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articles written under this powerful stimulus。 If Bacon's Essays had
been furnished by a modern hand to the 〃Quarterly Review〃 at fifty
guineas a sheet； what a great book it would have taken to hold them！
The first thing which suggests itself to me； as I contemplate my
slight project； is the liability of repeating in the evening what I
may have said in the morning in one form or another； and printed in
these or other pages。 When it suddenly flashes into the
consciousness of a writer who had been long before the public； 〃Why；
I have said all that once or oftener in my books or essays； and here
it is again； the same old thought； the same old image； the same old
story！〃 it irritates him； and is likely to stir up the monosyllables
of his unsanctified vocabulary。 He sees in imagination a thousand
readers； smiling or yawning as they say to themselves； 〃We have had
all that before；〃 and turn to another writer's performance for
something not quite so stale and superfluous。 This is what the
writer says to himself about the reader。
The idiot！ Does the simpleton really think that everybody has read
all he has written？ Does he really believe that everybody remembers
all of his； writer's； words he may happen to have read？ At one of
those famous dinners of the Phi Beta Kappa Society； where no reporter
was ever admitted； and which nothing ever leaks out about what is
said and done； Mr。 Edward Everett； in his after…dinner speech； quoted
these lines from the AEneid； giving a liberal English version of
them； which he applied to the Oration just delivered by Mr。 Emerson：
Tres imbris torti radios； tres nubis aquosae
Addiderant； rutili tres ignis； et alitis Austri。
His nephew； the ingenious； inventive； and inexhaustible。 Edward
Everett Hale； tells the story of this quotation； and of the various
uses to which it might plied in after…dinner speeches。 How often he
ventured to repeat it at the Phi Beta Kappa dinners I am not sure；
but as he reproduced it with his lively embellishments and fresh
versions and artful circumlocutions； not one person in ten remembered
that he had listened to those same words in those same accents only a
twelvemonth ago。 The poor deluded creatures who take it for granted
that all the world remembers what they have said； and laugh at them
when they say it over again； may profit by this recollection。 But
what if one does say the same things；of course in a little
different form each time；over her？ If he has anything to say worth
saying； that is just what be ought to do。 Whether he ought to or
not； it is very certain that this is what all who write much or speak
much necessarily must and will do。 Think of the clergyman who
preaches fifty or a hundred or more sermons every year for fifty
years！ Think of the stump speaker who shouts before a hundred
audiences during the same political campaign； always using the same
arguments； illustrations； and catchwords！ Think of the editor； as
Carlyle has pictured him； threshing the same straw every morning；
until we know what is coming when we see the first line； as we do
when we read the large capitals at the head of a thrilling story；
which ends in an advertisement of an all…cleansing soap or an all…
curing remedy！
The latch…key which opens into the inner chambers of my consciousness
fits； as I have sufficient reason to believe； the private apartments
of a good many other people's thoughts。 The longer we live； the more
we find we are like other persons。 When I meet with any facts in my
own mental experience； I feel almost sure that I shall find them
repeated or anticipated in the writings or the conversation of
others。 This feeling gives one a freedom in telling his own personal
history he could not have enjoyed without it。 My story belongs to
you as much as to me。 De te fabula narratur。 Change the personal
pronoun；that is all。 It gives many readers a singular pleasure to
find a writer telling them something they have long known or felt；
but which they have never before found any one to put in words for
them。 An author does not always know when he is doing the service of
the angel who stirred the waters of the pool of Bethesda。 Many a
reader is delighted to find his solitary thought has a companion； and
is grateful to the benefactor who has strengthened him。 This is the
advantage of the humble reader over the ambitious and self…
worshipping writer。 It is not with him pereant illi； but beati sunt
illi qui pro nobis nostra dixerunt； …Blessed are those who have said
our good things for us。
What I have been saying of repetitions leads me into a train of
reflections like which I think many readers will find something in
their own mental history。 The area of consciousness is covered by
layers of habitual thoughts； as a sea…beach is covered with wave…
worn； rounded pebbles； shaped； smoothed； and polished by long
attrition against each other。 These thoughts remain very much the
same from day to day； from week to week； and as we grow older； from
month to month； and from year to year。 The tides of wakening
consciousness roll in upon them daily as we unclose our eyelids； and
keep up the gentle movement and murmur of ordinary mental respiration
until we close them again in slumber。 When we think we are thinking；
we are for the most part only listening to sound of attrition between
these inert elements of intelligence。 They shift their places a
little； they change their relations to each other； they roll over and
turn up new surfaces。 Now and then a new fragment is cast in among
them； to be worn and rounded and takes its place with the others； but
the pebbled floor of consciousness is almost as stationary as the
pavement of a city thoroughfare。
It so happens that at this particular tine I have something to tell
which I am quite sure is not one of rolled pebbles which my reader
has seen before in any of my pages； or； as I feel confident； in those
of any other writer。
If my reader asks why I do not send the statement I am going to make
to some one of the special periodicals that deal with such subjects；
my answer is； that I like to tell my own stories at my own time； in
own chosen columns； where they will be read by a class of readers
with whom I like to talk。
All men of letters or of science； all writers well known to the
public； are constantly tampered with； in these days； by a class of
predaceous and hungry fellow…laborers who may be collectively spoken
of as the brain…tappers。 They want an author's ideas on the subjects
which interest them； the inquirers； from the gravest religious and
moral questions to the most trivial matters of his habits and his
whims and fancies。 Some of their questions he cannot answer； some he
does not choose to answer； some he is not yet ready to answer； and
when he is ready he prefers to select his own organ of publication。
I do not find fault with all the brain…tappers。 Some of th