Enough If Every Age Produce Two Or

Far Better, And More Cheerfully, I Could Dispense With Some Part Of The Downright Necessaries Of Life, Than With Certain Circumstances Of Elegance And Propriety In The Daily Habits Of Using Them.

Enough If Every Age Produce Two Or Three Critics Of This Esoteric Class, With Here And There A Reader To Understand Them.

Here Was The Secret Of Happiness, About Which Philosophers Had Disputed For So Many Ages, At Once Discovered; Happiness Might Now Be Bought For A Penny, And Carried In The Waistcoat-pocket; Portable Ecstasies Might Be Had Corked Up In A Pint-bottle; And Peace Of Mind Could Be Sent Down By The Mail.

But My Way Of Writing Is Rather To Think Aloud, And Follow My Own Humours, Than Much To Consider Who Is Listening To Me; And, If I Stop To Consider What Is Proper To Be Said To This Or That Person, I Shall Soon Come To Doubt Whether Any Part At All Is Proper.

Either The Human Being Must Suffer And Struggle As The Price Of A More Searching Vision, Or His Gaze Must Be Shallow And Without Intellectual Revelation.