astonished at our instincts. They do not see where we got our knowledge; and, while they tramp on in their clumsy way, we wheel, and fly, and dart hither and thither, and seize with ready eye all the weak points, like Saladin in the desert. It is quite another thing when we come to write, and, without suggestion from another mind, to declare the positive amount of thought that is in us. Because we seemed to know all, they think we can tell all; and, finding we can tell so little, lose faith in their first opinion of us, which, nathless, was true.’
And again: ‘These gentlemen are surprised that I
write no better, because I talk so well. But I have
served a long apprenticeship to the one, none to the
other. I shall write better, but never, I think, so well
as I talk; for then I feel inspired. The means are
pleasant; my voice excites me, my pen never. I shall
not be discouraged, nor take for final what they say, but
sift from it the truth, and use it. I feel the strength to
dispense with all illusions. I will stand steady, and
rejoice in the severest probations.’
‘What a vulgarity there seems in this writing for the
multitude! We know not yet, have not made ourselves
known to a single soul, and shall we address those still
more unknown? Shall we multiply our connections,
and thus make them still more superficial?
‘I would go into the crowd, and meet men for the day, to help them for the day, but for that intercourse which most becomes us. Pericles, Anaxagoras, Aspasia, Cleone, is circle wide enough for me. I should think all the resources of my nature, and all the tribute it
