Now, when a hero tries to stamp his acts with the precise quality of
exact justice--why, he performs no acts. He is no better than that poor
tongue-loose Hamlet, who argues you the right of everything, and then,
by the great Jingo! piles in and messes it all by doing the wrong thing
at the wrong time and in the wrong manner. It is permitted of course to
be a great moral light and correct the errors of all the dust of earth
that has been blown into life these ages; but human justice has been
measured out unerringly with poetry and irony to such folk. They are
admitted to be saints, but about the time they have got too good for
their earthly setting, they have been tied to stakes and lighted up
with oil and faggots; or a soda phosphate with a pinch of cyanide of
potassium inserted has been handed to them, as in the case of our old
friend, Socrates. And it's right. When a man gets too wise and good for
his fellows and is embarrassed by the healthful scent of good human
nature, send him to heaven for relief, where he can have the goodly
fellowship of the prophets, the company of the noble army of martyrs,
and amuse himself suggesting improvements upon the vocal selections
of cherubim and seraphim! Impress the idea upon these gentry with
warmth--and--with--oil!

* * * * *

The ideal hero of fiction, you say, is Capt. D'Artagnan, first name
unknown, one time cadet in the Reserves of M. de Troisville's company of
the King's Guards, intrusted with the care of the honor and safety of
His Majesty, Louis XIV. Very well; he is a noble gentleman; the
choice does honor to your heart, mind and soul; take him and hold the
remembrance of his courage, loyalty, adroitness and splendid endurance
with hooks of steel. For myself, while yielding to none who honor