effort of will.
It is strange to him that the word “poet” should mean “maker,” when his experience is that the poem, even if a poor one, makes itself.
Its production also affords a relief; and this explains the many cases where-as, in America, with Emily Dickinson
and Francis Saltus-one may spend a whole lifetime in making verses, and yet let almost nothing be published until after death.
This explains also why their own works often seem to authors so remote and worthless; they feel as an apple-tree might feel, if it were human, towards a barrel of its own apples of last season.
When to all this is added a woman's lingering tradition of the seclusion due to her sex, it is not strange if authors of that sex hide themselves under initials or feigned names, and decline to publish autobiographies.
It is to be observed that those who, like Mr. Bellamy
, put into type their dreams of an ideal future state, do not make it clear to us which way we are tending, whether to greater publicity or greater seclusion.
Perhaps the more we are destined to have in common, the more we shall take refuge in what we can preserve of “retiracy.”
It is to be noticed that Fourier
, the arch-organizer, in the midst of his elaborate “groups” and intricate “series,”