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the utterance of the habitual lamentation as to the trouble of a 'vain
capacity；' so well explained has it ever been。
'Thou hast not half the power to do me harm That I have to be hurt；'
discontented man seems to cry to Heaven； taking the words of the
brave Emilia。 But inarticulate has been the voice within the narrow
house。 Obviously it never had its poet。 Little elocution is there； little
argument or definition； little explicitness。 And yet for every vain
capacity we may assuredly count a thousand vain destinies； for every
liberal nature a thousand liberal fates。 It is the trouble of the wide house
we hear of； clamorous of its disappointments and desires。 The narrow
house has no echoes； yet its pathetic shortcoming might well move pity。
On that strait stage is acted a generous tragedy； to that inadequate soul is
intrusted an enormous sorrow； a tempest of movement makes its home
within that slender nature； and heroic happiness seeks that timorous heart。
We may； indeed； in part know the narrow house by its inarticulateness…
…not； certainly； its fewness of words； but its inadequacy and imprecision of
speech。 For； doubtless； right language enlarges the soul as no other
power or influence may do。 Who； for instance； but trusts more nobly for
knowing the full word of his confidence？ Who but loves more
penetratingly for possessing the ultimate syllable of his tenderness？
There is a 'pledging of the word；' in another sense than the ordinary sense
of troth and promise。 The poet pledges his word； his sentence； his verse；
and finds therein a peculiar sanction。 And I suppose that even physical
pain takes on an edge when it not only enforces a pang but whispers a
phrase。 Consciousness and the word are almost as closely united as
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thought and the word。 Almostnot quite； in spite of its inexpressive
speech； the narrow house is aware and sensitive beyond； as it were； its
poor power。
But as to the whole disparity between the destiny and the nature； we
know it to be general。 Life is great that is trivially transmitted； love is
great that is vulgarly experienced。 Death； too； is a heroic virtue； and to
the keeping of us all is death committed： death； submissive in the
indocile； modest in the fatuous； several in the vulgar； secret in the familiar。
It is destructive because it not only closes but contradicts life。 Unlikely
people die。 The one certain thing； it is also the one improbable。 A
dreadful paradox is perhaps wrought upon a little nature that is incapable
of death and yet is constrained to die。 That is a true destruction； and the
thought of it is obscure。
Happy literature corrects all this disproportion by its immortal pause。
It does not bid us follow man or woman to an illogical conclusion。 Mrs。
Micawber never does desert Mr。 Micawber。 Considering her mental
powers； by the way； an illogical conclusion for her would be manifestly
inappropriate。 Shakespeare； indeed； having seen a life whole； sees it to
an end： sees it out； and Falstaff dies。 More than Promethean was the
audacity that； having kindled； quenched that spark。 But otherwise the
grotesque man in literature is immortal； and with something more
significant than the immortality awarded to him in the sayings of rhetoric；
he is predurable because he is not completed。 His humours are strangely
matched with perpetuity。 But； indeed； he is not worthy to die； for there is
something graver than to be immortal； and that is to be mortal。 I protest I
do not laugh at man or woman in the world。 I thank my fellow…mortals
for their wit； and also for the kind of joke that the French so pleasantly call
une joyeusete； these are to smile at。 But the gay injustice of laughter is
between me and the book。
That narrow housethere is sometimes a message from its living
windows。 Its bewilderment； its reluctance； its defect； show by moments
from eyes that are apt to express none but common things。 There are
allusions unawares； involuntary appeals； in those brief glances。 Far from
me and from my friends be the misfortune of meeting such looks in reply
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to pain of our inflicting。 To be clever and sensitive and to hurt the
foolish and the stolidwouldst thou do such a deed for all the world？
Not I； by this heavenly light。
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REJECTION
Simplicity is not virginal in the modern world。 She has a penitential
or a vidual singleness。 We can conceive an antique world in which life；
art； and letters were simple because of the absence of many things； for us
now they can be simple only because of our rejection of many things。
We are constrained to such a vigilance as will not let even a master's work
pass unfanned and unpurged。 Even among his phrases one shall be taken
and the other left。 For he may unawares have allowed the habitualness
that besets this multitudinous life to take the pen from his hand and to
write for him a page or a word； and habitualness compels our refusals。
Or he may have allowed the easy impulse of exaggeration to force a
sentence which the mere truth； sensitively and powerfully pausing； would
well have become。 Exaggeration has played a part of its own in human
history。 By depreciating our language it has stimulated change； and has
kept the circulating word in exercise。 Our rejection must be alert and
expert to overtake exaggeration and arrest it。 It makes us shrewder than
we wish to be。 And； indeed； the whole endless action of refusal shortens
the life we could desire to live。 Much of our resolution is