Milly: At Love's Extremes; A Romance of the SouthlandThompson, Maurice
Philosophy
Milly: At Love's Extremes; A Romance of the Southland
Thompson, Maurice
Southern States -- Fiction
What further was said between them has never been gathered from the
sweet wind that bore their fragmentary murmurings away among the old
trees and down the silvery windings of the river. I presume that, no
matter how much the circumstances of courtship may differ, true love,
in the hey-day of youth, or in the vigorous prime of life, has
certain constant quantities by which it may readily be known; and one
of these is so sweet that, to one not personally interested, it
narrowly misses being entirely too sweet for deliberate discussion.
John Ruskin has, I believe, more than suggested an amendment to the
ordinary methods of love-making, but lovers seem inclined to follow
the old, familiar rose-scented plan, no matter how silly it may
appear to superannuated philosophers and art critics.
CHAPTER XIII.
AT THE RUIN.
Reynolds had been shut away from society for so long a time that he
had returned, in a degree, to the susceptibility and receptivity of
extreme youth. We grow like what we contemplate, is a very trite
truth, and he had absorbed much of the outright simplicity of the
mountaineers, without losing any of the character he had long ago
formed. Self-knowledge may be very valuable, but self-study does not
tend always toward happiness. One might almost venture to say that,
in a vast majority of cases, serious self-analysis amounts to remorse
if nothing worse. Moreover, one usually chooses solitude in which to
erect one's furnace and laboratory of self-criticism, where one may
make the heat as high and protracted as one pleases. The result is
usually a mass of unsightly slag instead of the fine and precious
metal one has hoped to turn out. Hence it is that a hermit returning
to the world after years of seclusion and self-delusion finds it a
paradise when he had expected to see it a hell. Men and women are so
much purer and stronger and nobler than he had pictured them, and all
the ways of human social life are so much sweeter and fresher than
his diseased brain had remembered them to be, that he sloughs his
crust, like a serpent, and comes out a new man.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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