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they were forest boars with tusks, tearing and rending, not the ordinary domestic grunter ; they represented the demon forces for ever in collision with beauty, virtue, and the gentle uses of life ; they made a fine contrast in the picture with the wandering minstrel, the soft-lipped princess, the pious recluse, and the timid Israelite. That was a time of colour, when the sunlight fell on glancing steel and floating banners ; a time of adventure and fierce struggle—nay, of living, religious art and religious enthusiasm ; for were not
! cathedrals built in those days, and did not great emperors leave their Western palaces to die before the infidel strongholds in the sacred East ? Therefore it is that these Rhine castles thrill me with a sense of poetry : they belong to the grand historic life of humanity, and raise up for me the vision of an epoch. But these dead-tinted, hollow-eyed, angular skeletons of villages on the Rhone oppress me with the feeling that human life-very much of it—is a narrow, ugly, grovelling existence, which even calamity does not elevate, but rather tends to exhibit in all its bare vulgarity of conception ; and I have a cruel conviction that the lives these ruins are the traces of, were part of a gross sum of obscure vitality, that will be swept into the same oblivion with the generations of ants and beavers.
It is the moment when our resolution seems about to become irrevocable—when the fatal iron gates are about to close upon us—that tests our strength. Then, after hours of clear reasoning and firm conviction, we snatch at any sophistry that will nullify our long struggles, and bring us the defeat that we love better than victory
That is the path we all like when we set out on our abandonment of egoism-the path of martyrdom and endurance, where the palm-branches grow, rather than the steep highway of tolerance, just allowance, and self-blame, where there are no leafy honours to be gathered and worn.
Renunciation remains sorrow, though a borne willingly.
We are not apt to fear for the fearless, when we are companions in their danger.
Retribution may come from any voice : the hardest, cruelest, most imbruted urchin at the street-corner can inflict it: surely help and pity are rarer things—more needful for the righteous to bestow.
What quarrel, what harshness, what unbelief in each other can subsist in the presence of a great calamity, when all the artificial vesture of our life is gone, and we are all one with each other in primitive mortal needs ?
We judge others according to results; how else ?not knowing the process by which results are arrived at.
At the entrance of the chill dark cavern, we turn with unworn courage from the warm light ; but how, when we have trodden far in the damp darkness, and have begun to be faint and weary-how, if there is a sudden opening above us, and we are invited back again to the life-nourishing day? The leap of natural longing from under the pressure of pain is so strong, that all less immediate motives are likely to be forgotten—till the pain has been escaped from.
Watch your own speech, and notice how it is guided by your less conscious purposes.
The conduct that issues from a moral conflict has often so close a reseniblance to vice, that the distinction escapes all outward judgments, founded on a mere comparison of actions.
Anger and jealousy can no more bear to lose sight of their objects than love.
Milk and mildness are not the best things for keeping, and when they turn only a little sour, they may disagree with young stomachs seriously. I have often wondered whether those early Madonnas of Raphael, with the blond faces and somewhat stupid expression, kept their placidity undisturbed when their stronglimbed, strong-willed boys got a little too old to do without clothing. I think they must have been given to feeble remonstrance, getting more and more peevish as it became more and more ineffectual.
Poor relations are undeniably irritating—their existence is so entirely uncalled for on our part, and they are almost always very faulty people.
In a min charged with an eager purpose and an unsatisfied vindictiveness, there is no room for new feelings.
These bitter sorrows of childhood ! when sorrow is all new and strange, when hope has not yet got wings to fly beyond the days and weeks, and the space from summer to summer seems measureless.
Ah, my child, you will have real troubles to fret about by-and-by,ʻis the consolation we have almost all of us had administered to us in our childhood, and have repeated to other children since we have been grown up.' We have all of us sobbed so piteously, standing with tiny bare legs above our little socks, when we lost sight of our mother or nurse in some strange place ; but we can no longer recall the poignancy of that moment and weep over it, as we do over the remembered sufferings of five or ten years ago. Every one of those keen moments has left its trace, and lives in us still, but such traces have blent themselves irrecoverably with the firmer texture of our youth and manhood ; and so it comes that we can look on at the troubles of our children with a smiling disbelief in the reality of their pain. Is there any one who can recover the experience of his childhood, not merely with a memory of what he did and what happened to him, of what he liked and disliked when he was in frock and trousers, but with an intimate penetration, a revived consciousness of what he felt then—when it was so long from one Midsummer to another ? what he felt when his schoolfellows shut him out of their game because he would pitch the ball wrong out of mere wilfulness ; or on a rainy day in the holidays, when he didn't know how to amuse himself, and fell from idleness into mischief, from mischief into defiance, and from defiance into sulkiness ; or when his mother absolutely refused to let him have a tailed coat that "half, although every other boy of his age had gone into tails already ? Surely if we could recall that early bitterness, and the dim guesses, the strangely perspectiveless conception of life that gave the bitterness its intensity, we should not pooh-pooh the griefs of our children.
Childhood has no forebodings ; but then, it is soothed by no memories of outlived sorrow.
There is no hopelessness so sad as that of early youth, when the soul is made up of wants, and has no long memories, no superadded life in the life of others; though we who look on think lightly of such premature despair, as if our vision of the future lightened the blind sufferer's present.
Maggie in her brown frock, with her eyes reddened and her heavy hair pushed back, looking from the bed where her father lay, to the dull walls of this sad chamber which was the centre of her world, was a creature full of eager, passionate longings for all that