author's self, is, I think, ill-founded. The soul is a cipher, in the
sense of a cryptograph; and the shorter a cryptograph is, the more
difficulty there is in its comprehension--at a certain point of
brevity it would bid defiance to an army of Champollions. And thus
he who has written very little, may in that little either conceal his
spirit or convey quite an erroneous idea of it--of his acquirements,
talents, temper, manner, tenor and depth (or shallowness) of
thought--in a word of his character, of himself. But this is
impossible with him who has written much. Of such a person we get,
from his books, not merely a just, but the most just representation.
Bulwer, the individual, personal man, in a green velvet waistcoat and
amber gloves, is not by any means the veritable Sir Edward Lytton,
who is discoverable only in 'Ernest Maltravers,' where his soul is
deliberately and nakedly set forth. And who would ever know Dickens by
looking at him or talking with him, or doing anything with him except
reading his 'Curiosity Shop?' What poet, in especial, but must feel
at least the better portion of himself more fairly represented in even
his commonest sonnet, (earnestly written,) than in his most elaborate
or most intimate personalities?

"I put all this as a general proposition, to which Miss Fuller affords
a marked exception--to this extent, that her personal character and
her printed book are merely one and the same thing. We get access
to her soul _as_ directly from the one as from the other--no _more_
readily from this than from that--easily from either. Her acts are
bookish, and her books are less thoughts than acts. Her literary and
her conversational manner are identical. Here is a passage from her
'Summer on the Lakes:'--

"'The rapids enchanted me far beyond what I expected; they