But the biographers have always had other ways than those of the wild world.  They will not have a man to die out of sight.  I have turned over scores of “Lives,” not to read them, but to see whether now and again there might be a “Life” which was not more emphatically a death.  But there never is a modern biography that has taken the hint of Nature.  One and all, these books have the disproportionate illness, the death out of all scale.

Even more wanton than the disclosure of a death is that of a mortal illness.  If the man had recovered, his illness would have been rightly his own secret.  But because he did not recover, it is assumed to be news for the first comer.  Which of us would suffer the details of any physical suffering, over and done in our own lives, to be displayed and described?  This is not a confidence we have a mind to make; and no one is authorised to ask for attention or pity on our behalf.  The story of pain ought not to be told of us, seeing that by us it would assuredly not be told.

There is only one other thing that concerns a man still more exclusively, and that is his own mental illness, or the dreams and illusions of a long delirium.  When he is in common language not himself, amends should be made for so bitter a paradox; he should be allowed such solitude as is possible to the alienated spirit; he should be left to the “not himself,” and spared the intrusion against which he can so ill guard that he could hardly have even resented it.

The double helplessness of delusion and death should keep the door of Rossetti’s house, for example, and refuse him to the reader.  His mortal illness had nothing to do with his poetry.  Some rather affected objection is taken every now and then to the publication of some facts (others being already well known) in the life of Shelley.  Nevertheless, these are all, properly speaking, biography.  What is not biography is the detail of the accident of the manner of his death, the detail of his cremation.  Or if it was to be told—­told briefly—­it was certainly not for marble.  Shelley’s death had no significance, except inasmuch as he died young.  It was a detachable and disconnected incident.  Ah, that was a frost of fancy and of the heart that used it so, dealing with an insignificant fact, and conferring a futile immortality.  Those are ill-named biographers who seem to think that a betrayal of the ways of death is a part of their ordinary duty, and that if material enough for a last chapter does not lie to their hand they are to search it out.  They, of all survivors, are called upon, in honour and reason, to look upon a death with more composure.  To those who loved the dead closely, this is, for a time, impossible.  To them death becomes, for a year, disproportionate.  Their dreams are fixed upon it night by night.  They have, in those dreams, to find the dead in some labyrinth; they have to mourn his dying and to welcome his recovery in such a mingling of distress and of always incredulous happiness as is not known even to dreams save in that first year of separation.  But they are not biographers.