r English reading was incomplete; and, while she knew Moliere, and Rousseau, and any quantity of French letters, memoirs, and novels, and was cember 17, 1829.—The following instance of beautiful credulity, in Rousseau, has taken my mind greatly.
This remote seeking for the decrees o, without their feeling it moulded their existence.
Tasso, says Rousseau, has predicted my misfortunes.
Have you remarked that Tasso has t of any other narrative poem.
Mais, n'importe, 'tis sufficient if Rousseau believed this.
I found the stanza in question; admire its meaningt, look to Fairfax's Jerusalem Delivered, Canto 12, Stanza 77; but Rousseau says these lines have no connection with what goes before, or afte
If I had wist!— she writes,
I am a worse self-tormentor than Rousseau, and all my riches are fuel to the fire.
My beautiful lore, like too light.
Blessed be the early days when I sat at the feet of Rousseau, prophet sad and stately as any of Jewry!
Every onward movement o