was done by the traveller described by Dr. Franklin
, who, on arriving in a strange city at once called upon the mayor with a printed slip stating his birthplace, age, height, occupation, destination, sect, political party, and the like, in the hope that, having supplied gossip with these essential facts, he might thenceforth be let alone.
Yet it is doubtful whether this would present any serious obstacle to the enterprise of modern journalism; for, indeed, no matter how often a man's biography has been written, there always seems to be a lingering expectation that he can with a little trouble get up a wholly new one, having an entirely different set of incidents, for the latest historian.
If a greater personal shyness exists among literary persons than in any other occupation, it probably comes from the fact that the author, and especially the poet, feels more detached from his work, when done, than is the case with anybody else.
His work comes to him as something outside of himself, and, when it is done, his ordinary life is but the nest from which that bird of fancy has flown.
Why then should he dwell upon it, or give its precise measurements?
The poem comes to him; he cannot sit down and make it by an