Again, sir, every eminent man, be he what he will, be he as unbookish as
he pleases, so he is only eminent enough, so he holds a conspicuous
place in the eyes of his countrymen, potentially belongs to us, and if
not in life, then after he is gone, will be enrolled among us. The
public insist on being admitted to his history, and their curiosity will
not go unsatisfied. His letters are hunted up, his journals are sifted;
his sayings in conversation, the doggerel which he writes to his
brothers and sisters are collected, and stereotyped in print. His fate
overtakes him. He can not escape from it. We cry out, but it does not
appear that men sincerely resist the liberty which is taken with them.
We never hear of them instructing their executors to burn their papers.
They have enjoyed so much the exhibition that has been made of their
contemporaries that they consent to be sacrificed themselves.

Again, sir, when we look for those who have been most distinguished as
men of letters, in the usual sense of the word, where do we find them?
The famous lawyer is found in his chambers, the famous artist is found
in his studio. Our foremost representatives we do not find always in
their libraries; we find them, in the first place, in the service of
their country. ("Hear! Hear!") Owen Meredith is Viceroy of India, and
all England has applauded the judgment that selected and sent him there.
The right honorable gentleman (Mr. Gladstone) who three years ago was
conducting the administration of this country with such brilliant
success was first generally known to his countrymen as a remarkable
writer. During forty years of arduous service he never wholly deserted
his original calling. He is employing an interval of temporary
retirement to become the interpreter of Homer to the English race, or to
break a lance with the most renowned theologians in defense of spiritual
liberty.