I now understand perfectly his aversion to company; which appears so surprising in a man well qualified for the entertainment of company, and which the greater part of the world takes for affectation. He has frequent and long fits of the spleen, from the state of his mind or body, call it which you please; and from his extreme sensibility of temper, during that disposition, company is a torment to him. When his spirits and health and good humour return, his fancy affords him so much and such agreeable occupation, that to call him off from it gives him uneasiness; and even the writing of books, he tells me, as it limits and restrains his fancy to one subject, is not an agreeable entertainment. He never will write any more; and never should have wrote at all, could he have slept a-nights. But he lies awake commonly; and to keep himself from tiring, he usually composed something, which he wrote down when he arose. He assures me, that he composes very slowly, and with great labour and difficulty. He is naturally very modest, and even ignorant of his own superiority. His fire, which frequently rises in conversation, is gentle and temperate; he is never in the least arrogant and domineering, and is, indeed, one of the best bred men I ever knew. I shall give you such an instance of his modesty as must necessarily be sincere. When we were on the road, I recommended to him the learning of English, without which, I told him, he would never enjoy entire liberty, nor be fully independent, and at his own disposal. He was sensible I was in the right, and said, that he heard there were two English translations of his "Emile, or Treatise on Education;" he would get them as soon as he arrived in London; and as he knew the subject, he would have no other trouble, than to learn or guess the words: this would save him some pains in consulting the dictionary; and as he improved, it would amuse him to compare the translations and judge which was the best. Accordingly, soon after our arrival, I procured him the books, but he returned them in a few days, saying that they could be of no use to him. "What is the matter?" replied I. "I cannot endure them," said he, "they are my own work; and ever since I delivered my books to the press, I never could open them, or read a page of them without disgust." "That is strange," said I, "I wonder the good reception they have met with from the world has not put you more in conceit with them." "Why," said he, "if I were to count suffrages, there are perhaps more against them than for them." "But," rejoined I, "it is impossible but the style, and eloquence, and ornaments must please you." "To tell the truth," said he, "I am not displeased with myself in that particular: but I still dread,