some of its thunder and we can all venture to be eminent.
Meantime, history is full of noses, as is the literature of imagination — some of them figuratively, some literally, shining beacons that splendor "the dark backward and abysm of time." Of the world's great, it may almost be said that by their noses we know them. Where would have been Cyrano de Bergerac in modern story without his nose? By the unlearned it is thought that the immortal Bardolph is a creation of Shakspeare's genius. Not so; an ingenious scholar long ago identified him as an historical character who but for the poet's fine appreciation of noses might have blushed eternally unseen. It is nothing that his true name is no longer in evidence in the annals of men; as Bardolph his fame is secure from the ravening tooth of time.
Even when a nasal peculiarity is due to an accident of its environment it confers no inconsiderable distinction, apart from its possessor's other and perhaps superior claims to renown, as in the instances of Michael Angelo, Tycho Brahe and the beloved Thackeray, in whose altered frontispiece we are all the more interested because of his habit of dipping it in the Gascon wine.
