may not hate them (since we cannot love them), the renunciation of all social joys seems but a small sacrifice.

This sadness — not the sadness (of which sympathy is the cause) for the evils which fate brings upon others, — but for those things which men do to one another (which depends upon an antipathy in fundamental propositions), is sublime, because it rests upon Ideas, whilst the former can only count as beautiful. — The brilliant and thorough Saussure, in his account of his Alpine travels, says of one of the Savoy mountains, called Bonhomme, “There reigns there a certain insipid sadness.” He therefore recognised an interesting sadness, that the sight of a solitude might inspire, to which men might wish to transport themselves that they