I had occasion to say the other night in Boston, as I have more
than once had occasion to remark before, that it is not easy for an
author to speak of his own books. If the task be a difficult one
at any time, its difficulty, certainly, is not diminished when a
frequent recurrence to the same theme has left one nothing new to
say. Still, I feel that, in a company like this, and especially
after what has been said by the President, that I ought not to pass
lightly over those labours of love, which, if they had no other
merit, have been the happy means of bringing us together.

It has been often observed, that you cannot judge of an author's
personal character from his writings. It may be that you cannot.
I think it very likely, for many reasons, that you cannot. But, at
least, a reader will rise from the perusal of a book with some
defined and tangible idea of the writer's moral creed and broad
purposes, if he has any at all; and it is probable enough that he
may like to have this idea confirmed from the author's lips, or
dissipated by his explanation. Gentlemen, my moral creed--which is
a very wide and comprehensive one, and includes all sects and
parties--is very easily summed up. I have faith, and I wish to
diffuse faith in the existence--yes, of beautiful things, even in
those conditions of society, which are so degenerate, degraded, and
forlorn, that, at first sight, it would seem as though they could
not be described but by a strange and terrible reversal of the
words of Scripture, "God said, Let there be light, and there was
none." I take it that we are born, and that we hold our
sympathies, hopes, and energies, in trust for the many, and not for
the few. That we cannot hold in too strong a light of disgust and
contempt, before the view of others, all meanness, falsehood,