If one’s intimate in love or friendship cannot or does not share all one’s intellectual tastes or pursuits, that is a small matter.  Intellectual companions can be found easily in men and books.  After all, if we think of it, most of the world’s loves and friendships have been between people that could not read nor spell.

But to radiate the heat of the affections into a clod, which absorbs all that is poured into it, but never warms beneath the sunshine of smiles or the pressure of hand or lip,—­this is the great martyrdom of sensitive beings,—­most of all in that perpetual auto da fe where young womanhood is the sacrifice.

——­You noticed, perhaps, what I just said about the loves and friendships of illiterate persons,—­that is, of the human race, with a few exceptions here and there.  I like books,—­I was born and bred among them, and have the easy feeling, when I get into their presence, that a stable-boy has among horses.  I don’t think I undervalue them either as companions or as instructors.  But I can’t help remembering that the world’s great men have not commonly been great scholars, nor its great scholars great men.  The Hebrew patriarchs had small libraries, I think, if any; yet they represent to our imaginations a very complete idea of manhood, and, I think, if we could ask in Abraham to dine with us men of letters next Saturday, we should feel honored by his company.

What I wanted to say about books is this:  that there are times in which every active mind feels itself above any and all human books.

——­I think a man must have a good opinion of himself, Sir,—­said the divinity-student,—­who should feel himself above Shakspeare at any time.

My young friend,—­I replied,—­the man who is never conscious of any state of feeling or of intellectual effort entirely beyond expression by any form of words whatsoever is a mere creature of language.  I can hardly believe there are any such men.  Why, think for a moment of the power of music.  The nerves that make us alive to it spread out (so the Professor tells me) in the most sensitive region of the marrow, just where it is widening to run upwards into the hemispheres.  It has its seat in the region of sense rather than of thought.  Yet it produces a continuous and, as it were, logical sequence of emotional and intellectual changes; but how different from trains of thought proper! how entirely beyond the reach of symbols!—­Think of human passions as compared with all phrases!  Did you ever hear of a man’s growing lean by the reading of “Romeo and Juliet,” or blowing his brains out because Desdemona was maligned?  There are a good many symbols, even, that are more expressive than words.  I remember a young wife who had to part with her husband for a time.  She did not write a mournful poem; indeed, she was a silent person, and perhaps hardly said a word about it; but she quietly turned of a deep orange color with jaundice.  A great many people in this world have but one form