untruthfulness, and the whole ragged regiment of the squalider vices.  The evil of his temperament now and always was of the dull smouldering kind, seldom breaking out into active flame.  There is a certain sordidness in the scene.  You may complain that the details which Rousseau gives of his youthful days are insipid.  Yet such things are the web and stuff of life, and these days of transition from childhood to full manhood in every case mark a crisis.  These insipidities test the education of home and family, and they presage definitely what is to come.  The roots of character, good or bad, are shown for this short space, and they remain unchanged, though most people learn from their fellows the decent and useful art of covering them over with a little dust, in the shape of accepted phrases and routine customs and a silence which is not oblivion.

After a time the character of Jean Jacques was absolutely broken down.  He says little of the blows with which his offences were punished by his master, but he says enough to enable us to discern that they were terrible to him.  This cowardice, if we choose to give the name to an overmastering physical horror, at length brought his apprentice days to an end.  He was now in his sixteenth year.  He was dragged by his comrades into sports for which he had little inclination, though he admits that once engaged in them he displayed an impetuosity that carried him beyond the others.  Such pastimes naturally led them beyond the city walls, and on two occasions Rousseau found the gates closed on his return.  His master when he presented himself in the morning gave him such greeting as we may imagine, and held out things beyond imagining as penalty for a second sin in this kind.  The occasion came, as, alas, it nearly always does.  “Half a league from the town,” says Rousseau, “I hear the retreat sounded, and redouble my pace; I hear the drum beat, and run at the top of my speed:  I arrive out of breath, bathed in sweat; my heart beats violently, I see from a distance the soldiers at their post, and call out with choking voice.  It was too late.  Twenty paces from the outpost sentinel, I saw the first bridge rising.  I shuddered, as I watched those terrible horns, sinister and fatal augury of the inevitable lot which that moment was opening for me."[21]

In manhood when we have the resource of our own will to fall back upon, we underestimate the unsurpassed horror and anguish of such moments as this in youth, when we know only the will of others, and that this will is inexorable against us.  Rousseau dared not expose himself to the fulfilment of his master’s menace, and he ran away (1728).  But for this, wrote the unhappy man long years after, “I should have passed, in the bosom of my religion, of my native land, of my family, and my friends, a mild and peaceful life, such as my character required, in the uniformity of work which suited my taste, and of a society after my heart.  I should have been a good Christian, good citizen, good father of a family, good friend, good craftsman, good man in all.  I should have been happy in my condition, perhaps I might have honoured it; and after living a life obscure and simple, but even and gentle, I should have died peacefully in the midst of my own people.  Soon forgotten, I should at any rate have been regretted as long as any memory of me was left."[22]