and conventional—I may say professional. On the other hand, women are inclined to fall in love with criminal and miserable men out of the pity which in our sex is akin to love, and out of the power of bestowing comfort or love. “Car les femmes out un instinct céleste pour le malheur.” So, in the first instance, they love from gratitude or faith; in the last, from compassion or hope.
58.
“Men of all countries,” says Sir James Mackintosh, “appear to be more alike in their best qualities than the pride of civilisation would be willing to allow.”
And in their worst. The distinction between savage and civilised humanity lies not in the qualities, but the habits.
59.
Coleridge notices “the increase in modern times of vicious associations with things in themselves indifferent,” as a sign of unhealthiness in taste, in feeling, in conscience.
The truth of this remark is particularly illustrated in the French literature of the last century.
60.
“And yet the compensations of calamity are made apparent to the understanding also after long intervals of time. A fever, a mutilation, a cruel disappointment, a loss of wealth, a loss of friends, seems at the moment unpaid loss and unpayable, but the sure years reveal the deep remedial force that underlies all facts. The death of a dear friend, wife, brother, lover, which seemed nothing but privation, somewhat later assumes the aspect of a guide or genius; for it commonly operates a revolution in our way of life, terminates an epoch of infancy or youth which was waiting to be closed, breaks up a wonted occupation, or a household, or a style of living, and allows the formation of new influences that prove of the first importance during the next years.”—Emerson.
61.
Religion, in its general sense, is properly the comprehension and acknowledgment of an unseen spiritual power and the soul’s allegiance to it; and Christianity, in its particular sense, is the comprehension and appreciation of the personal character of Christ, and the heart’s allegiance to that.
62.
Avarice is to the intellect what sensuality is to the morals. It is an intellectual form of sensuality, inasmuch as it is the passion for the acquisition, the enjoyment in the possession, of a palpable, tangible, selfish pleasure; and it would have the same tendency to unspiritualise, to degrade, and to harden the higher faculties that a course of grosser sensualism would have to corrupt the lower faculties. Both dull the edge of all that is fine and tender within us.
63.
A king or a prince becomes by accident a part of history. A poet or an artist becomes by nature and necessity a part of universal humanity.
As what we call Genius arises out of the disproportionate power and size of a certain faculty, so the great difficulty lies in harmonising with it the rest of the character.
“Though it burn our house down, who does not venerate fire?” says the Hindoo proverb.
64.
An elegant mind informing a graceful person is like a spirit lamp in an alabaster vase, shedding round its own softened radiance and heightening the beauty of its medium. An elegant mind in a plain ungraceful person is like the same lamp enclosed in a vase of bronze; we may, if we approach near enough, rejoice in its influence, though we may not behold its radiance.
65.
Landor, in a passage I was reading to-day, speaks of a language of criticism, in which qualities should be graduated by colours; “as, for instance, purple might express grandeur and majesty of thought; scarlet, vigour of expression; pink, liveliness; green, elegant and equable composition, and so on.”
Blue, then, might express contemplative power? yellow, wit? violet, tenderness? and so on.
66.
I quoted to A. the saying of a sceptical philosopher: “The world is but one enormous WILL, constantly rushing into life.”
“Is that,” she responded quickly, “another new name for God?”
67.
A death-bed repentance has become proverbial for its fruitlessness, and a death-bed forgiveness equally so. They who wait till their own death-bed to make reparation, or till their adversary’s death-bed to grant absolution, seem to me much upon a par in regard to the moral, as well as the religious, failure.
68.
A character endued with a large, vivacious, active intellect and a limited range of sympathies, generally remains immature. We can grow wise only through the experience which reaches us through our sympathies and becomes a part of our life. All other experience may be gain, but it remains in a manner extraneous, adds to our possessions without adding to our strength, and sharpens our implements without increasing our capacity to use them.
Not always those who have the quickest, keenest, perception of character are the best to deal with it, and perhaps for that very reason. Before we can influence or deal with mind, contemplation must be lost in sympathy, observation must be merged in love.
69.
Montaigne, in his eloquent tirade against melancholy, observes that the Italians have the same word, Tristezza, for melancholy and for malignity or wickedness. The noun Tristo, “a wretch,” has the double sense of our English word corresponding with the French noun misérable. So Judas Iscariot is called quel tristo. Our word “wretchedness” is not, however, used in the double sense of tristezza.
“On ne considère pas assez les paroles comme des faits:” that was well said!
Since