[36] "I know not to what physical laws philosophers will some day refer the feelings ofmelancholy. For myself, I find that they are the most voluptuous of all
sensations," writes SaintPierre, and accordingly he devotes a series of sections of his work on Nature to the Plaisirs de laRuine, Plaisirs des Tombeaux, Ruines de
la Nature, Plaisirs de la Solitude--each of them moreoptimistic than the last.
This finding of a luxury in woe is very. The truth-telling MarieBashkirtseff expresses it well:-"In his depression and dreadful
uninterrupted suffering, I don't condemn life. On the contrary, Ilike it and find it good. Can you believe it? I find everything good and pleasant, even my tears,
mygrief. I enjoy weeping, I enjoy my despair. I enjoy being exasperated and sad. I feel as if thesewere so many diversions, and I love life in spite of them all. I
want to live on. It would be cruel tohave me die when I am so accommodating.
I cry, I grieve, and at the same time I am pleased--no, not exactly that--I know not how toexpress it. But everything in life pleases me. I find everything
agreeable, and in the very midst ofmy prayers for happiness, I find myself happy at being miserable. It is not I who undergo all this-mybody weeps and cries; but
something inside of me which is above me is glad of it all." [37]
[37] Journal de Marie Bashkirtseff, i. 67.
The supreme contemporary example of such an inability to feel evil is of course Walt Whitman.
"His favorite occupation," writes his disciple, Dr. Bucke "seemed to be strolling or saunteringabout outdoors by himself, looking at the grass, the trees, the
flowers, the vistas of light, thevarying aspects of the sky, and listening to the birds, the crickets, the tree frogs, and all thehundreds of natural sounds.