I do not know whether it was fortunate or unfortunate for me that
I had not, by nature, what is called literary ambition. I knew
that I had a knack at rhyming, and I knew that I enjoyed nothing
better than to try to put thoughts and words together, in any
way. But I did it for the pleasure of rhyming and writing,
indifferent as to what might come of it. For any one who could
take hold of every-day, practical work, and carry it on
successfully, I had a profound respect. To be what is called
"capable" seemed to me better worth while than merely to have a
taste or for writing, perhaps because I was conscious of my
deficiencies in the former respect. But certainly the world needs
deeds more than it needs words. I should never have been willing
to be only a writer, without using my hands to some good purpose
besides.
My sister, however, told me that here was a talent which I had no
right to neglect, and which I ought to make the most of. I
believed in her; I thought she understood me better than I
understood myself; and it was a comfort to be assured that my
scribbling was not wholly a waste of time.
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