If the critic had consulted Ribot's
"Diseases of Memory," or some experienced physician, he might have
written more justly. I do not feel myself competent to form a
valuable opinion as to good art in writing, and I cannot help
observing that the art doctors disagree wofully among themselves.
Truth to nature and the realities, and not the following of any
school or fashion, has ever seemed the safest guide. I sometimes
venture to think I know a little about human nature. My active
life brought me in close contact with all kinds of people; there
was no man in my regiment who hesitated to come to my tent or to
talk confidentially by the campfire, while scores of dying men
laid bare to me their hearts. I at least know the nature that
exists in the human breast. It may be inartistic, or my use of it
all wrong. That is a question which time will decide, and I shall
accept the verdict. Over twelve years ago, certain oracles, with
the voice of fate, predicted my speedy eclipse and disappearance.
Are they right in their adverse judgment? I can truthfully say
that now, as at the first, I wish to know the facts in the case.
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