above-named formal qualities in a very exceptional degree; for he will have nothing to talk about but those facts of life and nature which everybody knows.  It will be just the opposite, however, if a man is deficient in these formal qualities, but has an amount of knowledge which lends value to what he says.  This value will then depend entirely upon the matter of his conversation; for, as the Spanish proverb has it, mas sabe el necio en su casa, que el sabio en la agena—­a fool knows more of his own business than a wise man does of others.

ON STYLE.

Style is the physiognomy of the mind, and a safer index to character than the face.  To imitate another man’s style is like wearing a mask, which, be it never so fine, is not long in arousing disgust and abhorrence, because it is lifeless; so that even the ugliest living face is better.  Hence those who write in Latin and copy the manner of ancient authors, may be said to speak through a mask; the reader, it is true, hears what they say, but he cannot observe their physiognomy too; he cannot see their style.  With the Latin works of writers who think for themselves, the case is different, and their style is visible; writers, I mean, who have not condescended to any sort of imitation, such as Scotus Erigena, Petrarch, Bacon, Descartes, Spinoza, and many others.  An affectation in style is like making grimaces.  Further, the language in which a man writes is the physiognomy of the nation to which he belongs; and here there are many hard and fast differences, beginning from the language of the Greeks, down to that of the Caribbean islanders.

To form a provincial estimate of the value of a writer’s productions, it is not directly necessary to know the subject on which he has thought, or what it is that he has said about it; that would imply a perusal of all his works.  It will be enough, in the main, to know how he has thought.  This, which means the essential temper or general quality of his mind, may be precisely determined by his style.  A man’s style shows the formal nature of all his thoughts—­the formal nature which can never change, be the subject or the character of his thoughts what it may:  it is, as it were, the dough out of which all the contents of his mind are kneaded.  When Eulenspiegel was asked how long it would take to walk to the next village, he gave the seemingly incongruous answer:  Walk.  He wanted to find out by the man’s pace the distance he would cover in a given time.  In the same way, when I have read a few pages of an author, I know fairly well how far he can bring me.