British -- France -- Fiction; France -- History -- Revolution, 1789-1799 -- Fiction; Historical fiction
Facing an opulent sunset, Ned made his way some three or four miles
out of Liége through scenery whose very luxuriance affected him like
the qualmish aftermath of excess. It gave him a feeling of surfeit--of
committal to a debauch of colour that it was no part of his
temperament to indulge. If his soul had attached itself to any theory
of beauty, it was to a theory of orderliness and sobriety, that took
account of barbaric dyes but to set them to an accordant pattern. Its
genius was of an adaptive rather than an imaginative bent. It desired
to shape his world to man, not man to his world--to appropriate the
accidents of nature to the uses of a wholesomely picturesque race--to
emasculate the bull of violence by withdrawing from its very
experience the hues of crimson and orange.
On any display of passion this young man looked with cool dislike. His
instincts were primarily for the gratification of the understanding.
The premeditated involutions of fancy did not engage his sympathies.
The mystery of brooding distances peopled with irisated phantoms, of
the hazy wanderings of the undefined, he was not greatly concerned to
penetrate. Claude he would have preferred to Turner, and Nasmyth to
either. Fuseli he already detested; and Blake was his very _bête
noire_. Things rude, boisterous, and ugly he would wish to crush under
a heel of iron, thinking to enforce the peace--rather after the
fashion of his times--by breaking it. But he would raise, not level,
the world to an equality--would make out of its material a very
handsome model, in which the steeples should clang and the
water-wheels turn and the seasons pulsate by a mechanism common to
all.
Such was his creed of eventual reconstruction of a social fabric, the
downfall of which was much predicted of the _jeunesse politique_ of
the day; and in the meanwhile he was very willing to acknowledge
himself to be in the condition of incomplete moral ossification--to be
travelling, indeed, for the sake of bone and gristle, and in order to
convert the misuses of other characters to the profit of his own.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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