He converses with nothing so much as his own imagination,
which, being apt to misrepresent things to him, makes him believe that
it is something else than it is, and that he holds intelligence with
spirits that reveal whatsoever he fancies to him, as the ancient rude
people that first heard their own voices repeated by echoes in the woods
concluded it must proceed from some invisible inhabitants of those
solitary places, which they after believed to be gods, and called them
sylvans, fauns, and dryads. He makes the infirmity of his temper pass
for revelations, as Mahomet did by his falling sickness, and inspires
himself with the wind of his own hypochondrias. He laments, like
Heraclitus, the maudlin philosopher, at other men's mirth, and takes
pleasure in nothing but his own unsober sadness. His mind is full of
thoughts, but they are all empty, like a nest of boxes. He sleeps
little, but dreams much, and soundest when he is waking. He sees visions
farther off than a second-sighted man in Scotland, and dreams upon a
hard point with admirable judgment. He is just so much worse than a
madman as he is below him in degree of frenzy, for among madmen the most
mad govern all the rest, and receive a natural obedience from their
inferiors.
A TRAVELLER
Is a native of all countries and an alien at home. He flies from the
place where he was hatched, like a wild goose, and prefers all others
before it. He has no quarrel to it but because he was born in it, and,
like a bastard, he is ashamed of his mother, because she is of him.
Pages:
394
395
396
397
398
399
400
401
402
403
404
405
406
407
408
409
410
411
412
413
414
415
416
417
418