went mad because five of his countrymen had been beaten by fifty Portugese, this unhappy creature lost all patience and forbearance, because, in an hundred systems which he had built with the cards of fancy, ninety-nine happened to tumble to the ground. "This is the dangerous consequence, not so much of vanity and self-love as of downright literary Quixotism. A man may be cured of vanity as the French nobleman was--'Ecoutez messieurs! Monseigneur le Duc va dire la meillure chose du monde!'[78] but for this raving, ungovernable passion of soaring beyond all human comprehension, I fear there is no cure but in such a place as the one which is now before us. Compared with this, how different was MENANDER'S case! Careless himself about examining and quoting authorities with punctilious accuracy, and trusting too frequently to the _ipse-dixits_ of good friends:--with a quick discernment--a sparkling fancy--great store of classical knowledge, and a never ceasing play of colloquial wit, he moved right onwards in his manly course--the delight of the gay, and the admiration of the learned! He wrote much and variously: but in an evil hour the demon Malice caught him abroad--watched his deviations--noted down his failings--and, discovering his vulnerable part, he did not fail, like another Paris, to profit by the discovery. Menander became the victim of over-refined sensibility: he need not have feared the demon, as no good man need fear Satan. His pen ceased to convey his sentiments; he sickened at heart; and after his body had been covered by the green grass turf, the gentle elves of fairy-land took care to weave a chaplet to hang upon his tomb, which was never to know decay! SYCORAX was this demon; and a cunning and clever demon was he!" [Footnote 78: This is the substance of the story related in Darwin's _Zoonomia_: vol. iv. p. 81.]