literature are like these parrots; they do not look at what a man
writes, nor if they did would they understand it much better than
the parrots do; but they like the sound of their own names, and if
these are freely interpolated in a tone they take as friendly, they
may even give ear to an outsider. Otherwise they will scream him
off if they can.

I should not advise any one with ordinary independence of mind to
attempt the public ear unless he is confident that he can out-lung
and out-last his own generation; for if he has any force, people
will and ought to be on their guard against him, inasmuch as there
is no knowing where he may not take them. Besides, they have staked
their money on the wrong men so often without suspecting it, that
when there comes one whom they do suspect it would be madness not to
bet against him. True, he may die before he has out-screamed his
opponents, but that has nothing to do with it. If his scream was
well pitched it will sound clearer when he is dead. We do not know
what death is. If we know so little about life which we have
experienced, how shall we know about death which we have not--and in
the nature of things never can? Every one, as I said years ago in
"Alps and Sanctuaries," is an immortal to himself, for he cannot
know that he is dead until he is dead, and when dead how can he know
anything about anything? All we know is, that even the humblest
dead may live long after all trace of the body has disappeared; we
see them doing it in the bodies and memories of those that come
after them; and not a few live so much longer and more effectually
than is desirable, that it has been necessary to get rid of them by
Act of Parliament. It is love that alone gives life, and the truest
life is that which we live not in ourselves but vicariously in
others, and with which we have no concern. Our concern is so to