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bard, famous in his day; and yet sophy to disparage illustrious names. what poet would not as willingly I am myself predisposed rather too be left calm in "God's Acre,' ," with- implicitly to revere than too harshly out any mention at all? Saith Sir to criticise the statues set up in Thomas Browne, in his quaint sub- Walhalla. I do not call Alexander limity of style, "To be read by the Great "the Macedonian madbare inscriptions, like many in man"-I do not fix my eyes upon Grüter-to hope for eternity by all the stains that historians disenigmatical epithets or first letters cover in the toga of Julius Cæsar, of our names-to be studied by an- nor peer through the leaves of his tiquarians who we were, and have laurel wreath to detect only the Dew names given us, like many of bald places which the coronal hides. the mummies, are cold consola- I gaze with no Cavalier's abhorrence on the rugged majesty of our English Cromwell. No three in the list of the famous are perhaps more sure than these three of renown unwasted by the ages; yet, seeing all that has been said, can be said, and will be said against all three, and upon those attributes of character which I have been taught to consider more estimable than intellectual ability and power, I know not whether, after death, I would not rather have nothing said about me. It would give me no satisfaction to think that I

tion unto the students of perpetuity, even by everlasting languages."*

Yet, alas! how few of us can hope for the perpetuity even of an inscription "like those in Grüter !" Nor is this all; out of those few to whom universal assent and favouring circumstance have secured high place in the motley museum of Fame, and lengthened account in the dreary catalogue of names, how very few there are whose renown would be a thing of envy to the pure and lofty ambition of heroic youth! How few in whom the intellectual eminence conceded to them is not accompanied by such alleged infirmities and vices of character, as only allow our admi- There is something in renown of ration of the dead by compelling that kind which is, after all, little an indulgence which we could better than a continuity of the scarcely give, even to the dearest of our friends if living!

I am not sure whether any student of perpetuity, while the white of his robe is still without a weather-stain, and his first step lightly bounds up the steep

"Where Fame's proud temple shines afar,"

"Leave a name at which the world grew pale, To point a moral or adorn a tale."

ignorant gossip and uncivil slander which have so often made the great sadly wish that they were obscure. When the poet, who had achieved a fame more generally acknowledged throughout Europe than has perhaps been accorded to any poet in his own lifetime since the days of Petrarch, was on his deathbed, would be contented to leave behind he did not exclaim, "I demand him the renown of a Bacon's wis- glory!" but sighed, "I implore dom, coupled with those doubts of peace!" Happy indeed the poet sincerity, manliness, gratitude, and of whom, like Orpheus, nothing is honour, which Bacon's generous known but an immortal name! advocates bave 80 ingeniously Happy next, perhaps, the poet of striven to clear away. On such whom, like Homer, nothing is points, who would not rather be known but the immortal works. unknown to posterity than need an advocate before its bar?

It is not the bent of my philo

*

The more the merely human part of the poet remains a mystery, the more willing is the reverence given

Urn Burial.'

Where we recognise

image of moral elewaazh seems to us at the ance unique and transcendbewere that, on a careful we shall find that

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is coevals, or in the very ure of his times, those qualities. wc furnish forth their archetype were rife and prevalent. a and if, in him, they have a more coespicuous and striking embodiat it will be partly from circumstances, whether of birth, fortune, most or favouring event, which first 8 served to buoy up his merit to the be to surface of opinion, and then bear And the it onward in strong tide to the k at shore of fame; and partly from Agius that force of will which is often wevertons of neither a moral nor an intellectual s of property, but rather a result of ng them physical energy and constitutional Tows and reveres hardihood of nerve.

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Again, some men have found in a grateful posterity the guardians of an enviable renown, less by any remarkable excellence of their own, than by the wrongs they have suf fered in a cause which is endeared to the interests of mankind. Thus, William Lord Russell and Algernon Sidney are hallowed to English freemen so long as our history shall last. But if they had not died on the scaffold, it may be reasonably doubted whether they could still live in fame.

geetleman would cha name like Sidney? what are that of Baosmopolitan philanthat of Howard? bir patriot like that of mao sport what holy priest like Curio Borromeo? But in go see and beautiful rethe intellectual attributes, Soge not inconsiderable, are slight Seeing, then, that the prizes parison with the moral. The drawn from the funeral urn are so us of others, however, few, and among the few, so very stem with the intellectual few that are worth more than a gor which genius alone can be- blank, it is not surprising that the Show They are of those whom desire of posthumous reputation, ports do not imitate, but whom though in itself universal, should poes exalt and sanctify. Yet in rather contract into a yearning for be moral attributes which secure affection or a regard for character, their fame they must have been bounded to the memory of our own approached by many of their con- generation or the next, than expand temporaries never heard of. For into the grandiose conceit of evertheagh in intellect a man may so during fame. Nor do I believe ft himself above his class, his land, that with those by whom such fame his age, that he may be said to is won is the prophetic hope of it a tower alone as well as aloft, yet the prevalent motive power after the moral part of him mast, almost dreamy season of early youth. At always, draw the chief supply of the dawn of life, in our school and its nutriment from the surrounding college days, we do but dimly see

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the line between life and death, life seems so distinct and so long death seems so vague and so far. Then, when we think of fame, we scarce discern the difference between the living and the dead. Then, our enthusiasm is for ideals, and our emulation is to vie with the types that express them. It is less living men we would emulate than immaterial names. In the martial sports of our play-ground we identify ourselves not with a Raglan or a Gortschakoff, but with a Hector or Achilles. Who shall tell us that Hector and Achilles never lived? to us, while in boyhood, they are living still, nay, among the most potent and vital of living men. We know not then what we could Dot do; we fancy we could do all things were we but grown-up men. We ignore the grave. As we live familiarly with the ancients, so we associate our own life with posterity. Is our first copy of verse, on the Ruins of Pæstum -is our first theme, to the text, Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori,' uncommended by our tasteless master, unadmired by our envious class, we have an undefined consolatory idea that posterity will do us justice. And posterity to us seems a nextdoor neighbour, with whom we shall shake hands, and from whom we shall hear polite compliments not when we are dead, but when we are grown up. We are too full of life to comprehend that there is any death except for those old folks who cannot appreciate us. Bright and illustrious illusions! Who can blame, who laugh at the boy, who cot admire and commend him, for 1 that desire of a fame outlasting the Pyramids, by which he insensibly learns to live in a life beyond the present, and nourish dreams of a good unattainable by the senses? But when a man has arrived at the maturity of his reason, and his sight has grown sufficiently disciplined to recognise the boundaries of human life when he has insensibly taught his ear to detect the hollow blare of those wind-instruments of fame

which once stirred his heart like the fife of Calliope descending from heaven to blend the names of men with those of the Uranides, - the greed of posthumous renown passes away with the other wild longings of his youth. If he has not already achieved celebrity even among his own race, his sobered judgment reveals to him the slender chance of celebrity among the race which follows, and is sure to be stunned by living claimants loud enough to absorb its heed. If he has achieved celebrity, then his post is marked out in the Present. He has his labours, his cares, his duties, for the day. He cannot pause to dream what may be said of him in a morrow that he will not greet. If really and substantially famous, his egotism is gone. He is moving with and for multitudes and his age; and what he writes, what he does, potential in his own time, must indeed have its influence over the times that follow, but often mediately, indirectly, and as indetectable from the influence of minds that blend their light with his own, as one star-beam is from another. And for the most part, men thus actively engaged in the work which distinguishes them in the eyes of contemporaries, think as little of the fame which that work may or may not accord among distant races to the six or seven letters which syllable their names, as thinks a star whose radiance reaches us, of what poets may hymn to its honour, or astrologers assign to its effect, under the name by which we distinguish the star, whether we call it Saturn or Mars or Venus.

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Certainly we may presume, that of all aspirants to posthumous renown poets are the most ardent and the most persevering justly so; for of all kinds of intellectual merit, the poet's is that which contemporaries may the most fail to recognise. And yet among poets since the Christian era (I shall touch later on those of the heathen time), we cannot, I think, discover any great anxiety for posthumous renown in

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But if the bad cannot banish a desire to live after death in the affection even of the bad, where is the good man who, trained throughout life to value honour, can turn cynic on his deathbed, and say, "Let me in life enjoy the profitable credit for honesty, and I care not if, after death, my name be held that of a knave"?

All of us, then, however humble, so far covet posthumous reputation that we would fain be spoken and thought of with affection and esteem by those whose opinions we have prized, even when we are beyond the sound of their voices and the clasp of their hands. Such reputation may be (as with most of us it is) but a brief deferment of oblivion the suspense of a year, a month, a day, before the final cancel and effacement of our footprint on the sands of Time. But some kindly reminiscence in some human hearts man intuitively yearns to bequeath; and the hope of it comforts him as he turns his face to the wall to die.

-

But if this be a desire common to the great mass of our species, it must evidently rise out of the affections common to all-it is a desire

the craving, not of the heart nor of the moral sentiment, but rather of the intellect, and therefore limited to those who have the skill and the strength to vie for the palm awarded to the victor only when his chariot-wheels halt and the race is done. Competitors are many; victors, alas! are few. Out of all the myriads who have tenanted our earth, the number even of eminent intellects which retain place in its archives is startlingly small. The vast democracy of the dead are represented by an oligarchy to which that of Venice was liberal. Although successive races of laborious compilers and reverential antiquarians do their utmost to preserve in dusty shelves the bones and fossils of every specimen of man which has left a vestige of its being in the layers and strata of the past, it were as well, to a lover of fame, to sleep in his grave ignored, as to be dishumed a forlorn fragment of what he once was, and catalogued alphabetically in a Biographical Dictionary.

Let

us suppose some youthful poet whose heart is now beating loud with "the immense desire of praise," to whom his guardian angel lifts the veil of Futurity, and saith, "Thy name shall be preserved from oblivion. Lo! its place in yon compendium of embalmed celebrities, which scholars shall compile five centuries after thy decease. Read and exult !" The poet (his name be Jones) reads as follows under the letter J :

for love, not a thirst for glory. "Jones, David, a British author This is not what is usually meant and in the reign of Victoria I. Wrote understood by the phrase of post- many poems much esteemed by his humous reputation; it is not the contemporaries, some few fragments renown accorded to the exceptional of which have been collected in the and rare intelligences which soar recent Anthology' of his learned above the level of mankind. And and ingenious countryman, Profes here we approach a subject of no sor Morgan Apreece; and, though uninteresting speculation-viz., the characterised by the faults prevadistinction between that love for posthumous though brief repute which emanates from the affections and the moral sentiment, and that greed of posthumous and lasting renown which has been considered

lent in his period, are not without elegance and fancy. Died at Caermarthen A.D. 1892."

Such would be a very honourable mention more than is said in a Biographical Dictionary of many a

bard, famous in his day; and yet sophy to disparage illustrious names. what poet would not as willingly I am myself predisposed rather too be left calm in "God's Acre," with- implicitly to revere than too harshly out any mention at all? Saith Sir to criticise the statues set up in Thomas Browne, in his quaint sub- Walhalla. I do not call Alexander limity of style, "To be read by the Great "the Macedonian madbare inscriptions, like many in man"-I do not fix my eyes upon Grüter to hope for eternity by all the stains that historians disenigmatical epithets or first letters cover in the toga of Julius Cæsar, of our names-to be studied by an- nor peer through the leaves of his tiquarians who we were, and have laurel wreath to detect only the new names given us, like many of bald places which the coronal hides. the mummies, are cold consola- I gaze with no Cavalier's abhortion unto the students of perpetuity, rence on the rugged majesty of our even by everlasting languages."* English Cromwell. No three in Yet, alas! how few of us can the list of the famous are perhaps hope for the perpetuity even of an more sure than these three of reinscription "like those in Grüter!" nown unwasted by the ages; yet, Nor is this all; out of those few seeing all that has been said, can be to whom universal assent and favour- said, and will be said against all ing circumstance have secured high three, and upon those attributes of place in the motley museum of character which I have been taught Fame, and lengthened account in to consider more estimable than inthe dreary catalogue of names, how tellectual ability and power, I know very few there are whose renown not whether, after death, I would. would be a thing of envy to the not rather have nothing said about pure and lofty ambition of heroic me. It would give me no satisyouth! How few in whom the faction to think that I intellectual eminence conceded to them is not accompanied by such alleged infirmities and vices of character, as only allow our admi- There is something in renown of ration of the dead by compelling that kind which is, after all, little an indulgence which we could better than a continuity of the scarcely give, even to the dearest of our friends if living!

I am not sure whether any student of perpetuity, while the white of his robe is still without a weather-stain, and his first step lightly bounds up the steep

"Where Fame's proud temple shines afar,"

"Leave a name at which the world grew pale, To point a moral or adorn a tale."

ignorant gossip and uncivil slander which have so often made the great sadly wish that they were obscure. When the poet, who had achieved a fame more generally acknowledged throughout Europe than has perhaps been accorded to any poet in his own lifetime since the days of Petrarch, was on his deathbed, would be contented to leave behind he did not exclaim, "I demand him the renown of a Bacon's wis glory!" but sighed, "I implore dom, coupled with those doubts of peace!" Happy indeed the poet sincerity, manliness, gratitude, and of whom, like Orpheus, nothing is honour, which Bacon's generous known but an immortal name ! advocates have 80 ingeniously Happy next, perhaps, the poet of striven to clear away. On such whom, like Homer, nothing is points, who would not rather be unknown to posterity than need an advocate before its bar?

It is not the bent of my philo

known but the immortal works. The more the merely human part of the poet remains a mystery, the more willing is the reverence given

*Urn Burial.'

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