That vice and folly are not always associated with genius scarcely needs demonstrating.  I allow that many great men have been sensual fools, but we can by no means allow that folly and sensuality are inseparable from greatness.  My point is to prove that littleness must be conquered before a man can be great or good.  Macaulay lived a life of perfect and exemplary purity; he was good in all the relations of life; those nearest to him loved him most dearly, and his days were passed in thinking of the happiness of others.  Perhaps he was vain—­certainly he had something to be vain of—­but, though he had such masterful talent, he never thought himself licensed, and he wore the white flower of a blameless life until his happy spirit passed easily away.  Wordsworth was a poet who will be placed on a level with Byron when an estimate of our century’s great men comes to be made.  But Wordsworth lived his sweet and pious life without in any way offending against the moral law.  We must have done with all talk about the privileges of irregular genius; a clever man must be made to see that, while he may be as independent as he likes, he cannot be left free to offend either the sense or the sensibility of his neighbours.  The genius must learn to conduct himself in accordance with rational and seemly custom, or he must be brought to his senses.  When a great man’s ways are merely innocently different from those of ordinary people, by all means let him alone.  For instance, Leonardo da Vinci used often to buy caged wild-birds from their captors and let them go free.  What a lovely and lovable action!  He hurt no one; he restored the joy of life to innocent creatures, and no one could find fault with his sweet fancy.  In the same way, when Samuel Johnson chose to stalk ponderously along the streets, stepping on the edges of the paving-stones, or even when he happened to roar a little loudly in conversation, who could censure him seriously?  His heart was as a little child’s:  his deeds were saintly; and we perhaps love him all the more for his droll little ways.  But, when Shelley outrages decency and the healthy sense of manliness by his peculiar escapades, it is not easy to pardon him; the image of that drowned child rises before us, and we are apt to forget the pretty verses.  Calm folk remember that many peculiarly wicked and selfish gentry have been able to make nice rhymes and paint charming pictures.  The old poet Francois Villon, who has made men weep and sympathize for so many years, was a burglar, a murderer, and something baser, if possible, than either murderer or burglar.  A more despicable being probably never existed; and yet he warbles with angelic sweetness, and his piercing sadness thrills us after the lapse of four centuries.  Young men of unrestrained appetites and negative morality are often able to talk most charmingly, but the meanest and most unworthy persons whom I have met have been the wild and lofty-minded poets who perpetually express