they　constrain　us；　and　a　man　must　be　very　sure　he　is　in　the　right；
  must　（in　a　favourite　phrase　of　his）　be　'either　very　wise　or　very
  vain；'　to　break　with　any　general　consent　in　ethics。　　I　remember
  taking　his　advice　upon　some　point　of　conduct。　　'Now；'　he　said；　'how
  do　you　suppose　Christ　would　have　advised　you？'　and　when　I　had
  answered　that　he　would　not　have　counselled　me　anything　unkind　or
  cowardly；　'No；'　he　said；　with　one　of　his　shrewd　strokes　at　the
  weakness　of　his　hearer；　'nor　anything　amusing。'　　Later　in　life；　he
  made　less　certain　in　the　field　of　ethics。　　'The　old　story　of　the
  knowledge　of　good　and　evil　is　a　very　true　one；'　I　find　him　writing；
  only　（he　goes　on）　'the　effect　of　the　original　dose　is　much　worn
  out；　leaving　Adam's　descendants　with　the　knowledge　that　there　is
  such　a　thing　…　but　uncertain　where。'　　His　growing　sense　of　this
  ambiguity　made　him　less　swift　to　condemn；　but　no　less　stimulating
  in　counsel。　　'You　grant　yourself　certain　freedoms。　　Very　well；'　he
  would　say；　'I　want　to　see　you　pay　for　them　some　other　way。　　You
  positively　cannot　do　this：　　then　there　positively　must　be　something
  else　that　you　can　do；　and　I　want　to　see　you　find　that　out　and　do
  it。'　　Fleeming　would　never　suffer　you　to　think　that　you　were
  living；　if　there　were　not；　somewhere　in　your　life；　some　touch　of
  heroism；　to　do　or　to　endure。
  This　was　his　rarest　quality。　　Far　on　in　middle　age；　when　men　begin
  to　lie　down　with　the　bestial　goddesses；　Comfort　and　Respectability；
  the　strings　of　his　nature　still　sounded　as　high　a　note　as　a　young
  man's。　　He　loved　the　harsh　voice　of　duty　like　a　call　to　battle。　　He
  loved　courage；　enterprise；　brave　natures；　a　brave　word；　an　ugly
  virtue；　everything　that　lifts　us　above　the　table　where　we　eat　or
  the　bed　we　sleep　upon。　　This　with　no　touch　of　the　motive…monger　or
  the　ascetic。　　He　loved　his　virtues　to　be　practical；　his　heroes　to
  be　great　eaters　of　beef；　he　loved　the　jovial　Heracles；　loved　the
  astute　Odysseus；　not　the　Robespierres　and　Wesleys。　　A　fine　buoyant
  sense　of　life　and　of　man's　unequal　character　ran　through　all　his
  thoughts。　　He　could　not　tolerate　the　spirit　of　the　pick…thank；
  being　what　we　are；　he　wished　us　to　see　others　with　a　generous　eye
  of　admiration；　not　with　the　smallness　of　the　seeker　after　faults。
  If　there　shone　anywhere　a　virtue；　no　matter　how　incongruously　set；
  it　was　upon　the　virtue　we　must　fix　our　eyes。　　I　remember　having
  found　much　entertainment　in　Voltaire's　SAUL；　and　telling　him　what
  seemed　to　me　the　drollest　touches。　　He　heard　me　out；　as　usual　when
  displeased；　and　then　opened　fire　on　me　with　red…hot　shot。　　To
  belittle　a　noble　story　was　easy；　it　was　not　literature；　it　was　not
  art；　it　was　not　morality；　there　was　no　sustenance　in　such　a　form　of
  jesting；　there　was　（in　his　favourite　phrase）　'no　nitrogenous　food'
  in　such　literature。　　And　then　he　proceeded　to　show　what　a　fine
  fellow　David　was；　and　what　a　hard　knot　he　was　in　about　Bathsheba；
  so　that　（the　initial　wrong　committed）　honour　might　well　hesitate　in
  the　choice　of　conduct；　and　what　owls　those　people　were　who
  marvelled　because　an　Eastern　tyrant　had　killed　Uriah；　instead　of
  marvelling　that　he　had　not　killed　the　prophet　also。　　'Now　if
  Voltaire　had　helped　me　to　feel　that；'　said　he；　'I　could　have　seen
  some　fun　in　it。'　　He　loved　the　comedy　which　shows　a　hero　human；　and
  yet　leaves　him　a　hero；　and　the　laughter　which　does　not　lessen　love。
  It　was　this　taste　for　what　is　fine　in　human…kind；　that　ruled　his
  choice　in　books。　　These　should　all　strike　a　high　note；　whether
  brave　or　tender；　and　smack　of　the　open　air。　　The　noble　and　simple
  presentation　of　things　noble　and　simple；　that　was　the　'nitrogenous
  food'　of　which　he　spoke　so　much；　which　he　sought　so　eagerly；
  enjoyed　so　royally。　　He　wrote　to　an　author；　the　first　part　of　whose
  story　he　had　seen　with　sympathy；　hoping　that　it　might　continue　in
  the　same　vein。　　'That　this　may　be　so；'　he　wrote；　'I　long　with　the
  longing　of　David　for　the　water　of　Bethlehem。　　But　no　man　need　die
  for　the　water　a　poet　can　give；　and　all　can　drink　it　to　the　end　of
  time；　and　their　thirst　be　quenched　and　the　pool　never　dry　…　and　the
  thirst　and　the　water　are　both　blessed。'　　It　was　in　the　Greeks
  particularly　that　he　found　this　blessed　water；　he　loved　'a　fresh
  air'　which　he　found　'about　the　Greek　things　even　in　translations'；
  he　loved　their　freedom　from　the　mawkish　and　the　rancid。　　The　tale
  of　David　in　the　Bible；　the　ODYSSEY；　Sophocles；　AEschylus；
  Shakespeare；　Scott；　old　Dumas　in　his　chivalrous　note；　Dickens
  rather　than　Thackeray；　and　the　TALE　OF　TWO　CITIES　out　of　Dickens：
  such　were　some　of　his　preferences。　　To　Ariosto　and　Boccaccio　he　was
  always　faithful；　BURNT　NJAL　was　a　late　favourite；　and　he　found　at
  least　a　passing　entertainment　in　the　ARCADIA　and　the　GRAND　CYRUS。
  George　Eliot　he　outgrew；　finding　her　latterly　only　sawdust　in　the
  mouth；　but　her　influence；　while　it　lasted；　was　great；　and　must　have
  gone　some　way　to　form　his　mind。　　He　was　easily　set　on　edge；
  however；　by　didactic　writing；　and　held　that　books　should　teach　no
  other　lesson　but　what　'real　life　would　teach；　were　it　as　vividly
  presented。'　　Again；　it　was　the　thing　made　that　took　him；　the　drama
  in　the　book；　to　the　book　itself；　to　any　merit　of　the　making；　he　was
  long　strangely　blind。　　He　would　prefer　the　AGAMEMNON　in　the　prose
  of　Mr。　Buckley；　ay；　to　Keats。　　But　he　was　his　mother's　son；
  learning　to　the　last。　　He　told　me　one　day　that　literature　was　not　a
  trade；　that　it　was　no　craft；　that　the　professed　author　was　merely
  an　amateur　with　a　door…plate。　　'Very　well；'　said　I；　'the　first　time
  you　get　a　proof；　I　will　demonstrate　that　it　is　as　much　a　trade　as
  bricklaying；　and　that　you　do　not　know　it。'　　By　the　very　next　post；
  a　proof　came。　　I　opened　it　with　fear；　for　he　was　indeed；　as　the
  reader　will　see　by　these　volumes；　a　formidable　amateur；　always
  wrote　brightly；　because　he　always　thought　trenchantly；　and
  sometimes　wrote　brilliantly；　as　the　worst　of　whistlers　may
  sometimes　stumble　on　a　perfect　intonation。　　But　it　was　all　for　the
  best　in　the　interests　of　his　education；　and　I　was　able；　over　that
  proof；　to　give　him　a　quarter　of　an　hour　such　as　Fleeming　loved　both
  to　give　and　to　receive。　　His　subsequent　training　passed　out　of　my
  hands　into　those　of　our　common　friend；　W。　E。　Henley。　　'Henley　and
  I；'　he　wrote；　'have　fairly　good　times　wigging　one　another　for　not
  doing　better。　　I　wig　him　because　he　won't　try　to　write　a　real　play；
  and　he　wigs　me　because　I　can't　try　to　write　English。'　　When　I　next
  saw　him；　he　was　full　of　his　new　acquisitions。　　'And　yet　I　have　lost
  something　too；'　he　said　regretfully。　　'Up　to　now　Scott　seemed　to　me
  quite　perfect；　he　was　all　I　wanted。　　Since　I　have　been　learning
  this　confounded　thing；　I　took　up　one　of　the　novels；　and　a　great
  deal　of　it　is　both　careless　and　clumsy。'
  V。
  He　spoke　four　languages　with　freedom；　not　even　English　with　any
  marked　propriety。　　What　he　uttered　was　not　so　much　well　said；　as
  excellently　acted：　　so　we　may　hear　every　day　the　inexpressive
  language　of　a　poorly…written　drama　assume　character　and　colour　in
  the　hands　of　a　good　player。　　No　man　had　more　of　the　VIS　COMICA　in
  private　life；　he　played　no　character　on　the　stage；　as　he　could　play
  himself　among　his　friends。　　It　was　one　of　his　special　charms；　now
  when　the　voice　is　silent　and　the　face　still；　it　makes　it　impossible
  to　do　justice　to　his　power　in　conversation。　　He　was　a　delightful
  companion　to　such　as　can　bear　bracing　weather；　not　to　the　very
  vain；　not　to　the　owlishly　wise；　who　cannot　have　their　dogmas
  canvassed；　not　to　the　painfully　refined；　whose　sentiments　become
  articles　of　faith。　　The　spirit　in　which　he　could　write　that　he　was
  'much　revived　by　having　an　opportunity　of　abusing　Whistler　to　a
  knot　of　his　special　admirers；'　is　a　spirit　apt　to　be　misconstrued。
  He　was　not　a　dogmatist；　even　about　Whistler。　　'The　house　is　full　of
  pretty　things；'　he　wrote；　when　on　a　visit；　'but　Mrs。　…'s　taste　in
  pretty　things　has　one　very　bad　fault：　　it　is　not　my　taste。'　　And
  that　was　the　true　attitude　of　his　mind；　but　these　eternal
  differences　it　was　his　joy　to　thresh　out　and　wrangle　over　by　the
  hour。　　It　was　no　wonder　if　he　loved　the　Greeks；　he　was　in　many　ways
  a　Greek　himself；　he　should　have　been　a　sophist　and　met　Socrates；　he
  would　have　loved　Socrates；　and　done　battle　with　him　staunchly　and
  manfully　owned　his　defeat；　and　the　dialogue；　arranged　by　Plato；
  would　have　shown　even　in　Plato's　gallery。　　He　seemed　in　talk
  aggressive；　petulant；　full　of　a　singular　energy；　as　vain　you　would
  have　said　as　a　peacock；　until　you　trod　on　his　toes；　and　then　you
  saw　that　he　was　at　least　clear　of　all　the　sicklier　elements　of
  vanity。　　Soundly　rang　his　laugh　at　any　jest　against　himself。　　He
  wished　to　be　taken；　as　he　took　others；　for　what　was　good　in　him
  without　dissimulation　of　the　evil；　for　what　was　wise　in　h