have written in the morning appears to me dark,
incongruous, nonsensical." At such moments we should find this man of
genius in no pleasant mood. The true cause of this nervous state cannot,
nay, must not, be confided to the world: the honour of his darling theory
will always be dearer to his pride than the confession of even slight
doubts which may shake its truth. It is a curious fact which we have
but recently discovered, that ROUSSEAU was disturbed by a terror he
experienced, and which we well know was not unfounded, that his theories
of education were false and absurd. He could not endure to read a page in
his own "Emile"[A] without disgust after the work had been published! He
acknowledged that there were more suffrages against his notions than for
them. "I am not displeased," says he, "with myself on the style and
eloquence, but I still dread that my writings are good for nothing at the
bottom, and that all my theories are full of extravagance." [_Je crains
toujours que je peche par le fond, et que tous mes systemes ne sont que
des extravagances._] HARTLEY with his "Vibrations and Vibrationeles,"
LEIBNITZ with his "Monads," CUDWORTH with his "Plastic Natures,"
MALEBRANCHE with his paradoxical doctrine of "Seeing all things in God,"
and BURNET with his heretical "Theory of the Earth," must unquestionably
at times have betrayed an irritability which those about them may have
attributed to temper, rather than to genius.

[Footnote A: In a letter by Hume to Blair, written in 1766, apparently
first published in the _Literary Gazette_, Nov. 17, 1821.]

Is our man of genius--not the victim of fancy, but the slave of truth--a
learned author? Of the living waters of human knowledge it cannot be said
that "If a man drink thereof, he shall never thirst again." What volumes
remain to open! what manuscript but makes his heart palpitate! There is no
term in researches which new facts may not alter, and a single date may
not dissolve. Truth! thou fascinating, but severe mistress, thy adorers
are often broken down in thy servitude, performing a thousand unregarded
task-works! Now winding thee through thy labyrinth with a single thread,
often unravelling--now feeling their way in darkness, doubtful if it be
thyself they are touching. How much of the real labour of genius and
erudition must remain concealed from the world, and never be reached by
their penetration! MONTESQUIEU has described this feeling after its agony:
"I thought