ison of her with others had no result but the deepening
of that impression she had at first made upon him. Sidwell exhibited
all the qualities which most appealed to him in her class; in addition,
she had the charms of a personality which he could not think of common
occurrence. He was yet far from understanding her; she exercised his
powers of observation, analysis, conjecture, as no other person had
ever done; each time he saw her (were it but for a moment) he came away
with some new perception of her excellence, some hitherto unmarked
grace of person or mind whereon to meditate. He had never approached a
woman who possessed this power at once of fascinating his senses and
controlling his intellect to a glad reverence. Whether in her presence
or musing upon her in solitude, he found that the unsparing naturalism
of his scrutiny was powerless to degrade that sweet, pure being.

Rare, under any circumstances, is the passionate love which controls
every motive of heart and mind; rarer still that form of it which, with
no assurance of reciprocation, devotes exclusive ardour to an object
only approachable through declared obstacles. Godwin Peak was not
framed for romantic languishment. In general, the more complex a man's
mechanism, and the more pronounced his habit of introspection, the less
capable is he of loving with vehemence and constancy. Heroes of passion
are for the most part primitive natures, nobly tempered; in our time
they tend to extinction. Growing vulgarism on the one hand, and on the
other a development of the psychological conscience, are unfavourable
to any relation between the sexes, save those which originate in pure
animalism, or in reasoning less or more generous. Never having
experienced any feeling which he could dignify with the name of love,
Godwin had no criterion in himself whereby to test the emotions now
besetting him. In a man of his age this was an unusual state of things,
for when the ardour which will bear analysis has at length declared
itself, it is wont to be moderated by the regretful memory of that
fugacious essence which gave to the first frenzy of youth its
irrecoverable delight. He could not say in reply to his impulses: If
that was love which overmastered me, this must be something either more
or less exalted. What he _did_ say was something of this kind: If
desire and tenderness, if frequency of dreaming rapture, if the calmest
approval of the mind and the heart's most exquisite,