Thus if I laugh at you, O fellow-men! if I trace with curious interest your labyrinthine self-delusions, note the inconsistencies in your zealous adhesions, and smile at your helpless endeavours in a rashly chosen part, it is not that I feel myself aloof from you:  the more intimately I seem to discern your weaknesses, the stronger to me is the proof that I share them.  How otherwise could I get the discernment?—­for even what we are averse to, what we vow not to entertain, must have shaped or shadowed itself within us as a possibility before we can think of exorcising it.  No man can know his brother simply as a spectator.  Dear blunderers, I am one of you.  I wince at the fact, but I am not ignorant of it, that I too am laughable on unsuspected occasions; nay, in the very tempest and whirlwind of my anger, I include myself under my own indignation.  If the human race has a bad reputation, I perceive that I cannot escape being compromised.  And thus while I carry in myself the key to other men’s experience, it is only by observing others that I can so far correct my self-ignorance as to arrive at the certainty that I am liable to commit myself unawares and to manifest some incompetency which I know no more of than the blind man knows of his image in the glass.

Is it then possible to describe oneself at once faithfully and fully?  In all autobiography there is, nay, ought to be, an incompleteness which may have the effect of falsity.  We are each of us bound to reticence by the piety we owe to those who have been nearest to us and have had a mingled influence over our lives; by the fellow-feeling which should restrain us from turning our volunteered and picked confessions into an act of accusation against others, who have no chance of vindicating themselves; and most of all by that reverence for the higher efforts of our common nature, which commands us to bury its lowest fatalities, its invincible remnants of the brute, its most agonising struggles with temptation, in unbroken silence.  But the incompleteness which comes of self-ignorance may be compensated by self-betrayal.  A man who is affected to tears in dwelling on the generosity of his own sentiments makes me aware of several things not included under those terms.  Who has sinned more against those three duteous reticences than Jean Jacques?  Yet half our impressions of his character come not from what he means to convey, but from what he unconsciously enables us to discern.

This naive veracity of self-presentation is attainable by the slenderest talent on the most trivial occasions.  The least lucid and impressive of orators may be perfectly successful in showing us the weak points of his grammar.  Hence I too may be so far like Jean Jacques as to communicate more than I am aware of.  I am not indeed writing an autobiography, or pretending to give an unreserved description of myself, but only offering some slight confessions in an apologetic light, to indicate that if in my absence