I should even more admire "the lifelong and heroic
literary labours" of my fellow-men, patiently clearing up in
words their loves and their contentions, and speaking their
autobiography daily to their wives, were it not for a
circumstance which lessens their difficulty and my admiration
by equal parts. For life, though largely, is not entirely
carried on by literature. We are subject to physical passions
and contortions; the voice breaks and changes, and speaks by
unconscious and winning inflections; we have legible
countenances, like an open book; things that cannot be said
look eloquently through the eyes; and the soul, not locked
into the body as a dungeon, dwells ever on the threshold with
appealing signals. Groans and tears, looks and gestures, a
flush or a paleness, are often the most clear reporters of the
heart, and speak more directly to the hearts of others. The
message flies by these interpreters in the least space of
time, and the misunderstanding is averted in the moment of its
birth. To explain in words takes time and a just and patient
hearing; and in the critical epochs of a close relation,
patience and justice are not qualities on which we can rely.
But the look or the gesture explains things in a breath; they
tell their message without ambiguity; unlike speech, they
cannot stumble, by the way, on a reproach or an allusion that
should steel your friend against the truth; and then they have
a higher authority, for they are the direct expression of the
heart, not yet transmitted through the unfaithful and
sophisticating brain. Not long ago I wrote a letter to a
friend which came near involving us in quarrel; but we met,
and in personal talk I repeated the worst of what I had