest of mankind as he was unlike them himself.  This was the Marquis of Mirabeau (1715-89), the violent, tyrannical, pedantic, humoristic sire of a more famous son.  Perhaps we might say that Mirabeau and Rousseau were the two most singular originals then known to men, and Mirabeau’s originality was in some respects the more salient of the two.  There is less of the conventional tone of the eighteenth century Frenchman in him than in any other conspicuous man of the time, though like many other headstrong and despotic souls he picked up the current notions of philanthropy and human brotherhood.  He really was by very force of temperament that rebel against the narrowness, trimness, and moral formalism of the time which Rousseau only claimed and attempted to be, with the secondary degree of success that follows vehemence without native strength.  Mirabeau was a sort of Swift, who had strangely taken up the trade of friendship for man and adopted the phrases of perfectibility; while Rousseau on the other hand was meant for a Fenelon, save that he became possessed of unclean devils.

Mirabeau, like Jean Jacques himself, was so impressed by the marked tenor of contemporary feeling, its prudential didactics, its formulistic sociality, that his native insurgency only found vent in private life, while in public he played pedagogue to the human race.  Friend of Quesnai and orthodox economist as he was, he delighted in Rousseau’s books:  “I know no morality that goes deeper than yours; it strikes like a thunderbolt, and advances with the steady assurance of truth, for you are always true, according to your notions for the moment.”  He wrote to tell him so, but he told him at the same time at great length, and with a caustic humour and incoherency less academic than Rabelaisian, that he had behaved absurdly in his quarrel with Hume.  There is nothing more quaint than the appearance of a few of the sacramental phrases of the sect of the economists, floating in the midst of a copious stream of egoistic whimsicalities.  He concludes with a diverting enumeration of all his country seats and demesnes, with their respective advantages and disadvantages, and prays Rousseau to take up his residence in whichever of them may please him best.

Immediately on landing at Calais Rousseau informed Mirabeau, and Mirabeau lost no time in conveying him stealthily, for the warrant of the parliament of Paris was still in force, to a house at Fleury.  But the Friend of Men, to use his own account of himself, “bore letters as a plum-tree bears plums,” and wrote to his guest with strange humoristic volubility and droll imperturbable temper, as one who knew his Jean Jacques.  He exhorts him in many sheets to harden himself against excessive sensibility, to be less pusillanimous, to take society more lightly, as his own light estimate of its worth should lead him to do.  “No doubt its outside is a shifting surface-picture, nay even ridiculous, if you will; but if the irregular and ceaseless flight of butterflies wearies you in your walk, it is your own fault for looking continuously at what was only made to adorn and vary the scene.  But how many social virtues, how much gentleness and considerateness, how many benevolent actions, remain at the bottom of it all." Enormous manifestoes of the doctrine of perfectibility were not in the least degree either soothing or interesting to Rousseau, and the thrusts of shrewd candour at his expense might touch his fancy on a single occasion, but not oftener.  Two humorists are seldom successful in amusing one another.  Besides, Mirabeau insisted that Jean Jacques should read this or that of his books.  Rousseau answered that he would try, but warned him of the folly of it.  “I do not engage always to follow what you say, because it has always been painful to me to think, and fatiguing to follow the thoughts of other people, and at present I cannot do so at all." Though they continued to be good friends, Rousseau only remained three or four weeks at Fleury.  His old acquaintance at Montmorency, the Prince of Conti, partly perhaps from contrition at the rather unchivalrous fashion in which his great friends had hustled the philosopher away at the time of the decree of the parliament of Paris, offered him refuge at one of his country seats at Trye near Gisors.  Here he installed Rousseau under the name of Renou, either to silence the indiscreet curiosity of neighbours, or to gratify a whim of Rousseau himself.

Rousseau remained for a year (June 1767-June 1768), composing the second part of the Confessions, in a condition of extreme mental confusion.  Dusky phantoms walked with him once more.  He knew the gardener, the servants, the neighbours, all to be in the pay of Hume, and that he was watched day and night with a view to his destruction. He entirely gave up either reading or writing, save a very small number of letters, and he declared that to take up the pen even for these was like lifting a load of iron.  The only interest he had was botany, and for this his passion became daily more intense.  He appears to have been as contented as a child, so long as he could employ himself in long expeditions in search of new plants, in arranging a herbarium, in watching the growth of the germ of some rare seed which needed careful tending.  But the story had once more the same conclusion.  He fled from Trye, as he had fled from Wootton.  He meant apparently to go to Chamberi, drawn by the deep magnetic force of old memories that seemed long extinct.  But at Grenoble on his way thither he encountered a substantial grievance.  A man alleged that he had lent Rousseau a few francs seven years previously.  He was undoubtedly mistaken, and was fully convicted of his mistake by proper authorities, but Rousseau’s correspondents suffered none the less for that.  We all know when monomania seizes a man, how adroitly and how eagerly it colours every incident.  The mistaken claim was proof demonstrative of that frightful and tenebrous conspiracy, which they might have thought a delusion hitherto, but which, alas, this showed to be only too tragically real; and so on, through many pages of droning wretchedness. Then we find him at Bourgoin, where he spent some months in shabby taverns, and then many months more at Monquin on adjoining uplands. The estrangement from Theresa, of which enough has been said already, was added to his other torments.  He resolved, as so many of the self-tortured have done since, to go in search of happiness to the western lands beyond the Atlantic, where the elixir of bliss is thought by the wearied among us to be inexhaustible and assured.  Almost in the same page he turns his face eastwards, and dreams of ending his days peacefully among the islands of the Grecian archipelago.  Next he gravely, not only designed, but actually took measures, to return to Wootton.  All was no more than the momentary incoherent purpose of a sick man’s dream, the weary distraction of one who had deliberately devoted himself to isolation from his fellows, without first sitting down carefully to count the cost, or to measure the inner resources which he possessed to meet the deadly strain that isolation puts on every one of a man’s mental fibres.  Geographical loneliness is to some a condition of their fullest strength, but most of the few who dare to make a moral solitude for themselves, find that they have assuredly not made peace.  Such solitude, as South said of the study of the Apocalypse, either finds a man mad, or leaves him so.  Not all can play the stoic who will, and it is still more certain that one who like Rousseau has lain down with the doctrine that in all things imaginable it is impossible for him to do at all what he cannot do with pleasure, will end in a condition of profound and hopeless impotence in respect to pleasure itself.

In July 1770, he made his way to Paris, and here he remained eight years longer, not without the introduction of a certain degree of order into his outer life, though the clouds of vague suspicion and distrust, half bitter, half mournful, hung heavily as ever upon his mind.  The Dialogues, which he wrote at this period (1775-76) to vindicate his memory from the defamation that was to be launched in a dark torrent upon the world at the moment of his death, could not possibly have been written by a man in his right mind.  Yet the best of the Musings, which were written still nearer the end, are masterpieces in the style of contemplative prose.  The third, the fifth, the seventh, especially abound in that even, full, mellow gravity of tone which is so rare in literature, because the deep absorption of spirit which is its source is so rare in life.  They reveal Rousseau to us with a truth beyond that attained in any of his other pieces ­a mournful sombre figure, looming shadowily in the dark glow of sundown among sad and desolate places.  There is nothing like them in the French tongue, which is the speech of the clear, the cheerful, or the august among men; nothing like this sonorous plainsong, the strangely melodious expression in the music of prose of a darkened spirit which yet had imaginative visions of beatitude.

It is interesting to look on one or two pictures of the last waste and obscure years of the man, whose words were at this time silently fermenting for good and for evil in many spirits ­a Schiller, a Herder, a Jeanne Phlipon, a Robespierre, a Gabriel Mirabeau, and many hundreds of those whose destiny was not to lead, but ingenuously to follow.  Rousseau seems to have repulsed nearly all his ancient friends, and to have settled down with dogged resolve to his old trade of copying music.  In summer he rose at five, copied music until half-past seven; munched his breakfast, arranging on paper during the process such plants as he had gathered the previous afternoon; then he returned to his work, dined at half-past twelve, and went forth to take coffee at some public place.  He would not return from his walk until nightfall, and he retired at half-past ten.  The pavements of Paris were hateful to him because they tore his feet, and, said he, with deeply significant antithesis, “I am not afraid of death, but I dread pain.”  He always found his way as fast as possible to one of the suburbs, and one of his greatest delights was to watch Mont Valérien in the sunset.  “Atheists,” he said calumniously, “do not love the country; they like the environs of Paris, where you have all the pleasures of the city, good cheer, books, pretty women; but if you take these things away, then they die of weariness.”  The note of every bird held him attentive, and filled his mind with delicious images.  A graceful story is told of two swallows who made a nest in Rousseau’s sleeping-room, and hatched the eggs there.  “I was no more than a doorkeeper for them,” he said, “for I kept opening the window for them every moment.  They used to fly with a great stir round my head, until I had fulfilled the duties of the tacit convention between these swallows and me.”

In January 1771, Bernardin de St. Pierre, author of the immortal Paul and Virginia (1788), finding himself at the Cape of Good Hope, wrote to a friend in France just previously to his return to Europe, counting among other delights that of seeing two summers in one year. Rousseau happened to see the letter, and expressed a desire to make the acquaintance of a man who in returning home should think of that as one of his chief pleasures.  To this we owe the following pictures of an interior from St. Pierre’s hand: ­

In the month of June in 1772, a friend having offered to take me to see Jean Jacques Rousseau, he brought me to a house in the Rue Plâtrière, nearly opposite to the Hotel de la Poste.  We mounted to the fourth story.  We knocked, and Madame Rousseau opened the door.  “Come in, gentlemen,” she said, “you will find my husband.”  We passed through a very small antechamber, where the household utensils were neatly arranged, and from that into a room where Jean Jacques was seated in an overcoat and a white cap, busy copying music.  He rose with a smiling face, offered us chairs, and resumed his work, at the same time taking a part in conversation.  He was thin and of middle height.  One shoulder struck me as rather higher than the other ... otherwise he was very well proportioned.  He had a brown complexion, some colour on his cheek-bones, a good mouth, a well-made nose, a rounded and lofty brow, and eyes full of fire.  The oblique lines falling from the nostrils to the extremity of the lips, and marking a physiognomy, in his case expressed great sensibility and something even painful.  One observed in his face three or four of the characteristics of melancholy ­the deep receding eyes and the elevation of the eyebrows; you saw profound sadness in the wrinkles of the brow; a keen and even caustic gaiety in a thousand little creases at the corners of the eyes, of which the orbits entirely disappeared when he laughed....  Near him was a spinette on which from time to time he tried an air.  Two little beds of blue and white striped calico, a table, and a few chairs, made the stock of his furniture.  On the walls hung a plan of the forest and park of Montmorency, where he had once lived, and an engraving of the King of England, his old benefactor.  His wife was sitting mending linen; a canary sang in a cage hung from the ceiling; sparrows came for crumbs on to the sills of the windows, which on the side of the street were open; while in the window of the antechamber we noticed boxes and pots filled with such plants as it pleases nature to sow.  There was in the whole effect of his little establishment an air of cleanness, peace, and simplicity, which was delightful.

A few days after, Rousseau returned the visit.  “He wore a round wig, well powdered and curled, carrying a hat under his arm, and in a full suit of nankeen.  His whole exterior was modest, but extremely neat.”  He expressed his passion for good coffee, saying that this and ice were the only two luxuries for which he cared.  St. Pierre happened to have brought some from the Isle of Bourbon, so on the following day he rashly sent Rousseau a small packet, which at first produced a polite letter of thanks; but the day after the letter of thanks came one of harsh protest against the ignominy of receiving presents which could not be returned, and bidding the unfortunate donor to choose between taking his coffee back or never seeing his new friend again.  A fair bargain was ultimately arranged, St. Pierre receiving in exchange for his coffee some curious root or other, and a book on ichthyology.  Immediately afterwards he went to dine with his sage.  He arrived at eleven in the forenoon, and they conversed until half-past twelve.

Then his wife laid the cloth.  He took a bottle of wine, and as he put it on the table, asked whether we should have enough, or if I was fond of drinking.  “How many are there of us,” said I.  “Three,” he said; “you, my wife, and myself.”  “Well,” I went on, “when I drink wine and am alone, I drink a good half-bottle, and I drink a trifle more when I am with friends.”  “In that case,” he answered, “we shall not have enough; I must go down into the cellar.”  He brought up a second bottle.  His wife served two dishes, one of small tarts, and another which was covered.  He said, showing me the first, “That is your dish and the other is mine.”  “I don’t eat much pastry,” I said, “but I hope to be allowed to taste what you have got.”  “Oh, they are both common,” he replied; “but most people don’t care for this.  ’Tis a Swiss dish; a compound of lard, mutton, vegetables, and chestnuts.”  It was excellent.  After these two dishes, we had slices of beef in salad; then biscuits and cheese; after which his wife served the coffee.

One morning when I was at his house, I saw various domestics either coming for rolls of music, or bringing them to him to copy.  He received them standing and uncovered.  He said to some, “The price is so much,” and received the money; to others, “How soon must I return my copy?” “My mistress would like to have it back in a fortnight.”  “Oh, that’s out of the question:  I have work, I can’t do it in less than three weeks.”  I inquired why he did not take his talents to better market.  “Ah,” he answered, “there are two Rousseaus in the world; one rich, or who might have been if he had chosen; a man capricious, singular, fantastic; this is the Rousseau of the public; the other is obliged to work for his living, the Rousseau whom you see."

They often took long rambles together, and all proceeded most harmoniously, unless St. Pierre offered to pay for such refreshment as they might take, when a furious explosion was sure to follow.  Here is one more picture, without explosion.

     An Easter Monday Excursion to Mont Valérien.

We made an appointment at a cafe in the Champs Elysees.  In the morning we took some chocolate.  The wind was westerly, and the air fresh.  The sun was surrounded by white clouds, spread in masses over an azure sky.  Reaching the Bois de Boulogne by eight o’clock, Jean Jacques set to work botanising.  As he collected his little harvest, we kept walking along.  We had gone through part of the wood, when in the midst of the solitude we perceived two young girls, one of whom was arranging the other’s hair. ­[Reminded them of some verses of Virgil.]....

Arrived on the edge of the river, we crossed the ferry with a number of people whom devotion was taking to Mont Valérien.  We climbed an extremely stiff slope, and were hardly on the top before hunger overtook us and we began to think of dining.  Rousseau then led the way towards a hermitage, where he knew we could make sure of hospitality.  The brother who opened to us, conducted us to the chapel, where they were reciting the litanies of providence, which are extremely beautiful....  When we had prayed, Jean Jacques said to me with genuine feeling:  “Now I feel what is said in the gospel, ’Where several of you are gathered together in my name, there will I be in the midst of them.’  There is a sentiment of peace and comfort here that penetrates the soul.”  I replied, “If Fenelon were alive, you would be a Catholic.”  “Ah,” said he, the tears in his eyes, “if Fenelon were alive, I would seek to be his lackey.”

Presently we were introduced into the refectory; we seated ourselves during the reading.  The subject was the injustice of the complainings of man:  God has brought him from nothing, he oweth him nothing.  After the reading, Rousseau said to me in a voice of deep emotion:  “Ah, how happy is the man who can believe....”  We walked about for some time in the cloister and the gardens.  They command an immense prospect.  Paris in the distance reared her towers all covered with light, and made a crown to the far-spreading landscape.  The brightness of the view contrasted with the great leaden clouds that rolled after one another from the west, and seemed to fill the valley....  In the afternoon rain came on, as we approached the Porte Maillot.  We took shelter along with a crowd of other holiday folk under some chestnut-trees whose leaves were coming out.  One of the waiters of a tavern perceiving Jean Jacques, rushed to him full of joy, exclaiming, “What, is it you, mon bonhomme?  Why, it is a whole age since we have seen you.”  Rousseau replied cheerfully, “’Tis because my wife has been ill, and I myself have been out of sorts.” “Mon pauvre bonhomme,” replied the lad, “you must not stop here; come in, come in, and I will find room for you.”  He hurried us along to a room upstairs, where in spite of the crowd he procured for us chairs and a table, and bread and wine.  I said to Jean Jacques, “He seems very familiar with you.”  He answered, “Yes, we have known one another some years.  We used to come here in fine weather, my wife and I, to eat a cutlet of an evening."

Things did not continue to go thus smoothly.  One day St. Pierre went to see him, and was received without a word, and with stiff and gloomy mien.  He tried to talk, but only got monosyllables; he took up a book, and this drew a sarcasm which sent him forth from the room.  For more than two months they did not meet.  At length they had an accidental encounter at a street corner.  Rousseau accosted St. Pierre, and with a gradually warming sensibility proceeded thus:  “There are days when I want to be alone and crave privacy.  I come back from my solitary expeditions so calm and contented.  There I have not been wanting to anybody, nor has anybody been wanting to me,” and so on. He expressed this humour more pointedly on some other occasion, when he said that there were times in which he fled from the eyes of men as from Parthian arrows.  As one said who knew from experience, the fate of his most intimate friend depended on a word or a gesture. Another of them declared that he knew Rousseau’s style of discarding a friend by letter so thoroughly, that he felt confident he could supply Rousseau’s place in case of illness or absence. In much of this we suspect that the quarrel was perfectly justified.  Sociality meant a futile display before unworthy and condescending curiosity.  “It is not I whom they care for,” he very truly said, “but public opinion and talk about me, without a thought of what real worth I may have.”  Hence his steadfast refusal to go out to dine or sup.  The mere impertinence of the desire to see him was illustrated by some coxcombs who insisted with a famous actress of his acquaintance, that she should invite the strange philosopher to meet them.  She was aware that no known force would persuade Rousseau to come, so she dressed up her tailor as philosopher, bade him keep a silent tongue, and vanish suddenly without a word of farewell.  The tailor was long philosophically silent, and by the time that wine had loosened his tongue, the rest of the company were too far gone to perceive that the supposed Rousseau was chattering vulgar nonsense. We can believe that with admirers of this stamp Rousseau was well pleased to let tailors or others stand in his place.  There were some, however, of a different sort, who flitted across his sight and then either vanished of their own accord, or were silently dismissed, from Madame de Genlis up to Gretry and Gluck.  With Gluck he seems to have quarrelled for setting his music to French words, when he must have known that Italian was the only tongue fit for music. Yet it was remarked that no one ever heard him speak ill of others.  His enemies, the figures of his delusion, were vaguely denounced in many dronings, but they remained in dark shadow and were unnamed.  When Voltaire paid his famous last visit to the capital (1778), some one thought of paying court to Rousseau by making a mock of the triumphal reception of the old warrior, but Rousseau harshly checked the detractor.  It is true that in 1770-71 he gave to some few of his acquaintances one or more readings of the Confessions, although they contained much painful matter for many people still living, among the rest for Madame d’Epinay.  She wrote justifiably enough to the lieutenant of police, praying that all such readings might be prohibited, and it is believed that they were so prohibited.

In 1769, when Polish anarchy was at its height, as if to show at once how profound the anarchy was, and how profound the faith among many minds in the power of the new French theories, an application was made to Mably to draw up a scheme for the renovation of distracted Poland.  Mably’s notions won little esteem from the persons who had sought for them, and in 1771 a similar application was made to Rousseau in his Parisian garret.  He replied in the Considerations on the Government of Poland, which are written with a good deal of vigour of expression, but contain nothing that needs further discussion.  He hinted to the Poles with some shrewdness that a curtailment of their territory by their neighbours was not far off, and the prediction was rapidly fulfilled by the first partition of Poland in the following year.

He was asked one day of what nation he had the highest opinion.  He answered, the Spanish.  The Spanish nation, he said, has a character; if it is not rich, it still preserves all its pride and self-respect in the midst of its poverty; and it is animated by a single spirit, for it has not been scourged by the conflicting opinions of philosophy.

He was extremely poor for these last eight years of his life.  He seems to have drawn the pension which George III. had settled on him, for not more than one year.  We do not know why he refused to receive it afterwards.  A well-meaning friend, when the arrears amounted to between six and seven thousand francs, applied for it on his behalf, and a draft for the money was sent.  Rousseau gave the offender a vigorous rebuke for meddling in affairs that did not concern him, and the draft was destroyed.  Other attempts to induce him to draw this money failed equally. Yet he had only about fifty pounds a year to live on, together with the modest amount which he earned by copying music.

The sting of indigence began to make itself felt towards 1777.  His health became worse and he could not work.  Theresa was waxing old, and could no longer attend to the small cares of the household.  More than one person offered them shelter and provision, and the old distractions as to a home in which to end his days began once again.  At length M. Girardin prevailed upon him to come and live at Ermenonville, one of his estates some twenty miles from Paris.  A dense cloud of obscure misery hangs over the last months of this forlorn existence. No tragedy had ever a fifth act so squalid.  Theresa’s character seems to have developed into something truly bestial.  Rousseau’s terrors of the designs of his enemies returned with great violence.  He thought he was imprisoned, and he knew that he had no means of escape.  One day (July 2, 1778), suddenly and without a single warning symptom, all drew to an end; the sensations which had been the ruling part of his life were affected by pleasure and pain no more, the dusky phantoms all vanished into space.  The surgeons reported that the cause of his death was apoplexy, but a suspicion has haunted the world ever since, that he destroyed himself by a pistol-shot.  We cannot tell.  There is no inherent improbability in the fact of his having committed suicide.  In the New Heloisa he had thrown the conditions which justified self-destruction into a distinct formula.  Fifteen years before, he declared that his own case fell within the conditions which he had prescribed, and that he was meditating action. Only seven years before, he had implied that a man had the right to deliver himself of the burden of his own life, if its miseries were intolerable and irremediable. This, however, counts for nothing in the absence of some kind of positive evidence, and of that there is just enough to leave the manner of his end a little doubtful. Once more, we cannot tell.

By the serene moonrise of a summer night, his body was put under the ground on an island in the midst of a small lake, where poplars throw shadows over the still water, silently figuring the destiny of mortals.  Here it remained for sixteen years.  Then amid the roar of cannon, the crash of trumpet and drum, and the wild acclamations of a populace gone mad in exultation, terror, fury, it was ordered that the poor dust should be transported to the national temple of great men.