The man I saw wrote with a thing like a fountain pen, a modern touchthat prohibited any historical retrospection, and as he finishedeach sheet, writing in an easy flowing hand, he added it to a growingpile upon a graceful little table under the window. His last donesheets lay loose, partly covering others that were clipped togetherinto fascicles.
It is astupid superstition that "genius will out" in spite of alldiscouragement. The fact that great men have risen against crushingdisadvantages in the... read more
