A mere truism, is it? Yes, it is , and more
is the pity; for what is a truism, as most men count truisms? What is it but a
truth that ought to have been buried long ago in the lives of men – to send up
for ever the corn of true deeds and the wine of loving kindness, - but instead
of being buried in friendly soil, is allowed to lie about, kicked hither and
thither in the dry and empty garret of their brains, till they are sick of the
sight and sound it it, and to be rid of the thought of it, declare it to be no
living truth but only a lifeless truism! Yet in their brain that truism must
rattle until they shift it to its rightful quarters in their heart, where it
will rattle no longer but take root and be a strength and loveliness. Is a
truth to cease to be uttered because no better form than that of some divine
truism - say of St. John Boanerges – can
be found for it? To the critic the truism is a sea-worn, foot-trodden pebble;
to the obedient scholar, a radiant topaz, which, as he polishes it with the dust
of its use, may turn into a diamond.
(George Macdonald, “Thomas Wingfold,
Curate”)
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