You say that we love intellect, but I do not agree with you; I do
not think intellect excites love. I do not even think that it
increases our love for those we do love, though it adds admiration
to our affection. I certainly do admire intellect immensely; mental
power, which allied to moral power, goodness, is a force to uphold
the universe.
I have forsworn all discussions about Byron; my mother and I differ
so entirely on the subject that, as I cannot adopt her view of his
character, I find it easier to be silent about my own. Perhaps her
extreme admiration of him may have thrown me into a deeper
disapprobation than I should otherwise have expressed. He has many
excuses, doubtless: the total want of early restraint, the
miserable influence of the injudicious mother who alternately
idolized and victimized him, the bitter castigation of his first
plunge into literature, and then the flattering, fawning, fulsome
adoration of his habitual associates, of course were all against
him; but, after all, one cannot respect the man who strikes colors
to the enemy as one does the one who comes conqueror out of the
conflict.
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