3–9 September 1838

I have usually read that a man suflFered more from one hard word than he enjoyed from ten good ones. My own experience does not con- firm the saying. The censure (I either know or fancy) does not hit me ; and the praise is very good.

How rare is the skill of writing? I detected a certain unusual unity of purpose in the para- graph levelled at me in the Daily Advertiser, and I now learn it is the old tyrant of the Cam- bridge Parnassus himself, Mr. Norton,' who wrote it. One cannot compliment the power and culture of his community so much as to think it holds a hundred writers ; but no, if there is information and tenacity of purpose, what Bacon calls longanimity, it must be in- stantly traced home to some one known hand.'

That which is individual and remains indi- vidual in my experience is of no value. What is fit to engage me, and so engage others perma- nently, is what has put off its weeds of time and place and personal relation. Therefore all that befals me in the way of criticism and extreme blame and praise, drawing me out of equili- brium, — putting me for a time in a false posi- tion to people, and disallowing the spontaneous sentiments, — wastes my time, bereaves me of thoughts, and shuts me up within poor personal considerations. Therefore, I hate to be conspicu- ous for blame or praise. It spoils thought.