no one has yet conjectured why he left only his second-best bedstead to his wife.
, when asked for personal details, could remember nothing notable in his own career except that he once caught a flying swallow in his hand.
, the poet, was so shy that on receiving a compliment he would withdraw within his shell and say no more; he was afraid, as Irving
finely said, of the shadow which his own fame cast before him. It would be easy to make up a long list of authors of eminence who have deprecated instead of encouraging all personal information, and who would have been eminently unfitted to live in an age or land of interviewers.
It is not apparent that there is any distinction of sex in this matter.
The writer has seen a letter to a friend by an authoress not unknown to fame, or at least popularity, in which she points out that renown is almost wholly a matter of small newspaper items, and so encloses a written series of personal scraps about herself-her looks, voice, sayings, doings, and the like — for this friend to distribute among friendly editors.
This is at the opposite extreme from the recusant poets who give so much trouble to their biographers.
It would be well if some compromise could be made, as