To be sure he was. The egoism of another was a check on his own.
Not recognising the smallest weakness in himself he did not understand, did not tolerate any weakness in any one. He did not, in fact, understand any one or any thing, since he was all, on all sides, above and below, before and behind, encircled by himself.
He did not even understand the meaning of forgiveness. He had never had to forgive himself. . . . What inducement could he have to forgive others?
Before the tribunal of his own conscience, before the face of his own God, he, this marvel, this monster of virtue, raised his eyes heavenwards, and with clear unfaltering voice declared, 'Yes, I am an exemplary, a truly moral man!'
He will repeat these words on his deathbed, and there will be no throb even then in his heart of stone—in that heart without stain or blemish!
Oh, hideousness of self-complacent, unbending, cheaply bought virtue; thou art almost more revolting than the frank hideousness of vice!
Dec. 1876.
295
