refuses an open engagement when necessary."

[1]

"_Cola diritto, sopra il verde smalto
mi fur moetrati gli spiriti magni
che del verderli in me stesso 'n esalto_"

--INFERNO.

Strange as it may appear, it does not seem to be so much of a descent,
or of a break in the chain of continuity, to turn to hear William James
speak in letters, which have the effect of conversation. From the very
beginning of his precious book I somehow feel that I am part of the
little circle about him. The conversation goes on--Mr. James never loses
sight of the point of view and sympathies of the party of the second
part--and you are not made to feel as an eavesdropper.

Standing on the ladder, unhappily a rather shaky ladder, to put back
"With the Immortals" on the shelf, I pass Wells's great novel of
"Marriage," which I would clutch to read again, if I had not already
begun this Letter of James--written to his wife:

I have often thought that the best way to define a man's character
would be to seek out the particular mental or moral attitude in
which, when it came upon him, he felt himself most deeply and
intensely active and alive. At such moments there is a voice inside
which speaks and says: "This is the real me!" And afterwards,
considering the circumstances in which the man is placed, and
noting how some of them are fitted to evoke this attitude, whilst
others do not call for it, an outside observer may be able to
prophesy where the man may fail, where succeed, where be happy and
where miserable. Now as well as I can describe it, this
characteristic attitude in me always involves an element of active
tension, of holding my own, as it were, and trusting outward things
to perform their part so as to make it a full harmony, but without
any _guaranty_ that they will. Make it a guaranty--and the attitude
immediately becomes to my consciousness stagnant and stingless.
Take away the guaranty, and I feel (provided I am _[:u]berhaupt_ in
vigorous condition) a sort of deep enthusiastic bliss, of bitter
willingness to do and suffer anything, which translates itself
physically by a kind of stinging pain inside my breast-bone (don't
smile at this--it is to me an essential element of the whole
thing!), and which, although it is a mere mood or emotion to which
I can give no form in words, authenticates itself