rels from personal
motives_, in "Quarrels of Authors," p. 529. There we find how many
controversies, in which the public get involved, have sprung from some
sudden squabbles, some neglect of petty civility, some unlucky epithet, or
some casual observation dropped without much consideration, which
mortified or enraged the _genus irritabile_; a title which from ancient
days has been assigned to every description of authors. The late Dr.
WELLS, who had some experience in his intercourse with many literary
characters, observed, that "in whatever regards the fruits of their mental
labours, this is universally acknowledged to be true. Some of the
malevolent passions indeed frequently become in learned men more than
ordinarily strong, from want of that restraint upon their excitement which
society imposes." A puerile critic has reproached me for having drawn my
description entirely from my own fancy:--I have taken it from life!
See further symptoms of this disease at the close of the chapter on
_Self-praise_ in the present work.]

Once we were nearly receiving from the hand of genius the most curious
sketches of the temper, the irascible humours, the delicacy of soul, even
to its shadowiness, from the warm _sbozzos_ of BURNS, when he began a
diary of the heart,--a narrative of characters and events, and a
chronology of his emotions. It was natural for such a creature of
sensation and passion to project such a regular task, but quite impossible
for him to get through it. The paper-book that he conceived would have
recorded all these things turns out, therefore, but a very imperfect
document. Imperfect as it was, it has been thought proper not to give it
entire. Yet there we view a warm original mind, when he first stepped
into the polished circles of society, discovering that he could no
longer "pour out his bosom, his every thought and floating fancy, his very
inmost soul, with unreserved confidence to another, without hazard of
losing part of that respect which man deserves from man; or, from the
unavoidable imperfections attending human nature, of one day repenting his
confidence." This was the first lesson he learned at Edinburgh, and it was
as a substitute for such a human being that he bought a paper-book to keep
under lock and key: "a security at least equal," says he, "to the bosom of
any friend whatever." Let the man of genius pause over the fragments of
this "paper-book;"--it will instruct as much as any open confessio