By misfortune it is true that power may be intensified. So may
it by the baptism of malice. But, given a certain degree of power, there
still remains a question as to its _kind_. So deep is the sky: but of
what _hue_, of what aspect? Wine is strong, and so is the crude alcohol
but what the _mellowness_? And the blood in our veins, it is an infinite
force: but of what temper? Is it warm, or is it cold? Does it minister
to Moloch, or to Apollo? Will it shape the Madonna face, or the Medusa?
Why, the simple fact that the rich blue sky over-arches this earth of
ours, or that it is warm blood which flows in our veins, is sufficient
to prove that no malignant Ahriman made the world. Just here the
question is not, what increment or what momentum genius may receive from
outward circumstances, but what coloring, what mood. Here it is that a
Mozart differs from a Mendelssohn. The important difference which
obtains, in this respect, between great powers in literature, otherwise
cooerdinate, will receive illustration from a comparison between De
Quincey and Byron.
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