say one good thing, one must say many bad, and more indifferent ones."
This desire to shine without the means at hand, often makes men
silent:--

The fear of being silent strikes us dumb.

A writer who has been accustomed to take a connected view of a
difficult question and to work it out gradually in all its bearings, may
be very deficient in that quickness and ease which men of the world, who
are in the habit of hearing a variety of opinions, who pick up an
observation on one subject, and another on another, and who care about
none any further than the passing away of an idle hour, usually acquire.
An author has studied a particular point--he has read, he has inquired,
he has thought a great deal upon it: he is not contented to take it up
casually in common with others, to throw out a hint, to propose an
objection: he will either remain silent, uneasy, and dissatisfied, or he
will begin at the beginning, and go through with it to the end. He is
for taking the whole responsibility upon himself. He would be thought to
understand the subject better than others, or indeed would show that
nobody else knows anything about it. There are always three or four
points on which the literary novice at his first outset in life fancies
he can enlighten every company, and bear down all opposition: but he is
cured of this quixotic and pugnacious spirit, as he goes more into the
world, where he finds that there are other opinions and other
pretensions to be adjusted besides his own. When this asperity wears
off, and a certain scholastic precocity is mellowed down, the
conversation of men of letters becomes both interesting and instructive.
Men of the world have no fixed principles, no groundwork of thought:
mere scholars have too much an object, a theory always in view, to which
they wrest everything, and not unfrequently, common sense itself. By