rt of
me, which could not be torn away without tearing me nor enlarged without
enriching me, falls off from me and leaves no scar. It was caducous. I
grieve that grief can teach me nothing, nor carry me one step into real
nature. The Indian who was laid under a curse that the wind should not
blow on him, nor water flow to him, nor fire burn him, is a type of us
all. The dearest events are summer-rain, and we the Para coats that shed
every drop. Nothing is left us now but death. We look to that with a
grim satisfaction, saying There at least is reality that will not dodge
us.

I take this evanescence and lubricity of all objects, which lets them
slip through our fingers then when we clutch hardest, to be the most
unhandsome part of our condition. Nature does not like to be observed,
and likes that we should be her fools and playmates. We may have the
sphere for our cricket-ball, but not a berry for our philosophy. Direct
strokes she never gave us power to make; all our blows glance, all our
hits are accidents. Our relations to each other are oblique and casual.

Dream delivers us to dream, and there is no end to illusion. Life is a
train of moods like a string of beads, and as we pass through them they
prove to be many-colored lenses which paint the world their own hue, and
each shows only what lies in its focus. From the mountain you see the
mountain. We animate what we can, and we see only what we animate.
Nature and books belong to the eyes that see them. It depends on the
mood of the man whether he shall see the sunset or the fine poem. There
are always sunsets, and there is always genius; but only a few hours so
serene that we can relish nature or criticism. The more or less depends
on structure or temperament. Temperament is the iron wire on which
the beads are strung. Of what use is fortune or talent to a cold and
defective nature? Who cares what sensibility or discrimination a man has
at some time shown, if he falls asleep in his chair? or if he laugh and
giggle? or if he apologize? or is infected with egotism? or thinks of
his dollar? or cannot go by food? or has gotten a child in his boyhood?
Of what use is genius, if the organ is too convex or too concave and
cannot find a focal distance within the actual horizon of human life? Of
what use, if the brain is too cold or too hot, and the man does not care
enough for results to stimulate him to experiment, and hold him up in
it? or if the web is too finely woven,