Egremont could have exposed this risk to you as well as any, yet he deliberately ignored it in his own case--no great novelty that.

'Have I not something veritably to say?
Are not thoughts of and for the present surging in my mind?
Whereto have we language if not for the purpose of uttering the soul within us ?' So he fell to work on his introductory lecture, and for a few days had peace--nay, lived in enthusiasm once more.
His week of absence at Christmas, of which we have heard, was spent again in Jersey.

To the roaring music of the Channel breakers he built up his towers and battlements of prophecy.

More, he wrote a poem, and for a day wondered whether it might be well to read it to his audience as preface.

A friendly sprite whispered in his ear, and saved him from too utter folly.