This，however，is a foolish habit，and merely shows that the moral instinct can be brought to such a pitch of perfection that it will make its appearance wherever it is not required.Nobody with the true historical sense ever dreams of blaming Nero，or scolding Tiberius，or censuring Caesar Borgia.These personages have become like the puppets of a play.They may fill us with terror，or horror，or wonder，but they do not harm us.They are not in immediate relation to us.We have nothing to fear from them.They have passed into the sphere of art and science，and neither art nor science knows anything of moral approval or disapproval.And so it may be some day with Charles Lamb's friend.At present I feel that he is just a little too modern to be treated in that fine spirit of disinterested curiosity to which we owe so many charming studies of the great criminals of the Italian Renaissance from the pens of Mr.
John Addington Symonds，Miss A.Mary F.Robinson，Miss Vernon Lee，and other distinguished writers.However，Art has not forgotten him.He is the hero of Dickens's HUNTED DOWN，the Varney of Bulwer's LUCRETIA；and it is gratifying to note that fiction has paid some homage to one who was so powerful with 'pen，pencil and poison.'To be suggestive for fiction is to be of more importance than a fact.
第一章THE CRITIC AS ARTIST -WITH SOME REMARKS UPON THE IMPORTANCE OFDOING NOTHING
A DIALOGUE.Part I.Persons：Gilbert and Ernest.Scene：the library of a house in Piccadilly，overlooking the Green Park.
GILBERT （at the Piano）.My dear Ernest，what are you laughing at？
ERNEST （looking up）.At a capital story that I have just come across in this volume of Reminiscences that I have found on your table.
GILBERT.What is the book？Ah！I see.I have not read it yet.
Is it good？
ERNEST.Well，while you have been playing，I have been turning over the pages with some amusement，though，as a rule，I dislike modern memoirs.They are generally written by people who have either entirely lost their memories，or have never done anything worth remembering；which，however，is，no doubt，the true explanation of their popularity，as the English public always feels perfectly at its ease when a mediocrity is talking to it.
GILBERT.Yes：the public is wonderfully tolerant.It forgives everything except genius.But I must confess that I like all memoirs.I like them for their form，just as much as for their matter.In literature mere egotism is delightful.It is what fascinates us in the letters of personalities so different as Cicero and Balzac，Flaubert and Berlioz，Byron and Madame de Sevigne.Whenever we come across it，and，strangely enough，it is rather rare，we cannot but welcome it，and do not easily forget it.
Humanity will always love Rousseau for having confessed his sins，not to a priest，but to the world，and the couchant nymphs that Cellini wrought in bronze for the castle of King Francis，the green and gold Perseus，even，that in the open Loggia at Florence shows the moon the dead terror that once turned life to stone，have not given it more pleasure than has that autobiography in which the supreme scoundrel of the Renaissance relates the story of his splendour and his shame.The opinions，the character，the achievements of the man，matter very little.He may be a sceptic like the gentle Sieur de Montaigne，or a saint like the bitter son of Monica，but when he tells us his own secrets he can always charm our ears to listening and our lips to silence.The mode of thought that Cardinal Newman represented -if that can be called a mode of thought which seeks to solve intellectual problems by a denial of the supremacy of the intellect -may not，cannot，I think，survive.
But the world will never weary of watching that troubled soul in its progress from darkness to darkness.The lonely church at Littlemore，where 'the breath of the morning is damp，and worshippers are few，'will always be dear to it，and whenever men see the yellow snapdragon blossoming on the wall of Trinity they will think of that gracious undergraduate who saw in the flower's sure recurrence a prophecy that he would abide for ever with the Benign Mother of his days -a prophecy that Faith，in her wisdom or her folly，suffered not to be fulfilled.Yes；autobiography is irresistible.Poor，silly，conceited Mr.Secretary Pepys has chattered his way into the circle of the Immortals，and，conscious that indiscretion is the better part of valour，bustles about among them in that 'shaggy purple gown with gold buttons and looped lace'which he is so fond of describing to us，perfectly at his ease，and prattling，to his own and our infinite pleasure，of the Indian blue petticoat that he bought for his wife，of the 'good hog's hars-let，'and the 'pleasant French fricassee of veal'that he loved to eat，of his game of bowls with Will Joyce，and his 'gadding after beauties，'and his reciting of HAMLET on a Sunday，and his playing of the viol on week days，and other wicked or trivial things.Even in actual life egotism is not without its attractions.When people talk to us about others they are usually dull.When they talk to us about themselves they are nearly always interesting，and if one could shut them up，when they become wearisome，as easily as one can shut up a book of which one has grown wearied，they would be perfect absolutely.
ERNEST.There is much virtue in that If，as Touchstone would say.
But do you seriously propose that every man should become his own Boswell？What would become of our industrious compilers of Lives and Recollections in that case？
GILBERT.What has become of them？They are the pest of the age，nothing more and nothing less.Every great man nowadays has his disciples，and it is always Judas who writes the biography.
ERNEST.My dear fellow！
GILBERT.I am afraid it is true.Formerly we used to canonise our heroes.The modern method is to vulgarise them.Cheap editions of great books may be delightful，but cheap editions of great men are absolutely detestable.
