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obstacles in the way of public action for a public cause。 Women
might be； and were； duly suppressed when； by the mouth of Olympe de
Gouges； they claimed a 〃right to concur in the choice of
representatives for the formation of the laws〃； but in her person；
too； they were liberally allowed to bear political responsibility to
the Republic。 Olympe de Gouges was guillotined。 Robespierre thus
made her public and complete amends。
A POINT OF BIOGRAPHY
There is hardly a writer now … of the third class probably not one …
who has not something sharp and sad to say about the cruelty of
Nature； not one who is able to attempt May in the woods without a
modern reference to the manifold death and destruction with which
the air； the branches； the mosses are said to be full。
But no one has paused in the course of these phrases to take notice
of the curious and conspicuous fact of the suppression of death and
of the dead throughout this landscape of manifest life。 Where are
they … all the dying； all the dead； of the populous woods？ Where do
they hide their little last hours； where are they buried？ Where is
the violence concealed？ Under what gay custom and decent habit？
You may see； it is true； an earth…worm in a robin's beak； and may
hear a thrush breaking a snail's shell； but these little things are；
as it were； passed by with a kind of twinkle for apology； as by a
well…bred man who does openly some little solecism which is too
slight for direct mention； and which a meaner man might hide or
avoid。 Unless you are very modern indeed； you twinkle back at the
bird。
But otherwise there is nothing visible of the havoc and the prey and
plunder。 It is certain that much of the visible life passes
violently into other forms； flashes without pause into another
flame； but not all。 Amid all the killing there must be much dying。
There are； for instance； few birds of prey left in our more
accessible counties now； and many thousands of birds must die
uncaught by a hawk and unpierced。 But if their killing is done so
modestly； so then is their dying also。 Short lives have all these
wild things； but there are innumerable flocks of them always alive；
they must die； then； in innumerable flocks。 And yet they keep the
millions of the dead out of sight。
Now and then； indeed； they may be betrayed。 It happened in a cold
winter。 The late frosts were so sudden； and the famine was so
complete； that the birds were taken unawares。 The sky and the earth
conspired that February to make known all the secrets； everything
was published。 Death was manifest。 Editors； when a great man dies；
are not more resolute than was the frost of ‘95。
The birds were obliged to die in public。 They were surprised and
forced to do thus。 They became like Shelley in the monument which
the art and imagination of England combined to raise to his memory
at Oxford。
Frost was surely at work in both cases； and in both it wrought
wrong。 There is a similarity of unreason in betraying the death of
a bird and in exhibiting the death of Shelley。 The death of a
soldier … passe encore。 But the death of Shelley was not his goal。
And the death of the birds is so little characteristic of them that；
as has just been said； no one in the world is aware of their dying；
except only in the case of birds in cages； who； again； are compelled
to die with observation。 The woodland is guarded and kept by a
rule。 There is no display of the battlefield in the fields。 There
is no tale of the game…bag； no boast。 The hunting goes on； but with
strange decorum。 You may pass a fine season under the trees； and
see nothing dead except here and there where a boy has been by； or a
man with a trap； or a man with a gun。 There is nothing like a
butcher's shop in the woods。
But the biographers have always had other ways than those of the
wild world。 They will not have a man to die out of sight。 I have
turned over scores of 〃Lives；〃 not to read them； but to see whether
now and again there might be a 〃Life〃 which was not more
emphatically a death。 But there never is a modern biography that
has taken the hint of Nature。 One and all； these books have the
disproportionate illness； the death out of all scale。
Even more wanton than the disclosure of a death is that of a mortal
illness。 If the man had recovered； his illness would have been
rightly his own secret。 But because he did not recover； it is
assumed to be news for the first comer。 Which of us would suffer
the details of any physical suffering； over and done in our own
lives； to be displayed and described？ This is not a confidence we
have a mind to make； and no one is authorised to ask for attention
or pity on our behalf。 The story of pain ought not to be told of
us； seeing that by us it would assuredly not be told。
There is only one other thing that concerns a man still more
exclusively； and that is his own mental illness； or the dreams and
illusions of a long delirium。 When he is in common language not
himself； amends should be made for so bitter a paradox； he should be
allowed such solitude as is possible to the alienated spirit； he
should be left to the 〃not himself；〃 and spared the intrusion
against which he can so ill guard that he could hardly have even
resented it。
The double helplessness of delusion and death should keep the door
of Rossetti's house； for example； and refuse him to the reader。 His
mortal illness had nothing to do with his poetry。 Some rather
affected objection is taken every now and then to the publication of
some facts （others being already well known） in the life of Shelley。
Nevertheless； these are all； properly speaking； biography。 What is
not biography is the detail of the accident of the manner of his
death； the detail of his cremation。 Or if it was to be told … told
briefly … it was certainly not for marble。 Shelley's death had no
significance； except inasmuch as he died young。 It was a detachable
and disconnected incident。 Ah； that was a frost of fancy and of the
heart that used it so； dealing with an insignificant fact； and
conferring a futile immortality。 Those are ill…named biographers
who seem to think that a betrayal of the ways of death is a part of
their ordinary duty； and that if material enough for a last chapter
does not lie to their hand they are to search it out。 They； of all
survivors； are called upon； in honour and reason； to look upon a
death with more composure。 To those who loved the dead closely；
this is； for a time； impossible。 To them death becomes； for a year；
disproportionate。 Their dreams are fixed upon it night by night。
They have； in those dreams； to find the dead in some labyrinth； they
have to mourn his dying and to welcome his recovery in such a
mingling of distress and of always incredulous happiness as is not
known even to dreams save in that first year of separation。 But
they are not biographers。