The student and general reader who want to learn about Samuel Butler should turn to his own books, and especially to _Alps and Sanctuaries_, _Luck or Cunning_, rather than to Mr. Jones’ ponderous biography. In the former, Butler is to be seen as he was in the flesh, whimsical and wise, cranky and crabbed, sensitive to beauty but fearful of betraying it, arrogant in characterisation but weak in manner, urbane in speech and demure in looks. Painfully aggressive himself, he loathed aggressiveness in others and could not abide in his fellows the quality that he possessed so abundantly: cleverness. He prided himself that he was like the priests in the Sanctuary of S. Michelo, “perfectly tolerant and ready to extend to others the consideration they expected themselves,” but he was as unlike them as any one imaginable. He had a first-class double-track mind, and although he lacked heart, he had humour. Demand unquestionably governs, in some measure, supply in biographic literature. There would not be so many lives of prize fighters, “screen artists,” singers and actors of a day’s reputation if publishers did not have a market for them, or if experience had not taught writers that the public is keen to hear the details of their lives. Biographies pander to the urge that is so important to our progress and welfare: curiosity. They ward off the poisoned arrows of ennui, and they prevent the shells of boredom from exploding. Practically all biographies and autobiographies are of individuals who have “succeeded” or “arrived.” Men who make failures of their lives rarely have their biographies written. It is to be regretted, for they would be helpful. We learn more from our mistakes than from our ten strikes.