compatriot of mine, with his dark-red-brown hair, and dark-red-brown
eyes set in his yellow complexion, was even from them a separated
figure. He was fearfully clever: thought himself neglected: brooded upon
it. His strange face and strange writings sometimes published, had often
fastened themselves upon me. Now it was undoubtedly my duty to save
him.

I followed him to his home, went up to his room and confronted him with
the whole story,--myself more agitated than he was. I remember his
passionate state:--"Haviland, do not wonder at me. Mankind are the key
to the universe; and I am sick of a world of turkey-cocks. To speak
frankly is to be proscribed; to be kind to the unfortunate is to lose
standing; to think deeply brings the reputation of a fool. No one
understands me. They do not understand me, the imbeciles!--_Coglioni!_"
cried he fiercely, grinding the Corsican cry in his teeth and rising to
walk about. "As Napoleon the Great despised them so do I, Quinet. They
never but made one wretched who had genius in him. And _I_ have it, and
dare to say that in their faces. The weapon for neglect is contempt! If
the wretched shallow world can make me miserable, they can never at
least take away the delight of my superiority. I, who would have
sympathized with and helped them and given my talents for them, shall
look down with but scorn. Yes, I delight in these proud expressions, I
am not ashamed of testifying, and one day I shall assert myself and make
them bow to me, and shall hate them, and persecute them, and anatomize
them for the derision of each other!"

His conduct might have seemed completely lunatical to an Englishman. It
was strange in any case. But to me it was his physique that was wrong,
and I should see that all was put right. "Stick to me, Quinet," said I
to him as soothingly as possible, "and I will always stick to you.