The primal recipe for roguery in art is, “Know Thyself.”  When a writer portrays a villain and does it well—­make no mistake, he poses for the character himself.  Said gentle Ralph Waldo Emerson, “I have capacity in me for every crime.”

The man of imagination knows those mystic spores of possibility that lie dormant, and like the magicians of the East who grow mango-trees in an hour, he develops the “inward potential” at will.  The mere artisan in letters goes forth and finds a villain and then describes him, but the artist knows a better way:  “I am that man.”

One of the very sweetest, gentlest characters in literature is Colonel Newcome.  The stepfather of Thackeray, Major Carmichael Smyth, was made to stand for the portrait of the lovable Colonel; and when that all-round athlete, F. Hopkinson Smith, gave us that other lovable old Colonel he paid high tribute to “The Newcomes.”

Thackeray was a poet, and as such was often caught in the toils of doubt—­the crux of the inquiring spirit.  He aspired for better things, and at times his imperfections stood out before him in monstrous shape, and he sought to hiss them down.

In the heart of the artist-poet there is an Inmost Self that sits over against the acting, breathing man and passes judgment on his every deed.  To satisfy the world is little; to please the populace is naught; fame is vapor; gold is dross; and every love that has not the sanction of that Inmost Self is a viper’s sting.  To satisfy the demands of the God within is the poet’s prayer.

What doubts beset, what taunting fears surround, what crouching sorrows lie in wait, what dead hopes drag, what hot desires pursue, and what kindly lights do beckon on—­ah! “’tis we musicians know.”

Thackeray came to America to get a pot of money, and was in a fair way of securing it, when he chanced to pick up a paper in which a steamer was announced to sail that evening for England.  A wave of homesickness swept over the big boy—­he could not stand it.  He hastily packed up his effects and without saying good-by to any one, and forgetting all his engagements, he hastened to the dock, leaving this note for the kindest of kind friends:  “Good-by, Fields; good-by, Mrs. Fields—­God bless everybody, says W.M.T.”

CHARLES DICKENS

I hope for the enlargement of my mind, and for the improvement of my understanding.  If I have done but little good, I trust I have done less harm, and that none of my adventures will be other than a source of amusing and pleasant recollection.  God bless you all!

    —­Pickwick

[Illustration:  CHARLES DICKENS]

The path of progress in certain problems seems barred as by a flaming sword.

More than a thousand years before Christ, an Arab chief asked, “If a man die shall he live again?” Every man who ever lived has asked the same question, but we know no more today about the subject than did Job.