"What!" I answer, "you want a metaphysical instance, do you? Physics are too coarse. Well, sir, 'Magna est veritas—Truth is great,'—that is to say, your canoniser, the world say so. Now, pray, what does the world, much more a man of straw, know about truth? Confessedly less than it knows about my groom, who is great in poetry,—my cook-maid, who is great in phrenology,—my father, who is great on those hobgoblins the coming crises; and, let me say, amazingly less than it knows, or will know, of my aunt Jemima, who was great in political economy; let alone our village oracle, who is regarded, pipe and all, as great by a larger portion of the inhabitants of the world than can boast any intimate acquaintance with abstract verity.
"And now, man of straw! a word in your ear:—unless you are dull in grain, methinks you will admit yourself answered."
No fallacy is more palpable when examined, and, consequently, none is more preposterous, than that of connecting Greatness with the world's applause; yet for this, men fume and fret, struggle and strive, elbow their neighbours, and tread on their own bunnions, forgetting that they might be quite as great if they would only be quiet; nay, that their chance of being so, without exertion, lies, according to Shakspeare's nice and accurate calculation, in the very comfortable proportion of two to one in their favour. Two Great men out of every three, find themselves so, without the least trouble on their own parts. They are born so, or their greatness "is thrust upon them." They have nothing to do in life but to button in the morning, unbutton at night, sip, masticate, and sleep, if their conscience and digestion will permit: they find themselves not a whit less great. The third alone—the "odd one"—acquires Greatness; and "odd" enough it is, to discover a sample of this meagre class.
But the case may be settled to mathematical certainty. Statistical inquirers—men, the breath of whose nostrils are the bills of mortality—have discovered that a tenth part of all men born into the world die and are buried before one brief year has passed. It follows, therefore, as a corollary, that of those "born great" a great proportion die great when extremely little. Their nurses see one tenth of all "the great men" born, fade and expire, hydrocephalic or rickety, ere their tendencies and tastes have toddled beyond the pap-boat. What does the world know about this evanescent tenth? What does mankind trouble about the grave offence of the sepulchre in seizing and gobbling up annually these great and small tithes? What say they against its appropriating clause? Why, the world is clearly ignorant of the departed great ones,—the buried little ones; yet their greatness is indisputable.
The true philosophy of the matter, is the philosophy of the matters herein set forth; and, in her latter days, my aunt Jemima acknowledged it, for she felt it. There were no great women when she was youthful; but she lived to perceive greatness come upon her. It was not thrust—it was inherent: but it took time and acted leisurely in developing itself. It was not a creation or an acquisition, but a developement, an exudation of that which would out,—nolens volens.
The real truth is this,—All under circumstances are great, although few are aware that they are so. Celebrity has nothing to do with the affair; it may proclaim the fact, but does not constitute it;—as will hereafter be shown in the instance of my aunt Jemima.
F. Harrison Rankin.