abound—the appreciation of whose excellence has been as prompt as it has been just; yet never was one less likely to find enjoyment in the course of literary success,—a course in which the meanness of the obstacles, the baseness of the opponents, the petty means of even the most entire triumph, must revolt the conqueror at his own victory; truly do they say, fame is for the dead.
"'Tis distance lends enchantment to the view."
From childhood we hear some few great names to which mind has given an immortality: they are called the benefactors of their kind—their words are familiar to our lips—our early thoughts take their tone, our first mental pleasures are derived, from their pages—we admire, and then we imitate—we think how glorious it is to let the spirit thus go forth, winning a throne in men's hearts, sending our thoughts, like the ships of Tyre laden with rich merchandise, over the ocean of human opinion, and bringing back a still richer cargo of praise and goodwill. Thus was it with the great men of old, and so shall it be with us. We forget that Time, the Sanctifier, has been with them; that no present interests jar against theirs; and that around them
