closer affection. Lear realizes in his daughters, or thinks that he realizes, only the dispositions that they express. Real effort to enter into the inner life of their emotions is foreign to his simple and imperious mind. Even when I delight in another’s love, I am still apt to realize rather the disposition than the inner and more personal emotional life that is the cause of this way of behavior. The act is what I want,[1] the voice, the look, thegift, or the other assurance of an energy in harmony with my will. The ordinary emotion of gratitude is another very good illustration of the imperfect realization of our neighbors that accompanies even the plainest verbal recognition of their conscious existence. As I write these words, my heart is just now going out in admiration and respect, not to say affection, to a man whom I but imperfectly know. I feel a desire to do him a favor, if it were possible. Why? Do I reflect on his true nature and needs as a being like myself? Do I feel our common weakness, our common longings? Have I dispelled the illusion of selfishness that separates us? No, — I grieve and am ashamed to confess it, — this being is to me almost as wholly external as my plumber, not much better realized than my walking-stick. I am dwelling not on his own inner life at all. In my mind’s eye I see just his outer form. Yet he has written me a graceful and pleasing letter, expressing his interest in some of my plans, and his desire to help me. I am selfishly delighted to find such help. I have an
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- “I’d give all my income from dreamland
- For a touch of her hand on my cheek.”
