man kindness. He strikes us at
first sight as the very incarnation of tenderness and love.

And yet we soon discover that he cares nothing for us, or for our joys
and sorrows in themselves. Anybody else, or any other occasion, would
serve his purpose as well, and call forth an equal copiousness of
sympathy and tears. Indeed a first rate novel, with its suffering
heroine, or a good play with its pathetic scenes, would answer his
purpose quite as well as any living person or actual situation. What he
cares for is the thrill of emotional excitement and the ravishing
sensation which accompanies all deep and tender feeling. Not love, but
love's delights; not sympathy, but the rapture of the sympathetic mood;
not helpfulness, but the sense of self-importance which comes from being
around when great trials are to be met and fateful decisions are to be
made; not devotion to others, but the complacency with self which
intimate connection with others gives: these are the objects at which
the sentimentalist really aims.

+The sentimentalist makes himself a nuisance to others and soon becomes
disgusted with himself.+--He cannot be relied upon for any serious
service, for this gush of sentimental feeling is a transient and
fluctuating thing; it gives out just as soon as it meets with difficulty
and occasion for self-sacrifice. And this attempt to live forever on the
topmost wave of emotional excitement defeats itself by the satiety and
ennui which it brings. Whether in courtship, or society, or business, it
behooves us to be on our guard against this insidious sham which cloaks
selfishness in protestations of affection; pays compliments to show off
its own ability to say pretty things; and undertakes responsibilities to
make the impression of being of some consequence in the world. The man
or woman is extremely fortunate who has never fallen a victim to this
hollow mockery of love, either in self or others. The worst effect of
sentimentality is that when we have detected it a few times, either in
ourselves or in others, we are tempted to conclude that fellowship
itself is a farce, love a delusion, and all sympathy and tenderness a
weakness and a sham. Every good thing has its counterfeit. By all means
let this counterfeit be driven from circulation as fast as possible. But
let us not lose faith in human fellowship and human love because this
base imitation is so hollow and disgusting:

For life, with all it yields of joy and