s greatly pleased by a
compliment that was paid to him by the government, apparently through
the interest of General Conway. The duty that had been paid upon
certain boxes forwarded to Rousseau from Switzerland was recouped by
the treasury,[376] and the arrangements for the annual pension of one
hundred pounds were concluded and accepted by him, after he had duly
satisfied himself that Hume was not the indirect author of the
benefaction.[377] The weather was the worst possible, but whenever it
allowed him to go out of doors, he found delight in climbing the
heights around him in search of curious mosses; for he had now come to
think the discovery of a single new plant a hundred times more useful
than to have the whole human race listening to your sermons for half a
century.[378] "This indolent and contemplative life that you do not
approve," he wrote to the elder Mirabeau, "and for which I pretend to
make no excuses, becomes every day more delicious to me: to wander
alone among the trees and rocks that surround my dwelling; to muse or
rather to extravagate at my ease, and as you say to stand gaping in
the air; when my brain gets too hot, to calm it by dissecting some
moss or fern; in short, to surrender myself without restraint to my
phantasies, which, heaven be thanked, are all under my own
control,--all that is for me the height of enjoyment, to which I can
imagine nothing superior in this world for a man of my age and in my
condition."[379]

This contentment did not last long. The snow kept him indoors. The
excitement of composition abated. Theresa harassed him by ignoble
quarrels with the women in the kitchen. His delusions returned with
greater force than before. He believed that the whole English nation
was in a plot against him, that all his letters were opened before
reaching London and before leaving it, that all his movements were
closely watched, and that he was surrounded by unseen guards to
prevent any attempt at escape.[380] At length these delusions got such
complete mastery over him, that in a paroxysm of terror he fled away
from Wootton, leaving money, papers, and all else behind him. Nothing
was heard of him for a fortnight, when Mr. Davenport received a letter
from him dated at Spalding in Lincolnshire. Mr. Davenport's conduct
throughout was marked by a humanity and patience that do him the
highest honour. He confesses himself "quite moved to read poor
Rousseau's mournful epistle." "You shall see his