"BLESSED are the poor in spirit."—Jesus. "The thirst for applause, if the last infirmity of noble minds, is also the first infirmity of weak ones."—Ruskin. If we examine sensitiveness under the microscope, we shall find it to be no more nor less than a variety of egotism. The sensitive nature is simply one that is too much occupied with self. That way madness lies, ever. I suppose no more exquisite torture has been devised by the evil one, at least in this world, than the endowing of a highly organized, keenly perceptive person with a too large self-consciousness. In Galsworthy's "Fraternity" such a character is drawn with wonderful accuracy by that master, in Bianca Dallison. Here are a few of his touches: "It was Bianca's fortune to be gifted to excess with that quality which, of all others, most obscures the real significance of human issues. "Her pride had kept her back from her husband, till she felt herself a failure, and her pride had so revolted at this that it led the way to utter estrangement. Her pride even prevented him from really knowing what had spoiled their lives—her ungovernable itch to be appreciated. This was the tragedy of a woman who wanted to be loved, slowly killing in the man the power of loving her." Of all the unlit and tortuous places in this world the human heart is darkest and farthest past finding out; and the heart of an intelligent, cultured egoist with delicately strung feeling is worst of all. The only remedy is the persistent effort toward disinterestedness. We approach peace only as we leave ourselves and come to humanity. No self-forgetful person is ever sensitive. No self-forgetful person is habitually unhappy. This sin of sensitiveness—and we ought to face it as a distinct sin, a thing never to be boasted of, always to be ashamed of—takes many forms. Some of them are of that most dangerous kind, the kind that resembles virtues. For instance, self-examination. There is a sort of luxury in probing one's own heart and handling one's faults, like the pleasure of pressing upon a sore tooth. Conscience may descend to be a species of moral indigestion. Copy-book philosophy and teachers of moral platitudes commend this self-scrutiny. But as a rule it is vicious. As with our bodies so with our spirits, the healthiest are those that are the least tampered with and worried over. The noblest soul is the one that is unconscious either of nobility or ignobility. The righteousness that knows itself and the sin that knows itself are akin—both bad. Another and common form of this protean soul disease is self-depreciation. Wordsworth hits it off:— "There is a luxury in self-dispraise;
And inward self-disparagement affords
To meditative spleen a grateful feast." I wonder if the housewife knows how uncomfortable she makes the guest feel when she precludes her dinner with apologies? And does the young lady know what an egregious, conceited minx she seems to all simple and normal souls when she will not begin to play the piano or to sing until she has rehearsed her limitations? And there are those women who are forever slandering their own appearance, and men forever decrying their own ability. This is not humility. The one blazing beauty of humility, genuine, is that it forgets itself, that the one being it will neither blame nor praise is self. And worst of all phases of sensitiveness, perhaps, is self-pity. Worst, because of it is born a deal of plain wickedness. The man who is sorry for himself is not far from smashing law and conscience for his own dear sake! Of all sloughs into which a manly man or a womanly woman ought not to fall, the maudlin kindness for one's own poor soul is the most disgusting. I am sure if we stop to reflect that the whole troop of degenerates, the murderers and thieves, the sneaks and unclean, are uniformly sorry for themselves, we should hesitate about allowing ourselves to drift into such company. Sensitiveness, and all egoisms, are not forms of self-respect; they are the opposite of self-respect. They are self-defiling, self-condemning, self-destroying. The only religious, sensible thing to do with this precious me is to forget him.—Frank Crane, in "Lame and Lovely."