And why? For this reason; the more a man belongs to posterity, in other words, to humanity in general, the more of an alien he is to his contemporaries; since his work is not meant for them as such, but only for them in so far as they form part of mankind at large; there is none of that familiar local color about his productions which would appeal to them; and so what he does, fails of recognition because it is strange. People are more likely to appreciate the man who serves the circumstances of his own brief hour, or the temper of the moment,--belonging to it, living and dying with it. The general history of art and literature shows that the highest achievements of the human mind are, as a rule, not favorably received at first; but remain in obscurity until they win notice from intelligence of a high order, by whose influence they are brought into a position which they then maintain, in virtue of the authority thus given them. If the reason of this should be asked, it will be found that ultimately, a man can really understand and appreciate those things only which are of like nature with himself. The dull person will like what is dull, and the common person what is common; a man whose ideas are mixed will be attracted by confusion of thought; and folly will appeal to him who has no brains at all; but best of all, a man will like his own works, as being of a character thoroughly at one with himself. This is a truth as old as Epicharmus of fabulous memory-- [Greek: Thaumaston ouden esti me tauth outo legein Kal andanein autoisin autous kal dokein Kalos pethukenai kal gar ho kuon kuni Kalloton eimen phainetai koi bous boi Onos dono kalliston [estin], us dut.] The sense of this passage--for it should not be lost--is that we should not be surprised if people are pleased with themselves, and fancy that they are in good case; for to a dog the best thing in the world is a dog; to an ox, an ox; to an ass, an ass; and to a sow, a sow. The strongest arm is unavailing to give impetus to a featherweight; for, instead of speeding on its way and hitting its mark with effect, it will soon fall to the ground, having expended what little energy was given to it, and possessing no mass of its own to be the vehicle of momentum. So it is with great and noble thoughts, nay, with the very masterpieces of genius, when there are none but little, weak, and perverse minds to appreciate them,--a fact which has been deplored by a chorus of the wise in all ages. Jesus, the son of Sirach, for instance, declares that _He that telleth a tale to a fool speaketh to one in slumber: when he hath told his tale, he will say, What is the matter_?[1] And Hamlet says, _A knavish speech sleeps in a fool's ear_.[2] And Goethe is of the same opinion, that a dull ear mocks at the wisest word, _Das glücktichste Wort es wird verhöhnt, Wenn der Hörer ein Schiefohr ist_: