Imagine me wrapped in a dressing gown, as I sit at home on the evening of the first day of Easter; outside it rains steadily; nobody else is in the room. I stare for a long time at the sheet of blank paper lying before me, pen in hand, annoyed by all the confusing amount of stuff, events and thoughts, which all demand to be written down; and many demand it vehemently since they are still young and effervescent like must; many an old, mature and clarified thought resists like an old gentleman who takes stock of the aspirations of the young world with a dubious glance. Let us be frank, our state of mind is determined by the conflict of the old and young world, and we call the respective situation of the conflict "mood" or even, somewhat contemptuously, "temper."1
Like a good diplomat, I elevate myself a little over the quarreling parties and describe the condition of the state with the impartiality of a man who inadvertently attends to the day to day sessions of the parties, and practically applies the same principle that he ridicules and scoffs at from the rostrum.
Let us confess it, I write about [....]