Greatness of soul, or wealth of intellect, is what makes a man happy—­intellect, such as, when stamped on its productions, will receive the admiration of centuries to come,—­thoughts which make him happy at the time, and will in their turn be a source of study and delight to the noblest minds of the most remote posterity.  The value of posthumous fame lies in deserving it; and this is its own reward.  Whether works destined to fame attain it in the lifetime of their author is a chance affair, of no very great importance.  For the average man has no critical power of his own, and is absolutely incapable of appreciating the difficulty of a great work.  People are always swayed by authority; and where fame is widespread, it means that ninety-nine out of a hundred take it on faith alone.  If a man is famed far and wide in his own lifetime, he will, if he is wise, not set too much value upon it, because it is no more than the echo of a few voices, which the chance of a day has touched in his favor.

Would a musician feel flattered by the loud applause of an audience if he knew that they were nearly all deaf, and that, to conceal their infirmity, they set to work to clap vigorously as soon as ever they saw one or two persons applauding?  And what would he say if he got to know that those one or two persons had often taken bribes to secure the loudest applause for the poorest player!

It is easy to see why contemporary praise so seldom develops into posthumous fame.  D’Alembert, in an extremely fine description of the temple of literary fame, remarks that the sanctuary of the temple is inhabited by the great dead, who during their life had no place there, and by a very few living persons, who are nearly all ejected on their death.  Let me remark, in passing, that to erect a monument to a man in his lifetime is as much as declaring that posterity is not to be trusted in its judgment of him.  If a man does happen to see his own true fame, it can very rarely be before he is old, though there have been artists and musicians who have been exceptions to this rule, but very few philosophers.  This is confirmed by the portraits of people celebrated by their works; for most of them are taken only after their subjects have attained celebrity, generally depicting them as old and grey; more especially if philosophy has been the work of their lives.  From the eudaemonistic standpoint, this is a very proper arrangement; as fame and youth are too much for a mortal at one and the same time.  Life is such a poor business that the strictest economy must be exercised in its good things.  Youth has enough and to spare in itself, and must rest content with what it has.  But when the delights and joys of life fall away in old age, as the leaves from a tree in autumn, fame buds forth opportunely, like a plant that is green in winter.  Fame is, as it were, the fruit that must grow all the summer before it can be enjoyed at Yule.  There is no greater consolation in age than the feeling of having put the whole force of one’s youth into works which still remain young.