Large, sounding words, unless embodying great thoughts (as in the case of
Lear), he did not treasure up or repeat. He was an admirer of what was
high and good, of what was delicate (especially); but he delighted most to
saunter along the humbler regions, where kindness of heart and geniality
of humor made the way pleasant. His intellect was very quick, piercing
into the recondite meaning of things in a moment. His own sentences were
compressed and full of meaning; his opinions independent and decisive; no
qualifying or doubting. His descriptions were not highly colored; but, as
it were, sharply cut, like a piece of marble, rather than like a picture.
He liked and encouraged friendly discussion; but he hated contentious
argument, which leads to quarrel rather than to truth.
There was an utter want of parade in everything he said and did, in
everything about him and his home. The only ornaments on his walls were a
few engravings in black frames: one after Leonardo da Vinci; one after
Titian; and four, I think, by Hogarth, about whom he has written so well.
Images of quaint beauty, and all gentle, simple things (things without
pretension) pleased him to the fullest extent; perhaps a little beyond
their strict merit.
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