Ste. Beuve, the most felicitous of critics, wishes to know a man in order to understand his work. I hardly think the demand a fair one; there ought to be enough in every piece of good work to stand for itself, and its maker ought to have the right to be judged at the level that the work represents, rather than in his personal situation, which may often be even mean or ridiculous. Nevertheless, if it be desired, I know of no one more capable of standing the test than William Dean Howells. Perhaps I incline to a certain friendly bias--though possibly even a little extreme in this may be pardoned, for surely no one is more unreasonably carped at than he nowadays,--but he impresses me as corresponding to the ideal of what greatness ought to be; how it ought to look and act. He not only is, but appears, really great. In the personal conduct of his life, too, he confirms what is best in his books. Thus, there are no obscurities to be cleared up; no stories to be heard of egotism, selfishness or greed towards his contemporaries; there is nothing to be passed over in discreet silence. He has an open and generous nature, the most polished yet unassuming manners, and an impressive presence, which is deprived of anything formidable by a rare geniality. In looks, he is about the middle height, rather square built, with a fine, Napoleonic head, which seems capable of containing any thing. I have seen none of his many portraits that does him justice. Few men with his opportunities have done so much, or been so quick to recognize original merit and struggling aspiration. There is no trace in him of uneasiness at the success of others, of envy towards rivals--though, indeed, it would be hard to say, from the very beginning of his career, where any rivals in his own peculiar vein were to be found. Such a largeness of conduct is surely one of the indications of genius, a part of the serene calm which is content to wait for its own triumph and forbear push or artifice to hasten it.