which I used to enjoy by my fireside when I was able to read.

"But enough of complaints. Do not allow this letter to affect
you too much, and do not think that I give way to dejection or
despondency; no, I am a fatalist, and I believe in my star. I do
not know yet what my calling is, nor for what branch of polite
literature I am best fitted; I do not even know whether I am, or
ever shall be, fitted for any: but what matters it? I suffer, I
labor, I dream, I enjoy, I think; and, in a word, when my last
hour strikes, I shall have lived.

"Proudhon, I love you, I esteem you; and, believe me, these are
not mere phrases. What interest could I have in flattering and
praising a poor printer? Are you rich, that you may pay for
courtiers? Have you a sumptuous table, a dashing wife, and gold
to scatter, in order to attract them to your suite? Have you the
glory, honors, credit, which would render your acquaintance
pleasing to their vanity and pride? No; you are poor, obscure,
abandoned; but, poor, obscure, and abandoned, you have a friend,
and a friend who knows all the obligations which that word
imposes upon honorable people, when they venture to assume it.
That friend is myself: put me to the test.
"GUSTAVE FALLOT."


It appears from this letter that if, at this period, Proudhon had
already exhibited to the eyes of a clairvoyant friend his genius
for research and investigation, it was in the direction of
philosophical, rather than of economical and social, questions.