In the course of our turning of leaves, we fall at last on an
extraordinary passage -- a record of thought and virtue, or a clarion
strain of poetry, or perchance a traveller makes us acquainted with
strange modes of life and some relic of primeval religion, or, rarer
yet, a profound sentence is here printed -- shines here new but
eternal on these linen pages, -- we wonder whence it came, -- or
perhaps trace it instantly home -- _aut Erasmus aut Diabolus_ -- to
the only head it could come from.
A few thoughts are all we glean from the best inspection of the
paper pile; all the rest is combination and confectionary. A little
part abides in our memory, and goes to exalt the sense of duty, and
make us happier. For the rest, our heated expectation is chilled and
disappointed. Some indirect benefit will no doubt accrue. If we
read with braced and active mind, we learn this negative fact, itself
a piece of human life. We contrast this mountain of dross with the
grains of gold, -- we oversee the writer, and learn somewhat of the
laws of writing. But a lesson as good we might be learning
elsewhere.
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