He was, for example, almost
optimistic in his estimate of the work of young people in art or
literature. From everything that was beautiful or good, from a summer
day by the Tweed, or from the eyes of a child, or from the humorous
saying of a friend, or from treasured memories of old Scotch worthies,
from recollections of his own childhood, from experience of the stoical
heroism of the poor, he seemed to extract matter for pleasant thoughts of
men and the world, and nourishment for his own great and gentle nature. I
have never known any man to whom other men seemed so dear--men dead, and
men living. He gave his genius to knowing them, and to making them
better known, and his unselfishness thus became not only a great personal
virtue, but a great literary charm. When you met him, he had some "good
story" or some story of goodness to tell--for both came alike to him, and
his humour was as unfailing as his kindness. There was in his face a
singular charm, blended, as it were, of the expressions of mirth and of
patience. Being most sensitive to pain, as well as to pleasure, he was
an exception to that rule of Rochefoucauld's--"_nous avons tous assez de
force pour supporter les maux d'autrui_." {2}
He did not bear easily the misfortunes of others, and the evils of his
own lot were heavy enough. They saddened him; but neither illness, nor
his poignant anxiety for others, could sour a nature so unselfish.
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