ble to judge the man's failings as well as his excellencies; to
see not only why he did what he did, but why he did not do more: in a
word, he must be nearer than his object is to the ideal man.

And if it be assumed that I am quibbling on the words 'comprehend' and
'greater,' that the observer need be greater only potentially, and not in
act; that all the comprehension required of him, is to have in himself
the germs of other men's faculties, without having developed those germs
in life; I must still stand to my assertion. For such a rejoinder
ignores the most mysterious element of all character, which we call
strength: by virtue of which, of two seemingly similar characters, while
one does nothing, the other shall do great things; while in one the germs
of intellect and virtue remain comparatively embryonic, passive, and
weak, in the other these same germs shall develop into manhood, action,
success. And in what that same strength consists, not even the dramatic
imagination of a Shakespeare could discover. What are those
heart-rending sonnets of his, but the confession that over and above all
his powers he lacked one thing, and knew not what it was, or where to
find it--and that was--to be strong?

And yet he who will give us a science of great men, must begin by having
a larger heart, a keener insight, a more varying human experience, than
Shakespeare's own; while those who offer us a science of little men, and
attempt to explain history and progress by laws drawn from the average of
mankind, are utterly at sea the moment they come in contact with the very
men whose actions make the history, to whose thought the progress is due.
And why? Because (so at least I think) the new science of little men can
be no science at all: because the average man is not the normal man, and
never yet has been; because the great man is rather the normal man, as
approaching more nearly than his fellows to the true 'norma' and standard
of a complete human character; and therefore to pass him by as a mere
irregular sport of nature, an accidental giant with six fingers and six
toes, and to turn to the mob for your theory of humanity, is (I think)
about as wise as to ignore the Apollo and the Theseus, and to determine
the proportions of the human figure from a crowd of dwarfs and cripples.

No, let us not weary ourselves with narrow theories, with hasty
inductions, which will, a century hence, furnish mere matter for a smile.
Let us con