Could he have written
with the heart's blood of old Hepzibah if he had failed to put his own
shoulder to the domestic wheel, on the plea that it was too deep in
the slough of disaster to command his assistance? He did not dread
besmirching his hands with any affairs sent him by God.
"The heart knoweth its own bitterness, and a stranger intermeddleth
not with its joy;" and the joy and the bitterness of creative work are
not intermeddled with as much as one might suppose by the outside
weather of praise or non-comprehension, if the artist is great enough
to keep his private self-respect. I am of the opinion that my father
enjoyed his own indifference to his accomplished work, yet knew its
value to the minutest ray of the diamond; that he had sharply
challenged the enchantment of his first conception, and heard the
right watchword, yet recognized that no human conception can fathom
the marvels of the superhuman. I believe that the men we admire most,
in the small group of great minds, are sufficiently necromantic to
look two ways at once--to appreciate and to condemn themselves. So my
father heard himself praised with composure, and blamed his skill
rejoicingly.
Some passages from a copy of an article in "The North British Review"
of Edinburgh during 1851 were capable of filling a wife's heart with
exultation, and my mother quotes: "'The most striking features in
these tales are the extraordinary skill and masterly care which are
displayed in their composition.
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