magic? It is the spirit of the supreme author, by a magentic influence
blending with our sympathising intelligence, that directs and inspires it.
By that mysterious sensibility we extend to questions which he has not
treated, the same intellectual force which he has exercised over those
which he has expounded. His genius for a time remains in us. 'Tis the same
with human beings as with books. All of us encounter, at least once in our
life, some individual who utters words that make us think for ever.

There are men whose phrases are oracles; who condense in a sentence the
secrets of life; who blurt out an aphorism that forms a character or
illustrates an existence. A great thing is a great book; but greater than
all is the talk of a great man.

And what is a great man? Is it a Minister of State? Is it a victorious
General? A gentleman in the Windsor uniform? A Field Marshal covered with
stars? Is it a Prelate, or a Prince? A King, even an Emperor? It may be
all these; yet these, as we must all daily feel, are not necessarily great
men. A great man is one who affects the mind of his generation: whether he
be a monk in his cloister agitating Christendom, or a monarch crossing the
Granicus, and giving a new character to the Pagan World.

Our young Coningsby reached Beaumanoir in a state of meditation. He also
desired to be great. Not from the restless vanity that sometimes impels
youth to momentary exertion, by which they sometimes obtain a distinction
as evanescent as their energy. The ambition of our hero was altogether of
a different character. It was, indeed, at present not a little vague,
indefinite, hesitating, inquiring, sometimes desponding. What were his
powers? what should be his aim? were often to him, as to all young
aspirants, questions infinitely perplexing and full of pain. But, on the
whole, there ran through his character, notwithstanding his many dazzling