She was not in the least a tragic figure:
though down deep under the curves and dimples of youth there was
something finally resistant, or obstinate, or defiant--which kept its
counsel regarding the past.
It is curious how acquaintanceship mitigates our judgments. We classify
strangers into whose careers the newspapers or our friends give us
glimpses as "bad" or "good"; we separate humanity into inevitable
goathood and sheephood. But upon closer acquaintance a man comes to be
not bad, but Ebenezer Smith or J. Henry Jones; and a woman is not good,
but Nellie Morgan or Mrs. Arthur Cadwalader. Take it in our own cases.
Some people, knowing just a little about us, might call us pretty good
people; but we know that down in our hearts lurk the possibilities (if
not the actual accomplishment) of all sorts of things not at all good.
We are exceedingly charitable persons--toward ourselves. And thus we let
other people live!
The other day, at Harriet's suggestion, I drove to town by the upper
road, passing the Williams place. The old lady has a passion for
hollyhocks. A ragged row of them borders the dilapidated picket fence
behind which, crowding up to the sociable road, stands the house. As I
drive that way it always seems to look out at me like some half-earnest
worker, inviting a chat about the weather or the county fair; hence,
probably, its good-natured dilapidation.
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