inting, and ruined the central face
forever.

Human life is ruined through the absence of humble virtues and the
presence of little faults. There is no man so great, no gift so
brilliant, but let it be whispered that there is falseness in the life
of the hero, and immediately his greatness is dwarfed, his eloquence
becomes a trick, his authority is impaired. Reading Robert Burns'
poems, he seems wiser than all the scholars, wittier than all the
humorists, more courtly than princes. His genius blazes like a torch
among the tapers. But watching this son of genius and of liberty weave
a net for his own feet, and fashion a snare for his own faculties, with
wistful hearts we long, as one has said, "to hear the exulting and
triumphant cry of the strong man coming to himself, I will arise." But
he loved the barroom more than the library, and so fell on death at
seven and thirty, and lost his right to rule as a king o'er men's
hearts and lives. Byron, too, and Goethe had gifts so resplendent that
in kings' palaces they shine like diamonds amid the pebbles. What a
constellation of gifts was theirs! Culture, sanity, imagination, wit,
courage, vigor--all these stars were grouped in their mental
constellations! Yet little vices dethroned these kings and made them
plebeian. It is the absence of little virtues and sweet domestic
graces that seem trifling as the two mites that robs the Roman poets
and orators of their power over us. They had urbanites indeed,
flowers, music, art, oratory, letters, song. The events of each day
were executed like a piece of music, and even their sarcophagi were
covered with scenes of feasting and revelry. But they were not true;
and that false note jars through all their pages. Harshness in the
poet and pride in the orator make their refinement and culture seem but
skin deep.

We note that Pompeii was a paradise built beside a crater. The
traveler tells us if we strike the rocky earth it rings hollow. Close
by the calm lake is a boiling spring. In the very heart of the orange
groves rises a column of smoke and steam. "The mist of lava jars on
the music of summer, the scent of sulphur mingles with the scent of
roses." Not for a moment can the traveler forget that beneath all this
opulence of color and fragrance rages a colossal furnace. Thus the
harshness and selfishness found in the eloquence and poetry of the
ancient writers rob us of all joy in their splendid gifts. We yield
ho