His soul lives in his body, like a mole in the earth that labours in the dark, and casts up doubts and scruples of his own imaginations, to make that rugged and uneasy that was plain and open before.  His brain is so cracked that he fancies himself to be glass, and is afraid that everything he comes near should break him in pieces.  Whatsoever makes an impression in his imagination works itself in like a screw, and the more he turns and winds it the deeper it sticks, till it is never to be got out again.  The temper of his brain, being earthy, cold, and dry, is apt to breed worms, that sink so deep into it no medicine in art or nature is able to reach them.  He leads his life as one leads a dog in a slip that will not follow, but is dragged along until he is almost hanged, as he has it often under consideration to treat himself in convenient time and place, if he can but catch himself alone.  After a long and mortal feud between his inward and his outward man, they at length agree to meet without seconds and decide the quarrel, in which the one drops and the other slinks out of the way and makes his escape into some foreign world, from whence it is never after heard of.  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.  He is a merchant that makes voyages into foreign nations to drive a trade in wisdom and politics, and it is not for his credit to have it thought he has made an ill return, which must be if he should allow of any of the growth of