prefers in woman a brown eye to a blue, and explains
by early love passages his reasons for the preference,
I do not get angry; on the contrary, I feel quite
pleased; perhaps, if the matter is related with unusual
grace and tenderness, it is read with a certain moisture
and dimness of eye. And the reason is obvious.
The egotistical X. is barren, and suggests nothing
beyond himself, save that he is a good deal better
off than I am—a reflection much pleasanter
to him than it is to me; whereas the equally egotistical
Z., with a single sentence about his snowdrops, or
his liking for brown eyes rather than for blue, sends
my thoughts wandering away back among my dead spring-times,
or wafts me the odours of the roses of those summers
when the colour of an eye was of more importance than
it now is. X.’s men-servants and coach-and-six
do not fit into the life of his reader, because in
all probability his reader knows as much about these
things as he knows about Pharaoh; Z.’s snowdrops
and preferences of colour do, because every one knows
what the spring thirst is, and every one in his time
has been enslaved by eyes whose colour he could not
tell for his life, but which he knew were the tenderest
that ever looked love, the brightest that ever flashed
sunlight. Montaigne and Charles Lamb are egotists
of the Z. class, and the world never wearies reading
them: nor are egotists of the X. school absolutely
without entertainment. Several of these the world
reads assiduously too, although for another reason.
The avid vanity of Mr. Pepys would be gratified if
made aware of the success of his diary; but curiously
to inquire into the reason of that success,
why
his diary has been found so amusing, would not conduce
to his comfort.
After all, the only thing a man knows is himself.
The world outside he can know only by hearsay.
His shred of personality is all he has; than that,
he is nothing richer nothing poorer. Everything
else is mere accident and appendage. Alexander
must not be measured by the shoutings of his armies,
nor Lazarus at Dives’ gates by his sores.
And a man knows himself only in part. In every
nature, as in Australia, there is an unexplored territory—green,
well-watered regions or mere sandy deserts; and into
that territory experience is making progress day by
day. We can remember when we knew only the outer
childish rim—and from the crescent guessed
the sphere; whether, as we advanced, these have been
realised, each knows for himself.
A SHELF IN MY BOOKCASE
When a man glances critically through the circle of
his intimate friends, he is obliged to confess that
they are far from being perfect. They possess
neither the beauty of Apollo, nor the wisdom of Solon,
nor the wit of Mercutio, nor the reticence of Napoleon
III. If pushed hard he will be constrained to
admit that he has known each and all get angry without
sufficient occasion, make at times the foolishest remarks,