particularly how different is the case with most men whose work is to write—­to spin out their thoughts into compositions for other people to read or to listen to!  How such men, for the most part, shrink from their work—­put it off as long as may be; and even when the paper is spread out and the pen all right, and the ink within easy reach, how they keep back from the final plunge!  And after they have begun to write, how they dally with their subject; shrink back as long as possible from grappling with its difficulties; twist about and about, talking of many irrelevant matters, before they can summon up resolution to go at the real point they have got to write about!  How much unwillingness there is fairly to put the neck to the collar!

Such are my natural reflections, suggested by my personal feelings at this present time.  I know perfectly well what I have got to do.  I have to write some account, and attempt some appreciation, of a most original, acute, well-expressed, and altogether remarkable book—­the book, to wit, which bears the comprehensive title of Man and his Dwelling-Place.  It is a metaphysical book; it is a startling book; it is a very clever book; and though it is published anonymously, I have heard several acquaintances say, with looks expressive of unheard-of stores of recondite knowledge, that they have reason to believe that it is written by, this and that author, whose name is already well known to fame.  It may be so, but I did not credit it a bit the more because thus assured of it.  In most cases the people who go about dropping hints of how much they know on such subjects, know nothing earthly about the matter; but still the premises (as lawyers would say) make it be felt that the book is a serious one to meddle with.  Not that in treating such a volume, plainly containing the careful and deliberate views and reflections of an able and well-informed man, I should venture to assume the dignified tone of superiority peculiar to some reviewers in dissecting works which they could not have written for their lives.  There are not a score of men in Britain who would be justified in reviewing such a book as this de haut en has.  I intend the humbler task of giving my readers some description of the work, stating its great principle, and arguing certain points with its eminently clever author; and under the circumstances in which this article is written, it discards the dignified and undefined We, and adopts the easier and less authoritative first person singular.  The work to be done, therefore, is quite apparent:  there is no doubt about that.  But the writer is most unwilling to begin it.  Slowly was the pen taken up; oftentimes was the window looked out of.  I am well aware that I shall not settle steadily to my task till I shall have had a preliminary canter, so to speak.  Thus have I seen school-hoys, on a warm July day, about to jump from a sea-wall into the azure depths of ocean.  But after their garments were laid aside, and all was ready for the plunge, long time sat they upon the tepid stones, and paddled with idle feet in the water.