pleasure out of the poorest of them than Cornelius could from a dozen.
And now in this day's dreariness, he had not one left unread, and was
too lazy or effeminate or prudent to encounter the wind and rain that
beset the path betwixt him and the nearest bookshop. None of his
father's books had any attraction for him. Neither science, philosophy,
history, nor poetry held for him any interest. A drearier soul in a
drearier setting could hardly be imagined than the soul of this youth in
that day's weather at Burcliff.

Does a reader remark, "Well, wherein was the poor fellow to blame? No
man can make himself like this or like that! The thing that is a passion
to one is a bore to another! Some with both ear and voice have no love
for music. Most exquisite of sonatas would not to them make up for a
game of billiards! They cannot help it: they are made so"?--I answer, It
is true no one can by an effort of the will care for this or that; but
where a man cares for nothing that is worth caring for, the fault must
lie, not in the nature God made, but in the character the man himself
has made and is making. There is a moral reason why he does not and
cannot care. If Cornelius had begun at any time, without other
compulsion than the urging within him, to do something he knew he ought
to do, he would not now have been the poor slave of circumstances he
was--at the call and beck of the weather--such, in fact, as the weather
willed. When men face a duty, not merely will that duty become at once
less unpleasant to them, but life itself will _immediately_ begin
to gather interest; for in duty, and in duty only, does the individual
begin to come into real contact with life; therein only can he see what
life is, and grow fit for it.

He threw himself on his bed--for he dared not smoke where his father
was--and dozed away the hours till lunch, then returned and dozed again,