usefulness, vigour, sympathy, then his humorous perception of
faults and deficiencies, of whims and mannerisms, of prejudices and
unreasonablenesses, will have nothing that is hard or bitter about
it. For the truth is that, if we are sure that a man is generous
and just, his little mannerisms, his fads, his ways, are what
mostly endear him to us. The man of lavish liberality is all the
more lovable if he has an intense dislike to cutting the string of
a parcel, and loves to fill his drawers with little hanks of twine,
the untying of which stands for many wasted hours. If we know a man
to be simple-minded, forbearing, and conscientious, we like him all
the better when he tells for the fiftieth time an ancient story,
prefacing it by anxious inquiries, which are smilingly rebutted, as
to whether any of his hearers have ever heard the anecdote before.

But we must not let this tendency, to take a man in his entirety,
to love him as he is, carry us too far; we must be careful that the
foibles that endear him to us are in themselves innocent.

There is one particular form of priggishness, in this matter of
criticism of others, which is apt to beset literary people, and
more especially at a time when it seems to be considered by many
writers that the first duty of a critic--they would probably call
him an artist for the sake of the associations--is to get rid of
all sense of right and wrong. I was reading the other day a
sensible and appreciative review of Mr. Lucas's new biography of
Charles Lamb. The reviewer quoted with cordial praise Mr. Lucas's
remark--referring, of course, to the gin-and-water, which casts, I
fear, in my own narrow view, something of a sordid shadow over
Lamb's otherwise innocent life--"A man must be very secure in his
own righteousness who would pass condemnatory judgment upon Charles