Even the playful muse of GRESSET throws a sombre querulousness over the solitude of men of genius:-- -- Je les vois, victimes du genie, Au foible prix d'un eclat passager, Vivre isoles, sans jouir de la vie! Vingt ans d'ennuis pour quelques jours de gloire.
Such are the necessity, the pleasures, and the inconveniences of solitude! It ceases to be a question whether men of genius should blend with the masses of society; for whether in solitude, or in the world, of all others they must learn to live with themselves.

It is in the world that they borrow the sparks of thought that fly upwards and perish but the flame of genius can only be lighted in their own solitary breast.
[Footnote A: See the article on Cowley in "Calamities of Authors."].