He
had faiths, sentiments, inborn so to speak, which allowed him to
dispense with thought. His duty, life had taught him. Institutions and
religion thought for him. He reserved his mind, he and his kind, for
action, not dissipating it on useless things which occupied the minds
of other persons. He drew his thought from his heart like his sword
from its scabbard, holding it aloft in his ermined hand, as on his
scutcheon, shining with sincerity. That secret once penetrated, all is
clear. We can comprehend the depth of convictions that are not
thoughts, but living principles,--clear, distinct, downright, and as
immaculate as the ermine itself. We understand that sale made to his
sister before the war; which provided for all, and faced all, death,
confiscation, exile. The beauty of the character of these two old
people (for the sister lived only for and by the brother) cannot be
understood to its full extent by the right of the selfish morals, the
uncertain aims, and the inconstancy of this our epoch. An archangel,
charged with the duty of penetrating to the inmost recesses of their
hearts could not have found one thought of personal interest.
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