Ernest had such a note-book
always with him. Even when he was at Cambridge he had begun the practice
without anyone's having suggested it to him. These notes he copied out
from time to time into a book, which as they accumulated, he was driven
into indexing approximately, as he went along. When I found out this, I
knew that he had the literary instinct, and when I saw his notes I began
to hope great things of him.
For a long time I was disappointed. He was kept back by the nature of
the subjects he chose--which were generally metaphysical. In vain I
tried to get him away from these to matters which had a greater interest
for the general public. When I begged him to try his hand at some
pretty, graceful, little story which should be full of whatever people
knew and liked best, he would immediately set to work upon a treatise to
show the grounds on which all belief rested.
"You are stirring mud," said I, "or poking at a sleeping dog. You are
trying to make people resume consciousness about things, which, with
sensible men, have already passed into the unconscious stage. The men
whom you would disturb are in front of you, and not, as you fancy, behind
you; it is you who are the lagger, not they.
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