Letters from the camp of Luneville, received from our dear friends to-day, give a very animated description of their doings there.  The Duc de Mouchy told me yesterday that they were winning golden opinions from all with whom they came in contact there, by their urbanity and hospitality.  He said that people were not prepared to find the handsomest and most fashionable woman at Paris, “the observed of all observers,” and the brightest ornament of the French court, doing the honours to the wives of the officers of the camp with an amiability that has captivated them all.  The good Duc de Gramont was delighted at hearing this account, for never was there a more affectionate father.

Went with a party yesterday to Montmorency.  Madame Craufurd, the Comtesse de Gand, the Baronne d’Ellingen, Comte F. de Belmont, and our own circle, formed the party.  It was gratifying to witness how much dear Madame Craufurd enjoyed the excursion; she even rode on a donkey through the woods, and the youngest person of the party did not enter into the amusement with more spirit and gaiety.  Montmorency is a charming place, but not so the road to it, which, being paved, is very tiresome.

We visited the hermitage where Rousseau wrote so many of his works, but in which this strange and unhappy man found not that peace so long sought by him in vain, and to which his own wayward temper and suspicious nature offered an insurmountable obstacle.

As I sat in this humble abode, and looked around on the objects once familiar to his eyes, I could not resist the sentiment of pity that filled my breast, at the recollection that even in this tranquil asylum, provided by friendship [2], and removed from the turmoil of the busy world, so repugnant to his taste, the jealousies, the heart-burnings, and the suspicions, that empoisoned his existence followed him, rendering his life not only a source of misery to himself, but of pain to others; for no one ever conferred kindness on him without becoming the object of his suspicion, if not of his aversion.

The life of Rousseau is one of the most humiliating episodes in the whole history of literary men, and the most calculated to bring genius into disrepute:  yet the misery he endured more than avenged the wrongs he inflicted; and, while admiring the productions of a genius, of which even his enemies could not deny him the possession, we are more than ever compelled to avow how unavailing is this glorious gift to confer happiness on its owner, or to secure him respect or esteem, if unaccompanied by goodness.

Who can reflect on the life of this man without a sense of the danger to which Genius exposes its children, and a pity for their sufferings, though too often self-inflicted?  Alas! the sensibility which is one of the most invariable characteristics of Genius, and by which its most glorious efforts are achieved, if excited into unhealthy action by over-exercise, not unseldom renders its possessor unreasonable and wretched, while his works are benefiting or delighting others, and while the very persons who most highly appreciate them are often the least disposed to pardon the errors of their author.