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Plutarch, when about to enter upon the crowded lives of Alexander andCaesar, declares his purpose and sets forth the true nature and provinceof biography in these words:—"It must be borne in mind that my designis not to write histories, but lives. And the most glorious exploits donot always furnish us with the clearest discoveries of virtue or vice inmen. Sometimes a matter of less moment, an expression or a jest, informsus better of their characters and inclinations than the most famoussieges, the greatest armaments, or the bloodiest battles whatsoever.Therefore, as portrait-painters are more exact in the lines and featuresof the face, in which character is seen, than in the other parts of thebody, so I must be allowed to give my more particular attention to themarks and indications of the souls of men, and while I endeavor by theseto portray their lives, may be free to leave more weighty matters andgreat battles to be treated of by others."
That these general principles of biography are correct, and thatPlutarch, by adhering to them, succeeded, beyond all others, in makinghis heroes realities, men of flesh and blood, whom we see and know likethose about us, in whom we feel the warmest interest, and from whom wederive lessons of deep wisdom, as from our own experience,—all thiscould best be shown by the enduring popularity of his "Lives," and theseal of approval set upon them by critics of the most opposite schools.What a long array of names might be presented of those who havegiven their testimony to the wondrous fascination of this undyingGreek!—names of the great and wise through many long centuries, mendiffering in age, country, religion, language, and occupation. For ageshe has charmed youth, instructed manhood, and solaced graybeards. Hisheroes have become household words throughout the world. He has beenequally familiar with court, with camp, and with cottage. He has beenthe companion of the soldier, the text-book of the philosopher, and thevade-mecum of kings and statesmen. And his name even now, after thelapse of so many generations, is fresher than ever.
Yet Lord Macaulay could not refrain from a sneer at Plutarch as a pedantwho thought himself a great philosopher and a great politician. Pedanthe may have been; philosopher and politician he may not have been; buthe was, nevertheless, the prince of biographers. Macaulay has praisedBoswell's "Life of Johnson" as the best biography ever written. But wasnot Boswell a pedant? Was he a philosopher? Macaulay himself has pennedmany biographies. Most of them are quite above the pedantry ofsmall facts. Instead, they are crammed with deep philosophy, withabstractions, and with the balancing of antithetical qualities. Theyare bloodless frameworks, without life or humanity,—bundles ofpeculiarities skilfully grouped, and ticketed with such and such a name.No one sees a man within. As biographies they will not be remembered,but as instances of labored learning, of careful special pleading,and of brilliant rhetoric. Elsewhere, however, he has descended fromphilosophy, and not been above the pedantry of detail. And he has givenus, in consequence, charming lives,—successful, in fact, just so far ashe has followed in the footsteps of the old Greek. Yet who would fora moment compare his Pitt, his