The sensation they feel on these occasions, is so manifestly such as we are describing, that when any one is seen in an uncommon agitation of body or mind, it is very usual to say, _What fly stings? what maggot bites?_ Though nothing can be seen, it is perceived that the cause of so many motions is a stinging: A man often finds it by experience, and knows what it is owing to.
When once men are troubled with these restless prickings, they cannot be quiet. He, for instance, that is stung with the itch of talking, is continually discoursing with every body, correcting those that do not need it, informing those that know more than himself. His visage opens, lengthens, and shortens at pleasure: He laughs with those that laugh, weeps with those that weep, without sharing the joy of the one, or the grief of the other. If by chance he gives you room to say any thing, speak fast and stop not; for, in an instant, he would begin again, and take care not to be interrupted. Never does he lend an ear to any one; and even when he seems to hold his tongue, he is still muttering to himself. He despises nothing so much as those silent animals, who hear little and speak still less; and he thinks no men more worthy of envy than those, who have the talent of drawing a circle of admirers, of raising the voice in the midst of them, and of saying nothings incessantly applauded.
Sometimes the itch of talking is turned into the itch of writing; which comes to the same thing; for writing, is talking to the whole world. Then those torrents of words, which flow from the mouth, change their course and flow from the pen ... what numbers of bablers in these silent libraries! Oh how must those who have ears, and run over these immense collections, be stunned with what they hear! They are like great fairs, where each author cries up his wares to the utmost of his power, and spares nothing to promote the sale. Come (says an Antient) come and learn of me to practice virtue and become happy; come and draw from these pure fountains, whose streams are polluted by the corruption of men.... Come rather to me (cries a Modern) time and observation have opened our eyes; we see things, and only want to show them to you.... Mind them not (says a Romancer) seek not truth there; truth still lies in the bottom of Democritus’s well. Come therefore to me for amusement, and I will help you to it. Come and read the life and exploits of the duke of * * * *, the model of the court; he never attacked a girl without debauching her; he has embroiled above fifty families, and thrown whole towns into confusion: He must, it is plain, be one of the most accomplished men of the age.... I have things to offer you, much more interesting than all this, (says a Versifier) I have the prettiest odes and finest songs in the world, little soft verses, nosegays for Iris, and a complete collection of all the riddles and symbolical letters, which for these ten years have puzzled the sagacity of the strongest heads in Babylon.... Away with those trifles (says a Tragic Poet) and come to me: I manage the passions as I please: I will force tears from your eyes, transport you out of your senses, and make your hair stand an end.... That is very kind indeed, (says a Comic Poet) but I believe, it will be better to come to me, who will make you laugh at all others and even at yourselves. I pity you all, (says a Man-hater) burn me all those books there and mine too; and let there be no mention of learning, arts, sciences, and the like wretched things; for it is I that tell you, as long as you have any reason, you shall have neither wisdom, nor conduct, nor happiness.