that which I am going to relate. The forcible manner in which I at this
moment recollect the object of my book, will here make me hold in
contempt the false delicacy which would prevent me from fulfilling it.
Whoever you may be who are desirous of knowing a man, have the courage to
read the two or three following pages, and you will become fully
acquainted with J. J. Rousseau.

I entered the chamber of a woman of easy virtue, as the sanctuary of love
and beauty: and in her person, I thought I saw the divinity. I should
have been inclined to think that without respect and esteem it was
impossible to feel anything like that which she made me experience.
Scarcely had I, in her first familiarities, discovered the force of her
charms and caresses, before I wished, for fear of losing the fruit of
them, to gather it beforehand. Suddenly, instead of the flame which
consumed me, I felt a mortal cold run through all my veins; my legs
failed me; and ready to faint away, I sat down and wept like a child.

Who would guess the cause of my tears, and what, at this moment, passed
within me? I said to myself: the object in my power is the masterpiece
of love; her wit and person equally approach perfection; she is as good
and generous as she is amiable and beautiful. Yet she is a miserable
prostitute, abandoned to the public. The captain of a merchantship
disposed of her at will; she has thrown herself into my arms, although
she knows I have nothing; and my merit with which she cannot be
acquainted, can be to her no inducement. In this there is something
inconceivable. Either my heart deceives me, fascinates my senses, and
makes me the dupe of an unworthy slut, or some secret defect, of which I
am ignorant, destroys the effect of her charms, and renders her odious in
the eyes of those by whom her charms would otherwise be disputed. I
endeavored, by an extraordinary effort of mind, to discover this defect,