as I do my dear old egotists just
mentioned. When you have had enough of them, and sudden hazes come over
your eyes, lay down the volume; pop out the candle, and dormez bien.
I should like to write a nightcap book--a book that you can muse over,
that you can smile over, that you can yawn over--a book of which you can
say, "Well, this man is so and so and so and so; but he has a friendly
heart (although some wiseacres have painted him as black as bogey), and
you may trust what he says." I should like to touch you sometimes with a
reminiscence that shall waken your sympathy, and make you say, Io anche
have so thought, felt, smiled, suffered. Now, how is this to be done
except by egotism? Linea recta brevissima. That right line "I" is the
very shortest, simplest, straightforwardest means of communication
between us, and stands for what it is worth and no more. Sometimes
authors say, "The present writer has often remarked;" or "The
undersigned has observed;" or "Mr. Roundabout presents his compliments
to the gentle reader, and begs to state," &c.: but "I" is better and
straighter than all these grimaces of modesty: and although these are
Roundabout Papers, and may wander who knows whither, I shall ask leave
to maintain the upright and simple perpendicular. When this bundle of
egotisms is bound up together, as they may be one day, if no accident
prevents this tongue from wagging, or this ink from running, they will
bore you very likely; so it would to read through "Howel's Letters"
from beginning to end, or to eat up the whole of a ham; but a slice on
occasion may have a relish: a dip into the volume at random and so on
for a page or two: and now and then a smile; and presently a gape; and
the book drops out of your hand; and so, bon soir, and pleasant dreams
to you. I have frequently seen men at clubs asleep over their humble
servant's works, and am always pleased. Even at a lecture I don't mind,
if they don't snore. Only the other day when my friend A. said, "You've
left off that Roundabout business, I see; very glad you have," I joined
in the general roar of laughter at the table. I don't care a fig
whether Archilochus likes the papers or no. You don't like partridge,
Archilochus, or porridge, or what not? Try some other dish. I am not
going to force mine down your throat, or quarrel with you if you refuse
it. Once in America a clever and candid woman said to me, at the
close of a dinner, during which I had been sitting be