Commonplace exists everywhere， general themes， a raking fire of abstractions and arguments， that is to say， truths more or less empty and paradoxes more or less hollow. The smallest detail of fact， an anecdote， a trait of habit， would suit us much better， and hence we of to day prefer the precise eloquence of objects to the lax eloquence of words. In the eighteenth century it was otherwise； to every writer this oratorical style was the prescribed ceremonial costume， the dress-coat he had to put on for admission into the company of select people. That which seems to us affectation was then only proper； in a classic epoch the perfect period and the sustained development constitute decorum， and are therefore to be observed.- It must be noted， moreover， that this literary drapery which， with us of the present day， conceals truth did not conceal it to his contemporaries；they saw under it the exact feature， the perceptible detail no longer detected by us. Every abuse， every vice， every excess of refinement and of culture， all that social and moral disease which Rousseau scourged with an author's emphasis， existed before them under their own eyes， in their own breasts， visible and daily manifested in thousands of domestic incidents. In applying satire they had only to observe or to remember. Their experience completed the book， and， through the co-operation of his readers， the author possessed power which he is now deprived of. If we were to put ourselves in their place we should recover their impressions. His denunciations and sarcasms， the harsh things of all sorts he says of the great， of fashionable people and of women， his rude and cutting tone， provoke and irritate， but are not displeasing. On the contrary， after so many compliments， insipidities and petty versification all this quickens the blunted taste； it is the sensation of strong common wine after long indulgence in orgeat and preserved citron. Accordingly， his first discourse against art and literature "lifts one at once above the clouds." But his idyllic writings touch the heart more powerfully than his satires. If men listen to the moralist that scolds them they throng in the footsteps of the magician that charms them； especially do women and the young adhere to one who shows them the promised land.
All accumulated dissatisfactions， weariness of the world， ennui， vague disgust， a multitude of suppressed desires gush forth， like subterranean waters， under the sounding line that for the first time brings them to light. Rousseau with his soundings struck deep and true through his own trials and through genius. In a wholly artificial society where people are drawing room puppets， and where life consists in a graceful parade according to a recognized model， he preaches a return to nature， independence， earnestness， passion， and effusion， a manly， active， ardent and happy existence in the open air and in sunshine. What an opening for restrained faculties， for the broad and luxurious fountain ever bubbling in man's breast， and for which their nice society provides no issue！ - woman of the court is familiar with love as then practiced， simply a preference， often only a pastime， mere gallantry of which the exquisite polish poorly conceals the shallowness， coldness and， occasionally， wickedness； in short， adventures， amusements and personages as described by Crébillion jr. One evening， about to go out to the opera ball， she finds the "Nouvelle Helo？se" on her toilet-table； it is not surprising that she keeps her horses and footmen waiting from hour to hour， and that at four o'clock in the morning she orders the horses to be unharnessed， and then passes the rest of the night in reading， and that she is stifled with her tears； for the first time in her life she finds a man that loves[39]. In like manner if you would comprehend the success of "Emile，" call to mind the children we have described， the embroidered， gilded， dressed-up， powdered little gentlemen， decked with sword and sash， carrying the chapeau under the arm， bowing， presenting the hand， rehearsing fine attitudes before a mirror， repeating prepared compliments， pretty little puppets in which everything is the work of the tailor， the hairdresser， the preceptor and the dancing-master； alongside of these， little ladies of six years， still more artificial， bound up in whalebone， harnessed in a heavy skirt composed of hair and a girdle of iron， supporting a head-dress two feet in height， so many veritable dolls to which rouge is applied， and with which a mother amuses herself each morning for an hour and then consigns them to her maids for the rest of the day[40].
This mother reads "Emile." It is not surprising that she immediately strips the poor little thing， and determines to nurse her next child herself. - It is through these contrasts that Rousseau is strong.
He revealed the dawn to people who never got up until noon， the landscape to eyes that had thus far rested only on palaces and drawing-rooms， a natural garden to men who had never promenaded outside of clipped shrubs and rectilinear borders， the country， the family， the people， simple and endearing pleasures， to townsmen made weary by social avidity， by the excesses and complications of luxury， by the uniform comedy which， in the glare of hundreds of lighted candles， they played night after night in their own and in the homes of others[41]. An audience thus disposed makes no clear distinction between pomp and sincerity， between sentiment and sentimentality.
They follow their author as one who makes a revelation， as a prophet， even to the end of his ideal world， much more through his exaggerations than through his discoveries， as far on the road to error as on the pathway of truth.
