HOW EVERY MAN WRITES HIS OWN

MEMOIRS.

THE

HE hypothesis of this paper is, that every man— under which we take the liberty of including every woman-is an author. Not only are there the acted life and the spoken life, but also the written life. Every one knows the immense value of memoirs, if only pour assister à l'histoire. Iudeed, there are even letters, written without the slightest thought of formal authorship, which are among our greatest literary treasures, and constitute the most authentic materials for history. The letters of Cicero, for instance, have a value far beyond his great speeches and philosophical works: written in careless undisguised fashion, they tell us much about his own character and his own times. The Paston letters are simply invaluable, for the flood of light which they throw upon contemporary history. Lord Macaulay says he would exchange tons of State papers for some love-letters which had passed between Sir William Temple and his sweetheart. There is, indeed, a special charm in all biography. But this is only the case when a full fair narrative is given, and genuine lessons are drawn. It has so happened that the present writer

has known several people whose biographies have been written after their decease. He has found considerable

difficulty in recognising his old friends. They are little better than the waxen figures at Madame Tussaud's. Perhaps we might draw quite as good lessons from their failures as from their virtues; but the failures all disappear in the biographer's page. People who were very human pose as heroes, and are as stiff and unnatural as lay-figures. Of all biography the autobiography is the most natural and most amusing. Some people have a passion for writing autobiography. They are absorbed in themselves, and they think that all the world revolve round their axis, and are deeply interested in their affairs. Some of these autobiographies are palpably insincere; but taken as a whole, autobiography is the most charming and instructive order of literature.

We speak of unconscious cerebration, and unconscious autobiography frequently forms a species of this. In how many a work one may disentangle an autobiographical element! Indeed, there are not many books of any kind, except those on physical or mental science, where something of this kind is not to be detected.

Take, for instance, the in each case the author is Madame Ida Pfeiffer and

literature of voyages and travels really writing an autobiography. Miss Isabella Bird may be said to have given us their lives in their travels. When an inexperienced "literary hand” writes a novel, the novelist is to us more interesting than

the hero and the heroine. He, or more probably she, goes into the confessional, and tells the story of her life. She writes her own memoirs. We perceive what is the governing idea of human life, what is the kind of character admired, what are the aims and purposes of life, what is the kind of poetical justice which the author would desire to be dealt out. When people become real craftsmen in literary art, they are able to disguise all this-they acquire the ars celare artem; but in the fresh writer the self-revelation is always manifest. The poets are absorbed in their own individuality, which is perhaps a mild way of saying that they are intensely egotistic. Monsieur Jourdain was astonished when he was informed that he had been speaking prose all his life. It is my province to inform all my readers that they have not only been speaking prose all their lives, but also writing prose, and this prose has a very distinctive literary character. other words, every man writes his own memoirs.

In

There are multitudes of people who would never think of associating themselves with the idea of authorship, and yet they are, practically, authors upon a large scale. Unconsciously they are always writing their own memoirs. And if they could see all their letters brought together into an immense heap, they would be surprised at the largeness of it. Even if they took away all business matters and trivial details, there would be a good deal of a certain sort of literary work. There is a kind of De Foe simplicity about them, which has a charm of its own. I have often read

Editors of news

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letters of a very unambitious unliterary kind, which, from accurate observation, right feeling, and photographic statements, have a real charm and interest. papers like to get hold of such letters; and readers find them not the least interesting part of the broadsheet. many worthy unimportant people may find that they are not only authors, but very fair authors in their way. And their authorship may extend even further than their written memoirs. It is said that every syllable we breathe is written on the air, that the atmosphere is a vast wandering library, and it is within the scientific imagination that all our words may be rendered back to us again. "The analysis of expression is the study of character," says Vinet. Language, written or spoken, is the impress, the index, the exposition of character. The impress of words is a close and abiding one. When we put the words on paper, we extend and propagate their influence. You never take a pen in hand but you are showing something of your own character. The very style of the handwriting is an element in the determination of character. The way in which a man dashes off a letter is very much the way in which a man uses his voice. There is a modulated ease in the tones of the handwriting. Without professing to be experts, we can certainly gather a general idea of character from the handwriting. A Minister was commenting on a very strong despatch in the presence of his sovereign. "The language is strong," said the statesman; "but the writer does not mean it; he is

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irresolute." "Whence do you see irresolution?" said the king. "In his n's and g's, please your Majesty." Only it is to be said that a great deal of humbug is often talked by people who profess to be judges of handwriting. I showed a professor of caligraphy a letter which I had received. He took a very unfavourable view of the handwriting. It was the handwriting, he told me, of a man without learning, without genius, without feeling. "will you look at the signature?" by Lord Macaulay.

"And now, sir,” I said,

The letter was written

Before we proceed to point out the universality of our proposition, we ought to look at those who, in a special and formal sense, are writers of memoirs. The literature of autobiography is of vast extent. It is both the most interesting and the most truthful of all biography; the raciest, the frankest, the most instructive. Some of such works rank among the world's greatest literary treasures. The Church will never surrender such treasures as the autobiographies of St. Augustine and St. Hilary of Poitiers. Volumes of "Reminiscences," "Journals," "Correspondence," "Despatches," all come under this head. It seems to be a personal relief to many great men to unburden themselves to posterity. We find this in the case of such great men as Guizot and Sir Robert Peel; in Sully, in Clarendon, in Prince Metternich. We have the private memoirs of the two illustrious brothers, the Duke of Wellington and the Marquess Wellesley. Mr. Gladstone gives the world “a