" When we wish to learn something of eminent
authors, we hasten to the nearest book-shop and buy their works. They
put the best of themselves in their books. The old saw tells us how
completely all great men give the best part of themselves to the public,
while the _valet-de-chambre_ picks up little else than food for
contempt. Nevertheless, we are as inquisitive about everything that
concerns eminent people as anybody can be. We would not blot a single
line from Boswell. We protest against a word being effaced from the
garrulous pages of Lady Blessington and Leigh Hunt. We "hang" the stars
with which Earl Russell has _milky-wayed_ Moore's Diary. But we are no
"lion-hunters," (the name should be "lion-harriers,") simply because
this chase is not the best way to take the game we desire. What does the
lion-hunter secure? A commonplace observation upon the weather, an
adroit or awkward parry of flattery, and some superficial compliment
upon one's native place or present residence; for a great man at bay is
nothing more nor less than a casual acquaintance extremely on his guard,
and, commonly, extremely fatigued by admirers.
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