At the same time, many are unpolite--not because they mean to be so, but
because they are awkward, and perhaps know no better. Thus, when Gibbon
had published the second and third volumes of his 'Decline and Fall,'
the Duke of Cumberland met him one day, and accosted him with, "How do
you do, Mr. Gibbon? I see you are always AT IT in the old way--SCRIBBLE,
SCRIBBLE, SCRIBBLE!" The Duke probably intended to pay the author a
compliment, but did not know how better to do it, than in this blunt and
apparently rude way.

Again, many persons are thought to be stiff, reserved, and proud, when
they are only shy. Shyness is characteristic of most people of Teutonic
race. It has been styled "the English mania," but it pervades, to
a greater or less degree, all the Northern nations. The ordinary
Englishman, when he travels abroad, carries his shyness with him. He
is stiff, awkward, ungraceful, undemonstrative, and apparently
unsympathetic; and though he may assume a brusqueness of manner, the
shyness is there, and cannot be wholly concealed. The naturally graceful
and intensely social French cannot understand such a character; and the
Englishman is their standing joke--the subject of their most ludicrous
caricatures. George Sand attributes the rigidity of the natives of
Albion to a stock of FLUIDE BRITANNIQUE which they carry about with
them, that renders them impassive under all circumstances, and "as
impervious to the atmosphere of the regions they traverse as a mouse in
the centre of an exhausted receiver." [184]

The average Frenchman or Irishman excels the average Englishman, German,
or American in courtesy and ease of manner, simply because it is
his nature. They are more social and less self-dependent than men of
Teutonic origin, more demonstrative and less reticent; they are more
communicative, conversational, and freer in their intercourse with
each other in all respects; whilst men of German race are comparatively
stiff, reserved, shy, and awkward. At the same time, a people may
exhibit ease, gaiety, and sprightliness of character, and yet possess
no deeper qualities calculated to inspire respect. They may have every
grace of manner, and yet be heartless, frivolous, selfish. The character
may be on the surface only, and without any solid qualities for a
foundation.

There can be no doubt as to which of the two sorts of people--the easy
and graceful, or the stiff and awkward--it is most agreeable to meet,
either in business, in society, or in the casual intercourse of life.
Which make the fastest friends, the truest men of their word, the most
conscientious performers of their duty, is an entirely different matter.

The dry GAUCHE Englishman--to use the French phrase, L'ANGLAIS
EMPETRE--is certainly a somewhat disagreeable person to meet at first.
He looks as if he had swallowed a poker. He is shy himself, and the
cause of shyness in others. He is stiff, not because he is proud, but
because he is shy; and he cannot shake it off, even if he would. Indeed,
we should not be surprised to find that even the clever writer who
describes the English Philistine in all his enormity of awkward manner
and absence of grace, were himself as shy as a bat.

When two shy men meet, they seem like a couple of icicles. They sidle
away and turn their backs on each other in a room, or when travelling
creep into the opposite corners of a railway-carriage. When shy
Englishmen are about to start on a journey by railway, they walk
along the train, to discover an empty compartment in which to bestow
themselves; and when once ensconced, they inwardly hate the next man who
comes in. So; on entering the dining-room of their club, each shy man
looks out for an unoccupied table, until sometimes--all the tables in
the room are occupied by single diners. All this apparent unsociableness
is merely shyness--the national characteristic of the Englishman.

"The disciples of Confucius," observes Mr. Arthur Helps, "say that
when in the presence of the prince, his manner displayed RESPECTFUL
UNEASINESS. There could hardly be given any two words which more fitly
describe the manner of most Englishmen when in society." Perhaps it
is due to this feeling that Sir Henry Taylor, in his 'Statesman,'
recommends that, in the management of interviews, the minister should
be as "near to the door" as possible; and, instead of bowing his visitor
out, that he should take refuge, at the end of an interview, in the
adjoining room. "Timid and embarrassed men," he says, "will sit as if
they were rooted to the spot, when they are conscious that they have
to traverse the length of a room in their retreat. In every case, an
interview will find a more easy and pleasing termination WHEN THE DOOR
IS AT HAND as the last words are spoken." [185]

The late Prince Albert, one of the gentlest and most amiable, was also
one of the most retiring of men. He struggled much against his sense
of shyness, but was never able either to conquer or conceal it. His
biographer, in explaining its causes, says: "It was the shyness of a
very delicate nature, that is not sure it will please, and is without
the confidence and the vanity which often go to form characters that are
outwardly more genial." [186]

But the Prince shared this defect with some of the greatest of
Englishmen. Sir Isaac Newton was probably the shyest man of his age. He
kept secret for a time some of his greatest discoveries, for fear of the
notoriety they might bring him. His discovery of the Binomial Theorem
and its most important applications, as well as his still greater
discovery of the Law of Gravitation, were not published for years after
they were made; and when he communicated to Collins his solution of the
theory of the moon's rotation round the earth, he forbade him to insert
his name in connection with it in the 'Philosophical Transactions,'
saying: "It would, perhaps, increase my acquaintance--the thing which I
chiefly study to decline."

From all that can be learnt of Shakspeare, it is to be inferred that he
was an exceedingly shy man. The manner in which his plays were sent
into the world--for it is not known that he edited or authorized
the publication of a single one of them--and the dates at which they
respectively appeared, are mere matters of conjecture. His appearance in
his own plays in second and even third-rate parts--his indifference to
reputation, and even his apparent aversion to be held in repute by his
contemporaries--his disappearance from London [18the seat and centre
of English histrionic art] so soon as he had realised a moderate
competency--and his retirement about the age of forty, for the remainder
of his days, to a life of obscurity in a small town in the midland
counties--all seem to unite in proving the shrinking nature of the man,
and his unconquerable shyness.

It is also probable that, besides being shy--and his shyness may, like
that of Byron, have been increased by his limp--Shakspeare did not
possess in any high degree the gift of hope. It is a remarkable
circumstance, that whilst the great dramatist has, in the course of
his writings, copiously illustrated all other gifts, affections, and
virtues, the passages are very rare in which Hope is mentioned, and then
it is usually in a desponding and despairing tone, as when he says:

      "The miserable hath no other medicine, But only Hope."

Many of his sonnets breathe the spirit of despair and hopelessness. [187]
He laments his lameness; [188] apologizes for his profession as an actor;
[189] expresses his "fear of trust" in himself, and his hopeless, perhaps
misplaced, affection; [1810] anticipates a "coffin'd doom;" and utters his
profoundly pathetic cry "for restful death."

It might naturally be supposed that Shakspeare's profession of an actor,
and his repeated appearances in public, would speedily overcome his
shyness, did such exist. But inborn shyness, when strong, is not so
easily conquered. [1811] Who could have believed that the late Charles
Mathews, who entertained crowded houses night after night, was naturally
one of the shyest of men? He would even make long circuits [18lame though
he was] along the byelanes of London to avoid recognition. His wife says
of him, that he looked "sheepish" and confused if recognised; and that
his eyes would fall, and his colour would mount, if he heard his name
even whispered in passing along the streets. [1812]

Nor would it at first sight have been supposed that Lord Byron was
affected with shyness, and yet he was a victim to it; his biographer
relating that, while on a visit to Mrs. Pigot, at Southwell, when he saw
strangers approaching, he would instantly jump out of the window, and
escape on to the lawn to avoid them.

But a still more recent and striking instance is that of the late
Archbishop Whately, who, in the early part of his life, was painfully
oppressed by the sense of shyness. When at Oxford, his white rough coat
and white hat obtained for him the soubriquet of "The White Bear;" and
his manners, according to his own account of himself, corresponded with
the appellation. He was directed, by way of remedy, to copy the example
of the best-mannered men he met in society; but the attempt to do this
only increased his shyness, and he failed. He found that he was all the
while thinking of himself, rather than of others; whereas thinking of
others, rather than of one's self, is of the true essence of politeness.

Finding that he was making no progress, Whately was driven to utter
despair; and then he said to himself: "Why should I endure this torture
all my life to no purpose? I would bear it still if there was any
success to be hoped for; but since there is not, I will die quietly,
without taking any more doses. I have tried my very utmost, and find
that I must be as awkward as a bear all my life, in spite of it. I will
endeavour to think as little about it as a bear, and make up my mind to
endure what can't be cured." From this time forth he struggled to shake
off all consciousness as to manner, and to disregard censure as much
as possible. In adopting this course, he says: "I succeeded beyond
my expectations; for I not only got rid of the personal suffering of
shyness, but also of most of those faults of manner which consciousness
produces; and acquired at once an easy and natural manner--careless,
indeed, in the extreme, from its originating in a stern defiance of
opinion, which I had convinced myself must be ever against me; rough
and awkward, for smoothness and grace are quite out of my way, and,
of course, tutorially pedantic; but unconscious, and therefore giving
expression to that goodwill towards men which I really feel; and these,
I believe, are the main points." [1813]

Washington, who was an Englishman in his lineage, was also one in his
shyness. He is described incidentally by Mr. Josiah Quincy, as "a
little stiff in his person, not a little formal in his manner, and not
particularly at ease in the presence of strangers. He had the air of
a country gentleman not accustomed to mix much in society, perfectly
polite, but not easy in his address and conversation, and not graceful
in his movements."

Although we are not accustomed to think of modern Americans as shy, the
most distinguished American author of our time was probably the shyest
of men. Nathaniel Hawthorne was shy to the extent of morbidity. We have
observed him, when a stranger entered the room where he was, turn his
back for the purpose of avoiding recognition. And yet, when the crust
of his shyness was broken, no man could be more cordial and genial than
Hawthorne.

We observe a remark in one of Hawthorne's lately-published 'Notebooks,'
[1814] that on one occasion he met Mr. Helps in society, and found him
"cold." And doubtless Mr. Helps thought the same of him. It was only the
case of two shy men meeting, each thinking the other stiff and reserved,
and parting before their mutual film of shyness had been removed by a
little friendly intercourse. Before pronouncing a hasty judgment in such
cases, it would be well to bear in mind the motto of Helvetius, which
Bentham says proved such a real treasure to him: "POUR AIMER LES HOMMES,
IL FAUT ATTENDRE PEU."

We have thus far spoken of shyness as a defect. But there is another way
of looking at it; for even shyness has its bright side, and contains
an element of good. Shy men and shy races are ungraceful and
undemonstrative, because, as regards society at large, they are
comparatively unsociable. They do not possess those elegances of manner,
acquired by free intercourse, which distinguish the social races,
because their tendency is to shun society rather than to seek it.
They are shy in the presence of strangers, and shy even in their own
families. They hide their affections under a robe of reserve, and when
they do give way to their feelings, it is only in some very hidden
inner-chamber. And yet the feelings ARE there, and not the less healthy
and genuine that they are not made the subject of exhibition to others.

It was not a little characteristic of the ancient Germans, that the more
social and demonstrative peoples by whom they were surrounded should
have characterised them as the NIEMEC, or Dumb men. And the same
designation might equally apply to the modern English, as compared, for
example, with their nimbler, more communicative and vocal, and in all
respects more social neighbours, the modern French and Irish.

But there is one characteristic which marks the English people, as it
did the races from which they have mainly sprung, and that is
their intense love of Home. Give the Englishman a home, and he is
comparatively indifferent to society. For the sake of a holding which he
can call his own, he will cross the seas, plant himself on the prairie
or amidst the primeval forest, and make for himself a home. The solitude
of the wilderness has no fears for him; the society of his wife and
family is sufficient, and he cares for no other. Hence it is that the
people of Germanic origin, from whom the English and Americans have
alike sprung, make the best of colonizers, and are now rapidly extending
themselves as emigrants and settlers in all parts of the habitable
globe.

The French have never made any progress as colonizers, mainly because
of their intense social instincts--the secret of their graces of
manner,--and because they can never forget that they are Frenchmen. [1815]
It seemed at one time within the limits of probability that the French
would occupy the greater part of the North American continent. From
Lower Canada their line of forts extended up the St. Lawrence, and from
Fond du Lac on Lake Superior, along the River St. Croix, all down the
Mississippi, to its mouth at New Orleans. But the great, self-reliant,
industrious "Niemec," from a fringe of settlements along the seacoast,
silently extended westward, settling and planting themselves everywhere
solidly upon the soil; and nearly all that now remains of the original
French occupation of America, is the French colony of Acadia, in Lower
Canada.

And even there we find one of the most striking illustrations of
that intense sociability of the French which keeps them together, and
prevents their spreading over and planting themselves firmly in a new
country, as it is the instinct of the men of Teutonic race to do. While,
in Upper Canada, the colonists of English and Scotch descent penetrate
the forest and the wilderness, each settler living, it may be, miles
apart from his nearest neighbour, the Lower Canadians of French descent
continue clustered together in villages, usually consisting of a line of
houses on either side of the road, behind which extend their long
strips of farm-land, divided and subdivided to an extreme tenuity. They
willingly submit to all the inconveniences of this method of farming for
the sake of each other's society, rather than betake themselves to the
solitary backwoods, as English, Germans, and Americans so readily do.
Indeed, not only does the American backwoodsman become accustomed to
solitude, but he prefers it. And in the Western States, when settlers
come too near him, and the country seems to become "overcrowded," he
retreats before the advance of society, and, packing up his "things" in
a waggon, he sets out cheerfully, with his wife and family, to found for
himself a new home in the Far West.

Thus the Teuton, because of his very shyness, is the true colonizer.
English, Scotch, Germans, and Americans are alike ready to accept
solitude, provided they can but establish a home and maintain a family.
Thus their comparative indifference to society has tended to spread this
race over the earth, to till and to subdue it; while the intense social
instincts of the French, though issuing in much greater gracefulness of
manner, has stood in their way as colonizers; so that, in the countries
in which they have planted themselves--as in Algiers and elsewhere--they
have remained little more than garrisons. [1816]

There are other qualities besides these, which grow out of the
comparative unsociableness of the Englishman. His shyness throws him
back upon himself, and renders him self-reliant and self-dependent.
Society not being essential to his happiness, he takes refuge in
reading, in study, in invention; or he finds pleasure in industrial
work, and becomes the best of mechanics. He does not fear to entrust
himself to the solitude of the ocean, and he becomes a fisherman, a
sailor, a discoverer. Since the early Northmen scoured the northern
seas, discovered America, and sent their fleets along the shores of
Europe and up the Mediterranean, the seamanship of the men of Teutonic
race has always been in the ascendant.

The English are inartistic for the same reason that they are unsociable.
They may make good colonists, sailors, and mechanics; but they do not
make good singers, dancers, actors, artistes, or modistes. They neither
dress well, act well, speak well, nor write well. They want style--they
want elegance. What they have to do they do in a straightforward manner,
but without grace. This was strikingly exhibited at an International
Cattle Exhibition held at Paris a few years ago. At the close of the
Exhibition, the competitors came up with the prize animals to receive
the prizes. First came a gay and gallant Spaniard, a magnificent man,
beautifully dressed, who received a prize of the lowest class with an
air and attitude that would have become a grandee of the highest
order. Then came Frenchmen and Italians, full of grace, politeness, and
CHIC--themselves elegantly dressed, and their animals decorated to the
horns with flowers and coloured ribbons harmoniously blended. And
last of all came the exhibitor who was to receive the first prize--a
slouching man, plainly dressed, with a pair of farmer's gaiters on,
and without even a flower in his buttonhole. "Who is he?" asked
the spectators. "Why, he is the Englishman," was the reply. "The
Englishman!--that the representative of a great country!" was the
general exclamation. But it was the Englishman all over. He was sent
there, not to exhibit himself, but to show "the best beast," and he did
it, carrying away the first prize. Yet he would have been nothing the
worse for the flower in his buttonhole.

To remedy this admitted defect of grace and want of artistic taste
in the English people, a school has sprung up amongst us for the more
general diffusion of fine art. The Beautiful has now its teachers and
preachers, and by some it is almost regarded in the light of a religion.
"The Beautiful is the Good"--"The Beautiful is the True"--"The Beautiful
is the priest of the Benevolent," are among their texts. It is believed
that by the study of art the tastes of the people may be improved; that
by contemplating objects of beauty their nature will become purified;
and that by being thereby withdrawn from sensual enjoyments, their
character will be refined and elevated.

But though such culture is calculated to be elevating and purifying in
a certain degree, we must not expect too much from it. Grace is a
sweetener and embellisher of life, and as such is worthy of cultivation.
Music, painting, dancing, and the fine arts, are all sources of
pleasure; and though they may not be sensual, yet they are sensuous,
and often nothing more. The cultivation of a taste for beauty of form
or colour, of sound or attitude, has no necessary effect upon the
cultivation of the mind or the development of the character. The
contemplation of fine works of art will doubtless improve the taste, and
excite admiration; but a single noble action done in the sight of men
will more influence the mind, and stimulate the character to imitation,
than the sight of miles of statuary or acres of pictures. For it is
mind, soul, and heart--not taste or art--that make men great.

It is indeed doubtful whether the cultivation of art--which usually
ministers to luxury--has done so much for human progress as is generally
supposed. It is even possible that its too exclusive culture may
effeminate rather than strengthen the character, by laying it more open
to the temptations of the senses. "It is the nature of the imaginative
temperament cultivated by the arts," says Sir Henry Taylor, "to
undermine the courage, and, by abating strength of character, to render
men more easily subservient--SEQUACES, CEREOS, ET AD MANDATA DUCTILES."
[1817] The gift of the artist greatly differs from that of the thinker;
his highest idea is to mould his subject--whether it be of painting, or
music, or literature--into that perfect grace of form in which thought
[18it may not be of the deepest] finds its apotheosis and immortality.

Art has usually flourished most during the decadence of nations, when
it has been hired by wealth as the minister of luxury. Exquisite art
and degrading corruption were contemporary in Greece as well as in Rome.
Phidias and Iktinos had scarcely completed the Parthenon, when the glory
of Athens had departed; Phidias died in prison; and the Spartans set up
in the city the memorials of their own triumph and of Athenian defeat.
It was the same in ancient Rome, where art was at its greatest height
when the people were in their most degraded condition. Nero was an
artist, as well as Domitian, two of the greatest monsters of the Empire.
If the "Beautiful" had been the "Good," Commodus must have been one of
the best of men. But according to history he was one of the worst.

Again, the greatest period of modern Roman art was that in which Pope
Leo X. flourished, of whose reign it has been said, that "profligacy and
licentiousness prevailed amongst the people and clergy, as they had done
almost uncontrolled ever since the pontificate of Alexander VI." In like
manner, the period at which art reached its highest point in the Low
Countries was that which immediately succeeded the destruction of civil
and religious liberty, and the prostration of the national life
under the despotism of Spain. If art could elevate a nation, and
the contemplation of The Beautiful were calculated to make men The
Good--then Paris ought to contain a population of the wisest and best
of human beings. Rome also is a great city of art; and yet there,
the VIRTUS or valour of the ancient Romans has characteristically
degenerated into VERTU, or a taste for knicknacks; whilst, according to
recent accounts, the city itself is inexpressibly foul. [1818]

Art would sometimes even appear to have a close connection with dirt;
and it is said of Mr. Ruskin, that when searching for works of art in
Venice, his attendant in his explorations would sniff an ill-odour, and
when it was strong would say, "Now we are coming to something very
old and fine!"--meaning in art. [1819] A little common education in
cleanliness, where it is wanting, would probably be much more improving,
as well as wholesome, than any amount of education in fine art. Ruffles
are all very well, but it is folly to cultivate them to the neglect of
the shirt.

Whilst, therefore, grace of manner, politeness of behaviour, elegance
of demeanour, and all the arts that contribute to make life pleasant and
beautiful, are worthy of cultivation, it must not be at the expense
of the more solid and enduring qualities of honesty, sincerity, and
truthfulness. The fountain of beauty must be in the heart; more than
in the eye, and if art do not tend to produce beautiful life and noble
practice, it will be of comparatively little avail. Politeness of manner
is not worth much, unless accompanied by polite action. Grace may be but
skin-deep--very pleasant and attractive, and yet very heartless. Art is
a source of innocent enjoyment, and an important aid to higher culture;
but unless it leads to higher culture, it will probably be merely
sensuous. And when art is merely sensuous, it is enfeebling and
demoralizing rather than strengthening or elevating. Honest courage
is of greater worth than any amount of grace; purity is better than
elegance; and cleanliness of body, mind, and heart, than any amount of
fine art.

In fine, while the cultivation of the graces is not to be neglected,
it should ever be held in mind that there is something far higher and
nobler to be aimed at--greater than pleasure, greater than art, greater
than wealth, greater than power, greater than intellect, greater than
genius--and that is, purity and excellence of character. Without a solid
sterling basis of individual goodness, all the grace, elegance, and art
in the world would fail to save or to elevate a people.




CHAPTER X--COMPANIONSHIP OF BOOKS.



                         "Books, we know,
      Are a substantial world, both pure and good,
      Round which, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood,
      Our pastime and our happiness can grow."--WORDSWORTH.

     "Not only in the common speech of men, but in all art too--
     which is or should be the concentrated and conserved essence
     of what men can speak and show--Biography is almost the one
     thing needful" --CARLYLE.


     "I read all biographies with intense interest. Even a man
     without a heart, like Cavendish, I think about, and read
     about, and dream about, and picture to myself in all
     possible ways, till he grows into a living being beside me,
     and I put my feet into his shoes, and become for the time
     Cavendish, and think as he thought, and do as he did."
     --GEORGE WILSON.

          "My thoughts are with the dead; with them
            I live in long-past years;
          Their virtues love, their faults condemn;
            Partake their hopes and fears;
          And from their lessons seek and find
            Instruction with a humble mind."--SOUTHEY.

A man may usually be known by the books he reads, as well as by the
company he keeps; for there is a companionship of books as well as of
men; and one should always live in the best company, whether it be of
books or of men.

A good book may be among the best of friends. It is the same to-day
that it always was, and it will never change. It is the most patient and
cheerful of companions. It does not turn its back upon us in times of
adversity or distress. It always receives us with the same kindness;
amusing and instructing us in youth, and comforting and consoling us in
age.

Men often discover their affinity to each other by the mutual love they
have for a book--just as two persons sometimes discover a friend by the
admiration which both entertain for a third. There is an old proverb,
"Love me, love my dog." But there is more wisdom in this: "Love me, love
my book." The book is a truer and higher bond of union. Men can think,
feel, and sympathise with each other through their favourite author.
They live in him together, and he in them.

"Books," said Hazlitt, "wind into the heart; the poet's verse slides
into the current of our blood. We read them when young, we remember them
when old. We read there of what has happened to others; we feel that it
has happened to ourselves. They are to be had everywhere cheap and good.
We breathe but the air of books. We owe everything to their authors, on
this side barbarism."

A good book is often the best urn of a life, enshrining the best
thoughts of which that life was capable; for the world of a man's life
is, for the most part, but the world of his thoughts. Thus the
best books are treasuries of good words and golden thoughts, which,
remembered and cherished, become our abiding companions and comforters.
"They are never alone," said Sir Philip Sidney, "that are accompanied by
noble thoughts." The good and true thought may in time of temptation be
as an angel of mercy purifying and guarding the soul. It also enshrines
the germs of action, for good words almost invariably inspire to good
works.

Thus Sir Henry Lawrence prized above all other compositions Wordsworth's
'Character of the Happy Warrior,' which he endeavoured to embody in
his own life. It was ever before him as an exemplar. He thought of it
continually, and often quoted it to others. His biographer says: "He
tried to conform his own life and to assimilate his own character to it;
and he succeeded, as all men succeed who are truly in earnest." [191]

Books possess an essence of immortality. They are by far the most
lasting products of human effort. Temples crumble into ruin; pictures
and statues decay; but books survive. Time is of no account with great
thoughts, which are as fresh to-day as when they first passed through
their authors' minds ages ago. What was then said and thought still
speaks to us as vividly as ever from the printed page. The only effect
of time has been to sift and winnow out the bad products; for nothing in
literature can long survive but what is really good. [192]

Books introduce us into the best society; they bring us into the
presence of the greatest minds that have ever lived. We hear what
they said and did; we see them as if they were really alive; we are
participators in their thoughts; we sympathise with them, enjoy with
them, grieve with them; their experience becomes ours, and we feel as if
we were in a measure actors with them in the scenes which they describe.

The great and good do not die, even in this world. Embalmed in books
their spirits walk abroad. The book is a living voice. It is an
intellect to which one still listens. Hence we ever remain under the
influence of the great men of old:

         "The dead but sceptred sovrans, who still rule
          Our spirits from their urns."

The imperial intellects of the world are as much alive now as they were
ages ago. Homer still lives; and though his personal history is hidden
in the mists of antiquity, his poems are as fresh to-day as if they had
been newly written. Plato still teaches his transcendent philosophy;
Horace, Virgil, and Dante still sing as when they lived; Shakspeare is
not dead: his body was buried in 1616, but his mind is as much alive
in England now, and his thought as far-reaching, as in the time of the
Tudors.

The humblest and poorest may enter the society of these great spirits
without being thought intrusive. All who can read have got the ENTREE.
Would you laugh?--Cervantes or Rabelais will laugh with you. Do you
grieve?--there is Thomas a Kempis or Jeremy Taylor to grieve with
and console you. Always it is to books, and the spirits of great men
embalmed in them, that we turn, for entertainment, for instruction and
solace--in joy and in sorrow, as in prosperity and in adversity.

Man himself is, of all things in the world, the most interesting to
man. Whatever relates to human life--its experiences, its joys, its
sufferings, and its achievements--has usually attractions for him beyond
all else. Each man is more or less interested in all other men as his
fellow-creatures--as members of the great family of humankind; and the
larger a man's culture, the wider is the range of his sympathies in all
that affects the welfare of his race.

Men's interest in each other as individuals manifests itself in a
thousand ways--in the portraits which they paint, in the busts which
they carve, in the narratives which they relate of each other. "Man,"
says Emerson, "can paint, or make, or think, nothing but Man." Most of
all is this interest shown in the fascination which personal history
possesses for him. "Man s sociality of nature," says Carlyle, "evinces
itself, in spite of all that can be said, with abundance of evidence, by
this one fact, were there no other: the unspeakable delight he takes in
Biography."

Great, indeed, is the human interest felt in biography! What are all
the novels that find such multitudes of readers, but so many fictitious
biographies? What are the dramas that people crowd to see, but so much
acted biography? Strange that the highest genius should be employed on
the fictitious biography, and so much commonplace ability on the real!

Yet the authentic picture of any human being's life and experience ought
to possess an interest greatly beyond that which is fictitious, inasmuch
as it has the charm of reality. Every person may learn something from
the recorded life of another; and even comparatively trivial deeds and
sayings may be invested with interest, as being the outcome of the lives
of such beings as we ourselves are.

The records of the lives of good men are especially useful. They
influence our hearts, inspire us with hope, and set before us great
examples. And when men have done their duty through life in a great
spirit, their influence will never wholly pass away. "The good life,"
says George Herbert, "is never out of season."

Goethe has said that there is no man so commonplace that a wise man may
not learn something from him. Sir Walter Scott could not travel in a
coach without gleaning some information or discovering some new trait
of character in his companions. [193] Dr. Johnson once observed that
there was not a person in the streets but he should like to know his
biography--his experiences of life, his trials, his difficulties, his
successes, and his failures. How much more truly might this be said
of the men who have made their mark in the world's history, and have
created for us that great inheritance of civilization of which we are
the possessors! Whatever relates to such men--to their habits,
their manners, their modes of living, their personal history, their
conversation, their maxims, their virtues, or their greatness--is always
full of interest, of instruction, of encouragement, and of example.

The great lesson of Biography is to show what man can be and do at his
best. A noble life put fairly on record acts like an inspiration to
others. It exhibits what life is capable of being made. It refreshes
our spirit, encourages our hopes, gives us new strength and courage
and faith--faith in others as well as in ourselves. It stimulates our
aspirations, rouses us to action, and incites us to become co-partners
with them in their work. To live with such men in their biographies, and
to be inspired by their example, is to live with the best of men, and to
mix in the best of company.

At the head of all biographies stands the Great Biography, the Book
of Books. And what is the Bible, the most sacred and impressive of all
books--the educator of youth, the guide of manhood, and the consoler
of age--but a series of biographies of great heroes and patriarchs,
prophets, kings, and judges, culminating in the greatest biography of
all, the Life embodied in the New Testament? How much have the great
examples there set forth done for mankind! How many have drawn from
them their truest strength, their highest wisdom, their best nurture and
admonition! Truly does a great Roman Catholic writer describe the Bible
as a book whose words "live in the ear like a music that can never be
forgotten--like the sound of church bells which the convert hardly knows
how he can forego. Its felicities often seem to be almost things rather
than mere words. It is part of the national mind, and the anchor of
national seriousness. The memory of the dead passes into it, The potent
traditions of childhood are stereotyped in its verses. The power of
all the griefs and trials of man is hidden beneath its words. It is the
representative of his best moments, and all that has been about him of
soft, and gentle, and pure, and penitent, and good, speaks to him for
ever out of his English Bible. It is his sacred thing, which doubt has
never dimmed and controversy never soiled. In the length and breadth of
the land there is not a Protestant with one spark of religiousness about
him whose spiritual biography is not in his Saxon Bible." [194]

It would, indeed, be difficult to overestimate the influence which the
lives of the great and good have exercised upon the elevation of human
character. "The best biography," says Isaac Disraeli, "is a reunion with
human existence in its most excellent state." Indeed, it is impossible
for one to read the lives of good men, much less inspired men,
without being unconsciously lighted and lifted up in them, and growing
insensibly nearer to what they thought and did. And even the lives of
humbler persons, of men of faithful and honest spirit, who have done
their duty in life well, are not without an elevating influence upon the
character of those who come after them.

History itself is best studied in biography. Indeed, history is
biography--collective humanity as influenced and governed by individual
men. "What is all history," says Emerson, "but the work of ideas, a
record of the incomparable energy which his infinite aspirations
infuse into man?" In its pages it is always persons we see more than
principles. Historical events are interesting to us mainly in connection
with the feelings, the sufferings, and interests of those by whom they
are accomplished. In history we are surrounded by men long dead, but
whose speech and whose deeds survive. We almost catch the sound of their
voices; and what they did constitutes the interest of history. We never
feel personally interested in masses of men; but we feel and sympathise
with the individual actors, whose biographies afford the finest and most
real touches in all great historical dramas.

Among the great writers of the past, probably the two that have been
most influential in forming the characters of great men of action and
great men of thought, have been Plutarch and Montaigne--the one by
presenting heroic models for imitation, the other by probing questions
of constant recurrence in which the human mind in all ages has taken the
deepest interest. And the works of both are for the most part cast in
a biographic form, their most striking illustrations consisting in the
exhibitions of character and experience which they contain.

Plutarch's 'Lives,' though written nearly eighteen hundred years ago,
like Homer's 'Iliad,' still holds its ground as the greatest work of
its kind. It was the favourite book of Montaigne; and to Englishmen it
possesses the special interest of having been Shakspeare's principal
authority in his great classical dramas. Montaigne pronounced Plutarch
to be "the greatest master in that kind of writing"--the biographic;
and he declared that he "could no sooner cast an eye upon him but he
purloined either a leg or a wing."

Alfieri was first drawn with passion to literature by reading Plutarch.
"I read," said he, "the lives of Timoleon, Caesar, Brutus, Pelopidas,
more than six times, with cries, with tears, and with such transports,
that I was almost furious.... Every time that I met with one of the
grand traits of these great men, I was seized with such vehement
agitation as to be unable to sit still." Plutarch was also a favourite
with persons of such various minds as Schiller and Benjamin Franklin,
Napoleon and Madame Roland. The latter was so fascinated by the book
that she carried it to church with her in the guise of a missal, and
read it surreptitiously during the service.

It has also been the nurture of heroic souls such as Henry IV. of
France, Turenne, and the Napiers. It was one of Sir William Napier's
favourite books when a boy. His mind was early imbued by it with
a passionate admiration for the great heroes of antiquity; and
its influence had, doubtless, much to do with the formation of his
character, as well as the direction of his career in life. It is related
of him, that in his last illness, when feeble and exhausted, his mind
wandered back to Plutarch's heroes; and he descanted for hours to his
son-in-law on the mighty deeds of Alexander, Hannibal, and Caesar.
Indeed, if it were possible to poll the great body of readers in all
ages whose minds have been influenced and directed by books, it is
probable that--excepting always the Bible--the immense majority of votes
would be cast in favour of Plutarch.

And how is it that Plutarch has succeeded in exciting an interest which
continues to attract and rivet the attention of readers of all ages and
classes to this day? In the first place, because the subject of his work
is great men, who occupied a prominent place in the world's history, and
because he had an eye to see and a pen to describe the more prominent
events and circumstances in their lives. And not only so, but he
possessed the power of portraying the individual character of his
heroes; for it is the principle of individuality which gives the charm
and interest to all biography. The most engaging side of great men is
not so much what they do as what they are, and does not depend upon
their power of intellect but on their personal attractiveness. Thus,
there are men whose lives are far more eloquent than their speeches, and
whose personal character is far greater than their deeds.

It is also to be observed, that while the best and most carefully-drawn
of Plutarch's portraits are of life-size, many of them are little more
than busts. They are well-proportioned but compact, and within such
reasonable compass that the best of them--such as the lives of Caesar
and Alexander--may be read in half an hour. Reduced to this measure,
they are, however, greatly more imposing than a lifeless Colossus, or
an exaggerated giant. They are not overlaid by disquisition and
description, but the characters naturally unfold themselves. Montaigne,
indeed, complained of Plutarch's brevity. "No doubt," he added, "but
his reputation is the better for it, though in the meantime we are the
worse. Plutarch would rather we should applaud his judgment than commend
his knowledge, and had rather leave us with an appetite to read more
than glutted with what we have already read. He knew very well that a
man may say too much even on the best subjects.... Such as have lean
and spare bodies stuff themselves out with clothes; so they who are
defective in matter, endeavour to make amends with words." [195]

Plutarch possessed the art of delineating the more delicate features
of mind and minute peculiarities of conduct, as well as the foibles
and defects of his heroes, all of which is necessary to faithful and
accurate portraiture. "To see him," says Montaigne, "pick out a light
action in a man's life, or a word, that does not seem to be of any
importance, is itself a whole discourse." He even condescends to
inform us of such homely particulars as that Alexander carried his head
affectedly on one side; that Alcibiades was a dandy, and had a lisp,
which became him, giving a grace and persuasive turn to his discourse;
that Cato had red hair and gray eyes, and was a usurer and a screw,
selling off his old slaves when they became unfit for hard work; that
Caesar was bald and fond of gay dress; and that Cicero [19like Lord
Brougham] had involuntary twitchings of his nose.

Such minute particulars may by some be thought beneath the dignity of
biography, but Plutarch thought them requisite for the due finish of
the complete portrait which he set himself to draw; and it is by
small details of character--personal traits, features, habits, and
characteristics--that we are enabled to see before us the men as they
really lived. Plutarch's great merit consists in his attention to these
little things, without giving them undue preponderance, or neglecting
those which are of greater moment. Sometimes he hits off an individual
trait by an anecdote, which throws more light upon the character
described than pages of rhetorical description would do. In some cases,
he gives us the favourite maxim of his hero; and the maxims of men often
reveal their hearts.

Then, as to foibles, the greatest of men are not visually symmetrical.
Each has his defect, his twist, his craze; and it is by his faults that
the great man reveals his common humanity. We may, at a distance, admire
him as a demigod; but as we come nearer to him, we find that he is but a
fallible man, and our brother. [196]

Nor are the illustrations of the defects of great men without their
uses; for, as Dr. Johnson observed, "If nothing but the bright side of
characters were shown, we should sit down in despondency, and think it
utterly impossible to imitate them in anything."

Plutarch, himself justifies his method of portraiture by averring that
his design was not to write histories, but lives. "The most glorious
exploits," he says, "do not always furnish us with the clearest
discoveries of virtue or of vice in men. Sometimes a matter of much less
moment, an expression or a jest, better informs us of their characters
and inclinations than battles with the slaughter of tens of thousands,
and the greatest arrays of armies or sieges of cities. Therefore, as
portrait-painters are more exact in their lines and features of the face
and the expression of the eyes, in which the character is seen, without
troubling themselves about the other parts of the body, so I must
be allowed to give my more particular attention to the signs and
indications of the souls of men; and while I endeavour by these means
to portray their lives, I leave important events and great battles to be
described by others."

Things apparently trifling may stand for much in biography as well as
history, and slight circumstances may influence great results. Pascal
has remarked, that if Cleopatra's nose had been shorter, the whole face
of the world would probably have been changed. But for the amours of
Pepin the Fat, the Saracens might have overrun Europe; as it was his
illegitimate son, Charles Martel, who overthrew them at Tours, and
eventually drove them out of France.

That Sir Walter Scott should have sprained his foot in running round
the room when a child, may seem unworthy of notice in his biography; yet
'Ivanhoe,' 'Old Mortality,' and all the Waverley novels depended upon
it. When his son intimated a desire to enter the army, Scott wrote to
Southey, "I have no title to combat a choice which would have been my
own, had not my lameness prevented." So that, had not Scott been lame,
he might have fought all through the Peninsular War, and had his breast
covered with medals; but we should probably have had none of those works
of his which have made his name immortal, and shed so much glory upon
his country. Talleyrand also was kept out of the army, for which he had
been destined, by his lameness; but directing his attention to the study
of books, and eventually of men, he at length took rank amongst the
greatest diplomatists of his time.

Byron's clubfoot had probably not a little to do with determining his
destiny as a poet. Had not his mind been embittered and made morbid by
his deformity, he might never have written a line--he might have been
the noblest fop of his day. But his misshapen foot stimulated his mind,
roused his ardour, threw him upon his own resources--and we know with
what result.

So, too, of Scarron, to whose hunchback we probably owe his cynical
verse; and of Pope, whose satire was in a measure the outcome of his
deformity--for he was, as Johnson described him, "protuberant behind
and before." What Lord Bacon said of deformity is doubtless, to a great
extent, true. "Whoever," said he, "hath anything fixed in his person
that doth induce contempt, hath also a perpetual spur in himself to
rescue and deliver himself from scorn; therefore, all deformed persons
are extremely bold."

As in portraiture, so in biography, there must be light and shade.
The portrait-painter does not pose his sitter so as to bring out his
deformities; nor does the biographer give undue prominence to the
defects of the character he portrays. Not many men are so outspoken as
Cromwell was when he sat to Cooper for his miniature: "Paint me as I
am," said he, "warts and all." Yet, if we would have a faithful likeness
of faces and characters, they must be painted as they are. "Biography,"
said Sir Walter Scott, "the most interesting of every species of
composition, loses all its interest with me when the shades and lights
of the principal characters are not accurately and faithfully detailed.
I can no more sympathise with a mere eulogist, than I can with a ranting
hero on the stage." [197]

Addison liked to know as much as possible about the person and character
of his authors, inasmuch as it increased the pleasure and satisfaction
which he derived from the perusal of their books. What was their
history, their experience, their temper and disposition? Did their lives
resemble their books? They thought nobly--did they act nobly? "Should we
not delight," says Sir Egerton Brydges, "to have the frank story of the
lives and feelings of Wordsworth, Southey, Coleridge, Campbell, Rogers,
Moore, and Wilson, related by themselves?--with whom they lived early;
how their bent took a decided course; their likes and dislikes; their
difficulties and obstacles; their tastes, their passions; the rocks they
were conscious of having split upon; their regrets, their complacencies,
and their self-justifications?" [198]

When Mason was reproached for publishing the private letters of Gray,
he answered, "Would you always have my friends appear in full-dress?"
Johnson was of opinion that to write a man's life truly, it is necessary
that the biographer should have personally known him. But this condition
has been wanting in some of the best writers of biographies extant. [199]
In the case of Lord Campbell, his personal intimacy with Lords Lyndhurst
and Brougham seems to have been a positive disadvantage, leading him
to dwarf the excellences and to magnify the blots in their characters.
Again, Johnson says: "If a man profess to write a life, he must write it
really as it was. A man's peculiarities, and even his vices, should be
mentioned, because they mark his character." But there is always
this difficulty,--that while minute details of conduct, favourable or
otherwise, can best be given from personal knowledge, they cannot always
be published, out of regard for the living; and when the time arrives
when they may at length be told, they are then no longer remembered.
Johnson himself expressed this reluctance to tell all he knew of
those poets who had been his contemporaries, saying that he felt as if
"walking upon ashes under which the fire was not extinguished."