During Walter’s last holidays, one morning after breakfast he took a walk with me.  I saw something was on the boy’s mind.  At last he suddenly asked me, “Do sons often write the lives of fathers?”—­“Often,” I replied, “but I do not think they are the best kind of biographers, for you see, Walter, sons cannot well tell the faults and weaknesses of their fathers, and so filial biographies are often rather insipid performances.”—­“I don’t know about that,” he said, “I think I could write yours.  I have made it already into chapters.”  “Now then, my boy,” I said, “begin it:  let us have the outline at least.”  Walter then commenced his biography.

“The first chapter,” he said, “should be you and I and Henry walking amongst the trees and settling which should be cut down, and which should be transplanted.”  “A very pretty chapter,” I said, “and a great deal might be made of it.”  “The second chapter,” he continued, “should be your going to the farm, and talking to the pigs.”  “Also a very good chapter, my dear.”  “The third chapter,” he said, after a little thought, “should be your friends.  I would describe them all, and what they could do.”  There, you see, Ellesmere, you would come in largely, especially as to what you could do.  “An excellent chapter,” I exclaimed, and then of course I broke out into some paternal admonition about the choice of friends, which I know will have no effect whatever, but still one cannot help uttering these paternal admonitions.

“Now then,” I said, “for chapter four.”  Here Walter paused, and looked about him vaguely for a minute or two.  At length he seemed to have got hold of the right idea, for he burst out with the words, “My going back to school;” and that, it seemed, was to be the end of the biography.

Now, was there ever so honest a biographer?  His going hack to school was the “be-all and end-all here” with him, and he resolved it should be the same with his hero, and with everybody concerned in the story.

Then see what a pleasant biographer the boy is!  He does not drag his hero down through the vale of life, amidst declining fortune, breaking health, dwindling away of friends, and the usual dreariness of the last few stages.  Neither does the biography end with the death of his hero; and by the way, it is not very pleasant to have one’s children contemplating one’s death, even for the sake of writing one’s life; but the biographer brings the adventures of his hero to an end by his own going back to school.  How delightful it would be if most biographers planned their works after Walter’s fashion:  just gave a picture of their hero at his farm, or his business; then at his pleasure, as Walter brought me amongst my trees; then, to show what manner of man he was, gave some description of his friends; and concluded by giving an account of their own going back to school—­a conclusion that is greatly to be desired for many of them.

When we begin to copy a passage from this work, we find it very difficult to stop.  But the thoughtful reader will not need to have it pointed out to him how much sound wisdom is conveyed in that playful form.  And here is excellent advice as to the fashion in which men may hope to get through great intellectual labour:  says Ellesmere,—­