continually that my so-called opinions were not worth a straw. The
related virtues of accuracy, strength of memory, and clear
definition, are of great importance, but I over-estimated them. I
see now that human affairs are so complicated, that had I possessed
the advantages bestowed on my cousin and his companion, they would
not have prevented delusions, all the more perilous, perhaps,
because I should have been more confident. However, at the time of
which I am speaking, I was wretched, and believed that my
wretchedness was entirely due to deficiencies and weaknesses, from
which my friends were free. No sorrow of genius is greater than the
daily misery of the man with no gifts, who is not properly equipped,
and has desires out of all proportion to his capacity.

I had no real love of art and did not understand it. I went to
concerts, but the only part of a sonata or symphony which took hold
of me was that which was melodious. The long passages with no
striking theme in them conveyed nothing to me, and as to Bach,
excepting now and then, his music was like a skilful recitation of
nonsense verses. The Marseillaise on a barrel-organ was
intelligible, but gymnastics on strings--what did they represent?
With pictures the case was somewhat different. I often left Clapton
early in order that I might have half an hour at Christie's in
quiet, and I have spent many pleasant moments in those rooms on
sunny mornings in May and June before De Wint's and Turner's
landscapes. But I knew nothing about them. Without previous
instruction I should probably have placed something worthless on the
same level with them, and I could not fix my attention on them long.
A water-colour by Turner, on which all his power had been expended,
an abstract of years and years of toil and observation, was unable
to detain me for more than five minutes, and in those five minutes I