ivated gentlemen to those belonging to the same club.
It is not until a man knows himself to be writing for a hundred thousand readers that he is compelled to work out his abstrusest thought into clearness, just as a sufficient pressure transforms opaque snow into pellucid ice. In our great American magazines, history and science have commonly undergone this process, and the reader may be gratified, not ashamed, at comprehending them.
The best remedy for too profound a deference toward European literary work is to test the author on some ground with which we in America cannot help being familiar.
It is this which makes a book of travels among us, or even a lecturing trip, so perilous for a foreign reputation; and among the few who can bear this test —as De Tocqueville, Von Holst, the Comte de Paris—it is singularly rare to find an Englishman.
If the travellers have been thus unfortunate, how much more those who have risked themselves on cis-Atlantic themes without travelling.