its melody, its charm,
its mysterious thrill; and there are many books and poems, which I know
to be excellent of their kind, but which have no meaning or message for
me. He seems to think that it is important to have complete texts of
old authors, and I do not think that he makes much distinction between
first-rate and second-rate work. In fact, I think that his view of
literature is the sociological view, and he seems to care more about
tendencies and influences than about the beauty and appeal of
literature. I do not go so far as to say or to think that literature
cannot be treated scientifically; but I feel as I feel about the doctor
in Balzac, I think, who, when his wife cried upon his shoulder, said,
"Hold, I have analysed tears," adding that they contained so much
chlorate of sodium and so much mucus. The truth is that he is a
philosopher, and that I am an individualist; but it leaves me with an
intense desire to be left alone in my woodland, or, at all events, not
to walk there with a ruthless botanist!

November 29, 1888.

I have heard this morning of the suicide of an old friend. Is it
strange to say that I have heard the news with an unfeigned relief,
even gladness? He was formerly a charming and brilliant creature, full
of enthusiasm and artistic impulses, fitful, wayward, wilful. Somehow
he missed his footing; he fell into disreputable courses; he did
nothing, but drifted about, planning many things, executing nothing.
The last time I saw him was exquisitely painful; we met by appointment,
and I could see that he had tried to screw himself up for the interview
by stimulants. The ghastly feigning of cheerfulness, the bloated face,
the trembling hands, told the sad tale. And now that it is all over,
the shame and the decay, the horror of his having died by his own act
is a purely conventional one. One talks pompously about the selfishness
of it, but it is one of the most unselfish things poor Dick has ever
done; he was a burden and a misery to all those who cared for him.
Recovery was, I sincerely believe, impossible. His was a fine,
uplifted, even noble spirit in youth, but there were terrible
hereditary influences at work, and I cannot honestly say that I think
he was wholly responsible for his sins. If I could think that this act
was done reasonably, in a solemn and recollected spirit, and was not a
mere frightened scurrying out of life, I should be, I believe, wholly
glad. I do not see that any one