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T was Cassius, in the play of Julius Cæsar, who declared to Brutus:
“I had as lief not be, as live to be
In awe of such a thing as I Myself!" Yet the lean and hungry Cassius had been no less of a philosopher for awe of I MYSELF. If for no other reason, because of its possibilities. In Myself lurks at least the potentiality of genius; and genius has been the idol of hero worship, the playground of art, and the despair of science.
History has been redeemed from its monotonous story of greed, violence, vice, and crime, and has been made picturesque, eloquent, and helpful only by the advent, now and then and here and there, of-not persons merely—but personages, of Cæsars—of kings and queens who came by right divine-who in the plenitude of power all their own, have
availed their fellow men, to restate knowledge, interpret mystery, abolish time-honored institutions, and transform society.
We all stand in awe of such men and women. And for this very reason we fail to scrutinize them closely and measure them accurately. Contemporaneous observers exalt them: posterity deifies them. The flashing of their genius out-dazzles the every-day human in them; the commonplace being in them, who ate, drank, and slept, who caught the world's attention, only after struggle, who like countless others loved and hated, sorrowed and endeavored, often lost heart and sometimes fell short, dies with their mortality; only the exceptional gifts, which perhaps few of their neighbors perceived, have won immortality, and these are now exaggerated and glorified.
It is too easily forgotten or ignored by the hero-worshiper, that little credit would attach to a being all superhuman; and that the greatness of any personality is in the accomplishment of notable results, despite earthly conditions of a crippling character. It is the