“Indeed,” interrupted Flemming, “in no sense is the complaint strictly true, though at times apparently so.  Events enough there are, were they all set down.  A life, that is worth writing at all, is worth writing minutely.  Besides, all literary men have not lived in silence and solitude;—­not all in stillness, not all in shadow.  For many have lived in troubled times, in the rude and adverse fortunes of the state and age, and could say with Wallenstein,

`Our life was but a battle and a march;

And, like the wind’s blast, never-resting, homeless,

We stormed across the war convulsed earth.’

Of such examples history has recorded many; Dante, Cervantes, Byron, and others; men of iron; men who have dared to breast the strong breath of public opinion, and, like spectre-ships, come sailing right against the wind.  Others have been puffed out by the first adverse wind that blew; disgraced and sorrowful, because they could not please others.  Truly `the tears live in an onion, that should water such a sorrow.’  Had they been men, they would have made these disappointments their best friends, and learned from them the needful lesson of self-reliance.”

“To confess the truth,” added the Baron, “the lives of literary men, with their hopes and disappointments, and quarrels and calamities, present a melancholy picture of man’s strength and weakness.  On that very account the scholar can make them profitable for encouragement,—­consolation,—­warning.”

“And after all,” continued Flemming, “perhaps the greatest lesson, which the lives of literary men teach us, is told in a single word; Wait!—­Every man must patiently bide his time.  He must wait.  More particularly in lands, like my native land, where the pulse of life beats with such feverish and impatient throbs, is the lesson needful.  Our national character wants the dignity of repose.  We seem to live in the midst of a battle,—­there is such a din,—­such a hurrying to and fro.  In the streets of a crowded city it is difficult to walk slowly.  You feel the rushing of the crowd, and rush with it onward.  In the press of our life it is difficult to be calm.  In this stress of wind and tide, all professions seem to drag their anchors, and are swept out into the main.  The voices of the Present say, Come!  But the voices of the Past say, Wait!  With calm and solemn footsteps the rising tide bears against the rushing torrent up stream, and pushes back the hurrying waters.  With no less calm and solemn footsteps, nor less certainly, does a great mind bear up against public opinion, and push back its hurrying stream.  Therefore should every man wait;—­should bide his time.  Not in listless idleness,—­not in uselesspastime,—­not in querulous dejection; but in constant, steady, cheerful endeavours, always willing and fulfilling, and accomplishing his task, that, when the occasion comes, he may be equal to the occasion.  And if it never comes, what matters it?  What matters it to the world