Madge is poor; she is humble. You are rich; you are a man of the world;
you are met respectfully by the veterans of fashion; you have gained
perhaps a kind of brilliancy of position.
Would it then be a condescension to love Madge? Dare you ask yourself
such a question? Do you not know--in spite of your worldliness--that the
man or the woman, who _condescends_ to love, never loves in earnest?
But again Madge is possessed of a purity, a delicacy, and a dignity that
lift her far above you,--that make you feel your weakness and your
unworthiness; and it is the deep and the mortifying sense of this
unworthiness that makes you bolster yourself upon your pride. You _know_
that you do yourself honor in loving such grace and goodness; you know
that you would be honored tenfold more than you deserve in being loved
by so much grace and goodness.
It scarce seems to you possible; it is a joy too great to be hoped for;
and in the doubt of its attainment your old, worldly vanity comes in,
and tells you to--beware; and to live on in the splendor of your
dissipation and in the lusts of your selfish habit. Yet still underneath
all there is a deep, low, heart-voice,--quickened from above,--which
assures you that you are capable of better things; that you are not
wholly lost; that a mine of unstarted tenderness still lies smouldering
in your soul.
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