ss
in matters of business; I sometimes push my negligence even to disorder,
and the metaphysical musings which continually occupy my mind, added to
the amusements of Paris, render me the most incapable man in the world
for conducting a negotiation with despatch.

"I have M. Jobard's decision; here it is: In his judgment, you are
too learned and clever for his children; he fears that you could not
accommodate your mind and character to the childish notions common
to their age and station. In short, he is what the world calls a good
father; that is, he wants to spoil his children, and, in order to do
this easily, he thinks fit to retain his present instructor, who is not
very learned, but who takes part in their games and joyous sports with
wonderful facility, who points out the letters of the alphabet to
the little girl, who takes the little boys to mass, and who, no less
obliging than the worthy Abbe P. of our acquaintance, would readily
dance for Madame's amusement. Such a profession would not suit you, you
who have a free, proud, and manly soul: you are refused; let us dismiss
the matter from our minds. Perhaps another time my solicitude will be
less unfortunate. I can only ask your pardon for having thought of thus
disposing of you almost without consulting you. I find my excuse in the
motives which guided me; I had in view your well-being and advancement
in the ways of this world.

"I see in your letter, my comrade, through its brilliant witticisms and
beneath the frank and artless gayety with which you have sprinkled it,
a tinge of sadness and despondency which pains me. You are unhappy, my
friend: your present situation does not suit you; you cannot remain in
it, it was not made for you, it is beneath you; you ought, by all
means, to leave it, before its injurious influence begins to affect your
faculties, and before you become settled, as they say, in the ways of
your profession, were it possible that such a thing could ever happen,
which I flatly deny. You are unhappy; you have not yet entered upon the
path which Nature has marked out for you. But, faint-hearted soul, is
that a cause for despondency? Ought you to feel discouraged? Struggle,
morbleu, struggle persistently, and you will triumph. J. J. Rousseau
groped about for forty years before his genius was revealed to him.
You are not J. J Rousseau; but listen: I know not whether I should have
divined the author of "Emile" when he was twenty years of age, sup