Upon my first entrance I had perceived a close and confined smell
in these miserable apartments, but, by degrees, I became accustomed
to it, and began to examine the chamber in which I sat with as
strict a scrutiny as though I had intended making an inventory
of its contents. Three old elbow-chairs, some rickety stools, a
writing-table, on which were two or three volumes of music, some
dried plants laid on white-brown paper; beside the table stood an
old spinet, and, close to the latter article of furniture, sat a
fat and well-looking cat. Over the chimney hung an old silver
watch; the walls of the room were adorned with about half a
dozen views of Switzerland and some inferior engravings, two
only, which occupied the most honourable situations, struck me;
one represented Frederick II, and under the picture were written
some lines (which I cannot now recollect) by Rousseau himself;
the other engraving, which hung opposite, was the likeness of a
very tall, thin, old man, whose dress was nearly concealed by the
dirt which had been allowed to accumulate upon it; I could only
distinguish that it was ornamented with a broad riband. When I
had sufficiently surveyed this chamber, the simplicity of which,
so closely bordering on want and misery, pained me to the heart,
I directed my attention to the extraordinary man who was the
occasion of my visit.
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