at the beginning of the eleventh book of the Confessions and elsewhere. It might be wished that the preface had been differently conceived and worded; for the assertion made therein that the book may prove dangerous has caused it to be inscribed on a sort of Index, and good folk who never read a line of it blush at its name. Its “sensibility,” too, is a little overdone, and has supplied the wits with opportunities for satire; for example, Canning, in his ‘New Morality’: “Sweet Sensibility, who dwells enshrined In the fine foldings Sweet child of sickly Fancy!--her of yore From her loved France Rousseau to exile bore; And while ‘midst lakes and mountains wild he ran, Full of himself, and shunned the haunts of man, Taught her o’er each lone vale and Alpine, steep To lisp the story of his wrongs and weep.” As might be imagined, Voltaire had slight sympathy with our social reformer’s notions and ways of promulgating them, and accordingly took up his wonted weapons--sarcasm and ridicule--against poor Jean-Jacques. The quarrels of these two great men cannot be described in this place; but they constitute an important chapter in the literary and social history of the time. In the work with which we are immediately concerned, the author seems to avoid frequent mention of Voltaire, even where we should most expect it. However, the state of his mind when he penned this record of his life should be always remembered in relation to this as well as other occurrences. Rousseau had intended to bring his autobiography down to a later date, but obvious causes prevented this: hence it is believed that a summary of the chief events that marked his closing years will not be out of place here. On quitting the Ile de Saint-Pierre he travelled to Strasbourg, where he was warmly received, and thence to Paris, arriving in that city on December 16, 1765. The Prince de Conti provided him with a lodging in the Hotel Saint-Simon, within the precincts of the Temple--a place of sanctuary for those under the ban of authority. ‘Every one was eager to see the illustrious proscript, who complained of being made a daily show, “like Sancho Panza in his island of Barataria.” During his short stay in the capital there was circulated an ironical letter purporting to come from the Great Frederick, but really written by Horace Walpole. This cruel, clumsy, and ill-timed joke angered Rousseau, who ascribed it to, Voltaire. A few sentences may be quoted: