There is a certain ardent energy, the mother or necessary companion of a particular species of talent, which usually condemns those who possess it to the misfortune, not of being without morals, not of being without very beautiful feelings, but of frequently indulging in flights that presuppose an absence of all morality. It's a devouring harshness which they are not the masters of, and which makes them very hateful. It's afflicting to think that Pope and Swift in England, Voltaire and Rousseau in France, were judged not out of hatred, not out of jealousy, but out of equity and good-will, based on facts that were witnessed or admitted by their friends and admirers, to be stricken with and convicted of very blameworthy actions, and sometimes of very perverse feelings. O Altitudo!