t did you do?" I asked, when informed of the incident.
"I sent the money," was the placid reply. "I thought I might never
again have an opportunity to send money to Madagascar."

It would be idle to deny that a word of praise, a word of thanks,
sometimes a word of criticism, have been powerful factors in the
lives of men of genius. We know how profoundly Lord Byron was affected
by the letter of a consumptive girl, written simply and soberly,
signed with initials only, seeking no notice and giving no address;
but saying in a few candid words that the writer wished before she
died to thank the poet for the rapture his poems had given her. "I
look upon such a letter," wrote Byron to Moore, "as better than a
diploma from Gottingen." We know, too, what a splendid impetus to
Carlyle was that first letter from Goethe, a letter which he
confessed seemed too wonderful to be real, and more "like a message
from fairyland." It was but a brief note after all, tepid, sensible,
and egotistical; but the magic sentence, "It may be I shall yet hear
much of you," became for years an impelling force, the kind of
prophecy which insured its own fulfilment.

Carlyle was susceptible to praise, though few readers had the
temerity to offer it. We find him, after the publication of the
"French Revolution," writing urbanely to a young and unknown
admirer; "I do not blame your enthusiasm." But when a less
happily-minded youth sent him some suggestions for the reformation
of society, Carlyle, who could do all his own grumbling, returned
his disciple's complaints with this laconic denial: "A pack of damned
nonsense, you unfortunate fool." It sounds unkind; but we must
remember that there were six posts a day in London, that "each post
brought its batch of letters," and that nine tenths of these
letters--so Carlyle says--were from strangers, demanding autographs,
and seeking or proffering advice. One man wrote that he was
distressingly ugly, and asked what should he do about it. "So
profitable have my epistolary fellow creatures grown to me in these
years," notes the historian in his journal, "that when the postman
leaves nothing, it may well be felt as an escape."

The most patient correspondent known to fame was Sir Walter Scott,
though Lord Byron surprises us at times by the fine quality of his
good nature. His letters are often petulant,--especially when Murray
has sent him tragedies instead of tooth-powder; but he is perhaps
the only man on r