who did not know him. At a dinner table he would, in a fit of
absence, stoop down and twitch off a lady's shoe. He would amaze
a drawing-room by suddenly ejaculating a clause of the Lord's
Prayer. He would conceive an unintelligible aversion to a
particular alley, and perform a great circuit rather than see the
hateful place. He would set his heart on touching every post in
the streets through which he walked. If by any chance he missed
a post, he would go back a hundred yards and repair the omission.
Under the influence of his disease, his senses became morbidly
torpid, and his imagination morbidly active. At one time he
would stand poring on the town clock without being able to tell
the hour. At another, he would distinctly hear his mother, who
was many miles off, calling him by his name. But this was not
the worst. A deep melancholy took possession of him, and gave a
dark tinge to all his views of human nature and of human destiny.
Such wretchedness as he endured has driven many men to shoot
themselves or drown themselves. But he was under no temptation
to commit suicide. He was sick of life; but he was afraid of
death; and he shuddered at every sight or sound which reminded
him of the inevitable hour. In religion he found but little
comfort during his long and frequent fits of dejection; for his
religion partook of his own character. The light from heaven
shone on him indeed, but not in a direct line, or with its own
pure splendour. The rays had to struggle through a disturbing
medium; they reached him refracted, dulled and discoloured by the
thick gloom which had settled on his soul; and, though they might
be sufficiently clear to guide him, were too dim to cheer him.

With such infirmities of body and mind, this celebrated man was
left, at two-and-twenty, to fight his way through the world. He