prefers in woman a brown eye to a blue, and explains by early love passages his reasons for the preference, I do not get angry; on the contrary, I feel quite pleased; perhaps, if the matter is related with unusual grace and tenderness, it is read with a certain moisture and dimness of eye.  And the reason is obvious.  The egotistical X. is barren, and suggests nothing beyond himself, save that he is a good deal better off than I am—­a reflection much pleasanter to him than it is to me; whereas the equally egotistical Z., with a single sentence about his snowdrops, or his liking for brown eyes rather than for blue, sends my thoughts wandering away back among my dead spring-times, or wafts me the odours of the roses of those summers when the colour of an eye was of more importance than it now is.  X.’s men-servants and coach-and-six do not fit into the life of his reader, because in all probability his reader knows as much about these things as he knows about Pharaoh; Z.’s snowdrops and preferences of colour do, because every one knows what the spring thirst is, and every one in his time has been enslaved by eyes whose colour he could not tell for his life, but which he knew were the tenderest that ever looked love, the brightest that ever flashed sunlight.  Montaigne and Charles Lamb are egotists of the Z. class, and the world never wearies reading them:  nor are egotists of the X. school absolutely without entertainment.  Several of these the world reads assiduously too, although for another reason.  The avid vanity of Mr. Pepys would be gratified if made aware of the success of his diary; but curiously to inquire into the reason of that success, why his diary has been found so amusing, would not conduce to his comfort.

After all, the only thing a man knows is himself.  The world outside he can know only by hearsay.  His shred of personality is all he has; than that, he is nothing richer nothing poorer.  Everything else is mere accident and appendage.  Alexander must not be measured by the shoutings of his armies, nor Lazarus at Dives’ gates by his sores.  And a man knows himself only in part.  In every nature, as in Australia, there is an unexplored territory—­green, well-watered regions or mere sandy deserts; and into that territory experience is making progress day by day.  We can remember when we knew only the outer childish rim—­and from the crescent guessed the sphere; whether, as we advanced, these have been realised, each knows for himself.

A SHELF IN MY BOOKCASE

When a man glances critically through the circle of his intimate friends, he is obliged to confess that they are far from being perfect.  They possess neither the beauty of Apollo, nor the wisdom of Solon, nor the wit of Mercutio, nor the reticence of Napoleon III.  If pushed hard he will be constrained to admit that he has known each and all get angry without sufficient occasion, make at times the foolishest remarks,