"Who knows whether the best of men be known, or
whether there be not more remarkable persons forgot than any that stand
remembered in the known account of time? The greater part must be
content to be as though they had not been; to be found in the register of
God, not in the record of man. Twenty-seven names make up the first
story before the flood, and the recorded names ever since contain not one
living century."
I have my moods about such things as the Young Astronomer has, as we all
have. There are times when the thought of becoming utterly nothing to
the world we knew so well and loved so much is painful and oppressive; we
gasp as if in a vacuum, missing the atmosphere of life we have so long
been in the habit of breathing. Not the less are there moments when the
aching need of repose comes over us and the requiescat in pace, heathen
benediction as it is, sounds more sweetly in our ears than all the
promises that Fame can hold out to us.
I wonder whether it ever occurred to you to reflect upon another horror
there must be in leaving a name behind you. Think what a horrid piece of
work the biographers make of a man's private history! Just imagine the
subject of one of those extraordinary fictions called biographies coming
back and reading the life of himself, written very probably by somebody
or other who thought he could turn a penny by doing it, and having the
pleasure of seeing
"His little bark attendant sail,
Pursue the triumph and partake the gale.
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