from the reminiscences of Mrs. Julia Ward Howe, then a young woman of
twenty-three:

"I was present, with other ladies, at a public dinner given in honor of
Charles Dickens by prominent citizens of New York. The ladies were not
bidden to the feast, but were allowed to occupy a small ante-room which,
through an open door, commanded a view of the tables. When the speaking was
about to begin, a message came suggesting that we take possession of some
vacant seats at the great table. This we were glad to do. Washington
Irving was president of the evening, and upon him devolved the duty of
inaugurating the proceedings by an address of welcome to the distinguished
guest. People who sat near me whispered, 'He'll break down,--he always
does.' Mr. Irving rose and uttered a sentence or two. His friends
interrupted him by applause, which was intended to encourage him, but which
entirely overthrew his self-possession. He hesitated, stammered, and sat
down, saying, 'I cannot go on.'"

Cavendish, the chemist, suffered from a constitutional shyness attributable
only to self-consciousness. He is said to have carried so far his aversion
to contact with others, outside of his colleagues, that his dinner was
always ordered by means of a note, and instant dismissal awaited the female
domestic who should venture within his range of vision.

Lombroso cites, among his "Men of Genius," quite a list--Corneille,
Descartes, Virgil, Addison, La Fontaine, Dryden, Manzoni, and Newton--of
those who could not express themselves in public. Whatever part
self-consciousness played in the individual case, we must class the
peculiarity among the defects, not signs, of genius. "A tender heel makes
no man an Achilles."