he thinks more becoming than
their natural one: he does not hang out principles which are not his,
or harbour beloved persuasions which he half or wholly knows to be
false. He did not often speak of wholesome prejudices; he did not
'embrace the Roman Catholic religion because it was the grandest and
most comfortable.' Truth with Schiller, or what seemed such, was an
indispensable requisite: if he but suspected an opinion to be false,
however dear it may have been, he seems to have examined it with rigid
scrutiny, and if he found it guilty, to have plucked it out, and
resolutely cast it forth. The sacrifice might cause him pain,
permanent pain; real damage, he imagined, it could hardly cause him.
It is irksome and dangerous to travel in the dark; but better so, than
with an _Ignis-fatuus_ to guide us. Considering the warmth of his
sensibilities, Schiller's merit on this point is greater than we might
at first suppose. For a man with whom intellect is the ruling or
exclusive faculty, whose sympathies, loves, hatreds, are comparatively
coarse and dull, it may be easy to avoid this half-wilful
entertainment of error, and this cant which is the consequence and
sign of it. But for a man of keen tastes, a large fund of innate
probity is necessary to prevent his aping the excellence which he
loves so much, yet is unable to attain. Among persons of the latter
sort, it is extremely rare to meet with one completely unaffected.
Schiller's other noble qualities would not have justice, did we
neglect to notice this, the truest proof of their nobility. Honest,
unpretending, manly simplicity pervades all parts of his character and
genius and habits of life. We not only admire him, we trust him and
love him.

'The character of child-like simplicity,' he has himself observed,[39]
'which genius impresses on its works, it shows also in its private
life and manners. It is bashful, for nature is ever so; but it is not
prudish, for only corruption is prudish. It is clear-sighted, for
nature can never be the contrary; but it is not cunning, for this only
art can be. It is faithful to its character and inclinations; but not
so much because it is directed by principles, as because after all
vibrations nature constantly reverts to her original position,
constantly renews her primitive demand. It is modest, nay timid, for
genius is always a secret to itself; but it is not anxious, for it
knows not the dangers of the way which it travels. Of the p