November 9, 1852.--A few pages of the _Chrestomathie Francaise_ and
Vinet's remarkable letter at the head of the volume, have given me one
or two delightful hours. As a thinker, as a Christian, and as a man,
Vinet occupies a typical place. His philosophy, his theology, his
esthetics, in short, his work, will be, or has been already surpassed at
all points. His was a great soul and a fine talent. But neither were
well enough served by circumstances. We see in him a personality worthy
of all veneration, a man of singular goodness and a writer of
distinction, but not quite a great man, nor yet a great writer.
Profundity and purity, these are what he possesses in a high degree, but
not greatness, properly speaking. For that, he is a little too subtle
and analytical, too ingenious and fine-spun; his thought is overladen
with detail, and has not enough flow, eloquence, imagination, warmth,
and largeness. Essentially and constantly meditative, he has not
strength enough left to deal with what is outside him. The casuistries
of conscience and of language, eternal self-suspicion, and
self-examination, his talent lies in these things, and is limited by
them. Vinet wants passion, abundance, _entrainement_, and therefore
popularity. The individualism which is his title to glory is also the
cause of his weakness.
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