The wing of the huge penguin
still exists, but it is no bigger than that of a wren, and it is hidden
away under the skin. The instances might be multiplied a thousandfold.
In the same way then any mental faculty becomes atrophied if it is
unused. Bad company is that which produces this atrophy of the finer
powers; and it is strange to see how soon the deadly process of
shrinkage sets in. The awful thing to think of is that the cramp may
insensibly be set in action by a company which, as I have said, is
composed of rather estimable people. Who can forget Lydgate in
"Middlemarch"? There is a type drawn by a woman of transcendent genius;
and the type represents only too many human wrecks. Lydgate was thrown
into a respectable provincial society; he was mastered by high ambition,
he possessed great powers, and he felt as though he could move the
mocking solidities of the world. Watch the evolution of his long
history; to me it is truly awful in spite of its gleams of brightness.
The powerful young doctor, equipped in frock-coat and modern hat, plays
a part in a tragedy which is as moving as any ever imagined by a
brooding, sombre Greek. As you read the book and watch the steady,
inexorable decline of the strong man, you feel minded to cry out for
some one to save him--he is alive to you, and you want to call out and
warn him.
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