that his conversation must be copy and compeer of his writings.
We forget that those writings are the productions of the mind's highest mood, when thoughts rise up in their perfect beauty, like the stars on the night; when feelings, untempted and unchecked, are the true, the good, and the pure; when vanity is sublimed into fame—that earthly hereafter—which, in taking the semblance of eternity, catches somewhat of its glory too; when imagination peoples its solitude with the great and the lovely, like those spiritual essences which obey but a midnight spell; when, if memory bring sorrow, it is softened and refined, or if hope speak of a future, it is one exalted and redeemed; when the enjoyment of creation is within him, and the consciousness of power is delight. In such hours are those pages written which will pass sea and land, winged with praise and pleasure—over which eyes will glisten and hearts beat, when the hand that wrote is mouldered in the grave, and the head that conceived but a whitened skull.
Now society is a market-place, not a temple: there is the bargain to be made—the business to be followed; novelty, curiosity, amusement,
