the piece and by the bale.

That every articulately-speaking human being has in him stuff for
ONE novel in three volumes duodecimo has long been with me a

cherished belief. It has been maintained, on the other hand, that
many persons cannot write more than one novel, - that all after

that are likely to be failures. - Life is so much more tremendous a
thing in its heights and depths than any transcript of it can be,

that all records of human experience are as so many bound HERBARIA
to the innumerable glowing, glistening, rustling, breathing,

fragrance-laden, poison-sucking, life-giving, death-distilling
leaves and flowers of the forest and the prairies. All we can do

with books of human experience is to make them alive again with
something borrowed from our own lives. We can make a book alive

for us just in proportion to its resemblance in essence or in form
to our own experience. Now an author's first novel is naturally

drawn, to a great extent, from his personal experiences; that is,
is a literal copy of nature under various slight disguises. But

the moment the author gets out of his personality, he must have the
creative power, as well as the narrative art and the sentiment, in

order to tell a living story; and this is rare.
Besides, there is great danger that a man's first life-story shall

clean him out, so to speak, of his best thoughts. Most lives,
though their stream is loaded with sand and turbid with alluvial

waste, drop a few golden grains of wisdom as they flow along.
Oftentimes a single CRADLING gets them all, and after that the poor

man's labor is only rewarded by mud and worn pebbles. All which
proves that I, as an individual of the human family, could write

one novel or story at any rate, if I would.
- Why don't I, then? - Well, there are several reasons against it.

In the first place, I should tell all my secrets, and I maintain
that verse is the proper medium for such revelations. Rhythm and

rhyme and the harmonies of musical language, the play of fancy, the
fire of imagination, the flashes of passion, so hide the nakedness

of a heart laid open, that hardly any confession" target="_blank" title="n.招供；认错；交待">confession, transfigured in
the luminous halo of poetry, is reproached as self-exposure. A

beauty shows herself under the chandeliers, protected by the
glitter of her diamonds, with such a broad snowdrift of white arms

and shoulders laid bare, that, were she unadorned and in plain
calico, she would be unendurable - in the opinion of the ladies.

Again, I am terribly afraid I should show up all my friends. I
should like to know if all story-tellers do not do this? Now I am

afraid all my friends would not bear showing up very well; for they
have an average share of the common weakness of humanity, which I

am pretty certain would come out. Of all that have told stories
among us there is hardly one I can recall who has not drawn too

faithfully some living portrait that might better have been spared.
Once more, I have sometimes thought it possible I might be too dull

to write such a story as I should wish to write.
And finally, I think it very likely I SHALL write a story one of

these days. Don't be surprised at any time, if you see me coming
out with "The Schoolmistress," or "The Old Gentleman Opposite."

[OUR schoolmistress and OUR old gentleman that sits opposite had
left the table before I said this.] I want my glory for writing

the same discounted now, on the spot, if you please. I will write
when I get ready. How many people live on the reputation of the

reputation they might have made!
- I saw you smiled when I spoke about the possibility of my being

too dull to write a good story. I don't pretend to know what you
meant by it, but I take occasion to make a remark which may

hereafter prove of value to some among you. - When one of us who
has been led by native vanity or senselessflattery to think

himself or herself possessed of talent arrives at the full and
final conclusion that he or she is really dull, it is one of the

most tranquillizing and blessed convictions that can enter a
mortal's mind. All our failures, our shortcomings, our strange

disappointments in the effect of our efforts are lifted from our
bruised shoulders, and fall, like Christian's pack, at the feet of

that Omnipotence which has seen fit to deny us the pleasant gift of
high intelligence, - with which one look may overflow us in some

wider sphere of being.
- How sweetly and honestly one said to me the other day, "I hate

books!" A gentleman, - singularly free from affectations, - not
learned, of course, but of perfect breeding, which is often so much

better than learning, - by no means dull, in the sense of knowledge
of the world and society, but certainly not clever either in the

arts or sciences, - his company is pleasing to all who know him. I
did not recognize in him inferiority of literary taste half so

distinctly as I did simplicity of character and fearless
acknowledgment of his inaptitude for scholarship. In fact, I think

there are a great many gentlemen and others, who read with a mark
to keep their place, that really "hate books," but never had the

wit to find it out, or the manliness to own it. [ENTRE NOUS, I
always read with a mark.]

We get into a way of thinking as if what we call an "intellectual
man" was, as a matter of course, made up of nine-tenths, or

thereabouts, of book-learning, and one-tenth himself. But even if
he is actually" target="_blank" title="ad.事实上；实际上">actually so compounded, he need not read much. Society is a

strong solution of books. It draws the virtue out of what is best
worth reading, as hot water draws the strength of tea-leaves. If I

were a prince, I would hire or buy a private literary tea-pot, in
which I would steep all the leaves of new books that promised well.

The infusion would do for me without the vegetable fibre. You
understand me; I would have a person whose sole business should be

to read day and night, and talk to me whenever I wanted him to. I
know the man I would have: a quick-witted, out-spoken, incisive

fellow; knows history, or at any rate has a shelf full of books
about it, which he can use handily, and the same of all useful arts

and sciences; knows all the common plots of plays and novels, and
the stock company of characters that are continually coming on in

new costume; can give you a criticism of an octavo in an epithet
and a wink, and you can depend on it; cares for nobody except for

the virtue there is in what he says; delights in taking off big
wigs and professional gowns, and in the disembalming and

unbandaging of all literary mummies. Yet he is as tender and
reverential to all that bears the mark of genius, - that is, of a

new influx of truth or beauty, - as a nun over her missal. In
short, he is one of those men that know everything except how to

make a living. Him would I keep on the square next my own royal
compartment on life's chessboard. To him I would push up another

pawn, in the shape of a comely and wise young woman, whom he would
of course take - to wife. For all contingencies I would liberally

provide. In a word, I would, in the plebeian, but expressive
phrase, "put him through" all the material part of life; see him

sheltered, warmed, fed, button-mended, and all that, just to be
able to lay on his talk when I liked, - with the privilege of

shutting it off at will.
A Club is the next best thing to this, strung like a harp, with

about a dozen ringing intelligences, each answering to some chord
of the macrocosm. They do well to dine together once in a while.

A dinner-party made up of such elements is the last triumph of
civilization over barbarism. Nature and art combine to charm the

senses; the equatorial zone of the system is soothed by well-
studied artifices; the faculties are off duty, and fall into their

natural attitudes; you see wisdom in slippers and science in a
short jacket.

The whole force of conversation depends on how much you can take
for granted. Vulgar chess-players have to play their game out;

nothing short of the brutality of an actual checkmate satisfies
their dull apprehensions. But look at two masters of that noble

game! White stands well enough, so far as you can see; but Red
says, Mate in six moves; - White looks, - nods; - the game is over.

Just so in talking with first-rate men; especially when they are
good-natured and expansive, as they are apt to be at table. That

blessed clairvoyance which sees into things without opening them, -
that glorious license, which, having shut the door and driven the