ty which, as Goethe says, fails to
recognize and appreciate the good which exists, must be added
something which comes into play everywhere, the moral baseness of
mankind, here taking the form of envy. The new fame that a man wins
raises him afresh over the heads of his fellows, who are thus degraded
in proportion. All conspicuous merit is obtained at the cost of those
who possess none; or, as Goethe has it in the _Westoestlicher Divan_,
another's praise is one's own depreciation--

_Wenn wir Andern Ehre geben
Muessen wir uns selbst entadeln_.

We see, then, how it is that, whatever be the form which excellence
takes, mediocrity, the common lot of by far the greatest number, is
leagued against it in a conspiracy to resist, and if possible, to
suppress it. The pass-word of this league is _a bas le merite_. Nay
more; those who have done something themselves, and enjoy a certain
amount of fame, do not care about the appearance of a new reputation,
because its success is apt to throw theirs into the shade. Hence,
Goethe declares that if we had to depend for our life upon the favor
of others, we should never have lived at all; from their desire
to appear important themselves, people gladly ignore our very
existence:--

_Haette ich gezaudert zu werden,
Bis man mir's Leben geoegnut,
Ich waere noch nicht auf Erden,
Wie ihr begreifen koennt,
Wenn ihr seht, wie sie sich geberden,
Die, um etwas zu scheinen,
Mich gerne mochten verneinen_.

Honor, on the contrary, generally meets with fair appreciation, and is
not exposed to the onslaught of envy; nay, every man is credited with
the possession of it until the contrary is proved. But fame has to be
won in despite of envy, and the tribunal which awards the laurel is
composed of judges biased against the applicant from the very first.
Honor is something which we are able and ready to share with everyone;
fame suffers encroachment and is rendered more unattainable in
proportion as more people come by it. Further, the difficulty of
winning fame by any given work stands in reverse ratio to the number
of people who are likely to read it; and hence it is so much harder
to become famous as the author of a learned work than as a writer
who aspires only to amuse. It is hardest of all in the case of
philosophical works, because the result at which they aim is rather
vague, and, at the same time, useless from a material point of view;
they appeal chiefly to readers who