“And the secret of _enjoying_ it,” he continued, resuming his cheerful tone, “is _intensity_!” “But not in the modern æsthetic sense, I presume? Like the young lady, in Punch, who begins a conversation with ‘Are you _intense_?’” “By no means!” replied the Earl. “What I mean is intensity of _thought_—a concentrated _attention_. We lose half the pleasure we might have in Life, by not really _attending_. Take any instance you like: it doesn’t matter _how_ trivial the pleasure may be—the principle is the same. Suppose _A_ and _B_ are reading the same second-rate circulating-library novel. _A_ never troubles himself to master the relationships of the characters, on which perhaps all the interest of the story depends: he ‘skips’ over all the descriptions of scenery, and every passage that looks rather dull: he doesn’t half attend to the passages he does read: he goes on reading—merely from want of resolution to find another occupation—for hours after he ought to have put the book aside: and reaches the ‘FINIS’ in a state of utter weariness and depression! _B_ puts his whole soul _into_ the thing—on the principle that ‘whatever is worth doing is worth doing _well_’: he masters the genealogies: he calls up pictures before his ‘mind’s eye’ as he reads about the scenery: best of all, he resolutely shuts the book at the end of some chapter, while his interest is yet at its keenest, and turns to other subjects; so that, when next he allows himself an hour at it, it is like a hungry man sitting down to dinner: and, when the book is finished, he returns to the work of his daily life like ‘a giant refreshed’!” “But suppose the book were really _rubbish_—nothing to repay attention?” “Well, suppose it,” said the Earl. “My theory meets _that_ case, I assure you! _A_ never finds out that it _is_ rubbish, but maunders on to the end, trying to believe he’s enjoying himself. _B_ quietly shuts the book, when he’s read a dozen pages, walks off to the Library, and changes it for a better! I have yet _another_ theory for adding to the enjoyment of Life—that is, if I have not exhausted your patience? I’m afraid you find me a very garrulous old man.” “No indeed!” I exclaimed earnestly. And indeed I felt as if one _could_ not easily tire of the sweet sadness of that gentle voice. “It is, that we should learn to take our pleasures _quickly_, and our pains _slowly_.” “But why? I should have put it the other way, myself.” “By taking _artificial_ pain—which can be as trivial as you please—_slowly_, the result is that, when _real_ pain comes, however severe, all you need do is to let it go at its _ordinary_ pace, and it’s over in a moment!” “Very true,” I said, “but how about the _pleasure_?” “Why, by taking it quick, you can get so much more into life. It takes _you_ three hours and a half to hear and enjoy an opera. Suppose _I_ can take it in, and enjoy it, in half-an-hour. Why, I can enjoy _seven_ operas, while you are listening to _one_!”