Cagliostros, prominent world-leaders, do prosper by their quackery,
for a day. It is like a forged bank-note; they get it passed out of
_their_ worthless hands: others, not they, have to smart for it.
Nature bursts-up in fire-flame, French Revolutions and suchlike,
proclaiming with terrible veracity that forged notes are forged.

But of a Great Man especially, of him I will venture to assert that it
is incredible he should have been other than true. It seems to me the
primary foundation of him, and of all that can lie in him, this. No
Mirabeau, Napoleon, Burns, Cromwell, no man adequate to do anything,
but is first of all in right earnest about it; what I call a sincere
man. I should say _sincerity_, a deep, great, genuine sincerity, is
the first characteristic of all men in any way heroic. Not the
sincerity that calls itself sincere; ah, no, that is a very poor
matter indeed;--a shallow braggart conscious sincerity; oftenest
self-conceit mainly. The Great Man's sincerity is of the kind he
cannot speak of, is not conscious of: nay, I suppose, he is conscious
rather of _in_sincerity; for what man can walk accurately by the law
of truth for one day? No, the Great Man does not boast himself
sincere, far from that; perhaps does not ask himself if he is so: I
would say rather, his sincerity does not depend on himself; he cannot
help being sincere! The great Fact of Existence is great to him. Fly
as he will, he cannot get out of the awful presence of this Reality.
His mind is so made; he is great by that, first of all. Fearful and
wonderful, real as Life, real as death, is this Universe to him.
Though all men should forget its truth, and walk in a vain show, he
cannot. At all moments the Flame-image glares-in upon him; undeniable,
there, there!--I wish you to take this as my primary definition of a
Great Man. A little man may have this, it is competent to all men that
God has made: but a Great Man cannot be without it.

Such a man is what we call an _original_ man: he comes to us at
first-hand. A messenger he, sent from the Infinite Unknown with
tidings to us. We may call him Poet, Prophet, God;--in one way or
other, we all feel that the words he utters are as no other man's
words. Direct from the Inner Fact of things;--he lives, and has to
live, in daily communion with that. Hearsays cannot hide it from him;
he is blind, homeless, miserable, following hearsays; _it_ glares-in
upon him. Really his utterances, are they not