"I am afraid it will cost a lot of money to study, although Rousseau learned for nothing."
"Nothing? oh, young man," said the plant-collector, with a mournful smile, "do you call nothing the most precious of heavenly blessings—candor, health and sleep? That was the price the Genevian seeker of wisdom paid for the little he
knows."
"Little! when he is a great musical composer!"
"Pooh, because the king sings 'I have lost my servant,' that does not prove 'The Village Sorcerer' to be a good opera."
"He is a noted botanist!"
"An herb-gatherer, very humble and ignorant amid the marvels known as plants and flowers."
"He is a Latin scholar, for I read that he had translated Tacitus."
"Bah, because in his conceit he wanted to be master of all crafts. But Tacitus, who is a rough antagonist to wrestle with, tired him. No, no, my good young man, in spite of your admiration, there are no more Admirable Crichtons, and what man gains in breadth he loses in depth. Rousseau is a superficial man whose surface is a trifle wider than most men's, that is all."
"Many would like to attain his mark," said the youth.