Ernest
had such a note-book always with him. Even when he was at Cambridge he
had begun the practice without anyone's having suggested it to him.
These notes he copied out from time to time into a book, which as they
accumulated, he was driven into indexing approximately, as he went
along. When I found out this, I knew that he had the literary
instinct, and when I saw his notes I began to hope great things of
him.
For a long time I was disappointed. He was kept back by the nature
of the subjects he chose- which were generally metaphysical. In vain I
tried to get him away from these to matters which had a greater
interest for the general public. When I begged him to try his hand
at some pretty, graceful little story which should be full of whatever
people knew and liked best, he would immediately set to work upon a
treatise to show the grounds on which all belief rested.
"You are stirring mud," said I, "or poking at a sleeping dog. You
are trying to make people resume consciousness about things, which,
with sensible men, have already passed into the unconscious stage. The
men whom you would disturb are in front of you, and not, as you fancy,
behind you; it is you who are the lagger, not they.
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