PART III.

Sometimes I become disgusted with myself. Not very often, it
is true, for I don't understand the self-abhorrence that I
occasionally see long drawn out in the strictly private printed
diaries of good dead people. A man's self-knowledge, as
regards his Maker, is a matter that lies only between his Maker
and himself, of which no printed or written (scarcely even
spoken) words can give, or ought to give, a true transcript;
but in respect of our relations to other people I suppose we
may take tolerably accurate views, and state them without
wickedness, if it comes in the way; and since the general trend
of opinion seems to be towards excessive modesty, I will
sacrifice myself to the good of society, and say that, in the
main, I think I am a rather "nice" sort of person. Of course
I do a great many things, and say a great many things, and
think a great many things, that I ought not; but when I think
of the sins that I don't commit,--the many times when I feel
cross enough to "bite a ten-penny nail in two," and only bite
my lips,--the sacrifices I make for other people, and don't
mention it, and they themselves never know it,--the quiet
cheerfulness I maintain when the fire goes out, or unexpected
guests arrive and there is no bread in the house, or my
manuscript is respectfully declined by that infatuated editor,--
when I reflect upon these things, and a thousand others like
unto them, I must say, I am lost in admiration of my own
virtues. You may not like me, but that is a mere difference
of taste. At any rate, I like myself very well, and find