INTRODUCTION.

AMONG mankind there are none so high and none so low as to be utterly insensible to fame, or to the approbation of their fellow-men. Indeed, all men rather covet both; not always as their due for brain-work, but as a just reward for some personal merit. The passion with some becomes conspicuous, possibly offensive; while with others it is so veiled with modesty or with art as to remain a secret even to nearest friends. Most men desire no more than fair credit for the specialty wherein they have practically excelled, well knowing that groundless praise has no adhering quality except as well-grounded satire. Few men ever excel all the world in more than one faculty.1 A would-be universal genius, like a boy on stilts, is soon humbled in the dust.

Archimedes relied for credit upon his knowledge of mechanical forces, and not upon any skill as a meta

1 Michael Angelo was, however, pre-eminent in three kindred arts: architecture, sculpture, and painting.

physician. Cicero had to be content with eloquence and knowledge of philosophy, rather than with the martial glory of the soldier. John Jacob Astor, if he had little taste and genius for poetry, found delight in the scramble of business; nor could he have expected much renown as a man of science, but he could not have been ignorant of his mercantile distinction as a man of enterprise.

The almost universal passion of the human race to do something worthy of remembrance is not only serviceable, but laudable; and yet the world forbids, even to the most exalted merit, the privilege of selfapplause, or of blowing one's own trumpet. The Romans tired of hearing Cicero refer to himself as their savior from Catiline's conspiracy; and it is doubtful whether Washington, while living, could have accepted the title, now so freely granted, of "first in war, first in peace, first in the hearts of his countrymen."

Wit, benevolence, and good nature associate together harmoniously; but the moment that pride and vanity obtrude, discord is to be apprehended, and possibly a declaration of war by all observers capable of either sneers or kicks. The world, like the Irish bruiser, stands ready for a fight with the first man who claims to be better than anybody else.

And yet the physician or surgeon destitute of selfconfidence in the ready application of his professional

skill would soon find himself without patients. The judge not known to be conscious of his ability to administer the law with ample knowledge and rectitude could not long retain the favor or respect of the public. A man may be rich without being ignorant of the fact; but the world will not tolerate his proclaiming even the real truth from the house-tops, except possibly when the tax-gatherer is around after an income-tax, and then all agree that he may be as ostentatious as he pleases. The grand list, returned by each individual, may be warranted to be free of vanity. The builder of a ship knows in advance what will be her tonnage, what the rate of speed, and what the cost; and, in this case, it is only when this knowledge fails that the builder is charged with insupportable vanity. It is the same with the surgeon who fails to repair a broken hip-joint: he becomes liable, and may be punished for his conceited malpractice.

There are few nations which do not indulge some pride above their contemporaries as to their numbers, extent of empire, products, men of renown in war, letters, or science; but there is no one to which all others yield unquestioned pre-eminence. If France is elated with her wine, Italy shines in silk, and Russia grows strong with hemp. If England is rich in boundless metals, she is not without a rival in the United States, greater also in corn and potatoes, cotton and tobacco. Persia may have thought much of

her astrology, but Poland thought more of falconry. If France exalts Napoleon, Great Britain does not forget Wellington. When Germany points to Frederick the Great, the United States cannot hold back Washington and Grant. Every land complacently furnishes its hero. If England confidently trusts to the immortality of Shakspeare and Milton, every philhellenist points to Homer, as Italy points to Dante, Germany to Goethe, Spain to Cervantes, and France to Molière and Corneille. England believes the eloquence of Chatham, Burke, and Fox was unrivalled; but France has no idea that Mirabeau or Massillon was ever eclipsed, and the United States stoutly affirms that Webster made speeches beyond the reach of them all, Demosthenes included. All nations unite in the Scotchman's humble prayer, "Lord, gie us a guid conceit o' oursels," but all should agree with the ancients that "it is not becoming to sacrifice to our heroes till after sunset."

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Among the earth-born millions, in each age some single mortal may perhaps be raised to the skies, while a goodly number, ambitious and confident of an eternity of fame, enjoy undisputed ascendency-"give their little senate laws" for a brief time and within local boundaries, but are not inquired after in the next generation or outside of their own neighborhood, and their names are no longer recognized by the oldest inhabitant. Truly all may say with Shakspeare:

"We are such stuff

As dreams are made of, and our little life

Is rounded with a sleep."

Few, however, envy honors paid after death; and it must be admitted that it is difficult to laugh at honest vanity, or at those who claim no more than is honestly their due, of which we have frequent examples; but it is a pity that so many should place on record claims against posterity which fail to be honored. Not infrequently their works are as little sought after as almanacs out of date. As Cowper says:

"In vain recorded in historic page,

They court the notice of a future age;
Those twinkling, tiny lustres of the land

Drop one by one from Fame's neglecting hand.'

It is curious that the poet Young in his "Love of Fame the Universal Passion," and Pope in his "Essay on Man," reiterate the same idea, and neither fails to remember Cæsar.

Young says:

"Some sink outright;

O'er them, and o'er their names, the billows close;
To-morrow knows not they were ever born.

Others a short memorial leave behind,

Like a flag floating when the bark's engulfed ;

It floats a moment, and is seen no more;

One Cæsar lives, a thousand are forgot."

And Pope also asks, "What's fame?" addressing Lord Bolingbroke: