Heart | Page 8

her
surprising talents: and to pass by all intermediate sizes, here and there
standing by himself, in all the prickly pride of an immortal aloe, some
one big pot monopolizes all the cast of earth, domineering over the
conservatory as Brutus's colossal Caesar, or his metempsychosis in a
Wellington.
Again: no painter ever yet drew life-likeness, who had not the living
models at least in his mind's eye: but no good painter ever yet betrayed
the model in his figure; unless (though these instances are rarish too)
we except, pace Lawrence, the mystery of portraiture. He takes indeed
a line here and a colour there; but he softens this and heightens that; so
that none but he can well discover any trace of Homer's noble head in
yonder sightless beggar, or Juno's queenly form in the Welsh woman
trudging with her strawberry load to Covent Garden market.
Flatter not thyself, fair Helen, I have not pictured thee in gentle Grace:
tremble not, my little white friend Clatter, thou art by no means Simon
Jennings. Dark Caroline Blunt, it is true thou hast fine eyes;
nevertheless, in nothing else (I am sorry to assure thee) art thou at all
like Emily Warren. Flaunting Lady Busbury, be calm; if you had not
been so wrathful, I never should have thought of you--undoubtedly you
are not the type of Mrs. Tracy.
Why will all these people don my imaginary characters? Truly, it may
seem to be a compliment, as proving that they speak from heart to heart,
of universal human nature, not unaptly; still is their inventor or creator
embarrassed terribly by such unwelcome honours; your precious balms
oppress him, gentle friends; lift off your palm branches; indeed, he is
unworthy of these petty triumphs; and, to be serious, he detests them.

No: once and for all, let a plain first person say it, I abjure personalities;
my arrows are shot at a venture; and if they hit any one at all, it is only
that he stands in my shaft's way, and the harness of his conscience is
unbuckled. The target of my feeble aim is general--to pierce the heart
of evil, evil in the form of social heartlessness: it is no fault of mine, if
some alarmed particulars will crowd about the mark. Ideal characters,
ideal incidents, ideal scenes--to these I honestly pledge myself: but as
most men have two eyes, being neither naturally monocular nor
triocular, so most men of their own special cast have similar
distinguishable sympathies.
The overweening love of money is a seed, a soil, and a sun that
generates a certain crop: the aim of my poor husbandry is only to reap
this; but my sickle does not wish to wound the growers: let them stand
aside; or, better far, let them help me cut those rank and clogging tares,
and bind them up in bundles to be burned. Heart is a sweet-smelling
shrub, ill to stand against the chilling breath of worldliness: my small
care desires to cherish this; gather round it, friends! shelter it beside me.
How many fragrant flowers now are bursting into beauty! how cheering
is their scent! how healthful the aroma of their bloom! Pluck them with
me; they are sweet, delicate, and lustrous to look upon, even as the
night-blowing cereus.
Henceforth then, social circle, feel at peace with such as I am, whose
public parable would teach, without any thought of personality, entirely
disclaiming private interpretations: there are other people stout besides
one's uncle, other people deaf besides one's aunt. Sir Thomas Dillaway
is not Alderman Bunce, nor any other friend or foe I wot of; a mere
creature of the counting-house, he is a human ledger-mushroom: rub
away the mildew from your hearts, if any seem to see yourselves in him:
neither have I ventured to transplant Miss Cassiopeia Curtis's red hair
to dear Maria's head: imitate her graces, if you will, maiden; but charge
me not with copying your locks. Though "my son Jack" be a boisterous
big rogue, on 'Change, and off it--let not mine own honest stock-broker
put that hat upon his head, in the mono-mania that it fits him, because
he may heretofore have been both bull and bear; and as for any other
heroes yet to come upon this scene, to enact the tragedy or comedy of

Heart--"Know all men by these presents,"--your humble servant's will
is to smite bad principles, not offending persons; to crusade against evil
manners, not his guilty fellow-men.
Wo is me! who am I, that I should satirize my brethren?--Yet, wo is
me--if I silently hide the sin I see. Make me not an offender for a word,
seeing that my purposes are good. Be not hypercritical, for Heart's sake,
against a man whose aim it is to help the