idered what it was to be, whether he was to become a man
of books or a man of deeds. He had written poetry when it poured
irresistibly from the fount of emotion within, but looked at his
effusions with a cold and neglectful eye when the enthusiasm had passed
away.

Maltravers was not much gnawed by the desire of fame--perhaps few men of
real genius are, until artificially worked up to it. There is in a
sound and correct intellect, with all its gifts fairly balanced, a calm
consciousness of power, a certainty that when its strength is fairly
put out, it must be to realise the usual result of strength. Men
of second-rate faculties, on the contrary, are fretful and nervous,
fidgeting after a celebrity which they do not estimate by their own
talents, but by the talents of some one else. They see a tower, but
are occupied only with measuring its shadow, and think their own height
(which they never calculate) is to cast as broad a one over the earth.
It is the short man who is always throwing up his chin, and is as erect
as a dart. The tall man stoops, and the strong man is not always using
the dumb-bells.

Maltravers had not yet, then, the keen and sharp yearning for
reputation; he had not, as yet, tasted its sweets and bitters--fatal
draught, which _once_ tasted, begets too often an insatiable thirst!
neither had he enemies and decriers whom he was desirous of abashing by
merit. And that is a very ordinary cause for exertion in proud minds. He
was, it is true, generally reputed clever, and fools were afraid of
him: but as he actively interfered with no man's pretensions, so no man
thought it necessary to call him a blockhead. At present, therefore, it
was quietly and naturally that his mind was working its legitimate way
to its destiny of exertion. He began idly and carelessly to note down
his thoughts and impressions; what was once put on the paper, begot
new matter; his ideas became more lucid to himself; and the page grew
a looking-glass, which presented the likeness of his own features. He
began by writing with rapidity, and without method. He had no object but
to please himself, and to find a vent for an overcharged spirit; and,
like most writings of the young, the matter was egotistical. We commence
with the small nucleus of passion and experience, to widen the circle
afterwards; and, perhaps, the most extensive and universal masters of
life and character have begun by being egotists. For there is in a man
that has