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inferences are usually erroneous. On the other hand, there are occasions when the process-this drawing a general conclusion from a partial examination—may, to some extent, be legitimately employed. If, for instance, a friend assured us of his belief that twice seven makes fifteen, we want no further proof of his ignorance of figures, but are justified in saying he is no arithmetician. It would, however, be very unfair were we to infer anything more. If, again, our friend confessed he derived pleasure from the discourses of Boanerges, all we could legitimately conclude would be that he was deficient in good taste; or, if he thought his tailor an authority in political economy, that his political education had been neglected. A man may like Boanerges, and be a firstrate cook, and he may admire his tailor, and yet be an excellent market-gardener. A certain portion of the public, however, and their representatives in the press, do not acknowledge this limitation.

I recollect, some years ago, a member of Parliament for one of the metropolitan boroughs made a sad slip in his history. Honourable gentlemen smiled at the error, as was natural. But outside of the House the blunder became a matter of serious importance to the unfortunate member. Mr. Punch, especially, was very severe upon him. That gentleman (who himself, probably, would have failed to

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answer five out of every nine historical questions that one might easily put to him) reminded us week after week of the gravity of the offence. From this lapsus linguae he deduced that the unlucky culprit was-I won't say a pickpocket-but almost anything as bad; and whenever, under emergencies, fun was wanted, he took down his telescope, peered into it the wrong way, and then proceeded to give us his representation of the member for Finsbury with his queer notions of English history.

We must look to the same source for this undue appreciation as for the undue exaltation mentioned in the last chapter. Men instinctively like the exercise of power, especially in intellectual subjects; and, having in their nature a fixed amount of praise and blame, they must expend it with risk of consequences. Most frequently they do this capriciously, or are guided in making their decision by some accidental fact; but they must expend it, and it is fortunate for him who wishes to earn their applause if some lucky accident should occur to dispose them in his favour. It is proverbial that human nature, after too highly praising a man, revolts against its own verdict, ignores its favourite, and in time comes to depreciate him in the proportion it previously exalted him. Examples in our literary history will occur to everybody. The popular treatment of Byron is a case in point. In

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stead, however, of depreciating the idol they have set up, it occasionally happens that men console themselves with vilifying some would-be idol that comes before them. But whether exercised upon one person or upon two, this duality of passion-co-existing simultaneously at all times-must inevitably be expended. It happens, however, that, instead of applying the wrong end of the telescope at one time to one man and the right end at another, they content themselves with directing the right end towards the one man and the wrong to another. In the latter case their feelings of praise and blame are excited and exhibited contemporaneously.

One might fancy there is no room in literary matters for the display of these feelings; but literature here, as in most other respects, is a faithful reflex of the society in which it is produced and to which it is addressed: and the way in which literary verdicts are returned is notoriously and disgracefully wrong. The cardinal fault seems to be that of estimating a writer and ranking him according to the idea formed of him as a man; or, if he is dead, from what his contemporaries said of him personally whilst he was alive. This judging an author from the man, or, what is as unjust, the judging the man from the supposed revelations of himself in his works, is obviously a defective way of judging. Few men are the same in books

as they are in conversation. A friend of the late John Stirling tells me that promising author's works are infinitely inferior to his conversation, and we, therefore, who are acquainted with him only through his published writings, are surprised to find so much said of him, and so high a rank assigned to him by those to whom he was intimately known. His physical debility and want of robust temperament stood in the way of his performance. The younger Hallam will readily occur to the reader as another, who, like Sterling, was greater in capacity than in energy. The clear insight of these men, known to friends, was conspicuously absent in their books. On the other hand, excellent literary performance does not insure adequate recognition of merit when personal greatness is absent. If, for example, one man's writings were ever superior to another's in wisdom and in form, in intellect and in art, they are those of Goldsmith to what were produced by Johnson. And yet what is the result? We know the one was through life-and the echo of that eighteenth-century applause still lingers in our ears-universally regarded as Dr. Minor, whilst the other, seen through the right end of the telescope, was everywhere hailed as Dr. Major. The idea men formed of Goldsmith's work was perhaps insensibly influenced by what they had heard or knew of Goldsmith's life. Volatility

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or stupidity being considered to be the mark of a fool, it is thought the volatile man, or the stupid man, must manifest himself in all he undertakes, and that his peculiar failings and virtues will unconsciously betray themselves in his writings. The public look for homogeneity in a man, and consistency between his character and opinions. They conceive it possible, not only to determine a man's mental ability from his deportment, but to infer his moral character from his literary productions. They will not see that the literary character and the personal character may be antipodal, and should be judged apart. A man must practise what he preaches, or his gospel will be disbelieved and his sincerity questioned as well by the upper vulgar' as by the lower. This was so well known to Steele, that, upon relinquishing the publication of the Tatler, he gave as the true cause for the discontinuance of its publication, the discovery by the public of its author. "I considered," said he, on taking leave of his readers, "that severity of manners is absolutely necessary "to him who would censure others; and for that

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reason, and that only, chose to talk in a mask." Steele might have discontinued his publication from prudential motives; but in recognizing the illogical disposition of his readers, he appears to have himself acted illogically. The public he addressed resemble