614 Rousseau : [ Dec. 
The manner of his death has been variously related. Some say that 
he committed suicide ; others, that he was attacked with a fit of ve, thurs 5 
others, that he fell a victim to that unconquerable dejection which for 
years had been preying on and withering the energies of his mind and 
body. In this state of doubt we shall, as a matter of course, incline to 
the charitable side, and take as our guide a slight memoir pen- 
ned a few days after his decease, and widely circulated throughout 
Paris. According to this narrative, Rousseau had been ailing for some 
weeks ; but it was not until within.a day or two of his death that he 
anticipated the slightest danger. His love of nature—and this, be it 
said to his honour, was an enthusiastic passion that neither age nor 
infirmity could quench—remained with him to the last. He rambled 
daily to a summer-house situated at the bottom of his garden, and there, 
seated with some favourite book in his hand, would send his thoughts 
abroad into eternity, on whose threshold he was even then unconsciously 
standing. A few friends who lived near him, and who, by respecting 
his infirmities, had, somehow or other, contrived to preserve his good 
opinion, occasionally called in to see him; and to them only was his 
approaching change apparent: he himself was alternately sanguine and 
desponding to the last. On the morning of his dissolution, he had risen 
sooner than usual, and after passing the earlier parts of the day in pain, 
grew considerably better towards evening, and requested to be wheeled 
out in a low garden-chair towards his favourite summer-house. The day 
until twelve o'clock had been clouded, but it cleared up at noon, and 
the freshness of the air, the hum of the insects, and the fragrant perfume 
of the flowers as they lifted up their heads after the rain, revived the 
languid spirits of the invalid. For a few minutes he remained absorbed 
in thought, in which state he was found by a neighbour who had acci- 
dentally called in to pay him a visit. “ See,” said Rousseau, as he 
approached, “ how beautifully the sun is setting! I know not why it 
is, but a presentiment has just come over me, that I am not doomed to 
survive it. Yet I should scarcely like to go before it has set, for it will 
be a satisfaction to me—strange, perhaps, as it may seem to you—that 
we should both leave the world together.” His friend (it is he himself 
that relates the story) was struck by the singular melancholy of this 
remark, more especially as the philosopher’s countenance bore but too 
evident an impress of its probable truth. Accordingly, he strove with 
officicus kindness to divert the stream of Rousseau’s thoughts: he talked 
to him of indifferent matters, hoping thereby that he would regain his 
cheerfulness, but was concerned to find that every attempt was vain. 
Rousseau, at all times an egotist, was now solely occupied in the con- 
templation of himself and his approaching change. His thoughts were 
immoveably fixed on death: he felt, he repeatedly exclaimed, that he 
was fast declining ; and, every now and then, after closing his eyes for 
a minute or so, would languidly open them again, as if for the purpose 
of remarking what progress the sun had made towards the west. 
He remained in this state of stupor for a considerable time, when 
suddenly he shook it off, gazed about him with nearly all his wonted 
animation, and after bursting into a feeble rhapsody about his unweéaried 
love for nature, turned full towards the sun, with the devotional 
aspect of a Parsee. By this time, the evening had far advanced, and 
his friend endeavoured to persuade him to return into the house. But 
no; his last moments, he was resolved, should be spent in the open air. 
And they were so. Scarcely had the sun set, when the eyes of Rousseau 
