ect
creature, perfect in relation to a certain stage of human development.
Look at her, as she sat conversing with Moorhouse, soft candle-light
upon her face; compare her on the one hand with an average emancipated
girl, on the other with a daughter of the people. How unsatisfying was
the former; the latter, how repulsive! Here one had the exquisite mean,
the lady as England has perfected her towards the close of this
nineteenth century. A being of marvellous delicacy, of purest
instincts, of unsurpassable sweetness. Who could not detail her
limitations, obvious and, in certain moods, irritating enough? These
were nothing to the point, unless one would roam the world a hungry
idealist; and Godwin was weary of the famined pilgrimage.

The murmur of amiable voices softened him to the reception of all that
was good in his present surroundings, and justified in the light of
sentiment his own dishonour. This English home, was it not surely the
best result of civilisation in an age devoted to material progress?
Here was peace, here was scope for the kindliest emotions. Upon
him--the born rebel, the scorner of average mankind, the consummate
egoist--this atmosphere exercised an influence more tranquillising,
more beneficent, than even the mood of disinterested study. In the
world to which sincerity would condemn him, only the worst elements of
his character found nourishment and range; here he was humanised, made
receptive of all gentle sympathies. Heroism might point him to an
unending struggle with adverse conditions, but how was heroism possible
without faith? Absolute faith he had none; he was essentially a
negativist, guided by the mere relations of phenomena. Nothing easier
than to contemn the mode of life represented by this wealthy middle
class; but compare it with other existences conceivable by a thinking
man, and it was emphatically good. It aimed at placidity, at
benevolence, at supreme cleanliness,--things which more than
compensated for the absence of higher spirituality. We can be but what
we are; these people accepted themselves, and in so doing became
estimable mortals. No imbecile pretensions exposed them to the rebuke
of a social satirist; no vulgarity tainted their familiar intercourse.
Their allegiance to a worn-out creed was felt as an added grace; thus
only could their souls aspire, and the imperfect poetry of their
natures be developed.

He took an opportunity of seating himself by Mrs. Warricombe, wi