our own breast.

It is not to be inferred from what I have here stated that I conceive that
any single man of genius will resemble every man of genius; for not only
man differs from man, but varies from himself in the different stages of
human life. All that I assert is, that every man of genius will discover,
sooner or later, that he belongs to the brotherhood of his class, and that
he cannot escape from certain habits, and feelings, and disorders, which
arise from the same temperament and sympathies, and are the necessary
consequence of occupying the same position, and passing through the same
moral existence. Whenever we compare men of genius with each other, the
history of those who are no more will serve as a perpetual commentary on
our contemporaries. There are, indeed, secret feelings which their
prudence conceals, or their fears obscure, or their modesty shrinks from,
or their pride rejects; but I have sometimes imagined that I have held
the clue as they have lost themselves in their own labyrinth. I know
that many, and some of great celebrity, have sympathised with the
feelings which inspired these volumes; nor, while I have elucidated the
idiosyncrasy of genius, have I less studied the habits and characteristics
of the lovers of literature.

It has been considered that the subject of this work might have been
treated with more depth of metaphysical disquisition; and there has since
appeared an attempt to combine with this investigation the medical
science. A work, however, should be judged by its design and its
execution, and not by any preconceived notion of what it ought to be
according to the critic, rather than the author. The nature of this work
is dramatic rather than metaphysical. It offers a narration or a
description; a conversation or a monologue; an incident or a scene.