I showed him the volume on the shelf: he took it down, and
withdrawing to his accustomed window recess, he began to read it.
Now, I did not like this, reader. St. John was a good man; but I
began to feel he had spoken truth of himself when he said he was hard
and cold. The humanities and amenities of life had no attraction
for him -- its peaceful enjoyments no charm. Literally, he lived
only to aspire -- after what was good and great, certainly; but
still he would never rest, nor approve of others resting round him.
As I looked at his lofty forehead, still and pale as a white stone
-- at his fine lineaments fixed in study -- I comprehended all at
once that he would hardly make a good husband: that it would be
a trying thing to be his wife. I understood, as by inspiration,
the nature of his love for Miss Oliver; I agreed with him that it
was but a love of the senses. I comprehended how he should despise
himself for the feverish influence it exercised over him; how he
should wish to stifle and destroy it; how he should mistrust its
ever conducting permanently to his happiness or hers. I saw he
was of the material from which nature hews her heroes -- Christian
and Pagan -- her lawgivers, her statesmen, her conquerors: a
steadfast bulwark for great interests to rest upon; but, at the
fireside, too often a cold cumbrous column, gloomy and out of place.
|