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The latter gift, that power of the "subtle-souled psychologist," as Shelley calls him, seems to have been connected with some tendency to disease in the physical temperament, something of a morbid want of balance in those parts where the physical and intellectual elements mix most closely together, with a kind of languid visionariness, deep-seated in the very constitution of the "narcotist," who had quite a gift for "plucking the poisons of self-harm," and which the actual habit of taking opium, accidentally acquired, did but reinforce.
They follow with the heart the poetic and palpitating emotions so exquisitely wrought through the aerial tissue of the tones by this "subtle-souled Psychologist," this bold and original explorer in the invisible world of sound; all honor to their genius: "Oh, happy! and of many millions, they The purest chosen, whom Art's service pure Hallows and claims whose hearts are made her throne, Whose lips her oracle, ordained secure, To lead a priestly life, and feed the ray Of her eternal shrine, to them alone Her glorious countenance unveiled is shown: Ye, the high brotherhood she links, rejoice In the great rank allotted by her choice!
Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn. Chopin, "subtle-souled psychologist," is more kin to Keats than Shelley, he is a greater artist than a thinker. His philosophy is of the beautiful, as was Keats', and while he lingers by the river's edge to catch the song of the reeds, his gaze is oftener fixed on the quiring planets.
In a pamphlet published in London by Messrs. The epigraph of this little pamphlet is ingeniously chosen, and the two lines from Shelley could scarcely be better applied than to Chopin: "He was a mighty poet and A subtle-souled Psychologist."
Between the hours at which the last toss-pot went by and the first sparrow shook himself, the silence in Casterbridge barring the rare sound of the watchman was broken in Elizabeth's ear only by the time-piece in the bedroom ticking frantically against the clock on the stairs; ticking harder and harder till it seemed to clang like a gong; and all this while the subtle-souled girl asking herself why she was born, why sitting in a room, and blinking at the candle; why things around her had taken the shape they wore in preference to every other possible shape.
Whether the utilitarian or the intuitive theory of the moral sense be upheld, it is beyond question that there are a few subtle-souled persons with whom the absolute gratuitousness of an act of reparation is an inducement to perform it; while exhortation as to its necessity would breed excuses for leaving it undone. The case of Mr. Millborne and Mrs.
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