The next year, his irregular activity having been again stimulated by learning that his essay had gained the premium at Dijon, and by the fact of its great vogue as a published pamphlet, another performance fairly raised Rousseau to the pinnacle of fashion; and this was an opera which he composed, “Le Devin du Village” (The Village Sorcerer), which was performed at Fontainebleau before the Court, and received with unexampled enthusiasm.  His profession, so far as he had any, was that of a copyist of music, and his musical taste and facile talents had at last brought him an uncritical recognition.

But Rousseau soon abandoned music for literature.  In 1753 he wrote another essay for the Academy of Dijon, on the “Origin of the Inequality of Man,” full of still more startling paradoxes than his first, in which he attempted to show, with great felicity of language, the superiority of savage life over civilization.

At the age of forty-two Rousseau revisited Protestant Geneva, abjured in its turn the Catholic faith, and was offered the post of librarian of the city.  But he could not live out of the atmosphere of Paris; nor did he wish to remain under the shadow of Voltaire, living in his villa near the City Gate of Geneva, who had but little admiration for Rousseau, and whose superior social position excited the latter’s envy.  Yet he professed to hate Paris with its conventionalities and fashions, and sought a quiet retreat where he could more leisurely pursue his studies and enjoy Nature, which he really loved.  This was provided for him by an enthusiastic friend,—­Madame d’Epinay,—­in the beautiful valley of Montmorenci, and called “The Hermitage,” situated in the grounds of her Chateau de la Chevrette.  Here he lived with his wife and mother-in-law, he himself enjoying the hospitalities of the Chateau besides,—­society of a most cultivated kind, also woods, lawns, parks, gardens,—­all for nothing; the luxuries of civilization, the glories of Nature, and the delights of friendship combined.  It was an earthly paradise, given him by enthusiastic admirers of his genius and conversation.

In this retreat, one of the most favored which a poor author ever had, Rousseau, ever craving some outlet for his passionate sentiments, created an ideal object of love.  He wrote imaginary letters, dwelling with equal rapture on those he wrote and those he fancied he received in return, and which he read to his lady friends, after his rambles in the forests and parks, during their reunions at the supper-table.  Thus was born the “Nouvelle Heloise,”—­a novel of immense fame, in which the characters are invested with every earthly attraction, living in voluptuous peace, yet giving vent to those passions which consume the unsatisfied soul.  It was the forerunner of “Corinne,” “The Sorrows of Werther,” “Thaddeus of Warsaw,” and all those sentimental romances which amused our grandfathers and grandmothers, but which increased the prejudice of religious people against novels.  It was not until Sir Walter Scott arose with his wholesome manliness that the embargo against novels was removed.