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diff --git a/old/43359.txt b/old/43359.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 5f110eb..0000000 --- a/old/43359.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,14433 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Human Intercourse, by Philip Gilbert Hamerton - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org - - -Title: Human Intercourse - -Author: Philip Gilbert Hamerton - -Release Date: July 30, 2013 [EBook #43359] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ASCII - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HUMAN INTERCOURSE *** - - - - -Produced by The Online Distributed Proofreading Team at -http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images -generously made available by The Internet Archive.) - - - - - - - - - - HUMAN INTERCOURSE. - - - BY PHILIP GILBERT HAMERTON, - AUTHOR OF "THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE," "A PAINTER'S CAMP," - "THOUGHTS ABOUT ART," "CHAPTERS ON ANIMALS," "ROUND MY - HOUSE," "THE SYLVAN YEAR" AND "THE UNKNOWN RIVER," - "WENDERHOLME," "MODERN FRENCHMEN," "LIFE OF J. M. W. - TURNER," "THE GRAPHIC ARTS," "ETCHING AND ETCHERS," - "PARIS IN OLD AND PRESENT TIMES," "HARRY BLOUNT." - - - "I love tranquil solitude, - And such society - As is quiet, wise, and good." - SHELLEY. - - - BOSTON: - LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY. - 1898. - - - - - AUTHOR'S EDITION. - - University Press: - JOHN WILSON AND SON, CAMBRIDGE. - - - - -To the Memory of Emerson. - - -_If I dedicate this book on Human Intercourse to the memory of one whose -voice I never heard, and to whom I never addressed a letter, the seeming -inappropriateness will disappear when the reader knows what a great and -persistent influence he had on the whole course of my thinking, and -therefore on all my work. He was told of this before his death, and the -acknowledgment gave him pleasure. Perhaps this public repetition of it may -not be without utility at a time when, although it is clear to us that he -has left an immortal name, the exact nature of the rank he will occupy -amongst great men does not seem to be evident as yet. The embarrassment of -premature criticism is a testimony to his originality. But although it may -be too soon for us to know what his name will mean to posterity, we may -tell posterity what service he rendered to ourselves. To me he taught two -great lessons. The first was to rely confidently on that order of the -universe which makes it always really worth while to do our best, even -though the reward may not be visible; and the second was to have -self-reliance enough to trust our own convictions and our own gifts, such -as they are, or such as they may become, without either echoing the -opinions or desiring the more brilliant gifts of others. Emerson taught -much besides; but it is these two doctrines of reliance on the -compensations of Nature, and of a self-respectful reliance on our own -individuality, that have the most invigorating influence on workers like -myself. Emerson knew that each of us can only receive that for which he -has an affinity, and can only give forth effectually what is by -birthright, or has become, his own. To have accepted this doctrine with -perfect contentment is to possess one's soul in peace._ - -_Emerson combined high intellect with pure honesty, and remained faithful -to the double law of the intellectual life--high thinking and fearless -utterance--to the end of his days, with a beautiful persistence and -serenity. So now I go, in spirit, a pilgrim to that tall pine-tree that -grows upon "the hill-top to the east of Sleepy Hollow," and lay one more -wreath upon an honored grave._ - -_June 24, 1884._ - - - - -PREFACE. - - -When this book was begun, some years ago, I made a formal plan, according -to which it was to have been one long Essay or Treatise, divided into -sections and chapters, and presenting that apparently perfect _ordonnance_ -which gives such an imposing air to a work of art. I say "apparently -perfect _ordonnance_," because in such cases the perfection of the -arrangement is often only apparent, and the work is like those formal -pseudo-classical buildings that seem, with their regular columns, spaces, -and windows, the very highest examples of method; but you find on entering -that the internal distribution of space is defective and inconvenient, -that one room has a window in a corner and another half a window, that one -is needlessly large for its employment and another far too small. In -literature the ostentation of order may compel an author to extreme -condensation in one part of his book and to excessive amplification in -another, since, in reality, the parts of his subject do not fall more -naturally into equal divisions than words beginning with different letters -in the dictionary. I therefore soon abandoned external rigidity of order, -and made my divisions more elastic; but I went still further after some -experiments, and abandoned the idea of a Treatise. This was not done -without some regret, as I know that a Treatise has a better chance of -permanence than a collection of Essays; but, in this case, I met with an -invisible obstacle that threatened to prevent good literary execution. -After making some progress I felt that the work was not very readable, and -that the writing of it was not a satisfactory occupation. Whenever this -happens there is sure to be an error of method somewhere. What the error -was in this case I did not discover for a long time, but at last I -suddenly perceived it. A formal Treatise, to be satisfactory, can only be -written about ascertained or ascertainable laws; and human intercourse as -it is carried on between individuals, though it looks so accessible to -every observer, is in reality a subject of infinite mystery and obscurity, -about which hardly anything is known, about which certainly nothing is -known absolutely and completely. I found that every attempt to ascertain -and proclaim a law only ended, when the supposed law was brought face to -face with nature, by discovering so many exceptions that the best -practical rules were suspension of judgment and a reliance upon nothing -but special observation in each particular case. I found that in real -human intercourse the theoretically improbable, or even the theoretically -impossible, was constantly happening. I remember a case in real life which -illustrates this very forcibly. A certain English lady, influenced by the -received ideas about human intercourse which define the conditions of it -in a hard and sharp manner, was strongly convinced that it would be -impossible for her to have friendly relations with another lady whom she -had never seen, but was likely to see frequently. All her reasons would be -considered excellent reasons by those who believe in maxims and rules. It -was plain that there could be nothing in common. The other lady was -neither of the same country, nor of the same religious and political -parties, nor exactly of the same class, nor of the same generation. These -facts were known, and the inference deduced from them was that intercourse -would be impossible. After some time the English lady began to perceive -that the case did not bear out the supposed rules; she discovered that the -younger lady might be an acceptable friend. At last the full strange truth -became apparent,--that she was singularly well adapted, better adapted -than any other human being, to take a filial relation to the elder, -especially in times of sickness, when her presence was a wonderful -support. Then the warmest affection sprang up between the two, lasting -till separation by death and still cherished by the survivor. What becomes -of rules and maxims and wise old saws in the face of nature and reality? -What can we do better than to observe nature with an open, unprejudiced -mind, and gather some of the results of observation? - -I am conscious of several omissions that may possibly be rectified in -another volume if this is favorably accepted. The most important of these -are the influence of age on intercourse, and the effects of living in the -same house, which are not invariably favorable. Both these subjects are -very important, and I have not time to treat them now with the care they -would require. There ought also to have been a careful study of the -natural antagonisms, which are of terrible importance when people, -naturally antagonistic, are compelled by circumstances to live together. -These are, however, generally of less importance than the affinities, -because we contrive to make our intercourse with antagonistic people as -short and rare as possible, and that with sympathetic people as frequent -and long as circumstances will permit. - -I will not close this preface without saying that the happiness of -sympathetic human intercourse seems to me incomparably greater than any -other pleasure. I may be supposed to have passed the age of enthusiastic -illusions, yet I would at any time rather pass a week with a real friend -in any place that afforded simple shelter than with an indifferent person -in a palace. In saying this I am thinking of real experiences. One of my -friends who is devoted to archaeological excavations has often invited me -to share his life in a hut or a cottage, and I have invariably found that -the pleasure of his society far overbalanced the absence of luxury. On the -other hand, I have sometimes endured extreme _ennui_ at sumptuous feasts -in richly appointed houses. The result of experience, in my case, has been -to confirm a youthful conviction that the value of certain persons is not -to be estimated by comparison with anything else. I was always a believer, -and am so at this day more than ever, in the happiness of genuine human -intercourse, but I prefer solitude to the false imitation of it. It is in -this as in other pleasures, the better we appreciate the real thing, the -less we are disposed to accept the spurious copy as a substitute. By far -the greater part of what passes for human intercourse is not intercourse -at all, but only acting, of which the highest object and most considerable -merit is to conceal the weariness that accompanies its hollow observances. - -One sad aspect of my subject has not been touched upon in this volume. It -was often present in my thoughts, but I timidly shrank from dealing with -it. I might have attempted to show in what manner intercourse is cut short -by death. All reciprocity of intercourse is, or appears to be, entirety -cut short by that catastrophe; but those who have talked with us much in -former years retain an influence that may be even more constant than our -recollection of them. My own recollection of the dead is extremely vivid -and clear, and I cultivate it by willingly thinking about them, being -especially happy when by some accidental flash of brighter memory a more -than usual degree of lucidity is obtained. I accept with resignation the -natural law, on the whole so beneficent, that when an organism is no -longer able to exist without suffering, or senile decrepitude, it should -be dissolved and made insensible of suffering; but I by no means accept -the idea that the dead are to be forgotten in order that we may spare -ourselves distress. Let us give them their due place, their great place, -in our hearts and in our thoughts; and if the sweet reciprocity of human -intercourse is no longer possible with those who are silent and asleep, -let the memory of past intercourse be still a part of our lives. There are -hours when we live with the dead more than with the living, so that -without any trace of superstition we feel their old sweet influence acting -upon us yet, and it seems as if only a little more were needed to give us -"the touch of a vanished hand, and the sound of a voice that is still." - -Closely connected with this subject of death is the subject of religious -beliefs. In the present state of confusion and change, some causes of -which are indicated in this volume, the only plain course for honorable -men is to act always in favor of truthfulness, and therefore against -hypocrisy, and against those encouragers of hypocrisy who offer social -advantages as rewards for it. What may come in the future we cannot tell, -but we may be sure that the best way to prepare for the future is to be -honest and candid in the present. There are two causes which are gradually -effecting a great change, and as they are natural causes they are -irresistibly powerful. One is the process of analytic detachment, by which -sentiments and feelings once believed to be religious are now found to be -separable from religion. If a French peasant has a feeling for -architecture, poetry, or music, or an appreciation of eloquence, or a -desire to hear a kind of moral philosophy, he goes to the village church -to satisfy these dim incipient desires. In his case these feelings and -wants are all confusedly connected with religion; in ours they are -detached from it, and only reconnected with it by accident, we being still -aware that there is no essential identity. That is the first dissolving -cause. It seems only to affect the externals of religion, but it goes -deeper by making the consciously religious state of mind less habitual. -The second cause is even more serious in its effects. We are acquiring the -habit of explaining everything by natural causes, and of trying to remedy -everything by the employment of natural means. Journals dependent on -popular approval for the enormous circulation that is necessary to their -existence do not hesitate, in clear terms, to express their preference of -natural means to the invocation of supernatural agencies. For example, the -correspondent of the "Daily News" at Port Said, after describing the -annual blessing of the Suez Canal at the Epiphany, observes: "Thus the -canal was solemnly blessed. The opinion of the captains of the ships that -throng the harbor, waiting until the block adjusts itself, is that it -would be better to widen it." Such an opinion is perfectly modern, -perfectly characteristic of our age. We think that steam excavators and -dredgers would be more likely to prevent blocks in the Suez Canal than a -priest reading prayers out of a book and throwing a golden cross into the -sea, to be fished up again by divers. We cannot help thinking as we do: -our opinion has not been chosen by us voluntarily, it has been forced upon -us by facts that we cannot help seeing, but it deprives us of an -opportunity for a religious emotion, and it separates us, on that point, -from all those who are still capable of feeling it. I have given -considerable space to the consideration of these changes, but not a -disproportionate space. They have a deplorable effect on human intercourse -by dividing friends and families into different groups, and by separating -those who might otherwise have enjoyed friendship unreservedly. It is -probable, too, that we are only at the beginning of the conflict, and that -in years not immeasurably distant there will be fierce struggles on the -most irritating of practical issues. To name but one of these it is -probable that there will be a sharp struggle when a strong and determined -naturalist party shall claim the instruction of the young, especially with -regard to the origin of the race, the beginnings of animal life, and the -evidences of intention in nature. Loving, as I do, the amenities of a -peaceful and polished civilization much better than angry controversy, I -long for the time when these great questions will be considered as settled -one way or the other, or else, if they are beyond our intelligence, for -the time when they may be classed as insoluble, so that men may work out -their destiny without bitter quarrels about their origin. The present at -least is ours, and it depends upon ourselves whether it is to be wasted in -vain disputes or brightened by charity and kindness. - - - - -CONTENTS. - - - ESSAY PAGE - - I. ON THE DIFFICULTY OF DISCOVERING FIXED LAWS 3 - - II. INDEPENDENCE 12 - - III. OF PASSIONATE LOVE 33 - - IV. COMPANIONSHIP IN MARRIAGE 44 - - V. FAMILY TIES 63 - - VI. FATHERS AND SONS 78 - - VII. THE RIGHTS OF THE GUEST 99 - - VIII. THE DEATH OF FRIENDSHIP 110 - - IX. THE FLUX OF WEALTH 119 - - X. DIFFERENCES OF RANK AND WEALTH 130 - - XI. THE OBSTACLE OF LANGUAGE 148 - - XII. THE OBSTACLE OF RELIGION 161 - - XIII. PRIESTS AND WOMEN 175 - - XIV. WHY WE ARE APPARENTLY BECOMING LESS RELIGIOUS 205 - - XV. HOW WE ARE REALLY BECOMING LESS RELIGIOUS 215 - - XVI. ON AN UNRECOGNIZED FORM OF UNTRUTH 232 - - XVII. ON A REMARKABLE ENGLISH PECULIARITY 239 - - XVIII. OF GENTEEL IGNORANCE 253 - - XIX. PATRIOTIC IGNORANCE 264 - - XX. CONFUSIONS 280 - - XXI. THE NOBLE BOHEMIANISM 295 - - XXII. OF COURTESY IN EPISTOLARY COMMUNICATION 315 - - XXIII. LETTERS OF FRIENDSHIP 336 - - XXIV. LETTERS OF BUSINESS 354 - - XXV. ANONYMOUS LETTERS 370 - - XXVI. AMUSEMENTS 383 - - INDEX 403 - - - - -HUMAN INTERCOURSE. - - - - -HUMAN INTERCOURSE. - - - - -ESSAY I. - -ON THE DIFFICULTY OF DISCOVERING FIXED LAWS. - - -A book on Human Intercourse might be written in a variety of ways, and -amongst them might be an attempt to treat the subject in a scientific -manner so as to elucidate those natural laws by which intercourse between -human beings must be regulated. If we knew quite perfectly what those laws -are we should enjoy the great convenience of being able to predict with -certainty which men and women would be able to associate with pleasure, -and which would be constrained or repressed in each other's society. Human -intercourse would then be as much a positive science as chemistry, in -which the effects of bringing substances together can be foretold with the -utmost accuracy. Some very distant approach to this scientific state may -in certain instances actually be made. When we know the characters of two -people with a certain degree of precision we may sometimes predict that -they are sure to quarrel, and have the satisfaction of witnessing the -explosion that our own acumen has foretold. To detect in people we know -those incompatibilities that are the fatal seeds of future dissension is -one of our malicious pleasures. An acute observer really has considerable -powers of prediction and calculation with reference to individual human -beings, but there his wisdom ends. He cannot deduce from these separate -cases any general rules or laws that can be firmly relied upon as every -real law of nature can be relied upon, and therefore it may be concluded -that such rules are not laws of nature at all, but only poor and -untrustworthy substitutes for them. - -The reason for this difficulty I take to be the extreme complexity of -human nature and its boundless variety, which make it always probable that -in every mind which we have not long and closely studied there will be -elements wholly unknown to us. How often, with regard to some public man, -who is known to us only in part through his acts or his writings, are we -surprised by the sudden revelation of characteristics that we never -imagined for him and that seem almost incompatible with the better known -side of his nature! How much the more, then, are we likely to go wrong in -our estimates of people we know nothing about, and how impossible it must -be for us to determine how they are likely to select their friends and -companions! - -Certain popular ideas appear to represent a sort of rude philosophy of -human intercourse. There is the common belief, for example, that, in order -to associate pleasantly together, people should be of the same class and -nearly in the same condition of fortune, but when we turn to real life we -find very numerous instances in which this fancied law is broken with the -happiest results. The late Duke of Albany may be mentioned as an example. -No doubt his own natural refinement would have prevented him from -associating with vulgar people; but he readily associated with refined and -cultivated people who had no pretension to rank. His own rank was a power -in his hands that he used for good, and he was conscious of it, but it did -not isolate him; he desired to know people as they are, and was capable of -feeling the most sincere respect for anybody who deserved it. So it is, -generally, with all who have the gifts of sympathy and intelligence. -Merely to avoid what is disagreeable has nothing to do with pride of -station. Vulgar society is disagreeable, which is a sufficient reason for -keeping aloof from it. Amongst people of refinement, association or even -friendship is possible in spite of differences of rank and fortune. - -Another popular belief is that "men associate together when they are -interested in the same things." It would, however, be easy to adduce very -numerous instances in which an interest in similar things has been a cause -of quarrel, when if one of the two parties had regarded those things with -indifference, harmonious intercourse might have been preserved. The -livelier our interest in anything the more does acquiescence in matters of -detail appear essential to us. Two people are both of them extremely -religious, but one of them is a Mahometan, and the other a Christian; here -the interest in religion causes a divergence, enough in most cases to make -intercourse impossible, when it would have been quite possible if both -parties had regarded religion with indifference. Bring the two nearer -together, suppose them to be both Christians, they acknowledge one law, -one doctrine, one Head of the church in heaven. Yes, but they do not -acknowledge the same head of it on earth, for one accepts the Papal -supremacy, which the other denies; and their common Christianity is a -feeble bond of union in comparison with the forces of repulsion contained -in a multitude of details. Two nominal, indifferent Christians who take no -interest in theology would have a better chance of agreeing. Lastly, -suppose them to be both members of the Church of England, one of the old -school, with firm and settled beliefs on every point and a horror of the -most distant approaches to heresy, the other of the new school, vague, -indeterminate, desiring to preserve his Christianity as a sentiment when -it has vanished as a faith, thinking that the Bible is not true in the old -sense but only "contains" truth, that the divinity of Christ is "a past -issue,"[1] and that evolution is, on the whole, more probable than direct -and intentional creation,--what possible agreement can exist between these -two? If they both care about religious topics, and talk about them, will -not their disagreement be in exact proportion to the liveliness of their -interest in the subject? So in a realm with which I have some -acquaintance, that of the fine arts, discord is always probable between -those who have a passionate delight in art. Innocent, well-intentioned -friends think that because two men "like painting," they ought to be -introduced, as they are sure to amuse each other. In reality, their -tastes may be more opposed than the taste of either of them is to perfect -indifference. One has a severe taste for beautiful form and an active -contempt for picturesque accidents and romantic associations, the other -feels chilled by severe beauty and delights in the picturesque and -romantic. If each is convinced of the superiority of his own principles he -will deduce from them an endless series of judgments that can only -irritate the other. - -Seeing that nations are always hostile to each other, always watchfully -jealous and inclined to rejoice in every evil that happens to a neighbor, -it would appear safe to predict that little intercourse could exist -between persons of different nationality. When, however, we observe the -facts as they are in real life, we perceive that very strong and durable -friendships often exist between men who are not of the same nation, and -that the chief obstacle to the formation of these is not so much -nationality as difference of language. There is, no doubt, a prejudice -that one is not likely to get on well with a foreigner, and the prejudice -has often the effect of keeping people of different nationality apart, but -when once it is overcome it is often found that very powerful feelings of -mutual respect and sympathy draw the strangers together. On the other -hand, there is not the least assurance that the mere fact of being born in -the same country will make two men regard each other with kindness. An -Englishman repels another Englishman when he meets him on the -Continent.[2] The only just conclusion is that nationality affords no -certain rule either in favor of intercourse or against it. A man may -possibly be drawn towards a foreign nationality by his appreciation of its -excellence in some art that he loves, but this is the case only when the -excellence is of the peculiar kind that supplies the needs of his own -intelligence. The French excel in painting; that is to say, that many -Frenchmen have attained a certain kind of excellence in certain -departments of the art of painting. Englishmen and Americans who value -that particular kind of excellence are often strongly drawn towards Paris -as an artistic centre or capital; and this opening of their minds to -French influence in art may admit other French influences at the same -time, so that the ultimate effect of a love of art may be a breaking down -of the barrier of nationality. It seldom happens that Frenchmen are drawn -towards England and America by their love of painting, but it frequently -happens that they become in a measure Anglicized or Americanized either by -the serious study of nautical science, or by the love of yachting as an -amusement, in which they look to England and America both for the most -advanced theories and the newest examples. - -The nearest approach ever made to a general rule may be the affirmation -that likeness is the secret of companionship. This has a great look of -probability, and may really be the reason for many associations, but after -observing others we might come to the conclusion that an opposite law -would be at least equally applicable. We might say that a companion, to be -interesting, ought to bring new elements, and not be a repetition of our -own too familiar personality. We have enough of ourselves in ourselves; we -desire a companion who will relieve us from the bounds of our thoughts, as -a neighbor opens his garden to us, and delivers us from our own hedges. -But if the unlikeness is so great that mutual understanding is impossible, -then it is too great. We fancy that we should like to know this or that -author, because we feel a certain sympathy with him though he is very -different from us, but there are other writers whom we do not desire to -know because we are aware of a difference too excessive for companionship. - -The only approximation to a general law that I would venture to affirm is -that the strongest reason why men are drawn together is not identity of -class, not identity of race, not a common interest in any particular art -or science, but because there is something in their idiosyncrasies that -gives a charm to intercourse between the two. What it is I cannot tell, -and I have never met with the wise man who was able to enlighten me. - -It is not respect for character, seeing that we often respect people -heartily without being able to enjoy their society. It is a mysterious -suitableness or adaptability, and _how_ mysterious it is may be in some -degree realized when we reflect that we cannot account for our own -preferences. I try to explain to myself, for my own intellectual -satisfaction, how and why it is that I take pleasure in the society of one -very dear friend. He is a most able, honorable, and high-minded man, but -others are all that, and they give me no pleasure. My friend and I have -really not very much in common, far less than I have with some perfectly -indifferent people. I only know that we are always glad to be together, -that each of us likes to listen to the other, and that we have talked for -innumerable hours. Neither does my affection blind me to his faults. I see -them as clearly as if I were his enemy, and doubt not that he sees mine. -There is no illusion, and there has been no change in our sentiments for -twenty years. - -As a contrast to this instance I think of others in which everything seems -to have been prepared on purpose for facility of intercourse, in which -there is similarity of pursuits, of language, of education, of every thing -that is likely to permit men to talk easily together, and yet there is -some obstacle that makes any real intercourse impossible. What the -obstacle is I am unable to explain even to myself. It need not be any -unkind feeling, nor any feeling of disapprobation; there may be good-will -on both sides and a mutual desire for a greater degree of intimacy, yet -with all this the intimacy does not come, and such intercourse as we have -is that of simple politeness. In these cases each party is apt to think -that the other is reserved, when there is no wish to be reserved but -rather a desire to be as open as the unseen obstacle will allow. The -existence of the obstacle does not prevent respect and esteem or even a -considerable degree of affection. It divides people who seem to be on the -most friendly terms; it divides even the nearest relations, brother from -brother, and the son from the father. Nobody knows exactly what it is, but -we have a word for it,--we call it incompatibility. The difficulty of -going farther and explaining the real nature of incompatibility is that -it takes as many shapes as there are varieties in the characters of -mankind. - -Sympathy and incompatibility,--these are the two great powers that decide -for us whether intercourse is to be possible or not, but the causes of -them are dark mysteries that lie undiscovered far down in the "abysmal -deeps of personality." - - - - -ESSAY II. - -INDEPENDENCE. - - -There is an illusory and unattainable independence which is a mere dream, -but there is also a reasonable and attainable independence not really -inconsistent with our obligations to humanity and our country. - -The dependence of the individual upon the race has never been so fully -recognized as now, so that there is little fear of its being overlooked. -The danger of our age, and of the future, is rather that a reasonable and -possible independence should be made needlessly difficult to attain and to -preserve. - -The distinction between the two may be conveniently illustrated by a -reference to literary production. Every educated man is dependent upon his -own country for the language that he uses; and again, that language is -itself dependent on other languages from which it is derived; and, -farther, the modern author is indebted for a continual stimulus and many a -suggestion to the writings of his predecessors, not in his own country -only but in far distant lands. He cannot, therefore, say in any absolute -way, "My books are my own," but he may preserve a certain mental -independence which will allow him to say that with truth in a relative -sense. If he expresses himself such as he is, an idiosyncrasy affected -but not annihilated by education, he may say that his books are his own. - -Few English authors have studied past literature more willingly than -Shelley and Tennyson, and none are more original. In these cases -idiosyncrasy has been affected by education, but instead of being -annihilated thereby it has gained from education the means of expressing -its own inmost self more clearly. We have the true Shelley, the born -Tennyson, far more perfectly than we should ever have possessed them if -their own minds had not been opened by the action of other minds. Culture -is like wealth, it makes us more ourselves, it enables us to express -ourselves. The real nature of the poor and the ignorant is an obscure and -doubtful problem, for we can never know the inborn powers that remain in -them undeveloped till they die. In this way the help of the race, so far -from being unfavorable to individuality, is necessary to it. Claude helped -Turner to become Turner. In complete isolation from art, however -magnificently surrounded by the beauties of the natural world, a man does -not express his originality as a landscape-painter, he is simply incapable -of expressing _anything_ in paint. - -But now let us inquire whether there may not be cases in which the labors -of others, instead of helping originality to express itself, act as a -check to it by making originality superfluous. - -As an illustration of this possibility I may take the modern railway -system. Here we have the labor and ingenuity of the race applied to -travelling, greatly to the convenience of the individual, but in a manner -which is totally repressive of originality and indifferent to personal -tastes. People of the most different idiosyncrasies travel exactly in the -same way. The landscape-painter is hurried at speed past beautiful spots -that he would like to contemplate at leisure; the archaeologist is whirled -by the site of a Roman camp that he would willingly pause to examine; the -mountaineer is not permitted to climb the tunnelled hill, nor the swimmer -to cross in his own refreshing, natural way the breadth of the -iron-spanned river. And as individual tastes are disregarded, so -individual powers are left uncultivated and unimproved. The only talent -required is that of sitting passively on a seat and of enduring, for hours -together, an unpleasant though mitigated vibration. The skill and courage -of the horseman, the endurance of the pedestrian, the art of the paddler -or the oarsman, are all made superfluous by this system of travelling by -machines, in which previous labors of engineers and mechanics have -determined everything beforehand. Happily, the love of exercise and -enterprise has produced a reaction of individualism against this levelling -railway system, a reaction that shows itself in many kinds of slower but -more adventurous locomotion and restores to the individual creature his -lost independence by allowing him to pause and stop when he pleases; a -reaction delightful to him especially in this, that it gives him some -pride and pleasure in the use of his own muscles and his own wits. There -are still, happily, Englishmen who would rather steer a cutter across the -Channel in rough weather than be shot through a long hole in the chalk. - -What the railway is to physical motion, settled conventions are to the -movements of the mind. Convention is a contrivance for facilitating what -we write or speak by which we are relieved from personal effort and almost -absolved from personal responsibility. There are men whose whole art of -living consists in passing from one conventionalism to another as a -traveller changes his train. Such men may be envied for the skill with -which they avoid the difficulties of life. They take their religion, their -politics, their education, their social and literary opinions, all as -provided by the brains of others, and they glide through existence with a -minimum of personal exertion. For those who are satisfied with easy, -conventional ways the desire for intellectual independence is -unintelligible. What is the need of it? Why go, mentally, on a bicycle or -in a canoe by your own toilsome exertions when you may sit so very -comfortably in the train, a rug round your lazy legs and your softly -capped head in a corner? - -The French ideal of "good form" is to be undistinguishable from others; by -which it is not understood that you are to be undistinguishable from the -multitude of poor people, but one of the smaller crowd of rich and -fashionable people. Independence and originality are so little esteemed in -what is called "good society" in France that the adjectives -"_independant_" and "_original_" are constantly used in a bad sense. "_Il -est tres independant_" often means that the man is of a rude, -insubordinate, rebellious temper, unfitting him for social life. "_Il est -original_," or more contemptuously, "_C'est un original_," means that the -subject of the criticism has views of his own which are not the -fashionable views, and which therefore (whatever may be their accuracy) -are proper objects of well-bred ridicule. - -I cannot imagine any state of feeling more destructive of all interest in -human intercourse than this, for if on going into society I am only to -hear the fashionable opinions and sentiments, what is the gain to me who -know them too well already? I could even repeat them quite accurately with -the proper conventional tone, so why put myself to inconvenience to hear -that dull and wearisome play acted over again? The only possible -explanation of the pleasure that French people of some rank appear to take -in hearing things, which are as stale as they are inaccurate, repeated by -every one they know, is that the repetition of them appears to be one of -the signs of gentility, and to give alike to those who utter them and to -those who hear, the profound satisfaction of feeling that they are present -at the mysterious rites of Caste. - -There is probably no place in the whole world where the feeling of mental -independence is so complete as it is in London. There is no place where -differences of opinion are more marked in character or more frank and open -in expression; but what strikes one as particularly admirable in London is -that in the present day (it has not always been so) men of the most -opposite opinions and the most various tastes can profess their opinions -and indulge their tastes without inconvenient consequences to themselves, -and there is hardly any opinion, or any eccentricity, that excludes a man -from pleasant social intercourse if he does not make himself impossible -and intolerable by bad manners. This independence gives a savor to social -intercourse in London that is lamentably wanting to it elsewhere. There is -a strange and novel pleasure (to one who lives habitually in the country) -in hearing men and women say what they think without deference to any -local public opinion. - -In many small places this local public opinion is so despotic that there -is no individual independence in society, and it then becomes necessary -that a man who values his independence, and desires to keep it, should -learn the art of living contentedly outside of society. - -It has often occurred to me to reflect that there are many men in London -who enjoy a pleasant and even a high social position, who live with -intelligent people, and even with people of great wealth and exalted rank, -and yet who, if their lot had been cast in certain small provincial towns, -would have found themselves rigorously excluded from the upper local -circles, if not from all circles whatsoever. - -I have sometimes asked myself, when travelling on the railway through -France, and visiting for a few hours one of those sleepy little old -cities, to me so delightful, in which the student of architecture and the -lover of the picturesque find so much to interest them, what would have -been the career of a man having, for example, the capacity and the -convictions of Mr. Gladstone, if he had passed all the years of his -manhood in such a place. - -It commonly happens that when Nature endows a man with a vigorous -personality and its usual accompaniment, an independent way of seeing -things, she gives him at the same time powerful talents with which to -defend his own originality; but in a small and ancient city, where -everything is traditional, intellectual force is of no avail, and learning -is of no use. In such a city, where the upper class is an exclusive caste -impenetrable by ideas, the eloquence of Mr. Gladstone would be -ineffectual, and if exercised at all would be considered in bad taste. His -learning, even, would tend to separate him from the unlearned local -aristocracy. The simple fact that he is in favor of parliamentary -government, without any more detailed information concerning his political -opinions, would put him beyond the pale, for parliamentary government is -execrated by the French rural aristocracy, who tolerate nothing short of a -determined monarchical absolutism. His religious views would be looked -upon as those of a low Dissenter, and it would be remembered against him -that his father was in trade. Such is the difference, as a field for -talent and originality, between London and an aristocratic little French -city, that those very qualities which have raised our Prime Minister to a -not undeserved pre-eminence in the great place would have kept him out of -society in the small one. He might, perhaps, have talked politics in some -cafe with a few shop-keepers and attorneys. - -It may be objected that Mr. Gladstone, as an English Liberal, would -naturally be out of place in France and little appreciated there, so I -will take the cases of a Frenchman in France and an Englishman in England. -A brave French officer, who was at the same time a gentleman of ancient -lineage and good estate, chose (for reasons of his own which had no -connection with social intercourse) to live upon a property that happened -to be situated in a part of France where the aristocracy was strongly -Catholic and reactionary. He then found himself excluded from "good -society," because he was a Protestant and a friend to parliamentary -government. Reasons of this kind, or the counter-reasons of Catholicism -and disapprobation of parliaments, would not exclude a polished and -amiable gentleman from society in London. I have read in a biographical -notice of Sidney Dobell that when he lived at Cheltenham he was excluded -from the society of the place because his parents were Dissenters and he -had been in trade. - -In cases of this kind, where exclusion is due to hard prejudices of caste -or of religion, a man who has all the social gifts of good manners, -kind-heartedness, culture, and even wealth, may find himself outside the -pale if he lives in or near a small place where society is a strong little -clique well organized on definitely understood principles. There are -situations in which exclusion of that kind means perfect solitude. It may -be argued that to escape solitude the victim has nothing to do but -associate with a lower class, but this is not easy or natural, especially -when, as in Dobell's case, there is intellectual culture. Those who have -refined manners and tastes and a love for intellectual pursuits, usually -find themselves disqualified for entering with any real heartiness and -enjoyment into the social life of classes where these tastes are -undeveloped, and where the thoughts flow in two channels,--the serious -channel, studded with anxieties about the means of existence, and the -humorous channel, which is a diversion from the other. Far be it from me -to say anything that might imply any shade of contempt or disapprobation -of the humorous spirit that is Nature's own remedy for the evils of an -anxious life. It does more for the mental health of the middle classes -than could be done by the most sublimated culture; and if anything -concerning it is a subject for regret it is that culture makes us -incapable of enjoying poor jokes. It is, however, a simple matter of fact -that although men of great culture may be humorists (Mr. Lowell is a -brilliant example), their humor is both more profound in the serious -intention that lies under it, and vastly more extensive in the field of -its operations than the trivial humor of the uneducated; whence it follows -that although humor is the faculty by which different classes are brought -most easily into cordial relations, the humorist who has culture will -probably find himself _a l'etroit_ with humorists who have none, whilst -the cultured man who has no humor, or whose humorous tendencies have been -overpowered by serious thought, is so terribly isolated in uneducated -society that he feels less alone in solitude. To realize this truth in its -full force, the reader has only to imagine John Stuart Mill trying to -associate with one of those middle-class families that Dickens loved to -describe, such as the Wardle family in Pickwick. - -It follows from these considerations that unless a man lives in London, or -in some other great capital city, he may easily find himself so situated -that he must learn the art of being happy without society. - -As there is no pleasure in military life for a soldier who fears death, so -there is no independence in civil existence for the man who has an -overpowering dread of solitude. - -There are two good reasons against the excessive dread of solitude. The -first is that solitude is very rarely so absolute as it appears from a -distance; and the second is that when the evil is real, and almost -complete, there are palliatives that may lessen it to such a degree as to -make it, at the worst, supportable, and at the best for some natures even -enjoyable in a rather sad and melancholy way. - -Let us not deceive ourselves with conventional notions on the subject. The -world calls "solitude" that condition in which a man lives outside of -"society," or, in other words, the condition in which he does not pay -formal calls and is not invited to state dinners and dances. Such a -condition may be very lamentable, and deserving of polite contempt, but it -need not be absolute solitude. - -Absolute solitude would be the state of Crusoe on the desert island, -severed from human kind and never hearing a human voice; but this is not -the condition of any one in a civilized country who is out of a prison -cell. Suppose that I am travelling in a country where I am a perfect -stranger, and that I stay for some days in a village where I do not know a -soul. In a surprisingly short time I shall have made acquaintances and -begun to acquire rather a home-like feeling in the place. My new -acquaintances may possibly not be rich and fashionable: they may be the -rural postman, the innkeeper, the stone-breaker on the roadside, the -radical cobbler, and perhaps a mason or a joiner and a few more or less -untidy little children; but every morning their greeting becomes more -friendly, and so I feel myself connected still with that great human race -to which, whatever may be my sins against the narrow laws of caste and -class, I still unquestionably belong. It is a positive advantage that our -meetings should be accidental and not so long as to involve any of the -embarrassments of formal social intercourse, as I could not promise myself -that the attempt to spend a whole evening with these humble friends might -not cause difficulties for me and for them. All I maintain is that these -little chance talks and greetings have a tendency to keep me cheerful and -preserve me from that moody state of mind to which the quite lonely man -exposes himself. As to the substance and quality of our conversations, I -amuse myself by comparing them with conversations between more genteel -people, and do not always perceive that the disparity is very wide. Poor -men often observe external facts with the greatest shrewdness and -accuracy, and have interesting things to tell when they see that you set -up no barrier of pride against them. Perhaps they do not know much about -architecture and the graphic arts, but on these subjects they are devoid -of the false pretensions of the upper classes, which is an unspeakable -comfort and relief. They teach us many things that are worth knowing. -Humble and poor people were amongst the best educators of Shakspeare, -Scott, Dickens, Wordsworth, George Eliot. Even old Homer learned from -them touches of nature which have done as much for his immortality as the -fire of his wrathful kings. - -Let me give the reader an example of this chance intercourse just as it -really occurred. I was drawing architectural details in and about a -certain foreign cathedral, and had the usual accompaniment of youthful -spectators who liked to watch me working, as greater folks watch -fashionable artists in their studios. Sometimes they rather incommoded me, -but on my complaining of the inconvenience, two of the bigger boys acted -as policemen to defend me, which they did with stern authority and -promptness. After that one highly intelligent little boy brought paper and -pencil from his father's house and set himself to draw what I was drawing. -The subject was far too difficult for him, but I gave him a simpler one, -and in a very short time he was a regular pupil. Inspired by his example, -three other little boys asked if they might do likewise, so I had a class -of four. Their manner towards me was perfect,--not a trace of rudeness nor -of timidity either, but absolute confidence at once friendly and -respectful. Every day when I went to the cathedral at the same hour my -four little friends greeted me with such frank and visible gladness that -it could neither have been feigned nor mistaken. During our lessons they -surprised and interested me greatly by the keen observation they -displayed; and this was true more particularly of the bright little leader -and originator of the class. The house he lived in was exactly opposite -the rich west front of the cathedral; and I found that, young as he was (a -mere child), he had observed for himself almost all the details of its -sculpture. The statues, groups, bas-reliefs, and other ornaments were all, -for him, so many separate subjects, and not a confused enrichment of -labored stone-work as they so easily might have been. He had notions, too, -about chronology, telling me the dates of some parts of the cathedral and -asking me about others. His mother treated me with the utmost kindness and -invited me to sketch quietly from her windows. I took a photographer up -there, and set his big camera, and we got such a photograph as had been -deemed impossible before. Now in all this does not the reader perceive -that I was enjoying human intercourse in a very delicate and exquisite -way? What could be more charming and refreshing to a solitary student than -this frank and hearty friendship of children who caused no perceptible -hindrance to his work, whilst they effectually dispelled sad thoughts? - -Two other examples may be given from the experience of a man who has often -been alone and seldom felt himself in solitude. - -I remember arriving, long ago, in the evening at the head of a salt-water -loch in Scotland, where in those days there existed an exceedingly small -beginning of a watering-place. Soon after landing I walked on the beach -with no companion but the beauty of nature and the "long, long thoughts" -of youth. In a short time I became aware that a middle-aged Scotch -gentleman was taking exercise in the same solitary way. He spoke to me, -and we were soon deep in a conversation that began to be interesting to -both of us. He was a resident in the place and invited me to his house, -where our talk continued far into the night. I was obliged to leave the -little haven the next day, but my recollection of it now is like the -memorandum of a conversation. I remember the wild romantic scenery and the -moon upon the water, and the steamer from Glasgow at the pier; but the -real satisfaction of that day consisted in hours of talk with a man who -had seen much, observed much, thought much, and was most kindly and -pleasantly communicative,--a man whom I had never spoken to before, and -have never seen or heard of since that now distant but well-remembered -evening. - -The other instance is a conversation in the cabin of a steamer. I was -alone, in the depth of winter, making a voyage by an unpopular route, and -during a long, dark night. It was a dead calm. We were only three -passengers, and we sat together by the bright cabin-fire. One of us was a -young officer in the British navy, just of age; another was an -anxious-looking man of thirty. Somehow the conversation turned to the -subject of inevitable expenses; and the sailor told us that he had a -certain private income, the amount of which he mentioned. "I have exactly -the same income," said the man of thirty, "but I married very early and -have a wife and family to maintain;" and then--as we did not know even his -name, and he was not likely to see us again--he seized the opportunity -(under the belief that he was kindly warning the young sailor) of telling -the whole story of his anxieties in detail. The point of his discourse was -that he did not pretend to be poor, or to claim sympathy, but he -powerfully described the exact nature of his position. What had been his -private income had now become the public revenue of a household. It all -went in housekeeping, almost independently of his will and outside of his -control. He had his share in the food of the family, and he was just -decently clothed, but there was an end to personal enterprises. The -economy and the expenditure of a free and intelligent bachelor had been -alike replaced by a dull, methodical, uncontrollable outgo; and the man -himself, though now called the head of a family, had discovered that a new -impersonal necessity was the real master, and that he lived like a child -in his own house. "This," he said, "is the fate of a gentleman who marries -on narrow means, unless he is cruelly selfish." - -Frank and honest conversations of this kind often come in the way of a man -who travels by himself, and they remain with him afterwards as a part of -his knowledge of life. This informal intercourse that comes by chance is -greatly undervalued, especially by Englishmen, who are seldom very much -disposed to it except in the humbler classes; but it is one of the broadly -scattered, inestimable gifts of Nature, like the refreshment of air and -water. Many a healthy and happy mind has enjoyed little other human -intercourse than this. There are millions who never get a formal -invitation, and yet in this accidental way they hear many a bit of -entertaining or instructive talk. The greatest charm of it is its -consistency with the most absolute independence. No abandonment of -principle is required, nor any false assumption. You stand simply on your -elementary right to consideration as a decent human being within the great -pale of civilization. - -There is, however, another sense in which every superior person is greatly -exposed to the evil of solitude if he lives outside of a great capital -city. - -Without misanthropy, and without any unjust or unkind contempt for our -fellow-creatures, we still must perceive that mankind in general have no -other purpose than to live in comfort with little mental exertion. The -desire for comfort is not wholly selfish, because people want it for their -families as much as for themselves, but it is a low motive in this sense, -that it is scarcely compatible with the higher kinds of mental exertion, -whilst it is entirely incompatible with devotion to great causes. The -object of common men is not to do noble work by their own personal -efforts, but so to plot and contrive that others may be industrious for -their benefit, and not for their highest benefit, but in order that they -may have curtains and carpets. - -Those for whom accumulated riches have already provided these objects of -desire seldom care greatly for anything except amusements. If they have -ambition, it is for a higher social rank. - -These three common pursuits, comfort, amusements, rank, lie so much -outside of the disciplinary studies that a man of studious habits is -likely to find himself alone in a peculiar sense. As a human being he is -not alone, but as a serious thinker and worker he may find himself in -complete solitude. - -Many readers will remember the well-known passage in Stuart Mill's -autobiography, in which he dealt with this subject. It has often been -quoted against him, because he went so far as to say that "a person of -high intellect should never go into unintellectual society, unless he can -enter it as an apostle," a passage not likely to make its author beloved -by society of that kind; yet Mill was not a misanthropist, he was only -anxious to preserve what there is of high feeling and high principle from -deterioration by too much contact with the common world. It was not so -much that he despised the common world, as that he knew the infinite -preciousness, even to the common people themselves, of the few better and -higher minds. He knew how difficult it is for such minds to "retain their -higher principles unimpaired," and how at least "with respect to the -persons and affairs of their own day they insensibly adopt the modes of -feeling and judgment in which they can hope for sympathy from the company -they keep." - -Perhaps I may do well to offer an illustration of this, though from a -department of culture that may not have been in Mill's view when he wrote -the passage. - -I myself have known a certain painter (not belonging to the English -school) who had a severe and elevated ideal of his art. As his earnings -were small he went to live in the country for economy. He then began to -associate intimately with people to whom all high aims in painting were -unintelligible. Gradually he himself lost his interest in them and his -nobler purposes were abandoned. Finally, art itself was abandoned and he -became a coffee-house politician. - -So it is with all rare and exceptional pursuits if once we allow ourselves -to take, in all respects, the color of the common world. It is impossible -to keep up a foreign language, an art, a science, if we are living away -from other followers of our pursuit and cannot endure solitude. - -It follows from this that there are many situations in which men have to -learn that particular kind of independence which consists in bearing -isolation patiently for the preservation of their better selves. In a -world of common-sense they have to keep a little place apart for a kind of -sense that is sound and rational but not common. - -This isolation would indeed be difficult to bear if it were not mitigated -by certain palliatives that enable a superior mind to be healthy and -active in its loneliness. The first of these is reading, which is seldom -valued at its almost inestimable worth. By the variety of its records and -inventions, literature continually affords the refreshment of change, not -to speak of that variety which may be had so easily by a change of -language when the reader knows several different tongues, and the other -marvellous variety due to difference in the date of books. In fact, -literature affords a far wider variety than conversation itself, for we -can talk only with the living, but literature enables us to descend, like -Ulysses, into the shadowy kingdom of the dead. There is but one defect in -literature,--that the talk is all on one side, so that we are listeners, -as at a sermon or a lecture, and not sharers in some antique symposium, -our own brows crowned with flowers, and our own tongues loosened with -wine. The exercise of the tongue is wanting, and to some it is an -imperious need, so that they will talk to the most uncongenial human -beings, or even to parrots and dogs. If we value books as the great -palliative of solitude and help to mental independence, let us not -undervalue those intelligent periodicals that keep our minds modern and -prevent us from living altogether in some other century than our own. -Periodicals are a kind of correspondence more easily read than manuscript -and involving no obligation to answer. There is also the great palliative -of occasional direct correspondence with those who understand our -pursuits; and here we have the advantage of using our own tongues, not -physically, but at least in an imaginative way. - -A powerful support to some minds is the constantly changing beauty of the -natural world, which becomes like a great and ever-present companion. I am -anxious to avoid any exaggeration of this benefit, because I know that to -many it counts for nothing; and an author ought not to think only of those -who have his own mental constitution; but although natural beauty is of -little use to one solitary mind, it may be like a living friend to -another. As a paragraph of real experience is worth pages of speculation, -I may say that I have always found it possible to live happily in -solitude, provided that the place was surrounded by varied, beautiful, and -changeful scenery, but that in ugly or even monotonous places I have felt -society to be as necessary as it was welcome. Byron's expression,-- - - "I made me friends of mountains," - -and Wordsworth's, - - "Nature never did betray - The heart that loved her," - -are not more than plain statements of the companionship that _some_ minds -find in the beauty of landscape. They are often accused of affectation, -but in truth I believe that we who have that passion, instead of -expressing more than we feel, have generally rather a tendency to be -reserved upon the subject, as we seldom expect sympathy. Many of us would -rather live in solitude and on small means at Como than on a great income -in Manchester. This may be a foolish preference; but let the reader -remember the profound utterance of Blake, that if the fool would but -persevere in his folly he would become wise. - -However powerful may be the aid of books and natural scenery in enabling -us to bear solitude, the best help of all must be found in our occupations -themselves. Steady workers do not need much company. To be occupied with a -task that is difficult and arduous, but that we know to be within our -powers, and to awake early every morning with the delightful feeling that -the whole day can be given to it without fear of interruption, is the -perfection of happiness for one who has the gift of throwing himself -heartily into his work. When night comes he will be a little weary, and -more disposed for tranquil sleep than to "danser jusqu' au jour chez -l'ambassadeur de France." - -This is the best independence,--to have something to do and something that -can be done, and done most perfectly, in solitude. Then the lonely hours -flow on like smoothly gliding water, bearing one insensibly to the -evening. The workman says, "Is my sight failing?" and lo the sun has set! - -There is but one objection to this absorption in worthy toil. It is that -as the day passes so passes life itself, that succession of many days. The -workman thinks of nothing but his work, and finds the time all too short. -At length he suddenly perceives that he is old, and wonders if life might -not have been made to seem a little longer, and if, after all, it has been -quite the best policy always to avoid _ennui_. - - - - -ESSAY III. - -OF PASSIONATE LOVE. - - -The wonder of love is that, for the time being, it makes us ardently -desire the presence of one person and feel indifferent to all others of -her sex. It is commonly spoken of as a delusion, but I do not see any -delusion here, for if the presence of the beloved person satisfies his -craving, the lover gets what he desires and is not more the victim of a -deception than one who succeeds in satisfying any other want. - -Again, it is often said that men are blinded by love, but the fact that -one sees certain qualities in a beloved person need not imply blindness. -If you are in love with a little woman it is not a reason for supposing -her to be tall. I will even venture to affirm that you may love a woman -passionately and still be quite clearly aware that her beauty is far -inferior to that of another whose coming thrills you with no emotion, -whose departure leaves with you no regret. - -The true nature of a profound passion is not to attribute every physical -and mental quality to its object, but rather to think, "Such as she is, -with the endowments that are really her own, I love her above all women, -though I know that she is not so beautiful as some are, nor so learned as -some others." The only real deception to which a lover is exposed is that -he may overestimate the strength of his own passion. If he has not made -this mistake he is not likely to make any other, since, whatever the -indifferent may see, or fail to see, in the woman of his choice, he surely -finds in her the adequate reason for her attraction. - -Love is commonly treated as if it belonged only to the flowering of the -spring-time of life, but strong and healthy natures remain capable of -feeling the passion in great force long after they are supposed to have -left it far behind them. It is, indeed, one of the signs of a healthy -nature to retain for many years the freshness of the heart which makes one -liable to fall in love, as a healthy palate retains the natural early -taste for delicious fruits. - -This freshness of the heart is lost far more surely by debauchery than by -years; and for this reason worldly parents are not altogether dissatisfied -that their sons should "sow their wild oats" in youth, as they believe -that this kind of sowing is a preservative against the dangers of pure -love and an imprudent or unequal marriage. The calculation is well -founded. After a few years of indiscriminate debauchery a young man is -likely to be deadened to the sweet influences of love and therefore able -to conduct himself with steady worldliness, either remaining in celibacy -or marrying for position, exactly as his interests may dictate. - -The case of Shelley is an apt illustration of this danger. He had at the -same time a horror of debauchery and an irresistible natural tendency to -the passion of love. - -From the worldly point of view both his connections were degrading for a -young gentleman of rank. Had he followed the very common course of a -_real_ degradation and married a lady of rank after ten years of -indiscriminate immorality, is it an unjust or an unlikely supposition that -he would have given less dissatisfaction to his friends? - -As to the permanence of love, or its transitoriness, the plain and candid -answer is that there is no real assurance either way. To predict that it -will certainly die after fruition is to shut one's eyes against the -evident fact that men often remain in love with mistresses or wives. On -the other hand, to assume that love is fixed and made permanent in a -magical way by marriage is to assume what would be desirable rather than -what really is. There are no magical incantations by which Love may be -retained, yet sometimes he will rest and dwell with astonishing tenacity -when there seem to be the strongest reasons for his departure. If there -were any ceremony, if any sacrifice could be made at an altar, by which -the capricious little deity might be conciliated and won, the wisest might -hasten to perform that ceremony and offer that acceptable sacrifice; but -he cares not for any of our rites. Sometimes he stays, in spite of -cruelty, misery, and wrong; sometimes he takes flight from the hearth -where a woman sits and grieves alone, with all the attractions of health, -beauty, gentleness, and refinement. - -Boys and girls imagine that love in a poor cottage or a bare garret would -be more blissful than indifference in a palace, and the notion is thought -foolish and romantic by the wise people of the world; but the boys and -girls are right in their estimate of Love's great power of cheering and -brightening existence even in the very humblest situations. The possible -error against which they ought to be clearly warned is that of supposing -that Love would always remain contentedly in the cottage or the garret. -Not that he is any more certain to remain in a mansion in Belgrave Square, -not that a garret with him is not better than the vast Vatican without -him; but when he has taken his flight, and is simply absent, one would -rather be left in comfortable than in beggarly desolation. - -The poets speak habitually of love as if it were a passion that could be -safely indulged, whereas the whole experience of modern existence goes to -show that it is of all passions the most perilous to happiness except in -those rare cases where it can be followed by marriage; and even then the -peril is not ended, for marriage gives no certainty of the duration of -love, but constitutes of itself a new danger, as the natures most disposed -to passion are at the same time the most impatient of restraint. - -There is this peculiarity about love in a well-regulated social state. It -is the only passion that is quite strictly limited in its indulgence. Of -the intellectual passions a man may indulge several different ones either -successively or together; in the ordinary physical enjoyments, such as the -love of active sports or the pleasures of the table, he may carry his -indulgence very far and vary it without blame; but the master passion of -all has to be continually quelled, the satisfactions that it asks for have -to be continually refused to it, unless some opportunity occurs when they -may be granted without disturbing any one of many different threads in the -web of social existence; and these threads, to a lover's eye, seem -entirely unconnected with his hope. - -In stating the fact of these restraints I do not dispute their necessity. -On the contrary, it is evident that infinite practical evil would result -from liberty. Those who have broken through the social restraints and -allowed the passion of love to set up its stormy and variable tyranny in -their hearts have led unsettled and unhappy lives. Even of love itself -they have not enjoyed the best except in those rare cases in which the -lovers have taken bonds upon themselves not less durable than those of -marriage; and even these unions, which give no more liberty than marriage -itself gives, are accompanied by the unsettled feeling that belongs to all -irregular situations. - -It is easy to distinguish in the conventional manner between the lower and -the higher kinds of love, but it is not so easy to establish the real -distinction. The conventional difference is simply between the passion in -marriage and out of it; the real distinction would be between different -feelings; but as these feelings are not ascertainable by one person in the -mind or nerves of another, and as in most cases they are probably much -blended, the distinction can seldom be accurately made in the cases of -real persons, though it is marked trenchantly enough in works of pure -imagination. - -The passion exists in an infinite variety, and it is so strongly -influenced by elements of character which have apparently nothing to do -with it, that its effects on conduct are to a great extent controlled by -them. For example, suppose the case of a man with strong passions combined -with a selfish nature, and that of another with passions equally strong, -but a rooted aversion to all personal satisfactions that might end in -misery for others. The first would ruin a girl with little hesitation; the -second would rather suffer the entire privation of her society by quitting -the neighborhood where she lived. - -The interference of qualities that lie outside of passion is shown very -curiously and remarkably in intellectual persons in this way. They may -have a strong temporary passion for somebody without intellect or culture, -but they are not likely to be held permanently by such a person; and even -when under the influence of the temporary desire they may be clearly aware -of the danger there would be in converting it into a permanent relation, -and so they may take counsel with themselves and subdue the passion or fly -from the temptation, knowing that it would be sweet to yield, but that a -transient delight would be paid for by years of weariness in the future. - -Those men of superior abilities who have bound themselves for life to some -woman who could not possibly understand them, have generally either broken -their bonds afterwards or else avoided as much as possible the -tiresomeness of a _tete-a-tete_, and found in general society the means of -occasionally enduring the dulness of their home. For short and transient -relations the principal charm in a woman is either beauty or a certain -sweetness, but for any permanent relation the first necessity of all is -that she be companionable. - -Passionate love is the principal subject of poets and novelists, who -usually avoid its greatest difficulties by well-known means of escape. -Either the passion finishes tragically by the death of one of the parties, -or else it comes to a natural culmination in their union, whether -according to social order or through a breach of it. In real life the -story is not always rounded off so conveniently. It may happen, it -probably often does happen, that a passion establishes itself where it has -no possible chance of satisfaction, and where, instead of being cut short -by death, it persists through a considerable part of life and embitters -it. These cases are the more unfortunate that hopeless desire gives an -imaginary glory to its own object, and that, from the circumstances of the -case, this halo is not dissipated. - -It is common amongst hard and narrow people, who judge the feelings of -others by their own want of them, to treat all the painful side of passion -with contemptuous levity. They say that people never die for love, and -that such fancies may easily be chased away by the exercise of a little -resolution. The profounder students of human nature take the subject more -seriously. Each of the great poets (including, of course, the author of -the "Bride of Lammermoor," in which the poetical elements are so abundant) -has treated the aching pain of love and the tragedy to which it may lead, -as in the deaths of Haidee, of Lucy Ashton, of Juliet, of Margaret. In -real life the powers of evil do not perceive any necessity for an -artistic conclusion of their work. A wrinkled old maid may still preserve -in the depths of her own heart, quite unsuspected by the young and lively -people about her, the unextinguished embers of a passion that first made -her wretched fifty years before; and in the long, solitary hours of a dull -old age she may live over and over again in memory the brief delirium of -that wild and foolish hope which was followed by years of self-repression. - -Of all the painful situations occasioned by passionate love, I know of -none more lamentable than that of an innocent and honorable woman who has -been married to an unsuitable husband and who afterwards makes the -discovery that she involuntarily loves another. In well-regulated, moral -societies such passions are repressed, but they cannot be repressed -without suffering which has to be endured in silence. The victim is -punished for no fault when none is committed; but she may suffer from the -forces of nature like one who hungers and thirsts and sees a fair banquet -provided, yet is forbidden to eat or drink. It is difficult to suppress -the heart's regret, "Ah, if we had known each other earlier, in the days -when I was free, and it was not wrong to love!" Then there is the haunting -fear that the woful secret may one day reveal itself to others. Might it -not be suddenly and unexpectedly betrayed by a momentary absence of -self-control? This has sometimes happened, and then there is no safety but -in separation, immediate and decided. Suppose a case like the following, -which is said to have really occurred. A perfectly honorable man goes to -visit an intimate friend, walks quietly in the garden one afternoon with -his friend's wife, and suddenly discovers that he is the object of a -passion which, until that moment, she has steadily controlled. One -outburst of shameful tears, one pitiful confession of a life's -unhappiness, and they part forever! This is what happens when the friend -respects his friend and the wife her husband. What happens when both are -capable of treachery is known to the readers of English newspaper reports -and French fictions. - -It seems as if, with regard to this passion, civilized man were placed in -a false position between Nature on the one hand and civilization on the -other. Nature makes us capable of feeling it in very great strength and -intensity, at an age when marriage is not to be thought of, and when there -is not much self-control. The tendency of high civilization is to retard -the time of marriage for men, but there is not any corresponding -postponement in the awakening of the passions. The least civilized classes -marry early, the more civilized later and later, and not often from -passionate love, but from a cool and prudent calculation about general -chances of happiness, a calculation embracing very various elements, and -in itself as remote from passion as the Proverbs of Solomon from the Song -of Songs. It consequently happens that the great majority of young -gentlemen discover early in life that passionate love is a danger to be -avoided, and so indeed it is; but it seems a peculiar misfortune for -civilized man that so natural an excitement, which is capable of giving -such a glow to all his faculties as nothing else can give, an excitement -which exalts the imagination to poetry and increases courage till it -becomes heroic devotion, whilst it gives a glamour of romance to the -poorest and most prosaic existence,--it seems, I say, a misfortune that a -passion with such unequalled powers as these should have to be eliminated -from wise and prudent life. The explanation of its early and inconvenient -appearance may be that before the human race had attained a position of -any tranquillity or comfort, the average life was very short, and it was -of the utmost importance that the flame of existence should be passed on -to another generation without delay. We inherit the rapid development -which saved the race in its perilous past, but we are embarrassed by it, -and instead of elevating us to a more exalted life it often avenges itself -for the refusal of natural activity by its own corruption, the corruption -of the best into the worst, of the fire from heaven into the filth of -immorality. The more this great passion is repressed and expelled, the -more frequent does immorality become. - -Another very remarkable result of the exclusion of passionate love from -ordinary existence is that the idea of it takes possession of the -imagination. The most melodious poetry, the most absorbing fiction, are -alike celebrations of its mysteries. Even the wordless voice of music -wails or languishes for love, and the audience that seems only to hear -flutes and violins is in reality listening to that endless song of love -which thrills through the passionate universe. Well may the rebels against -Nature revolt against the influence of Art! It is everywhere permeated by -passion. The cold marble warms with it, the opaque pigments palpitate -with it, the dull actor has the tones of genius when he wins access to its -perennial inspiration. Even those forms of art which seem remote from it -do yet confess its presence. You see a picture of solitude, and think that -passion cannot enter there, but everything suggests it. The tree bends -down to the calm water, the gentle breeze caresses every leaf, the -white-pated old mountain is visited by the short-lived summer clouds. If, -in the opening glade, the artist has sketched a pair of lovers, you think -they naturally complete the scene; if he has omitted them, it is still a -place for lovers, or has been, or will be on some sweet eve like this. -What have stars and winds and odors to do with love? The poets know all -about it, and so let Shelley tell us:-- - - "I arise from dreams of Thee - In the first sweet sleep of night, - When the winds are breathing low - And the stars are shining bright: - I arise from dreams of thee, - And a spirit in my feet - Has led me--who knows how?-- - To thy chamber-window, Sweet! - The wandering airs they faint - On the dark, the silent stream; - The champak odors fail - Like sweet thoughts in a dream; - The nightingale's complaint - It dies upon her heart, - As I must die on thine - O beloved as thou art!" - - - - -ESSAY IV. - -COMPANIONSHIP IN MARRIAGE. - - -If the reader has ever had for a travelling-companion some person totally -unsuited to his nature and quite unable to enter into the ideas that -chiefly interest him, unable, even, to _see_ the things that he sees and -always disposed to treat negligently or contemptuously the thoughts and -preferences that are most his own, he may have some faint conception of -what it must be to find one's self tied to an unsuitable companion for the -tedious journey of this mortal life; and if, on the other hand, he has -ever enjoyed the pleasure of wandering through a country that interested -him along with a friend who could understand his interest, and share it, -and whose society enhanced the charm of every prospect and banished -dulness from the dreariest inns, he may in some poor and imperfect degree -realize the happiness of those who have chosen the life-companion wisely. - -When, after an experiment of months or years, the truth becomes plainly -evident that a great mistake has been committed, that there is really no -companionship, that there never will be, never can be, any mental -communion between the two, but that life in common is to be like a stiff -morning call when the giver and the receiver of the visit are beating -their brains to find something to say, and dread the gaps of silence, then -in the blank and dreary outlook comes the idea of separation, and -sometimes, in the loneliness that follows, a wild rebellion against social -order, and a reckless attempt to find in some more suitable union a -compensation for the first sad failure. - -The world looks with more indulgence on these attempts when it sees reason -to believe that the desire was for intellectual companionship than when -inconstant passions are presumed to have been the motives; and it has so -happened that a few persons of great eminence have set an example in this -respect which has had the unfortunate effect of weakening in a perceptible -degree the ancient social order. It is not possible, of course, that there -can be many cases like that of George Eliot and Lewes, for the simple -reason that persons of their eminence are so rare; but if there were only -a few more cases of that kind it is evident that the laws of society would -either be confessedly powerless, or else it would be necessary to modify -them and bring them into harmony with new conditions. The importance of -the case alluded to lies in the fact that the lady, though she was -excluded (or willingly excluded herself) from general society, was still -respected and visited not only by men but by ladies of blameless life. Nor -was she generally regarded as an immoral person even by the outer world. -The feeling about her was one of regret that the faithful companionship -she gave to Lewes could not be legally called a marriage, as it was -apparently a model of what the legal relation ought to be. The object of -his existence was to give her every kind of help and to spare her every -shadow of annoyance. He read to her, wrote letters for her, advised her on -everything, and whilst full of admiration for her talents was able to do -something for their most effectual employment. She, on her part, rewarded -him with that which he prized above riches, the frank and affectionate -companionship of an intellect that it is needless to describe and of a -heart full of the most lively sympathy and ready for the most romantic -sacrifices. - -In the preceding generation we have the well-known instances of Shelley, -Byron, and Goethe, all of whom sought companionship outside of social -rule, and enjoyed a sort of happiness probably not unembittered by the -false position in which it placed them. The sad story of Shelley's first -marriage, that with Harriett Westbrook, is one of the best instances of a -deplorable but most natural mistake. She is said to have been a charming -person in many ways. "Harriett," says Mr. Rossetti, "was not only -delightful to look at but altogether most agreeable. She dressed with -exquisite neatness and propriety; her voice was pleasant and her speech -cordial; her spirits were cheerful and her manners good. She was well -educated, a constant and agreeable reader; adequately accomplished in -music." But in spite of these qualities and talents, and even of -Harriett's willingness to learn, Shelley did not find her to be -companionable for him; and he unfortunately did discover that another -young lady, Mary Godwin, was companionable in the supreme degree. That -this latter idea was not illusory is proved by his happy life afterwards -with Mary so far as a life could be happy that was poisoned by a tragic -recollection.[3] Before that miserable ending, before the waters of the -Serpentine had closed over the wretched existence of Harriett, Shelley -said, "Every one who knows me must know that the partner of my life should -be one who can feel poetry and understand philosophy. Harriett is a noble -animal, but she can do neither." Here we have a plain statement of that -great need for companionship which was a part of Shelley's nature. It is -often connected with its apparent opposite, the love of solitude. Shelley -was a lover of solitude, which means that he liked full and adequate human -intercourse so much that the insufficient imitation of it was intolerable -to him. Even that sweetest solitude of all, when he wrote the "Revolt of -Islam" in summer shades, to the sound of rippling waters, was willingly -exchanged for the society of the one dearest and best companion:-- - - "So now my summer-task is ended, Mary, - And I return to thee, mine own heart's home; - As to his Queen some victor Knight of Faery, - Earning bright spoils for her enchanted dome. - Nor thou disdain that, ere my fame become - A star among the stars of mortal night - (If it indeed may cleave its native gloom), - Its doubtful promise thus I would unite - With thy beloved name, thou child of love and light. - - "The toil which stole from thee so many an hour - Is ended, and the fruit is at thy feet. - No longer where the woods to frame a bower - With interlaced branches mix and meet, - Or where, with sound like many voices sweet, - Waterfalls leap among wild islands green - Which framed for my lone boat a lone retreat - Of moss-grown trees and weeds, shall I be seen: - But beside thee, where still my heart has ever been." - -It is not surprising that the companionship of conjugal life should be -like other friendships in this, that a first experiment may be a failure -and a later experiment a success. We are all so fallible that in matters -of which we have no experience we generally commit great blunders. -Marriage unites all the conditions that make a blunder probable. Two young -people, with very little conception of what an unsurmountable barrier a -difference of idiosyncrasy may be, are pleased with each other's youth, -health, natural gayety, and good looks, and fancy that it would be -delightful to live together. They marry, and in many cases discover that -somehow, in spite of the most meritorious efforts, they are not -companions. There is no fault on either side; they try their best, but the -invisible demon, incompatibility, is too strong for them. - -From all that we know of the characters of Lord and Lady Byron it seems -evident that they never were likely to enjoy life together. He committed -the mistake of marrying a lady on the strength of her excellent -reputation. "She has talents and excellent qualities," he said before -marriage; as if all the arts and sciences and all the virtues put together -could avail without the one quality that is _never_ admired, _never_ -understood by others,--that of simple suitableness. She was "a kind of -pattern in the North," and he "heard of nothing but her merits and her -wonders." He did not see that all these excellencies were dangers, that -the consciousness of them and the reputation for them would set the lady -up on a judgment seat of her own, from which she would be continually -observing the errors, serious or trivial, of that faulty specimen of the -male sex that it was her lofty mission to correct or to condemn. All this -he found out in due time and expressed in the bitter lines,-- - - "Oh! she was perfect past all parallel - Of any modern female saint's comparison - - * * * * * - - Perfect she was." - -The story of his subsequent life is too well known to need repetition -here. All that concerns our present subject is that ultimately, in the -Countess Guiccioli, he found the woman who had, for him, that one quality, -suitableness, which outweighs all the perfections. She did not read -English, but, though ignorant alike of the splendor and the tenderness of -his verse, she knew the nature of the man; and he enjoyed in her society, -probably for the first time in his life, the most exquisite pleasure the -masculine mind can ever know, that of being looked upon by a feminine -intelligence with clear sight and devoted affection at the same time. The -relation that existed between Byron and the Countess Guiccioli is one -outside of our morality, a revenge of Nature against a marriage system -that could take a girl not yet sixteen and make her the third wife of a -man more than old enough to be her grandfather. In Italy this revenge of -Nature against a bad social system is accepted, within limits, and is an -all but inevitable consequence of marriages like that of Count Guiccioli, -which, however they may be approved by custom and consecrated by religious -ceremonies, remain, nevertheless, amongst the worst (because the most -unnatural) immoralities. All that need be said in his young wife's defence -is that she followed the only rule habitually acted upon by mankind, the -custom of her country and her class, and that she acted, from beginning to -end, with the most absolute personal abnegation. On Byron her influence -was wholly beneficial. She raised him from a mode of life that was -deplored by all his true friends, to the nearest imitation of a happy -marriage that was accessible to him; but the irregularity of their -position brought upon them the usual Nemesis, and after a broken -intercourse, during which he never could feel her to be really his own, he -went to Missolonghi and wrote, under the shadow of Death,-- - - "The hope, the fear, the jealous care, - The exalted portion of the pain - And power of love, I cannot share, - But wear the chain." - -The difference between Byron and Goethe in regard to feminine -companionship lies chiefly in this,--that whilst Byron does not seem to -have been very susceptible of romantic love (though he was often entangled -in _liaisons_ more or less degrading), Goethe was constantly in love and -imaginative in his passions, as might be expected from a poet. He appears -to have encouraged himself in amorous fancies till they became almost or -quite realities, as if to give himself that experience of various feeling -out of which he afterwards created poems. He was himself clearly conscious -that his poetry was a transformation of real experiences into artistic -forms. The knowledge that he came by his poetry in this way would -naturally lead him to encourage rather than stifle the sentiments which -gave him his best materials. It is quite within the comprehensive powers -of a complex nature that a poet might lead a dual life; being at the same -time a man, ardent, very susceptible of all passionate emotions, and a -poet, observing this passionate life and accumulating its results. In all -this there is very little of what occupies us just now, the search for a -satisfactory companionship. The woman with whom he most enjoyed that was -the Baroness von Stein, but even this friendship was not ultimately -satisfying and had not a permanent character. It lasted ten or eleven -years, till his return from the Italian journey, when "she thought him -cold, and her resource was--reproaches. The resource was more feminine -than felicitous. Instead of sympathizing with him in his sorrow at leaving -Italy, she felt the regret as an offence; and perhaps it was; but a truer, -nobler nature would surely have known how to merge its own pain in -sympathy with the pain of one beloved. He regretted Italy; she was not a -compensation to him; she saw this, and her self-love suffered."[4] And so -it ended. "He offered friendship in vain; he had wounded the self-love of -a vain woman." Goethe's longest connection was with Christiane Vulpius, a -woman quite unequal to him in station and culture, and in that respect -immeasurably inferior to the Baroness von Stein, but superior to her in -the power of affection, and able to charm and retain the poet by her -lively, pleasant disposition and her perfect constancy. Gradually she rose -in his esteem, and every year increased her influence over him. From the -precarious position of a mistress out of his house she first attained that -of a wife in all but the legal title, as he received her under his roof in -defiance of all the good society of Weimar; and lastly she became his -lawful wife, to the still greater scandal of the polite world. It may even -be said that her promotion did not end here, for the final test of love is -death; and when Christiane died she left behind her the deep and lasting -sorrow that is happiness still to those who feel it, though happiness in -its saddest form. - -The misfortune of Goethe appears to have been that he dreaded and avoided -marriage in early life, perhaps because he was instinctively aware of his -own tendency to form many attachments of limited duration; but his -treatment of Christiane Vulpius, so much beyond any obligations which, -according to the world's code, he had incurred, is sufficient proof that -there was a power of constancy in his nature; and if he had married early -and suitably it is possible that this constancy might have stayed and -steadied him from the beginning. It is easy to imagine that a marriage -with a cultivated woman of his own class would have given him, in course -of time, by mutual adaptation, a much more complete companionship than -either of those semi-associations with the Frau von Stein and Christiane, -each of which only included a part of his great nature. Christiane, -however, had the better part, his heartfelt affection. - -The case of John Stuart Mill and the remarkable woman by whose side he -lies buried at Avignon, is the most perfect instance of thorough -companionship on record; and it is remarkable especially because men of -great intellectual power, whose ways of thinking are quite independent of -custom, and whose knowledge is so far outside the average as to carry -their thoughts continually beyond the common horizon, have an extreme -difficulty in associating themselves with women, who are naturally -attached to custom, and great lovers of what is settled, fixed, limited, -and clear. The ordinary disposition of women is to respect what is -authorized much more than what is original, and they willingly, in the -things of the mind, bow before anything that is repeated with -circumstances of authority. An isolated philosopher has no costume or -surroundings to entitle him to this kind of respect. He wears no vestment, -he is not magnified by any architecture, he is not supported by superiors -or deferred to by subordinates. He stands simply on his abilities, his -learning, and his honesty. There is, however, this one chance in his -favor, that a certain natural sympathy may possibly exist between him and -some woman on the earth,--if he could only find her,--and this woman would -make him independent of all the rest. It was Stuart Mill's rare -good-fortune to find this one woman, early in life, in the person of Mrs. -Taylor; and as his nature was intellectual and affectionate rather than -passionate, he was able to rest contented with simple friendship for a -period of twenty years. Indeed this friendship itself, considered only as -such, was of very gradual growth. "To be admitted," he wrote, "into any -degree of mental intercourse with a being of these qualities, could not -but have a most beneficial influence on my development; though the effect -was only gradual, and many years elapsed before her mental progress and -mine went forward in the complete companionship they at last attained. The -benefit I received was far greater than any I could hope to give.... What -I owe, even intellectually, to her, is in its detail almost infinite." - -Mill speaks of his marriage, in 1851 (I use his words), to the lady whose -incomparable worth had made her friendship the greatest source to him both -of happiness and of improvement during many years in which they never -expected to be in any closer relation to one another. "For seven and a -half years," he goes on to say, "that blessing was mine; for seven and a -half only! I can say nothing which could describe, even in the faintest -manner, what that loss was and is. But because I know that she would have -wished it, I endeavor to make the best of what life I have left and to -work on for her purposes with such diminished strength as can be derived -from thoughts of her and communion with her memory.... Since then I have -sought for such alleviation as my state admitted of, by the mode of life -which most enabled me to feel her still near me. I bought a cottage as -close as possible to the place where she is buried, and there her daughter -(my fellow-sufferer and now my chief comfort) and I live constantly during -a great portion of the year. My objects in life are solely those which -were hers; my pursuits and occupations those in which she shared, or -sympathized, and which are indissolubly associated with her. Her memory is -to me a religion, and her approbation the standard by which, summing up as -it does all worthiness, I endeavor to regulate my life." - -The examples that I have selected (all purposely from the real life of -well-known persons) are not altogether encouraging. They show the -difficulty that there is in finding the true companion. George Eliot found -hers at the cost of a rebellion against social order to which, with her -regulated mind and conservative instincts, she must have been by nature -little disposed. Shelley succeeded only after a failure and whilst the -failure still had rights over his entire existence. His life was like one -of those pictures in which there is a second work over a first, and the -painter supposes the first to be entirely concealed, which indeed it is -for a little time, but it reappears afterwards and spoils the whole. -Nothing could be more unsatisfactory than the domestic arrangements of -Byron. He married a lady from a belief in her learning and virtue, only to -find that learning and virtue were hard stones in comparison with the -daily bread of sympathy. Then, after a vain waste of years in error, he -found true love at last, but on terms which involved too heavy sacrifices -from her who gave it, and procured him no comfort, no peace, if indeed -his nature was capable of any restfulness in love. Goethe, after a number -of attachments that ended in nothing, gave himself to one woman by his -intelligence and to another by his affections, not belonging with his -whole nature to either, and never in his long life knowing what it is to -have equal companionship in one's own house. Stuart Mill is contented, for -twenty years, to be the esteemed friend of a lady married to another, -without hope of any closer relation; and when his death permits them to -think of marriage, they have only seven years and a half before them, and -he is forty-five years old. - -Cases of this kind would be discouraging in the extreme degree, were it -not that the difficulty is exceptional. High intellect is in itself a -peculiarity, in a certain sense it is really an eccentricity, even when so -thoroughly sane and rational as in the cases of George Eliot, Goethe, and -Mill. It is an eccentricity in this sense, that its mental centre does not -coincide with that of ordinary people. The mental centre of ordinary -people is simply the public opinion, the common sense, of the class and -locality in which they live, so that, to them, the common sense of people -in another class, another locality, appears irrational or absurd. The -mental centre of a superior person is not that of class and locality. -Shelley did not belong to the English aristocracy, though he was born in -it; his mind did not centre itself in aristocratic ideas. George Eliot did -not belong to the middle class of the English midlands, nor Stuart Mill to -the London middle classes. So far as Byron belonged to the aristocracy it -was a mark of inferiority in him, owing to a touch of vulgarity in his -nature, the same vulgarity which made him believe that he could not be a -proper sort of lord without a prodigal waste of money. Yet even Byron was -not centred in local ideas; that which was best in him, his enthusiasm for -Greece, was not an essential part of Nottinghamshire common sense. Goethe -lived much more in one locality, and even in a small place; but if -anything is remarkable in him it is his complete independence of Weimar -ideas. It was the Duke, his friend and master, not the public opinion of -Weimar, that allowed Goethe to be himself. He refused even to be classed -intellectually, and did not recognize the vulgar opinion that a poet -cannot be scientific. In all these cases the mental centre was not in any -local common sense. It was a result of personal studies and observations -acting upon an individual idiosyncrasy. - -We may now perceive how infinitely easier it is for ordinary people to -meet and be companionable than for these rare and superior minds. Ordinary -people, if bred in the same neighborhood and class, are sure to have a -great fund of ideas in common, all those ideas that constitute the local -common sense. If you listen attentively to their conversations you will -find that they hardly ever go outside of that. They mention incidents and -actions, and test them one after another by a tacit reference to the -public opinion of the place. Therefore they have a good chance of -agreeing, of considering each other reasonable; and this is why it is a -generally received opinion that marriages between people of the same -locality and the same class offer the greatest probability of happiness. -So they do, in ordinary cases, but if there is the least touch of any -original talent or genius in one of the parties, it is sure to result in -many ideas that will be outside of any local common sense, and then the -other party, living in that sense, will consider those ideas peculiar, and -perhaps deplorable. Here, then, are elements of dissension lying quite -ready like explosive materials, and the merest accident may shatter in a -moment the whole fabric of affection. To prevent such an accident an -artificial kind of intercourse is adopted which is not real companionship, -or anything resembling it. - -The reader may imagine, and has probably observed in real life, a marriage -in which the husband is a man of original power, able to think forcibly -and profoundly, and the wife a gentle being quite unable to enter into any -thought of that quality. In cases of that kind the husband may be -affectionate and even tender, but he is careful to utter nothing beyond -the safest commonplaces. In the presence of his wife he keeps his mind -quite within the circle of custom. He has, indeed, no other resource. -Custom and commonplace are the protection of the intelligent against -misapprehension and disapproval. - -Marriages of this unequal kind are an imitation of those equal marriages -in which both parties live in the local common sense; but there is this -vast difference between them, that in the imitation the more intelligent -of the two parties has to stifle half his nature. An intelligent man has -to make up his mind in early life whether he has courage enough for such -a sacrifice or not. Let him try the experiment of associating for a short -time with people who cannot understand him, and if he likes the feeling of -repression that results from it, if he is able to stop short always at the -right moment, if he can put his knowledge on the shelf as one puts a book -in a library, then perhaps he may safely undertake the long labor of -companionship with an unsuitable wife. - -This is sometimes done in pure hopelessness of ever finding a true mate. A -man has no belief in any real companionship, and therefore simply conforms -to custom in his marriage, as Montaigne did, allying himself with some -young lady who is considered in the neighborhood to be a suitable match -for him. This is the _mariage de convenance_. Its purposes are -intelligible and attainable. It may add considerably to the dignity and -convenience of life and to that particular kind of happiness which results -from satisfaction with our own worldly prudence. There is also the -probability that by perfect courtesy, by a scrupulous observance of the -rules of intercourse between highly civilized persons who are not -extremely intimate, the parties who contract a marriage of this kind may -give each other the mild satisfactions that are the reward of the -well-bred. There is a certain pleasure in watching every movement of an -accomplished lady, and if she is your wife there may also be a certain -pride. She receives your guests well; she holds her place with perfect -self-possession at your table and in her drawing-room; she never commits a -social solecism; and you feel that you can trust her absolutely. Her -private income is a help in the maintenance of your establishment and so -increases your credit in the world. She gives you in this way a series of -satisfactions that may even, in course of time, produce rather -affectionate feelings. If she died you would certainly regret her loss, -and think that life was, on the whole, decidedly less agreeable without -her. - -But alas for the dreams of youth if this is all that is to be gained by -marriage! Where is the sweet friend and companion who was to have -accompanied us through prosperous or adverse years, who was to have -charmed and consoled us, who was to have given us the infinite happiness -of being understood and loved at the same time? Were all those dreams -delusions? Is the best companionship a mere fiction of the fancy, not -existing anywhere upon the earth? - -I believe in the promises of Nature. I believe that in every want there is -the promise of a possible satisfaction. If we are hungry there is food -somewhere, if we are thirsty there is drink. But in the things of the -world there is often an indication of order rather than a realization of -it, so that in the confusion of accidents the hungry man may be starving -in a beleaguered city and the thirsty man parched in the Sahara. All that -the wants indicate is that their satisfaction is possible in nature. Let -us believe that, for every one, the true mate exists somewhere in the -world. She is worth seeking for at any cost of trouble or expense, worth -travelling round the globe to find, worth the endurance of labor and pain -and privation. Men suffer all this for objects of far inferior -importance; they risk life for the chance of a ribbon, and sacrifice -leisure and peace for the smallest increase of social position. What are -these vanities in comparison with the priceless benefit, the continual -blessing, of having with you always the one person whose presence can -deliver you from all the evils of solitude without imposing the -constraints and hypocrisies of society? With her you are free to be as -much yourself as when alone; you say what you think and she understands -you. Your silence does not offend her; she only thinks that there will be -time enough to talk together afterwards. You know that you can trust her -love, which is as unfailing as a law of nature. The differences of -idiosyncrasy that exist between you only add interest to your intercourse -by preventing her from becoming a mere echo of yourself. She has her own -ways, her own thoughts that are not yours and yet are all open to you, so -that you no longer dwell in one intellect only but have constant access to -a second intellect, probably more refined and elegant, richer in what is -delicate and beautiful. There you make unexpected discoveries; you find -that the first instinctive preference is more than justified by merits -that you had not divined. You had hoped and trusted vaguely that there -were certain qualities; but as a painter who looks long at a natural scene -is constantly discovering new beauties whilst he is painting it, so the -long and loving observation of a beautiful human mind reveals a thousand -unexpected excellences. Then come the trials of life, the sudden -calamities, the long and wearing anxieties. Each of these will only reveal -more clearly the wonderful endurance, fidelity, and fortitude that there -is in every noble feminine nature, and so build up on the foundation of -your early love an unshakable edifice of esteem and respect and love -commingled, for which in our modern tongue we have no single term, but -which our forefathers called "worship." - - - - -ESSAY V. - -FAMILY TIES. - - -One of the most remarkable differences between the English and some of the -Continental nations is the comparative looseness of family ties in -England. The apparent difference is certainly very great; the real -difference is possibly not so great. It may be that a good deal of that -warm family affection which we are constantly hearing of in France is only -make-believe, but the keeping-up of a make-believe is often favorable to -the reality. In England a great deal of religion is mere outward form; but -to be surrounded by the constant observance of outward form is a great -practical convenience to the genuine religious sentiment where it exists. - -In boyhood we suppose that all gentlemen of mature age who happen to be -brothers must naturally have fraternal feelings; in mature life we know -the truth, having discovered that there are many brothers between whom no -sentiment of fraternity exists. A foreigner who knows England well, and -has observed it more carefully than we ourselves do, remarked to me that -the fraternal relationship is not generally a cause of attachment in -England, though there may be cases of exceptional affection. It certainly -often happens that brothers live contentedly apart and do not seem to feel -the need of intercourse, or that such intercourse as they have has no -appearance of cordiality. A very common cause of estrangement is a natural -difference of class. One man is so constituted as to feel more at ease in -a higher class, and he rises; his brother feels more at ease in a lower -class, adopts its manners, and sinks. After a few years have passed the -two will have acquired such different habits, both of thinking and living, -that they will be disqualified for equal intercourse. If one brother is a -gentleman in tastes and manners and the other not a gentleman, the -vulgarity of the coarser nature will be all the more offensive to the -refined one that there is the troublesome consciousness of a very near -relationship and of a sort of indefinite responsibility. - -The frequency of coolness between brothers surprises us less when we -observe how widely they may differ from each other in mental and physical -constitution. One may be a sportsman, traveller, man of the world; another -a religious recluse. One may have a sensitive, imaginative nature and be -keenly alive to the influences of literature, painting, and music; his -brother may be a hard, practical man of business, with a conviction that -an interest in literary and artistic pursuits is only a sign of weakness. - -The extreme uncertainty that always exists about what really constitutes -suitableness is seen as much between brothers as between other men; for we -sometimes see a beautiful fraternal affection between brothers who seem to -have nothing whatever in common, and sometimes an equal affection appears -to be founded upon likeness. - -Jealousy in its various forms is especially likely to arise between -brothers, and between sisters also for the same reason, which is that -comparisons are constantly suggested and even made with injudicious -openness by parents and teachers, and by talkative friends. The -development of the faculties in youth is always extremely interesting, and -is a constant subject of observation and speculation. If it is interesting -to on-lookers, it is still more likely to be so to the young persons most -concerned. They feel as young race-horses might be expected to feel -towards each other if they could understand the conversations of trainers, -stud-owners, and grooms. - -If a full account of family life could be generally accessible, if we -could read autobiographies written by the several members of the same -family, giving a sincere and independent account of their own youth, it -would probably be found in most cases that jealousies were easily -discoverable. They need not be very intense to create a slight fissure of -separation that may be slowly widened afterwards. - -If you listen attentively to the conversation of brothers about brothers, -of sisters about sisters, you will probably detect such little jealousies -without difficulty. "My sister," said a lady in my hearing, "was very much -admired when she was young, _but she aged prematurely_." Behind this it -was easy to read the comparison with self, with a constitution less -attractive to others but more robust and durable, and there was a faint -reverberation of girlish jealousy about attentions paid forty years -before. - -The jealousies of youth are too natural to deserve any serious blame, but -they may be a beginning of future coolness. A boy will seem to praise the -talents of his brother with the purpose of implying that the facilities -given by such talents make industry almost superfluous, whilst his own -more strenuous efforts are not appreciated as they deserve. Instead of -soothing and calming these natural jealousies some parents irritate and -inflame them. They make wounding remarks that produce evil in after years. -I have seen a sensitive boy wince under cutting sarcasms that he will -remember till his hair is gray. - -If there are fraternal jealousies in boyhood, when the material comforts -and the outward show of existence are the same for brothers, much more are -these jealousies likely to be accentuated in after-life, when differences -of worldly success, or of inherited fortune, establish distinctions so -obvious as to be visible to all. The operation of the aristocratic custom -by which eldest sons are made very much richer than their brethren can -scarcely be in favor of fraternal intimacy. No general rule can be -established, because characters differ so widely. An eldest brother _may_ -be so amiable, so truly fraternal, that the cadets instead of feeling envy -of his wealth may take a positive pride in it; still, the natural effect -of creating such a vast inequality is to separate the favored heir from -the less-favored younger sons. I leave the reader to think over instances -that may be known to him. Amongst those known to me I find several cases -of complete or partial suspension of intercourse and others of manifest -indifference and coolness. One incident recurs to my memory after a lapse -of thirty years. I was present at the departure of a young friend for -India when his eldest brother was too indifferent to get up a little -earlier to see him off, and said, "Oh, you're going, are you? Well, -good-by, John!" through his bedroom door. The lad carried a wound in his -heart to the distant East. - -There is nothing in the mere fact of fraternity to establish friendship. -The line of "In Memoriam,"-- - - "More than my brothers are to me," - -is simply true of every real friend, unless friendship adds itself to -brotherhood, in which case the intimacy arising from a thousand details of -early life in common, from the thorough knowledge of the same persons and -places, and from the memories of parental affection, must give a rare -completeness to friendship itself and make it in these respects even -superior to marriage, which has the great defect that the associations of -early life are not the same. I remember a case of wonderfully strong -affection between two brothers who were daily companions till death -separated them; but they were younger sons and their incomes were exactly -alike; their tastes, too, and all their habits were the same. The only -other case that occurs to me as comparable to this one was also of two -younger sons, one of whom had an extraordinary talent for business. They -were partners in trade, and no dissension ever arose between them, because -the superiority of the specially able man was affectionately recognized -and deferred to by the other. If, however, they had not been partners it -is possible that the brilliant success of one brother might have created -a contrast and made intercourse more constrained. - -The case of John Bright and his brother may be mentioned, as he has made -it public in one of his most charming and interesting speeches. His -political work has prevented him from laboring in his business, but his -brother and partner has affectionately considered him an active member of -the firm, so that Mr. Bright has enjoyed an income sufficient for his -political independence. In this instance the comparatively obscure brother -has shown real nobility of nature. Free from the jealousy and envy which -would have vexed a small mind in such a position he has taken pleasure in -the fame of the statesman. It is easy to imagine the view that a mean mind -would have taken of a similar situation. Let us add that the statesman -himself has shown true fraternal generosity of another kind, and perhaps -of a more difficult kind, for it is often easier to confer an obligation -than to accept it heartily. - -It has often been a subject of astonishment to me that between very near -relations a sensitive feeling about pecuniary matters should be so lively -as it is. I remember an instance in the last generation of a rich man in -Cheshire who made a present of ten thousand pounds to a lady nearly -related to him. He was very wealthy, she was not; the sum would never be -missed by him, whilst to her it made a great difference. What could be -more reasonable than such a correction of the inequalities of fortune? -Many people would have refused the present, out of pride, but it was much -kinder to accept it in the same good spirit that dictated the offer. On -the other hand, there are poor gentlefolks whose only fault is a sense of -independence, so _farouche_ that nobody can get them to accept anything of -importance, and any good that is done to them has to be plotted with -consummate art. - -A wonderful light is thrown upon family relations when we become -acquainted with the real state of those family pecuniary transactions that -are not revealed to the public. The strangest discovery is the widely -different ways in which pecuniary obligations are estimated by different -persons, especially by different women. Men, I believe, take them rather -more equally; but as women go by sentiment they have a tendency to -extremes, either exaggerating the importance of an obligation when they -like to feel very much obliged, or else adopting the convenient theory -that the generous person is fulfilling a simple duty, and that there is no -obligation whatever. One woman will go into ecstasies of gratitude because -a brother makes her a present of a few pounds; and another will never -thank a benefactor who allows her, year by year, an annuity far larger -than is justified by his precarious professional income. In one real case -a lady lived for many years on her brother's generosity and was openly -hostile to him all the time. After her death it was found that she had -insulted him in her will. In another case a sister dependent on her -brother's bounty never thanked him or even acknowledged the receipt of a -sum of money, but if the money was not sent to the day she would at once -write a sharp letter full of bitter reproaches for his neglect. The marvel -is the incredible patience with which toiling men will go on sending the -fruits of their industry to relations who do not even make a pretence of -affection. - -A frequent cause of hostility between very near relations is the -_restriction_ of generosity. So long as you set no limit to your giving it -is well, you are doing your duty; but the moment you fix a limit the case -is altered; then all past sacrifices go for nothing, your glory has set in -gloom, and you will be considered as more niggardly than if you had not -begun to be generous. Here is a real case, out of many. A man makes bad -speculations, but conceals the full extent of his losses, and by the -influence of his wife obtains important sums from a near relation of hers -who half ruins himself to save her. When the full disaster is known the -relation stops short and declines to ruin himself entirely; she then -bitterly reproaches him for his selfishness. A very short time before -writing the present Essay I was travelling, and met an old friend, a -bachelor of limited means but of a most generous disposition, the kindest -and most affectionate nature I ever knew in the male sex. I asked for news -about his brother. "I never see him now; a coldness has sprung up between -us."--"It must be his fault, then, for I am sure it did not originate with -you."--"The truth is, he got into money difficulties, so I gave him a -thousand pounds. He thought that under the circumstances I ought to have -done more and broke off all intercourse. I really believe that if I had -given him nothing we should have been more friendly at this day." - -The question how far we are bound to allow family ties to regulate our -intercourse is not easily treated in general terms, though it seems -plainer in particular cases. Here is one for the reader's consideration. - -Owing to natural refinement, and to certain circumstances of which he -intelligently availed himself, one member of a family is a cultivated -gentleman, whose habitual ways of thinking are of rather an elevated kind, -and whose manners and language are invariably faultless. He is blessed -with very near relations whose principal characteristic is loud, -confident, overwhelming vulgarity. He is always uncomfortable with these -relations. He knows that the ways of thinking and speaking which are -natural to him will seem cold and uncongenial to them; that not one of his -thoughts can be exactly understood by them; that his deficiency in what -they consider heartiness is a defect he cannot get over. On the other -hand, he takes no interest in what they say, because their opinions on all -the subjects he cares about are too crude, and their information too -scanty or erroneous. If he said what he felt impelled to say, all his talk -would be a perpetual correction of their clumsy blunders. He has, -therefore, no resource but to repress himself and try to act a part, the -part of a pleased companion; but this is wearisome, especially if -prolonged. The end is that he keeps out of their way, and is set down as a -proud, conceited person, and an unkind relative. In reality he is simply -refined and has a difficulty in accommodating himself to the ways of all -vulgar society whatever, whether composed of his own relations or of -strangers. Does he deserve to be blamed for this? Certainly not. He has -not the flexibility, the dramatic power, to adapt himself to a lower -state of civilization; that is his only fault. His relations are persons -with whom, if they were not relations, nobody would expect him to -associate; but because he and they happen to be descended from a common -ancestor he is to maintain an impossible intimacy. He wishes them no harm; -he is ready to make sacrifices to help them; his misfortune is that he -does not possess the humor of a Dickens that would have enabled him to -find amusement in their vulgarity, and he prefers solitude to that -infliction. - -There is a French proverb, "Les cousins ne sont pas parents." The exact -truth would appear to be rather that cousins are relations or not just as -it pleases them to acknowledge the relationship, and according to the -natural possibilities of companionship between the parties. If they are of -the same class in society (which does not always happen), and if they have -pursuits in common or can understand each other's interests, and if there -is that mysterious suitableness which makes people like to be together, -then the fact of cousinship is seized upon as a convenient pretext for -making intercourse more frequent, more intimate, and more affectionate; -but if there is nothing to attract one cousin to another the relationship -is scarcely acknowledged. Cousins are, or are not, relations just as they -find it agreeable to themselves. It need hardly be added that it is a -general though not an invariable rule that the relationship is better -remembered on the humbler side. The cousinly degree may be felt to be very -close under peculiar circumstances. An only child looks to his cousins -for the brotherly and sisterly affection that fate has denied him at home, -and he is not always disappointed. Even distant cousins may be truly -fraternal, just as first cousins may happen to be very distant, the -relationship is so variable and elastic in its nature. - -Unmarried people have often a great vague dread of their future wife's -relations, even when the lady has not yet been fixed upon, and married -people have sometimes found the reality more terrible even than their -gloomy anticipation. And yet it may happen that some of these dreaded new -relations will be unexpectedly valuable and supply elements that were -grievously wanting. They may bring new life into a dull house, they may -enliven the sluggish talk with wit and information, they may take a too -thoughtful and studious man out of the weary round of his own ideas. They -may even in course of time win such a place in one's affection that if -they are taken away by death they will leave a great void and an enduring -sorrow. I write these lines from a sweet and sad experience.[5] - -Intellectual men are, more than others, liable to a feeling of -dissatisfaction with their relations because they want intellectual -sympathy and interest, which relations hardly ever give. The reason is -extremely simple. Any special intellectual pursuit is understood only by a -small select class of its own, and our relations are given us out of the -general body of society without any selection, and they are not very -numerous, so that the chances against our finding intellectual sympathy -amongst them are calculably very great. As we grow older we get accustomed -to this absence of sympathy with our pursuits, and take it as a matter of -course; but in youth it seems strange that what we feel and know to be so -interesting should have no interest for those nearest to us. Authors -sometimes feel a little hurt that their nearest relations will not read -their books, and are but dimly aware that they have written any books at -all; but do they read books of the same class by other writers? As an -author you are in the same position that other authors occupy, but with -this difference, which is against you, that familiarity has made you a -commonplace person in your own circle, and that is a bad opening for the -reception of your higher thoughts. This want of intellectual sympathy does -not prevent affection, and we ought to appreciate affection at its full -value in spite of it. Your brother or your cousin may be strongly attached -to you personally, with an old love dating from your boyhood, but he may -separate _you_ (the human creature that he knows) from the author of your -books, and not feel the slightest curiosity about the books, believing -that he knows you perfectly without them, and that they are only a sort of -costume in which you perform before the public. A female relative who has -given up her mind to the keeping of some clergyman, may scrupulously avoid -your literature in order that it may not contaminate her soul, and yet she -may love you still in a painful way and be sincerely sorry that you have -no other prospect but that of eternal punishment. - -I have sometimes heard the question proposed whether relations or friends -were the more valuable as a support and consolation. Fate gives us our -relations, whilst we select our friends; and therefore it would seem at -first sight that the friends must be better adapted for us; but it may -happen that we have not selected with great wisdom, or that we have not -had good opportunities for making a choice really answering to our deepest -needs. Still, there must have been mutual affinity of some kind to make a -friendship, whilst relations are all like tickets in a lottery. It may -therefore be argued that the more relations we have, the better, because -we are more likely to meet with two or three to love us amongst fifty than -amongst five. - -The peculiar peril of blood-relationship is that those who are closely -connected by it often permit themselves an amount of mutual rudeness -(especially in the middle and lower classes) which they never would think -of inflicting upon a stranger. In some families people really seem to -suppose that it does not matter how roughly they treat each other. They -utter unmeasured reproaches about trifles not worth a moment's anger; they -magnify small differences that only require to be let alone and forgotten, -or they relieve the monotony of quarrels with an occasional fit of the -sulks. Sometimes it is an irascible father who is always scolding, -sometimes a loud-tongued matron shrieks "in her fierce volubility." Some -children take up the note and fire back broadside for broadside; others -wait for a cessation in contemptuous silence and calmly disregard the -thunder. Family life indeed! domestic peace and bliss! Give me, rather, -the bachelor's lonely hearth with a noiseless lamp and a book! The manners -of the ill-mannered are never so odious, unbearable, exasperating, as they -are to their own nearest kindred. How is a lad to enjoy the society of his -mother if she is perpetually "nagging" and "nattering" at him? How is he -to believe that his coarse father has a tender anxiety for his welfare -when everything that he does is judged with unfatherly harshness? Those -who are condemned to live with people for whom scolding and quarrelling -are a necessary of existence must either be rude in self-defence or take -refuge in a sullen and stubborn taciturnity. Young people who have to live -in these little domestic hells look forward to any change as a desirable -emancipation. They are ready to go to sea, to emigrate. I have heard of -one who went into domestic service under a feigned name that he might be -out of the range of his brutal father's tongue. - -The misery of uncongenial relations is caused mainly by the irksome -consciousness that they are obliged to live together. "To think that there -is so much space upon the earth, that there are so many houses, so many -rooms, and yet that I am so unfortunate as to be compelled to live in the -same lodging with this uncivilized, ill-conditioned fellow! To think that -there are such vast areas of tranquil silence, and yet that I am compelled -to hear the voice of that scolding woman!" This is the feeling, and the -relief would be temporary separation. In this, as in almost everything -that concerns human intercourse, the rich have an immense advantage, as -they can take only just so much of each other's society as they find by -experience to be agreeable. They can quietly, and without rudeness, avoid -each other by living in different houses, and even in the same house they -can have different apartments and be very little together. Imagine the -difference between two rich brothers, each with his suite of rooms in a -separate tower of the paternal castle, and two very poor ones, -inconveniently occupying the same narrow, uncomfortable bed, and unable to -remain in the wretched paternal tenement without being constantly in each -other's way. Between these extremes are a thousand degrees of more or less -inconvenient nearness. Solitude is bad for us, but we need a margin of -free space. If we are to be crowded let it be as the stars are crowded. -They look as if they were huddled together, but every one of them has his -own clear space in the illimitable ether. - - - - -ESSAY VI. - -FATHERS AND SONS. - - -There is a certain unsatisfactoriness in this relation in our time which -is felt by fathers and often avowed by them when they meet, though it does -not occupy any conspicuous place in the literature of life and manners. It -has been fully treated by M. Legouve, the French Academician, in his own -lively and elegant way; but he gave it a volume, and I must here confine -myself to the few points which can be dealt with in the limits of a short -Essay. - -We are in an interregnum between two systems. The old system, founded on -the stern authority of the father, is felt to be out of harmony with the -amenity of general social intercourse in modern times and also with the -increasing gentleness of political governors and the freedom of the -governed. It is therefore, by common consent, abandoned. Some new system -that may be founded upon a clear intelligence of both the paternal and the -filial relations has yet to come into force. Meanwhile, we are trying -various experiments, suggested by the different characters and -circumstances of fathers and sons, each father trying his own experiments, -and we communicate to each other such results as we arrive at. - -It is obvious that the defect here is the absence of a settled public -opinion to which both parties would feel bound to defer. Under the old -system the authority of the father was efficiently maintained, not only by -the laws, but by that general consensus of opinion which is far more -powerful than law. The new system, whatever it may be, will be founded on -general opinion again, but our present experimental condition is one of -anarchy. - -This is the real cause of whatever may be felt as unsatisfactory in the -modern paternal and filial relations. It is not that fathers have become -more unjust or sons more rebellious. - -The position of the father was in old times perfectly defined. He was the -commander, not only armed by the law but by religion and custom. -Disobedience to his dictates was felt to be out of the question, unless -the insurgent was prepared to meet the consequences of open mutiny. The -maintenance of the father's authority depended only on himself. If he -abdicated it through indolence or weakness he incurred moral reprobation -not unmingled with contempt, whilst in the present day reprobation would -rather follow a new attempt to vindicate the antique authority. - -Besides this change in public opinion there is a new condition of paternal -feeling. The modern father, in the most civilized nations and classes, has -acquired a sentiment that appears to have been absolutely unknown to his -predecessors: he has acquired a dislike for command which increases with -the age of the son; so that there is an unfortunate coincidence of -increasing strength of will on the son's part with decreasing disposition -to restrain it on the father's part. What a modern father really desires -is that a son should go right of his own accord, and if not quite of his -own accord, then in consequence of a little affectionate persuasion. This -feeling would make command unsatisfactory to us, even if it were followed -by a military promptitude of obedience. We do not wish to be like -captains, and our sons like privates in a company; we care only to -exercise a certain beneficent influence over them, and we feel that if we -gave military orders we should destroy that peculiar influence which is of -the most fragile and delicate nature. - -But now see the unexpected consequences of our modern dislike to command! -It might be argued that there is a certain advantage on our side from the -very rarity of the commands we give, which endows them with extraordinary -force. Would it not be more accurate to say that as we give orders less -and less our sons become unaccustomed to receive orders from us, and if -ever the occasion arises when we _must_ give them a downright order it -comes upon their feelings with a harshness so excessive that they are -likely to think us tyrannical, whereas if we had kept up the old habits of -command such orders would have seemed natural and right, and would not -have been less scrupulously obeyed? - -The paternal dislike to give orders personally has had a peculiar effect -upon education. We are not yet quite imbecile enough to suppose that -discipline can be entirely dispensed with; and as there is very little of -it in modern houses it has to be sought elsewhere, so boys are placed -more and more completely under the authority of schoolmasters, often -living at such a distance from the father of the family that for several -months at a time he can exercise no direct influence or authority over his -own children. This leads to the establishment of a peculiar boyish code of -justice. Boys come to think it not unjust that the schoolmaster should -exercise authority, when if the father attempted to exercise authority of -equal rigor, or anything approaching it, they would look upon him as an -odious domestic tyrant, entirely forgetting that any power to enforce -obedience which is possessed by the schoolmaster is held by him -vicariously as the father's representative and delegate. From this we -arrive at the curious and unforeseen conclusion that the modern father -only exercises _strong_ authority through another person who is often a -perfect stranger and whose interest in the boy's present and future -well-being is as nothing in comparison with the father's anxious and -continual solicitude. - -The custom of placing the education of sons entirely in the hands of -strangers is so deadly a blow to parental influence that some fathers have -resolutely rebelled against it and tried to become themselves the -educators of their children. James Mill is the most conspicuous instance -of this, both for persistence and success. His way of educating his -illustrious son has often been coarsely misrepresented as a merciless -system of cram. The best answer to this is preserved for us in the words -of the pupil himself. He said expressly: "Mine was not an education of -cram," and that the one cardinal point in it, the cause of the good it -effected, was that his father never permitted anything he learnt to -degenerate into a mere exercise of memory. He greatly valued the training -he had received, and fully appreciated its utility to him in after-life. -"If I have accomplished anything," he says, "I owe it, amongst other -fortunate circumstances, to the fact that through the early training -bestowed on me by my father I started, I may fairly say, with an advantage -of a quarter of a century over my contemporaries." - -But though in this case the pupil's feeling in after-life was one of -gratitude, it may be asked what were his filial sentiments whilst this -paternal education was going forward. This question also is clearly and -frankly answered by Stuart Mill himself. He says that his father was -severe; that his authority was deficient in the demonstration of -tenderness, though probably not in the reality of it; that "he resembled -most Englishmen in being ashamed of the signs of feeling, and by the -absence of demonstration starving the feelings themselves." Then the son -goes on to say that it was "impossible not to feel true pity for a father -who did, and strove to do, so much for his children, who would have so -valued their affection, yet who must have been constantly feeling that -fear of him was drying it up at its source." And we probably have the -exact truth about Stuart Mill's own sentiments when he says that the -younger children loved his father tenderly, "and if I cannot say so much -of myself I was always loyally devoted to him." - -This contains the central difficulty about paternal education. If the -choice were left to boys they would learn nothing, and you cannot make -them work vigorously "by the sole force of persuasion and soft words." -Therefore a severe discipline has to be established, and this severity is -incompatible with tenderness; so that in order to preserve the affection -of his children the father intrusts discipline to a delegate. - -But if the objection to parental education is clear in Mill's case, so are -its advantages, and especially the one inestimable advantage that the -father was able to impress himself on his son's mind and to live -afterwards in his son's intellectual life. James Mill did not _abdicate_, -as fathers generally do. He did not confine paternal duties to the simple -one of signing checks. And if it is not in our power to imitate him -entirely, if we have not his profound and accurate knowledge, if we have -not his marvellous patience, if it is not desirable that we should take -upon ourselves alone that immense responsibility which he accepted, may we -not imitate him to such a degree as to secure _some_ intellectual and -moral influence over our own offspring and not leave them entirely to the -teaching of the schoolfellow (that most influential and most dangerous of -all teachers), the pedagogue, and the priest? - -The only practical way in which this can be done is for the father to act -within fixed limits. May he not reserve to himself some speciality? He can -do this if he is himself master of some language or science that enters -into the training of his son; but here again certain difficulties present -themselves. - -By the one vigorous resolution to take the entire burden upon his own -shoulders James Mill escaped minor embarrassments. It is the _partial_ -education by the father that is difficult to carry out with steadiness and -consistency. First, as to place of residence. If your son is far away -during his months of work, and at home only for vacation pleasures, what, -pray, is your hold upon him? He escapes from you in two directions, by -work and by play. I have seen a Highland gentleman who, to avoid this and -do his duty to his sons, quitted a beautiful residence in magnificent -scenery to go and live in the dull and ugly neighborhood of Rugby. It is -not convenient or possible for every father to make the same sacrifice, -but if you are able to do it other difficulties remain. Any speciality -that you may choose will be regarded by your son as a trifling and -unimportant accomplishment in comparison with Greek and Latin, because -that is the school estimate; and if you choose either Greek or Latin your -scholarship will be immediately pitted against the scholarship of -professional teachers whose more recent and more perfect methods will -place you in a position of inferiority, instantly perceived by your pupil, -who will estimate you accordingly. The only two cases I have ever -personally known in which a father taught the classical languages failed -in the object of increasing the son's affection and respect, because, -although the father had been quite a first-rate scholar in his time, his -ways of teaching were not so economical of effort as are the professional -ways; and the boys perceived that they were not taking the shortest cut to -a degree. - -If, to avoid this comparison, you choose something outside the school -curriculum, the boy will probably consider it an unfair addition to the -burden of his work. His view of education is not your view. _You_ think it -a valuable training or acquirement; _he_ considers it all task-work, like -the making of bricks in Egypt; and his notion of justice is that he ought -not to be compelled to make more bricks than his class-fellows, who are -happy in having fathers too indolent or too ignorant to trouble them. If, -therefore, you teach him something outside of what his school-fellows do, -he does not think, "I get the advantage of a wider education than theirs;" -but he thinks, "My father lays an imposition upon me, and my -school-fellows are lucky to escape it." - -In some instances the father chooses a modern language as the thing that -he will teach; but he finds that as he cannot apply the school discipline -(too harsh and unpaternal for use at home), there is a quiet, passive -resistance that will ultimately defeat him unless he has inexhaustible -patience. He decrees, let us suppose, that French shall be spoken at -table; but the chief effect of his decree is to reveal great and -unsuspected powers of taciturnity. Who could be such a tyrant as to find -fault with a boy because he so modestly chooses to be silent? Speech may -be of silver, but silence is of gold, and it is especially beautiful and -becoming in the young. - -Seeing that everything in the way of intellectual training is looked upon -by boys as an unfair addition to school-work, some fathers abandon that -altogether, and try to win influence over their sons by initiating them -into sports and pastimes. Just at first these happy projects appear to -unite the useful with the agreeable; but as the youthful nature is much -better fitted for sports and pastimes than middle-age can pretend to be, -it follows that the pupil very soon excels the master in these things, and -quite gets the upper hand of him and offers him advice, or else dutifully -(but with visible constraint) condescends to accommodate himself to the -elder man's inferiority; so that perhaps upon the whole it may be that -sports and pastimes are not the field of exertion in which paternal -authority is most likely to preserve a dignified preponderance. - -It is complacently assumed by men of fifty that over-ripe maturity is the -superior of adolescence; but an impartial balance of advantages shows that -some very brilliant ones are on the side of youth. At fifty we may be -wiser, richer, more famous than a clever boy; but he does not care much -for our wisdom, he thinks that expenses are a matter of course, and our -little rushlights of reputations are as nothing to the future electric -illumination of his own. In bodily activity we are to boyhood what a -domestic cow is to a wild antelope; and as boys rightly attach an immense -value to such activity they generally look upon us, in their secret -thoughts, as miserable old "muffs." I distinctly remember, when a boy, -accompanying a middle-aged gentleman to a country railway station. We were -a little late, and the distance was long, but my companion could not be -induced to go beyond his regular pace. At last we were within half a mile, -and the steam of the locomotive became visible. "Now let us run for it," I -cried, "and we shall catch the train!" Run?--_he_ run, indeed! I might as -well have asked the Pope to run in the streets of Rome! My friend kept in -silent solemnity to his own dignified method of motion, and we were left -behind. To this day I well remember the feelings of contemptuous pity and -disgust that filled me as I looked upon that most respectable gentleman. I -said not a word; my demeanor was outwardly decorous; but in my secret -heart I despised my unequal companion with the unmitigated contempt of -youth. - -Even those physical exertions that elderly men are equal to--the ten -miles' walk, the ride on a docile hunter, the quiet drive or sail--are so -much below the achievements of fiery youth that they bring us no more -credit than sitting in a chair. Though our efforts seem so respectable to -ourselves that we take a modest pride therein, a young man can only look -upon them with indulgence. - -In the mental powers elderly men are inferior on the very point that a -young man looks to first. His notion of cleverness, by which he estimates -all his comrades, is not depth of thought, nor wisdom, nor sagacity; it is -simply rapidity in learning, and there his elders are hopelessly behind -him. They may extend or deepen an old study, but they cannot attack a new -one with the conquering spirit of youth. _Too late! too late! too late!_ -is inscribed, for them, on a hundred gates of knowledge. The young man, -with his powers of acquisition urging him like unsatisfied appetites, sees -the gates all open and believes they are open for him. He believes all -knowledge to be his possible province, knowing not yet the chilling, -disheartening truth that life is too short for success in any but a very -few directions. Confident in his powers, the young man prepares himself -for difficult examinations, and he knows that we should be incapable of -the same efforts. - -Not having succeeded very well with attempts to create intercourse through -studies and amusements, the father next consoles himself with the idea -that he will convert his son into an intimate friend; but shortly -discovers that there are certain difficulties, of which a few may be -mentioned here. - -Although the relationship between father and son is a very near -relationship, it may happen that there is but little likeness of inherited -idiosyncrasy, and therefore that the two may have different and even -opposite tastes. By the law or accident of atavism a boy may resemble one -of his grandfathers or some remoter ancestor, or he may puzzle theorists -about heredity by characteristics for which there is no known precedent in -his family. Both his mental instincts and processes, and the conclusions -to which they lead him, may be entirely different from the habits and -conclusions of his father; and if the father is so utterly unphilosophical -as to suppose (what vulgar fathers constantly _do_ suppose) that his own -mental habits and conclusions are the right ones, and all others wrong, -then he will adopt a tone of authority towards his son, on certain -occasions, which the young man will excusably consider unbearable and -which he will avoid by shunning the paternal society. Even a very mild -attempt on the father's part to impose his own tastes and opinions will be -quietly resented and felt as a reason for avoiding him, because the son is -well aware that he cannot argue on equal terms with a man who, however -amiable he chooses to be for the moment, can at any time arm himself with -the formidable paternal dignity by simply taking the trouble to assume it. - -The mere difference of age is almost an insuperable barrier to -comradeship; for though a middle-aged man may be cheerful, his -cheerfulness is "as water unto wine" in comparison with the merriment of -joyous youth. So exuberant is that youthful gayety that it often needs to -utter downright nonsense for the relief of its own high spirits, and feels -oppressed in sober society where nonsense is not permitted. Any elderly -gentleman who reads this has only to consult his own recollections, and -ask himself whether in youth he did not often say and do utterly -irrational things. If he never did, he never was really young. I hardly -know any author, except Shakspeare, who has ventured to reproduce, in its -perfect absurdity, the full flow of youthful nonsense. The criticism of -our own age would scarcely tolerate it in books, and might accuse the -author himself of being silly; but the thing still exists abundantly in -real life, and the wonder is that it is sometimes the most intelligent -young men who enjoy the most witless nonsense of all. When we have lost -the high spirits that gave it a relish, it becomes very wearisome if -prolonged. Young men instinctively know that we are past the appreciation -of it. - -Another very important reason why fathers and sons have a difficulty in -maintaining close friendships is the steady divergence of their -experience. - -In childhood, the father's knowledge of places, people, and things -includes the child's knowledge, as a large circle includes a little one -drawn within it. Afterwards the boy goes to school, and has comrades and -masters whom his father does not personally know. Later on, he visits many -places where his father has never been. - -The son's life may socially diverge so completely from that of the father -that he may really come to belong to a different class in society. His -education, habits, and associates may be different from those of his -father. If the family is growing richer they are likely to be (in the -worldly sense) of a higher class; if it is becoming poorer they will -probably be of a lower class than the father was accustomed to in his -youth. The son may feel more at ease than his father does in very refined -society, or, on the other hand, he may feel refined society to be a -restraint, whilst he only enjoys himself thoroughly and heartily amongst -vulgar people that his father would carefully avoid. - -Divergence is carried to its utmost by difference of professional -training, and by the professional habit of seeing things that follows from -it. If a clergyman puts his son into a solicitor's office, he need not -expect that the son will long retain those views of the world that prevail -in the country parsonage where he was born. He will acquire other views, -other mental habits, and he will very soon believe himself to possess a -far greater and more accurate knowledge of mankind, and of affairs, than -his father ever possessed. - -Even if the son is in the father's own profession he will have new views -of it derived from the time at which he learns it, and he is likely to -consider his father's ideas as not brought down to the latest date. He -will also have a tendency to look to strangers as greater authorities than -his father, even when they are really on the same level, because they are -not lowered in his estimate by domestic intimacy and familiarity. Their -opinion will be especially valued by the young man if it has to be paid -for, it being an immense depreciation of the paternal counsel that it is -always given gratuitously. - -If the father has bestowed upon his son what is considered a "complete" -education, and if he himself has not received the same "complete" -education in his youth, the son is likely to accept the conventional -estimate of education because it is in his own favor, and to estimate his -father as an "uneducated" or a "half-educated" man, without taking into -much account the possibility that his father may have developed his -faculties by mental labor in other ways. The conventional division between -"educated" and "uneducated" men is so definite that it is easily seen. The -educated are those who have taken a degree at one of the Universities; the -rest are uneducated, whatever may be their attainments in the sciences, in -modern languages, or in the fine arts. - -There are differences of education even more serious than this, because -more real. A man may be not only conventionally uneducated, but he may be -really and truly uneducated, by which I mean that his faculties may never -have been drawn out by intellectual discipline of any kind whatever. It is -hard indeed for a well-educated young man to live under the authority of -a father of that kind, because he has constantly to suppress reasons and -motives for opinions and decisions that such a father could not possibly -enter into or understand. The relationship is equally hard for the father, -who must be aware, with the lively suspicion of the ignorant, that his son -is not telling him all his thought but only the portion of it which he -thinks fit to reveal, and that much more is kept in reserve. He will ask, -"Why this reserve towards _me_?" and then he will either be profoundly -hurt and grieved by it at times, or else, if of another temper, he will be -irritated, and his irritation may find harsh utterance in words. - -An educated man can never rid himself of his education. His views of the -most ordinary things are different from the views of the uneducated. If he -were to express them in his own language they would say, "Why, how he -talks!" and consider him "a queer chap;" and if he keeps them to himself -they say he is very "close" and "shut up." There is no way out of the -dilemma except this, that kind and tender feelings may exist between -people who have nothing in common intellectually, but these are only -possible when all pretence to paternal authority is abandoned. - -Our forefathers had an idea with regard to the opinions of their children -that in these days we must be content to give up. They thought that all -opinions were by nature hereditary, and it was considered an act of -disloyalty to ancestors if a descendant ventured to differ from them. The -profession of any but the family opinions was so rare as to be almost -inconceivable; and if in some great crisis the head of a family took a -new departure in religion or politics the new faith substituted itself for -the old one as the hereditary faith of the family. I remember hearing an -old gentleman (who represented old English feeling in great perfection) -say that it was totally unintelligible to him that a certain Member of -Parliament could sit on the Liberal side of the House of Commons. "I -cannot understand it," he said; "I knew his father intimately, and he was -always a good Tory." The idea that the son might have opinions of his own -was unthinkable. - -In our time we are beginning to perceive that opinions cannot be imposed, -and that the utmost that can be obtained by brow-beating a son who differs -from ourselves is that he shall make false professions to satisfy us. -Paternal influence may be better employed than in encouraging habits of -dissimulation. - -M. Legouve attaches great importance to the religious question as a cause -of division between fathers and sons because in the present day young men -so frequently imbibe opinions which are not those of their parents. It is -not uncommon, in France, for Catholic parents to have unbelieving sons; -and the converse is also seen, but more frequently in the case of -daughters. As opinions are very freely expressed in France (except where -external conformity is an affair of caste), we find many families in which -Catholicism and Agnosticism have each their open and convinced adherents; -yet family affection does not appear to suffer from the difference, or is, -at least, powerful enough to overcome it. In old times this would have -been impossible. The father would have resented a difference of opinion -in the son as an offence against himself. - -A very common cause of division between father and son, in old times, was -the following. - -The father expressed a desire of some kind, mildly and kindly perhaps, yet -with the full expectation that it should be attended to; but the desire -was of an exorbitant nature, in this sense, that it involved something -that would affect the whole course of the young man's future life in a -manner contrary to his natural instincts. The father was then grievously -hurt and offended because the son did not see his way to the fulfilment of -the paternal desire. - -The strongest cases of this kind were in relation to profession and -marriage. The father wished his son to enter into some trade or profession -for which he was completely unsuited, or he desired him to marry some -young lady for whom he had not the slightest natural affinity. The son -felt the inherent difficulties and refused. Then the father thought, "I -only ask of my son _this one simple thing_, and he denies me." - -In these cases the father was _not_ asking for one thing, but for -thousands of things. He was asking his son to undertake many thousands of -separate obligations, succeeding each other till the far-distant date of -his retirement from the distasteful profession, or his release, by his own -death or hers, from the tedious companionship of the unloved wife. -Sometimes the concession would have involved a long series of hypocrisies, -as for example when a son was asked to take holy orders, though with -little faith and no vocation. - -Peter the Great is the most conspicuous example in history of a father -whose idiosyncrasy was not continued in his son, and who could not -understand or tolerate the separateness of his son's personality. They -were not only of independent, but even of opposite natures. "Peter was -active, curious, and energetic. Alexis was contemplative and reflective. -He was not without intellectual ability, but he liked a quiet life. He -preferred reading and thinking. At the age when Peter was making -fireworks, building boats, and exercising his comrades in mimic war, -Alexis was pondering over the 'Divine Manna,' reading the 'Wonders of -God,' reflecting on Thomas a Kempis's 'Imitation of Christ,' and making -excerpts from Baronius. While it sometimes seemed as if Peter was born too -soon for the age, Alexis was born too late. He belonged to the past -generation. Not only did he take no interest in the work and plans of his -father, but he gradually came to dislike and hate them.... He would -sometimes even take medicine to make himself ill, so that he might not be -called upon to perform duties or to attend to business. Once, when he was -obliged to go to the launch of a ship, he said to a friend, 'I would -rather be a galley-slave, or have a burning fever, than be obliged to go -there.'"[6] - -In this case one is sorry for both father and son. Peter was a great -intelligent barbarian of immense muscular strength and rude cerebral -energy. Alexis was of the material from which civilization makes priests -and students, or quiet conventional kings, but he was even more unlike -Peter than gentle Richard Cromwell was unlike authoritative Oliver. The -disappointment to Peter, firmly convinced, as all rude natures are, of the -perfection of his own personality, and probably quite unable to appreciate -a personality of another type, must have been the more bitter that his -great plans for the future required a vigorous, practically minded -innovator like himself. At length the difference of nature so exasperated -the Autocrat that he had his son three times tortured, the third time in -his own presence and with a fatal result. This terrible incident is the -strongest expression known to us of a father's vexation because his son -was not of his own kind. - -Another painful case that will be long remembered, though the character of -the father is less known to us, is that of the poet Shelley and Sir -Timothy. The little that we do know amounts to this, that there was a -total absence of sympathy. Sir Timothy committed the very greatest of -paternal mistakes in depriving himself of the means of direct influence -over his son by excluding him from his own home. Considering that the -supreme grief of unhappy fathers is the feebleness of their influence over -their sons, they can but confirm and complete their sorrow by annihilating -that influence utterly and depriving themselves of all chance of -recovering and increasing it in the future. This Sir Timothy did after the -expulsion from Oxford. In his position, a father possessing some skill and -tact in the management of young men at the most difficult and wayward -period of their lives would have determined above all things to keep his -son as much as possible within the range of his own control. Although -Shelley afterwards returned to Field Place for a short time, the scission -had been made; there was an end of real intercourse between father and -son; the poet went his own way, married Harriett Westbrook, and lived -through the rest of his short, unsatisfactory existence as a homeless, -wandering _declasse_. - -This Essay has hitherto run upon the discouraging side of the subject, so -that it ought not to end without the happier and more hopeful -considerations. - -Every personality is separate from others, and expects its separateness to -be acknowledged. When a son avoids his father it is because he fears that -the rights of his own personality will be disregarded. There are fathers -who habitually treat their sons with sneering contempt. I have myself seen -a young man of fair common abilities treated with constant and undisguised -contempt by a clever, sardonic father who went so far as to make brutal -allusions to the shape of the young man's skull! He bore this treatment -with admirable patience and unfailing gentleness, but suffered from it -silently. Another used to laugh at his son, and called him "Don Quixote" -whenever the lad gave expression to some sentiment above the low -Philistine level. A third, whom I knew well, had a disagreeable way of -putting down his son because he was young, telling him that up to the age -of forty a man "might have impressions, but could not possibly have -opinions." "My father," said a kind-hearted English gentleman to me, "was -the most thoroughly unbearable person I ever met with in my life." - -The frank recognition of separate personality, with all its rights, would -stop this brutality at once. There still remains the legitimate power of -the father, which he ought not to abdicate, and which is of itself enough -to prevent the freedom and equality necessary to perfect friendship. This -reason, and the difference of age and habits, make it impossible that -young men and their fathers should be comrades; but a relation may be -established between them which, if rightly understood, is one of the most -agreeable in human existence. - -To be satisfactory it must be founded, on the father's side, on the idea -that he is repaying to posterity what he has received from his own -parents, and not on any selfish hope that the descending stream of benefit -will flow upwards again to him. Then he must not count upon affection, nor -lay himself out to win it, nor be timidly afraid of losing it, but found -his influence upon the firmer ground of respect, and be determined to -deserve and have _that_, along with as much unforced affection as the son -is able naturally and easily to give. It is not desirable that the -affection between father and son should be so tender, on either side, as -to make separation a constant pain, for such is human destiny that the two -are generally fated to see but little of each other. - -The best satisfaction for a father is to deserve and receive loyal and -unfailing respect from his son. - -No, this is not quite the best, not quite the supreme satisfaction of -paternity. Shall I reveal the secret that lies in silence at the very -bottom of the hearts of all worthy and honorable fathers? Their -profoundest happiness is to be able themselves to respect their sons. - - - - -ESSAY VII. - -THE RIGHTS OF THE GUEST. - - -If hospitality were always perfectly practised it would be the strongest -of all influences in favor of rational liberty, because the host would -learn to respect it in the persons of his guests, and thence, by extension -of habit, amongst others who could never be his guests. - -Hospitality educates us in respect for the rights of others. This is the -substantial benefit that the host ought to derive from his trouble and his -outlay, but the instincts of uncivilized human nature are so powerful that -this education has usually been partial and incomplete. The best part of -it has been systematically evaded, in this way. People were aware that -tolerance and forbearance ought to be exercised towards guests, and so, to -avoid the hard necessity of exercising these qualities when they were -really difficult virtues, they practised what is called exclusiveness. In -other words, they accepted as guests only those who agreed with their own -opinions and belonged to their own class. By this arrangement they could -be both hospitable and intolerant at the same time. - -If, in our day, the barrier of exclusiveness has been in many places -broken down, there is all the greater need for us to remember the true -principle of hospitality. It might be forgotten with little inconvenience -in a very exclusive society, but if it were forgotten in a society that is -not exclusive the consequences would be exactly the opposite of what every -friend of civilization most earnestly desires. Social intercourse, in that -case, so far from being an education in respect for the rights of others, -would be an opportunity for violating them. The violation might become -habitual; and if it were so this strange result would follow, that society -would not be a softening and civilizing influence, but the contrary. It -would accustom people to treat each other with disregard, so that men -would be hardened and brutalized by it as schoolboys are made ruder by the -rough habits of the playground, and urbanity would not be cultivated in -cities, but preserved, if at all, in solitude. - -The two views concerning the rights of the guest may be stated briefly as -follows:-- - -1. The guest is bound to conform in all things to the tastes and customs -of his host. He ought to find or feign enjoyment in everything that his -host imposes upon him; and if he is unwilling to do this in every -particular it is a breach of good manners on his part, and he must be made -to suffer for it. - -2. The guest should be left to be happy in his own way, and the business -of the host is to arrange things in such a manner that each guest may -enjoy as much as possible his own peculiar kind of happiness. - -When the first principle was applied in all its rigor, as it often used to -be applied, and as I have myself seen it applied, the sensation -experienced by the guest on going to stay in certain houses was that of -entirely losing the direction of himself. He was not even allowed, in the -middle classes, to have any control over his own inside, but had to eat -what his host ordered him to eat, and to drink the quantity of wine and -spirits that his host had decided to be good for him. Resistance to these -dictates was taken as an offence, as a crime against good fellowship, or -as a reflection on the quality of the good things provided; and -conversation paused whilst the attention of the whole company was -attracted to the recalcitrant guest, who was intentionally placed in a -situation of extreme annoyance and discomfort in order to compel him to -obedience. The victim was perhaps half an invalid, or at least a man who -could only keep well and happy on condition of observing a certain -strictness of regimen. He was then laughed at for idle fears about his -health, told that he was a hypochondriac, and recommended to drink a -bottle of port every day to get rid of such idle nonsense. If he declined -to eat twice or three times as much as he desired, the hostess expressed -her bitter regret that she had not been able to provide food and cookery -to his taste, thus placing him in such a position that he must either eat -more or seem to condemn her arrangements. It was very common amongst -old-fashioned French _bourgeois_ in the last generation for the hostess -herself to heap things on the guest's plate, and to prevent this her poor -persecuted neighbor had to remove the plate or turn it upside down. The -whole habit of pressing was dictated by selfish feeling in the hosts. They -desired to see their guests devour voraciously, in order that their own -vanity might be gratified by the seeming appreciation of their things. -Temperate men were disliked by a generation of topers because their -temperance had the appearance of a silent protest or censure. The -discomfort inflicted by these odious usages was so great that many people -either injured their health in society or kept out of it in self-defence, -though they were not sulky and unsociable by nature, but would have been -hearty lovers of human intercourse if they could have enjoyed it on less -unacceptable terms. - -The wholesome modern reaction against these dreadful old customs has led -some hosts into another error. They sometimes fail to understand the great -principle that it is the guest alone who ought to be the judge of the -quantity that he shall eat and drink. The old pressing hospitality assumed -that the guest was a child, too shame-faced to take what it longed for -unless it was vigorously encouraged; but the new hospitality, if indeed it -still in every case deserves that honored name, does really sometimes -appear to assume (I do not say always, or often, but in extreme cases) -that the guest is a fool, who would eat and drink more than is good for -him if he were not carefully rationed. Such hosts forget that excess is -quite a relative term, that each constitution has its own needs. Beyond -this, it is well known that the exhilaration of social intercourse enables -people who meet convivially to digest and assimilate, without fatigue, a -larger amount of nutriment than they could in dull and perhaps dejected -solitude. Hence it is a natural and long-established habit to eat and -drink more when in company than alone, and the guest should have the -possibility of conforming to this not irrational old custom until, in -Homer's phrase, he has "put from him the desire of meat and drink." - -Guests have no right whatever to require that the host should himself eat -and drink to keep them in countenance. There used to be a belief (it -lingers still in the middle classes and in country places) that the laws -of hospitality required the host to set what was considered "a good -example," or, in other words, to commit excesses himself that his friends -might not be too much ashamed of theirs. It is said that the Emperor -William of Germany never eats in public at all, but sits out every banquet -before an empty plate. This, though quite excusable in an old gentleman, -obliged to live by rule, must have rather a chilling effect; and yet I -like it as a declaration of the one great principle that no person at -table, be he host or guest, ought to be compelled to inflict the very -slightest injury upon his own health, or even comfort. The rational and -civilized idea is that food and wines are simply placed at the disposal of -the people present to be used, or abstained from, as they please. - -It is clear that every invited guest has a right to expect some slight -appearance of festivity in his honor. In coarse and barbarous times the -idea of festivity is invariably expressed by abundance, especially by vast -quantities of butcher's meat and wine, as we always find it in Homer, -where princes and gentlemen stuff themselves like savages; but in refined -times the notion of quantity has lost its attraction, and that of -elegance takes its place. In a highly civilized society nothing conveys so -much the idea of festivity as plenty of light and flowers, with beautiful -table-linen and plate and glass. These, with some extra delicacy in -cookery and wines, are our modern way of expressing welcome. - -There is a certain kind of hospitality in which the host visibly declines -to make any effort either of trouble or expense, but plainly shows by his -negligence that he only tolerates the guest. All that can be said of such -hospitality as this is that a guest who respects himself may endure it -silently for once, but would not be likely to expose himself to it a -second time. - -There is even a kind of hospitality which seems to find a satisfaction in -letting the guest perceive that the best in the house is not offered to -him. He is lodged in a poor little room, when there are noble bedchambers, -unused, in the same house; or he is allowed to hire a vehicle in the -village, to make some excursion, when there are horses in the stables -plethoric from want of exercise. In cases of this kind it is not the -privation of luxury that is hard to bear, but the indisposition to give -honor. The guest feels and knows that if a person of very high rank came -to the house everything would be put at his disposal, and he resents the -slight put upon his own condition. A rich English lady, long since dead, -had a large mansion in the country with fine bedrooms; so she found a -pleasure in keeping those rooms empty and sending guests to sleep at the -top of the house in little bare and comfortless chambers that the -architect had intended for servants. I have heard of a French house where -there are fine state apartments, and where all ordinary guests are poorly -lodged, and fed in a miserable _salle a manger_. An aggravation is when -the host treats himself better than his guest. Lady B. invited some -friends to a country-house; and they drove to another country-house in the -neighborhood in two carriages, one containing Lady B. and one friend, the -other the remaining guests. Her ladyship was timid and rather selfish, as -timid people often are; so when they reached the avenue she began to fancy -that both carriages could not safely turn in the garden, and she -despatched her footman to the second carriage, with orders that her guests -(amongst whom was a lady very near her confinement) were to get out and -walk to the house, whilst she drove up to the door in state. - -A guest has an absolute right to have his religious and political opinions -respected in his presence, and this is not invariably done. The rule more -generally followed seems to be that class opinions only deserve respect -and not individual opinions. The question is too large to be treated in a -paragraph, but I should say that it is a clear breach of hospitality to -utter anything in disparagement of any opinion whatever that is known to -be held by any one guest present, however humble may be his rank. I have -sometimes seen the known opinions of a guest attacked rudely and directly, -but the more civilized method is to do it more artfully through some other -person who is not present. For example, a guest is known to think, on -important subjects, very much as Mr. Herbert Spencer does; then the host -will contrive to talk at him in talking about Spencer. A guest ought not -to bear this ungenerous kind of attack. If such an occasion arises he -should declare his opinions plainly and with firmness, and show his -determination to have them respected whilst he is there, whatever may be -said against them in his absence. If he cannot obtain this degree of -courtesy, which is his right, let him quit the house and satisfy his -hunger at some inn. The innkeeper will ask for a little money, but he -demands no mental submission. - -It sometimes happens that the nationality of a foreign guest is not -respected as it ought to be. I remember an example of this which is -moderate enough to serve as a kind of type, some attacks upon nationality -being much more direct and outrageous. An English lady said at her own -table that she would not allow her daughter to be partially educated in a -French school, "because she would have to associate with French girls, -which, you know, is undesirable." Amongst the guests was a French lady, -and the observation was loud enough for everybody to hear it. I say -nothing of the injustice of the imputation. It was, indeed, most unjust, -but that is not the point. The point is that a foreigner ought not to hear -attacks upon his native land even when they are perfectly well founded. - -The host has a sort of judicial function in this way. The guest has a -right to look to him for protection on certain occasions, and he is likely -to be profoundly grateful when it is given with tact and skill, because -the host can say things for him that he cannot even hint at for himself. -Suppose the case of a young man who is treated with easy and rather -contemptuous familiarity by another guest, simply on account of his youth. -He is nettled by the offence, but as it is more in manner than in words he -cannot fix upon anything to answer. The host perceives his annoyance, and -kindly gives him some degree of importance by alluding to some superiority -of his, and by treating him in a manner very different from that which had -vexed him. - -A witty host is the most powerful ally against an aggressor. I remember -dining in a very well-known house in Paris where a celebrated Frenchman -repeated the absurd old French calumny against English ladies,--that they -all drink. I was going to resent this seriously when a clever Frenchwoman -(who knew England well) perceived the danger, and answered the man herself -with great decision and ability. I then watched for the first opportunity -of making him ridiculous, and seized upon a very delightful one that he -unwittingly offered. Our host at once understood that my attack was in -revenge for an aggression that had been in bad taste, and he supported me -with a wit and pertinacity that produced general merriment at the enemy's -expense. Now in that case I should say that the host was filling one of -the most important and most difficult functions of a host. - -This Essay has hitherto been written almost entirely on the guest's side -of the question, so that we have still briefly to consider the limitations -to his rights. - -He has no right to impose any serious inconvenience upon his host. He has -no right to disturb the ordinary arrangements of the house, or to inflict -any serious pecuniary cost, or to occupy the host's time to the prejudice -of his usual pursuits. He has no right to intrude upon the privacy of his -host. - -A guest has no right to place the host in such a dilemma that he must -either commit a rudeness or put up with an imposition. The very courtesy -of an entertainer places him at the mercy of a pushing and unscrupulous -guest, and it is only when the provocation has reached such a point as to -have become perfectly intolerable that a host will do anything so painful -to himself as to abandon his hospitable character and make the guest -understand that he must go. - -It may be said that difficulties of this kind never occur in civilized -society. No doubt they are rare, but they happen just sufficiently often -to make it necessary to be prepared for them. Suppose the case of a guest -who exceeds his invitation. He has been invited for two nights, plainly -and definitely; but he stays a third, fourth, fifth, and seems as if he -would stay forever. There are men of that kind in the world, and it is one -of their arts to disarm their victims by pleasantness, so that it is not -easy to be firm with them. The lady of the house gives a gentle hint, the -master follows with broader hints, but the intruder is quite impervious to -any but the very plainest language. At last the host has to say, "Your -train leaves at such an hour, and the carriage will be ready to take you -to the station half an hour earlier." This, at any rate, is intelligible; -and yet I have known one of those clinging limpets whom even this -proceeding failed to dislodge. At the approach of the appointed hour he -was nowhere to be found! He had gone to hide himself in a wood with no -companion but his watch, and by its help he took care to return when it -was too late. That is sometimes one of the great uses of a watch. - - - - -ESSAY VIII. - -THE DEATH OF FRIENDSHIP. - - -A sad subject, but worth analysis; for if friendship is of any value to us -whilst it is alive, is it not worth while to inquire if there are any -means of keeping it alive? - -The word "death" is correctly employed here, for nobody has discovered the -means by which a dead friendship can be resuscitated. To hope for that -would be vain indeed, and idle the waste of thought in such a bootless -quest. - -Shall we mourn over this death without hope, this blank annihilation, this -finis of intercourse once so sweet, this dreary and ultimate conclusion? - -The death of a friendship is not the death of a person; we do not mourn -for the absence of some beloved person from the world. It is simply the -termination of a certain degree and kind of intercourse, not of necessity -the termination of all intercourse. We may be grieved that the change has -come; we may be remorseful if it has come through a fault of our own; but -if it is due simply to natural causes there is small place for any -reasonable sorrow. - -Friendship is a certain _rapport_ between two minds during one or more -phases of their existence, and the perfection of it is quite as dependent -upon what is not in the two minds as upon their positive acquirements and -possessions. Hence the extreme facility with which schoolboys form -friendships which, for the time, are real, true, and delightful. School -friendships are formed so easily because boys in the same class know the -same things; and it rarely happens that in addition to what they have in -common either one party or the other has any knowledge of importance that -is not in common. - -Later in life the pair of friends who were once comrades go into different -professions that fill the mind with special professional ideas and induce -different habits of thought. Each will be conscious, when they meet, that -there is a great range of ideas in the other's mind from which he is -excluded, and each will have a difficulty in keeping within the smaller -range of ideas that they have now in common; so that they will no longer -be able to let their _whole_ minds play together as they used to do, and -they will probably feel more at ease with mere acquaintances who have what -is _now_ their knowledge, what are now their mental habits, than with the -friend of their boyhood who is without them. - -This is strongly felt by men who go through a large experience at a -distance from their early home and then return for a while to the old -place and old associates, and find that it is only a part of themselves -that is acceptable. New growths of self have taken place in distant -regions, by travel, by study, by intercourse with mankind; and these new -growths, though they may be more valuable than any others, are of no -practical use, of no social availableness, in the little circle that has -remained in the old ways. - -Then there are changes of temper that result from the fixing of the -character by time. We think we remain the same, but that is one of our -many illusions. We change, and we do not always change in the same way. -One man becomes mellowed by advancing years, but another is hardened by -them; one man's temper gains in sweetness and serenity as his intellect -gains in light, another becomes dogmatic, peremptory, and bitter. Even -when the change is the same for both, it may be unfavorable to their -intercourse. Two merry young hearts may enjoy each other's company, when -they would find each other dull and flat if the sparkle of the early -effervescence were all spent. - -I have not yet touched upon change of opinion as a cause of the death of -friendship, but it is one of the most common causes. It would be a calumny -on the intelligence of the better part of mankind to say that they always -desire to hear repeated exactly what they say themselves, though that is -really the desire of the unintelligent; but the cleverest people like to -hear new and additional reasons in support of the opinions they hold -already; and they do not like to hear reasons, hitherto unsuspected, that -go to the support of opinions different from their own. Therefore a slow -divergence of opinion may carry two friends farther and farther apart by -narrowing the subjects of their intercourse, or a sudden intellectual -revolution in one of them may effect an immediate and irreparable breach. - -"If the character is formed," says Stuart Mill, "and the mind made up on -the few cardinal points of human opinion, agreement of conviction and -feeling on these has been felt at all times to be an essential requisite -of anything worthy the name of friendship in a really earnest mind." I do -not quote this in the belief that it is absolutely true, but it expresses -a general sentiment. We can only be guided by our own experience in these -matters. Mine has been that friendship is possible with those whom I -respect, however widely they differ from me, and not possible with those -whom I am unable to respect, even when on the great matters of opinion -their views are identical with my own. - -It is certain, however, that the change of opinion itself has a tendency -to separate men, even though the difference would not have made friendship -impossible if it had existed from the first. Instances of this are often -found in biographies, especially in religious biographies, because -religious people are more "pained" and "wounded" by difference of opinion -than others. We read in such books of the profound distress with which the -hero found himself separated from his early friends by his new conviction -on this or that point of theology. Political divergence produces the same -effect in a minor degree, and with more of irritation than distress. Even -divergence of opinion on artistic subjects is enough to produce coolness. -Artists and men of letters become estranged from each other by -modifications of their critical doctrines. - -Differences of prosperity do not prevent the formation of friendship if -they have existed previously, and can be taken as established facts; but -if they widen afterwards they have a tendency to diminish it. They do so -by altering the views of one of the parties about ways of living and about -the multitude of things involving questions of expense. If the enriched -man lives on a scale corresponding to his newly acquired wealth, he may be -regarded by the other as pretentious beyond his station, whilst if he -keeps to his old style he may be thought parsimonious. From delicacy he -will cease to talk to the other about his money matters, which he spoke of -with frankness when he was not so rich. If he has social ambition he will -form new alliances with richer men, and the old friend may regard these -with a little unconscious jealousy. - -It has been observed that young artists often have a great esteem for the -work of one of their number so long as its qualities are not recognized -and rewarded by the public, but that so soon as the clever young man wins -the natural meed of industry and ability his early friendships die. They -were often the result of a generous indignation against public injustice, -so when that injustice came to an end the kindness that was a protest -against it ceased at the same time. In jealous natures it would no doubt -be replaced by the conviction that public favor had rewarded merit far -beyond its deserts. - -In the political life of democracies we see men enthusiastically supported -and really admired with sincerity so long as they remain in opposition, -and their friends indulge the most favorable anticipations about what they -would do if they came to power; but when they accept office they soon lose -many of these friends, who are quite sure to be disappointed with the -small degree in which their excessive hopes have been realized. There is -no country where this is seen more frequently than in France, where -Ministers are often criticised with the most unrelenting and uncharitable -acerbity by the men and newspapers that helped to raise them. - -Changes of physical constitution may be the death of friendship in this -way. A friendship may be founded upon some sport that one of the parties -becomes unable to follow. After that the two men cease to meet on the -particularly pleasant occasions that every sport affords for its real -votaries, and they only meet on common occasions, which are not the same -because there is not the same jovial and hearty temper. In like manner a -friendship may be weakened if one of the parties gives up some indulgence -that both used to enjoy together. Many a friendship has been cemented by -the habit of smoking, and weakened afterwards when one friend gave up the -habit, declined the cigars that the other offered, and either did not -accompany him to the smoking-room or sat there in open and vexatious -nonconformity. - -It is well known, so well known indeed as scarcely to require mention -here, that one of the most frequent and powerful causes of the death of -bachelor friendships is marriage. One of the two friends takes a wife, and -the friendship is at once in peril. The maintenance of it depends upon the -lady's taste and temper. If not quite approved by her, it will languish -for a little while and then die, in spite of all painful and visible -efforts on the husband's part to compensate, by extra attention, for the -coolness of his wife. I have visited a Continental city where it is always -understood that all bachelor friendships are broken off by marriage. This -rule has at least the advantage of settling the question unequivocally. - -Simple neglect is probably the most common of all causes deadly to -friendship,--neglect arising either from real indifference, from -constitutional indolence, or from excessive devotion to business. Friendly -feelings must be either of extraordinary sincerity, or else strengthened -by some extraneous motive of self-interest, to surmount petty -inconveniences. The very slightest difficulty in maintaining intercourse -is sufficient in most cases to insure its total cessation in a short time. -Your house is somewhat difficult of access,--it is on a hill-side or at a -little distance from a railway station: only the most sincere friends will -be at the trouble to find you unless your rank is so high that it is a -glory to visit you. - -Poor friends often keep up intercourse with rich ones by sheer force of -determination long after it ought to have been allowed to die its own -natural death. When they do this without having the courage to require -some approach to reciprocity they sink into the condition of mere clients, -whom the patron may indeed treat with apparent kindness, but whom he -regards with real indifference, taking no trouble whatever to maintain the -old connection between them. - -Equality of rank and fortune is not at all necessary to friendship, but a -certain other kind of equality is. A real friendship can never be -maintained unless there is an equal readiness on both sides to be at some -pains and trouble for its maintenance; so if you perceive that a person -whom you once supposed to be your friend will not put himself to any -trouble on your account, the only course consistent with your dignity is -to take exactly the same amount of pains to make yourself agreeable to -him. After you have done this for a little time you will soon know if the -friendship is really dead; for he is sure to perceive your neglect if he -does not perceive his own, and he will either renew the intercourse with -some _empressement_ or else cease from it altogether. - -In early life the right rule is to accept kindness gratefully from one's -elders and not to be sensitive about omissions, because such omissions are -then often consistent with the most real and affectionate regard; but as a -man advances towards middle-age it is right for him to be somewhat careful -of his dignity and to require from friends, whatever may be their station, -a certain general reciprocity. This should always be understood in rather -a large sense, and not exacted in trifles. If he perceives that there is -no reciprocity he cannot do better than drop an acquaintance that is but -the phantom and simulacrum of Friendship's living reality. - -It is as natural that many friendships should die and be replaced by -others as that our old selves should be replaced by our present selves. -The fact seems melancholy when first perceived, but is afterwards accepted -as inevitable. There is, however, a death of friendship which is so truly -sad and sorrowful as to cast its gloomy shadow on all the years that -remain to us. It is when we ourselves, by some unhappy fault of temper -that might have been easily avoided, have wounded the kind breast of our -friend, and killed the gentle sentiment that was dwelling happily within. -The only way to be quite sure of avoiding this great and irretrievable -calamity is to remember how very delicate friendly sentiments are and how -easy it is to destroy them by an inconsiderate or an ungentle word. - - - - -ESSAY IX. - -THE FLUX OF WEALTH. - - -We become richer or poorer; we seldom remain exactly as we were. If we -have property, it increases or diminishes in value; if our income is -fixed, the value of money alters; and if it increased proportionally to -the depreciation of money, our position would still be relatively altered -by changes in the fortunes of others. We marry and have children; then our -wealth becomes less our own after every birth. We win some honor or -professional advancement that seems a gain; but increased expenditure is -the consequence, and we are poorer than we were before. Amidst all these -fluctuations of wealth human intercourse either continues under altered -conditions or else it is broken off because they are no longer favorable -to its maintenance. I propose to consider, very briefly, how these altered -conditions operate. - -We have to separate, in the first place, intercourse between individuals -from intercourse between families. The distinction is of the utmost -importance, because the two are not under the same law. - -Two men, of whom one is extremely rich and the other almost penniless, -have no difficulty in associating together on terms agreeable to both when -they possess intellectual interests in common, or even when there is -nothing more than an attraction of idiosyncrasy; but these conditions only -subsist between one individual and another; they are not likely to subsist -between two families. Intercourse between individuals depends on something -in intellect and culture that enables them to understand each other, and -upon something in character that makes them love or respect each other. -Intercourse between families depends chiefly on neighborhood and -similarity in style of living. - -This is the reason why bachelors have so much easier access to society -than men with wives and families. The bachelor is received for himself, -for his genius, information, manners; but if he is married the question -is, "What sort of people are _they_?" This, being interpreted, means, -"What style do they live in?" "How many servants do they keep?" - -Whatever may be the variety of opinions concerning the doctrines of the -Church of Rome, there is but one concerning her astuteness. There can be -no doubt that she is the most influential association of men that has ever -existed; and she has decided for celibacy, that the priest might stand on -his merits and on the power of the Church, and be respected and admitted -everywhere in spite of notorious poverty. - -Mignet, the historian, was a most intimate and constant friend of Thiers. -Mignet, though rich in reality, as he knew how to live contentedly on -moderate means, was poor in comparison with his friend. This inequality -did not affect their friendship in the least; for both were great workers, -well qualified to understand each other, though Thiers lived in a grand -house, and Mignet in a barely furnished lodging high up in a house that -did not belong to him. - -Mignet was a bachelor, and they were both childless men; but imagine them -with large families. One family would have been bred in the greatest -luxury, the other in austere simplicity. Children are keenly alive to -these distinctions; and even if there had been neither pride in the rich -house nor envy in the poorer one the contrast would have been constantly -felt. The historical studies that the fathers had in common would probably -not have interested their descendants, and unless there had been some -other powerful bond of sympathy the two families would have lived in -different worlds. The rich family would have had rich friends, the poorer -family would have attached itself to other families with whom it could -have exchanged hospitality on more equal terms. This would have happened -even in Paris, a city where there is a remarkable absence of contempt for -poverty; a city where the slightest reason for distinction will admit any -well-bred man into society in spite of narrow means and insure him -immunity from disdain. All the more certainly would it happen in places -where money is the only regulator of rank, the only acknowledged claim to -consideration. - -I once knew an English merchant who was reputed to be wealthy, and who, -like a true Englishman as he was, inhabited one of those great houses that -are so elaborately contrived for the exercise of hospitality. He had a -kind and friendly heart, and lived surrounded by people who often did him -the favor to drink his excellent wines and sleep in his roomy -bedchambers. On his death it turned out that he had never been quite so -rich as he appeared and that during his last decade his fortune had -rapidly dwindled. Being much interested in everything that may confirm or -invalidate those views of human nature that are current in ancient and -modern literature, I asked his son how those who were formerly such -frequent guests at the great house had behaved to the impoverished family. -"They simply avoided us," he said; "and some of them, when they met me, -would cut me openly in the street." - -It may be said with perfect truth that this was a good riddance. It is -certain that it was so; it is undeniable that the deliverance from a horde -of false friends is worth a considerable sum per head of them; and that in -itself was only a subject of congratulation, but their behavior was hard -to bear because it was the evidence of a fall. We like deference as a -proof that we have what others respect, quite independently of any real -affection on their part; nay, we even enjoy the forced deference of those -who hate us, well knowing that they would behave very differently if they -dared. Besides this, it is not certain that an impoverished family will -find truer friends amongst the poor than it did formerly amongst the rich. -The relation may be the same as it was before, and only the incomes of the -parties altered. - -What concerns our present subject is simply that changes of pecuniary -situation have always a strong tendency to throw people amongst other -associates; and as these changes are continually occurring, the result is -that families very rarely preserve the same acquaintances for more than a -single generation. And now comes the momentous issue. The influence of our -associates is so difficult to resist, in fact so completely irresistible -in the long run, that people belong far less to the class they are -descended from than to the class in which they live. The younger son of -some perfectly aristocratic family marries rather imprudently and is -impoverished by family expenses. His son marries imprudently again and -goes into another class. The children of that second marriage will -probably not have a trace of the peculiarly aristocratic civilization. -They will have neither the manners, nor the ideas, nor the unexpressed -instincts of the real aristocracy from which they sprang. In place of them -they will have the ideas of the lower middle class, and be in habits and -manners just as completely of that class as if their forefathers had -always belonged to it. - -I have in view two instances of this which are especially interesting to -me because they exemplify it in opposite ways. In one of these cases the -man was virtuous and religious, but though his ancestry was aristocratic -his virtues and his religion were exactly those of the English middle -class. He was a good Bible-reading, Sabbath-observing, theatre-avoiding -Evangelical, inclined to think that dancing was rather sinful, and in all -those subtle points of difference that distinguish the middle-class -Englishman from the aristocratic Englishman he followed the middle class, -not seeming to have any unconscious reminiscence in his blood of an -ancestry with a freer and lordlier life. He cared neither for the sports, -nor the studies, nor the social intercourse of the aristocracy. His time -was divided, as that of the typical good middle-class Englishman generally -is, between business and religion, except when he read his newspaper. By a -combination of industry and good-fortune he recovered wealth, and might -have rejoined the aristocracy to which he belonged by right of descent; -but middle-class habits were too strong, and he remained contentedly to -the close of life both in that class and of it. - -The other example I am thinking of is that of a man still better -descended, who followed a profession which, though it offers a good field -for energy and talent, is seldom pursued by gentlemen. He acquired the -habits and ideas of an intelligent but dissipated working-man, his vices -were exactly those of such a man, and so was his particular kind of -religious scepticism. I need not go further into detail. Suppose the -character of a very clever but vicious and irreligious workman, such as -may be found in great numbers in the large English towns, and you have the -accurate portrait of this particular _declasse_. - -In mentioning these two cases I am anxious to avoid misinterpretation. I -have no particular respect for one class more than another, and am -especially disposed to indulgence for the faults of those who bear the -stress of the labor of the world; but I see that there _are_ classes, and -that the fluctuations of fortune, more than any other cause, bring people -within the range of influence exercised by the habits of classes, and form -them in the mould, so that their virtues and vices afterwards, besides -their smaller qualities and defects, belong to the class they live in and -not to the class they may be descended from. In other words, men are more -strongly influenced by human intercourse than by heredity. - -The most remarkable effect of the fluctuation of wealth is the extreme -rapidity with which the prosperous family gains refinement of manners, -whilst the impoverished family loses it. This change seems to be more -rapid in our own age and country than it has ever been before. Nothing is -more interesting than to watch this double process; and nothing in social -studies is more curious than the multiplicity of the minute causes that -bring it about. Every abridgment of ceremony has a tendency to lower -refinement by introducing that _sans-gene_ which is fatal to good manners. -Ceremony is only compatible with leisure. It is abridged by haste; haste -is the result of poverty; and so it comes to pass that the loss of fortune -induces people to give up one little observance after another, for economy -of time, till at last there are none remaining. There is the excellent -habit of dressing for the evening meal. The mere cost of it is almost -imperceptible, except that it causes a small additional expenditure in -clean linen; but, although the pecuniary tax is slight, there is a tax on -time which is not compatible with hurry and irregularity, so it is only -people of some leisure who maintain it. Now consider the subtle influence, -on manners, of the maintenance or abandonment of this custom. Where it is -kept up, gentlemen and ladies meet in a drawing-room before dinner -prepared by their toilet for the disciplined intercourse of -well-regulated social life. They are like officers in uniform, or -clergymen in canonicals: they wear a dress that is not without its -obligations. It is not the luxury of it that does this, for the dress is -always plain for men and often simple for ladies, but the mere fact of -taking the trouble to dress is an act of deference to civilization and -disposes the mind to other observances. It has the further advantage of -separating us from the occupations of the day and marking a new point of -departure for the gentler life of the evening. As people become poorer -they give up dressing except when they have a party, and then they feel -ill at ease from the consciousness of a white tie. You have only to go a -little further in this direction to arrive at the people who do not feel -any inclination to wash their hands before dinner, even when they visibly -need it. Finally there are houses where the master will sit down to table -in his shirt-sleeves and without anything round his neck. People who live -in this way have no social intercourse whatever of a slightly ceremonious -kind, and therefore miss all the discipline in manners that rich people go -through every day. The higher society is a school of manners that the poor -have not leisure to attend. - -The downward course of an impoverished family is strongly aided by an -element in many natures that the discipline of high life either subdues or -eliminates. There are always people, especially in the male sex, who feel -ill at ease under ceremonial restraints of any kind, and who find the -release from them an ineffably delightful emancipation. Such people hate -dressing for dinner, hate the forms of politeness, hate gloves and -visiting-cards, and all that such things remind them of. To be rid of -these things once for all, to be able to sit and smoke a pipe in an old -gray coat, seems to them far greater and more substantial happiness than -to drink claret in a dining-room, napkin on knee. Once out of society, -such men have no desire to enter it again, and after a very short -exclusion from it they belong to a lower class from taste quite as much as -from circumstances. All those who have a tendency towards the philosophy -of Diogenes (and they are more numerous than we suppose) are of this -manner of thinking. Sometimes they have a taste for serious intellectual -pursuits which makes the nothings of society seem frivolous, and also -consoles their pride for an apparent _decheance_. - -If it were possible to get rid of the burdensome superfluities of high -life, most of which are useless encumbrances, and live simply without any -loss of refinement, I should say that these philosophers would have reason -on their side. The complicated apparatus of wealthy life is not in itself -desirable. To convert the simple act of satisfying hunger into the tedious -ceremonial of a state dinner may be a satisfaction of pride, but it is -assuredly not an increase of pleasure. To receive as guests people whom we -do not care for in the least (which is constantly done by rich people to -maintain their position) offers less of what is agreeable in human -intercourse than a chat with a real friend under a shed of thatch. -Nevertheless, to be totally excluded from the life of the wealthy is to -miss a discipline in manners that nothing ever replaces, and this is the -real loss. The cultivation of taste which results from leisure forms, in -course of time, amongst rich people a public opinion that disciplines -every member of an aristocratic society far more severely than the more -careless opinion of the hurried classes ever disciplines _them_. To know -the value of such discipline we have only to observe societies from which -it is absent. We have many opportunities for this in travelling, and one -occurred to me last year that I will describe as an example. I was boating -with two young friends on a French river, and we spent a Sunday in a -decent riverside inn, where we had _dejeuner_ in a corner of the public -room. Several men of the neighborhood, probably farmers and small -proprietors, sat in another corner playing cards. They had a very decent -appearance, they were fine healthy-looking men, quite the contrary of a -degraded class, and they were only amusing themselves temperately on a -Sunday morning. Well, from the beginning of their game to the end of it -(that is, during the whole time of our meal), they did nothing but shout, -yell, shriek, and swear at each other loudly enough to be heard across the -broad river. They were not angry in the least, but it was their habit to -make a noise and to use oaths and foul language continually. We, at our -table, could not hear each other's voices; but this did not occur to them. -They had no notion that their noisy kind of intercourse could be -unpleasant to anybody, because delicacy of sense, fineness of nerve, had -not been developed in their class of society. Afterwards I asked them for -some information, which they gave with a real anxiety to make themselves -of use. Some rich people came to the inn with a pretty carriage, and I -amused myself by noting the difference. _Their_ manners were perfectly -quiet. Why are rich people quiet and poorer ones noisy? Because the -refinements of wealthy life, its peace and tranquillity, its leisure, its -facilities for separation in different rooms, produce delicacy of nerve, -with the perception that noise is disagreeable; and out of this delicacy, -when it is general amongst a whole class, springs a strong determination -so to discipline the members of the class that they shall not make -themselves disagreeable to the majority. Hence lovers of good manners have -a preference for the richer classes quite apart from a love of physical -luxury or a snobbish desire to be associated with people of rank. For the -same reason a lover of good manners dreads poverty or semi-poverty for his -children, because even a moderate degree of poverty (not to speak of the -acute forms of it) may compel them to associate with the undisciplined. -What gentleman would like his son to live habitually with the card-players -I have described? - - - - -ESSAY X. - -DIFFERENCES OF RANK AND WEALTH. - - -The most remarkable peculiarity about the desire to establish distinctions -of rank is not that there should be definite gradations amongst people who -have titles, but that, when the desire is strong in a nation, public -opinion should go far beyond heralds and parchments and gazettes, and -establish the most minute gradations amongst people who have nothing -honorific about them. - -When once the rule is settled by a table of precedence that an earl is -greater than a baron, we simply acquiesce in the arrangement, as we are -ready to believe that a mandarin with a yellow jacket is a -much-to-be-honored sort of mandarin; but what is the power that strikes -the nice balance of social advantages in favor of Mr. Smith as compared -with Mr. Jones, when neither one nor the other has any title, or ancestry, -or anything whatever to boast of? Amongst the many gifts that are to be -admired in the fair sex this seems one of the most mysterious, that ladies -can so decidedly fix the exact social position of every human being. Men -soon find themselves bewildered by conflicting considerations, but a woman -goes to the point at once, and settles in the most definite manner that -Smith is certainly the superior of Jones. - -This may bring upon me the imputation of being a democrat and a leveller. -No, I rather like a well-defined social distinction when it has reality. -Real distinctions keep society picturesque and interesting; what I fail to -appreciate so completely are the fictitious little distinctions that have -no basis in reality, and appear to be instituted merely for the sake of -establishing differences that do not naturally exist. It seems to be an -unfortunate tendency that seeks unapparent differences, and it may have a -bad effect on character by forcing each man back upon the consideration of -his own claims that it would be better for him to forget. - -I once dined at a country-house in Scotland when the host asked one of the -guests this question, "Are you a land-owner?" in order to determine his -precedence. It did so happen that the guest owned a few small farms, so he -answered "Yes;" but it struck me that the distinction between a man who -had a moderate sum invested in land and one who had twice as much in other -investments was not clearly in favor of the first. Could not the other buy -land any day if he liked? He who hath gold hath land, potentially. If -precedence is to be regulated by so material a consideration as wealth, -let it be done fairly and plainly. The best and simplest plan would be to -embroider the amount of each gentleman's capital in gold thread on the -breast of his dress-coat. The metal would be appropriate, the embroidery -would be decorative, and the practice would offer unequalled encouragement -to thrift. - -Again, I have always understood in the most confused manner the -distinction, so clear to many, between those who are in trade and those -who are not. I think I see the only real objection to trade with the help -of M. Renan, who has stated it very clearly, but my difficulty is to -discover who are tradesmen, and, still more, who are not tradesmen. Here -is M. Renan's account of the matter:-- - - "Our ideal can only be realized with a Government that gives some - _eclat_ to those who are connected with it and which creates - distinctions outside of wealth. We feel an antipathy to a society in - which the merit of a man and his superiority to another can only be - revealed under the form of industry and commerce; not that trade and - industry are not honest in our eyes, but because we see clearly that - the best things (such as the functions of the priest, the magistrate, - the _savant_, the artist, and the serious man of letters) are the - inverse of the industrial and commercial spirit, the first duty of - those who follow them being not to try to enrich themselves, and never - to take into consideration the venal value of what they do." - -This I understand, provided that the priest, magistrate, _savant_, artist, -and serious man of letters are faithful to this "first duty;" provided -that they "never take into consideration the venal value of what they do;" -but there are tradesmen in the highest professions. All that can be said -against trade is that its object is profit. Then it follows that every -profession followed for profit has in it what is objectionable in trade, -and that the professions are not noble in themselves but only if they are -followed in a disinterested spirit. I should say, then, that any attempt -to fix the degree of nobleness of persons by the supposed nobleness of -their occupations must be founded upon an unreal distinction. A venal -clergyman who does not believe the dogmas that he defends for his -endowment, a venal barrister, ready to prostitute his talents and his -tongue for a large income, seem to me to have in them far more of what is -objectionable in trade than a country bookseller who keeps a little shop -and sells note-paper and sealing-wax over the counter; yet it is assumed -that their occupations are noble occupations and that his business is not -noble, though I can see nothing whatever in it of which any gentleman need -be in the slightest degree ashamed. - -Again, there seem to be most unreal distinctions of respectability in the -trades themselves. The wine trade has always been considered a gentlemanly -business; but why is it more respectable to sell wine and spirits than to -sell bread, or cheese, or beef? Are not articles of food more useful to -the community than alcoholic drinks, and less likely to contribute to the -general sum of evil? As for the honesty of the dealers, no doubt there are -honest wine-merchants; but what thing that is sold for money has been more -frequently adulterated, or more mendaciously labelled, or more -unscrupulously charged for, than the produce of European vintages?[7] - -Another wonderful unreality is the following. People desire the profits of -trade, but are unwilling to lose caste by engaging in it openly. In order -to fill their pockets and preserve their rank at the same time they engage -in business anonymously, either as members of some firm in which their -names do not appear, or else as share-holders in great trading -enterprises. In both these cases the investor of capital becomes just as -really and truly a tradesman as if he kept a shop, but if you were to tell -him that he was a tradesman he would probably resent the imputation. - -It is remarkable that the people who most despise commerce are the very -people who bow down most readily before the accomplished results of -commerce; for as they have an exaggerated sense of social distinctions, -they are great adorers of wealth for the distinction that it confers. By -their worship of wealth they acknowledge it to be most desirable; but then -they worship rank also, and this other cultus goes with the sentiment of -contempt for humble and plodding industry in all its forms. - -The contempt for trade is inconsistent in another way. A man may be -excluded from "good society" because he is in trade, and his grandson may -be admitted because the grandfather was in trade, that is, through a -fortune of commercial origin. The present Prime Minister (Gladstone) and -the Speaker of the House of Commons (Mr. Arthur Peel) and many other men -of high position in both Houses may owe their fame to their own -distinguished abilities; but they owe the leisure and opportunity for -cultivating and displaying those abilities to the wits and industry of -tradesmen removed from them only by one or two generations. - -Is there not a strange inconsistency in adoring wealth as it is adored, -and despising the particular kind of skill and ability by which it is -usually acquired? For if there be anything honorable about wealth it must -surely be as evidence of the intelligence and industry that are necessary -for the conquest of poverty. On the contrary, a narrowly exclusive society -despises the virtue that is most creditable to the _nouveau riche_, his -industry, whilst it worships his wealth as soon as the preservation of it -is compatible with idleness. - -There is a great deal of unreal distinction in the matter of ancestry. -Those who observe closely are well aware that many undoubted and lineal -descendants of the oldest families are in humble social positions, simply -for want of money to make a display, whilst others usurp their -coats-of-arms and claim a descent that they cannot really prove. The whole -subject is therefore one of the most unsatisfactory that can be, and all -that remains to the real members of old families who have not wealth -enough to hold a place in the expensive modern aristocracy, is to remember -secretly the history of their ancestors if they are romantic and poetical -enough to retain the old-fashioned sentiment of birth, and to forget it -if they look only to the present and the practical. There is, indeed, so -little of the romantic sentiment left in the country, that even amongst -the descendants of old families themselves very few are able to blazon -their own armorial bearings, or even know what the verb "to blazon" means. - -Amidst so great a confusion the simplest way would be not to think about -rank at all, and to take human nature as it comes without reference to it; -but however the ancient barriers of rank may be broken down, it is only to -erect new ones. English feeling has a deep satisfaction in contemplating -rank and wealth combined. It is that which it likes,--the combination. -When wealth is gone it thinks that a man should lock up his pedigree in -his desk and forget that he has ancestors; so it has been said that an -English gentleman in losing wealth loses his caste with it, whilst a -French or Italian gentleman may keep his caste, except in the most abject -poverty. On the other hand, when an Englishman has a vast fortune it is -thought right to give him a title also, that the desirable combination may -be created afresh. Nothing is so striking in England, considering that it -is an old country, as the newness of most of the great families. The -aristocracy is like London, that has the reputation of being a very -ancient city, yet the houses are of recent date. An aristocracy may be -stronger and in better repair because of its newness; it may also be more -likely to make a display of aristocratic superiorities, and expect -deference to be paid to them, than an easy-going old aristocracy would -be. - -What are the superiorities, and what is the nature of the deference? - -The superiority given by title depends on the intensity of title-worship -amongst the public. In England that religion is in a very healthy and -flourishing state, so that titles are very valuable there; in France the -sense of a social hierarchy is so much weakened that titles are of -infinitely less value. False ones are assumed and borne with impunity on -account of the general indifference, whilst true and authentic titles are -often dropped as an encumbrance. The blundering ignorance of the French -about our titles, which so astonishes Englishmen, is due to a carelessness -about the whole subject that no inhabitant of the British Islands can -imagine.[8] In those islands title is of very great importance because -the people have such a strong consciousness of its existence. In England, -if there is a lord in the room every body is aware of it. - -Superiority of family, without title, is merely local; it is not -understood far from the ancestral home. Superiority of title is national; -it is imperfectly appreciated in foreign countries. But superiority of -wealth has the immense advantage over these that it is respected -everywhere and can display itself everywhere with the utmost ostentation -under pretext of custom and pleasure. It commands the homage of foolish -and frivolous people by possibilities of vain display, and at the same -time it appears desirable to the wise because it makes the gathering of -experience easy and human intercourse convenient. - -The rich man has access to an immense range of varied situations; and if -he has energy to profit by this facility and put himself in those -situations where he may learn the most, he may become far more experienced -at thirty-five than a poor man can be at seventy. A poor man has a taste -for boating, so he builds a little boat with his own hands, and paints it -green and white, with its name, the "Cock-Robin," in yellow. Meanwhile his -good wife, in spite of all the work she has to do, has a kindly indulgence -for her poor Tom's hobby, thinks he deserves a little amusement, and -stitches the sail for him in the evenings. He sails five or six miles up -and down the river. Sir Thomas Brassey has exactly the same tastes: he -builds the "Sunbeam;" and whilst the "Cock-Robin" has been doing its -little trips, the "Sunbeam" has gone round the world; and instead of -stitching the sails, the kind wife has accompanied the mariner, and -written the story of his voyage. If after that you talk with the owners of -the two vessels you may be interested for a few minutes--deeply interested -and touched if you have the divine gift of sympathy--with the poor man's -account of his doings; but his experience is small and soon told, whilst -the owner of the "Sunbeam" has traversed all the oceans and could tell you -a thousand things. So it naturally follows in most cases, though the rule -has exceptions, that rich men are more interesting people to know than -poor men of equal ability. - -I remember being forcibly reminded of the narrow experience of the poor on -one of those occasions that often happen to those who live in the country -and know their poorer neighbors. A friend of mine, with his children, had -come to stay with me; and there was a poor woman, living in a very -out-of-the-way hamlet on a hill, who had made me promise that I would take -my friend and his children to see her, because she had known their mother, -who was dead, and had felt for her one of those strong and constant -affections that often dwell in humble and faithful hearts. We have a great -respect for this poor woman, who is in all ways a thoroughly dutiful -person, and she has borne severe trials with great patience. Well, she was -delighted to see my friend and his children, delighted to see how well -they looked, how much they had grown, and so on; and then she spoke of her -own little ones, and showed us the books they were learning in, and -described their dispositions, and said that her husband was in full work -and went every day to the schist mine, and was much steadier than he used -to be, and made her much happier. After that she began again, saying -exactly the same things all over again, and she said them a third time, -and a fourth time. When we had left, we noticed this repetition, and we -agreed that the poor woman, instead of being deficient in intelligence, -was naturally above the average, but that the extreme narrowness of her -experience, the total want of variety in her life, made it impossible for -her mind to get out of that little domestic groove. She had about -half-a-dozen ideas, and she lived in them, as a person in a small house -lives in a very few rooms. - -Now, however much esteem, respect, and affection you may have for a person -of that kind, you will find it impossible to enjoy such society because -conversation has no aliment. This is the one great reason why cultivated -people seem to avoid the poor, even when they do not despise them in the -least. - -The greater experience of the rich is united to an incomparably greater -power of pleasant reception, because in their homes conversation is not -interfered with by the multitude of petty domestic difficulties and -inconveniences. I go to spend the day with a very poor friend, and this is -what is likely to happen. He and I can only talk without interruption when -we are out of the house. Inside it his children break in upon us -constantly. His wife finds me in the way, and wishes I had not come, -because she has not been able to provide things exactly as she desired. At -dinner her mind is not in the conversation; she is really occupied with -petty household cares. I, on my part, have the uncomfortable feeling that -I am creating inconvenience; and it requires incessant attention to soothe -the watchful sensitiveness of a hostess who is so painfully alive to the -deficiencies of her small establishment. If I have a robust appetite, it -is well; but woe to me if my appetite is small, and I must overeat to -prove that the cookery is good! If I accept a bed the sacrifice of a room -will cause crowding elsewhere, besides which I shall be a nuisance in the -early morning hours when nothing in the _menage_ is fit for the public -eye. Whilst creating all this inconvenience to others, I suffer the great -one of being stopped in my usual pursuits. If I want a few quiet hours for -reading and writing there is only one way: I must go privately to some -hotel and hire a sitting-room for myself. - -Now consider the difference when I go to visit a rich friend! The first -delightful feeling is that I do not occasion the very slightest -inconvenience. His arrangements for the reception of guests are permanent -and perfect. My arrival will scarcely cost his wife a thought; she has -simply given orders in the morning for a room to be got ready and a cover -to be laid at table. Her mind is free to think about any subject that -suggests itself. Her conversation, from long practice, is as easy as the -style of a good writer. All causes of interruption are carefully kept in -the background. The household details are attended to by a regiment of -domestics under their own officers. The children are in rooms of their own -with their governesses and servants, and we see just enough of them to be -agreeable. If I desire privacy, nothing is more easily obtained. On the -slightest hint a room is placed at my disposal. I remember one house where -that room used to be a splendid library, full of the books which at that -time I most wanted to consult; and the only interruption in the mornings -was the noiseless entrance of the dear lady of the house, always at eleven -o'clock precisely, with a glass of wine and a biscuit on a little silver -tray. It is not the material luxury of rich men's houses that a wise man -would desire; but he must thoroughly appreciate their convenience and the -varied food for the mind that they afford,--the books, the pictures, the -curiosities. In one there is a museum of antiquities that a large town -might envy, in another a collection of drawings, in a third a magnificent -armory. In one private house in Paris[9] there used to be fourteen noble -saloons containing the arts of two hundred years. You go to stay in ten -rich houses and find them all different; you enjoy the difference, and in -a certain sense you possess the different things. The houses of the poor -are all alike, or if they differ it is not by variety of artistic or -intellectual interest. By the habit of staying in each other's houses the -rich multiply their riches to infinity. In a certain way of their own (it -is not exactly the way of the early Christians) they have their goods in -common. - -There are, no doubt, many guests in the houses of the rich who care little -for the people they visit, but much for the variety and -accommodation,--guests who visit the place rather than the owner; guests -who enjoy the cookery, the wines, the shooting, and who would go to the -house if the owner were changed, exactly as they continue to patronize -some pleasantly situated and well-managed hotel, after a change of -masters. I hardly know how to describe these people in a word, but it is -easy to characterize their entertainers. They are unpaid innkeepers. - -There are also people, apparently hospitable, who care little for the -persons they invite,--so very little, indeed, that we do not easily -discover what motive they have for inviting them. The answer may be that -they dislike solitude so much that any guest is acceptable, or else that -they want admirers for the beautiful arrangements and furniture of their -houses; for what is the use of having beautiful things if there is nobody -to appreciate them? Hosts of this class are amateur exhibitors, or they -are like amateur actors who want an audience, and who will invite people -to come and listen, not because they care for the people, but because it -is discouraging to play to empty benches. - -These two classes of guests and hosts cannot exist without riches. The -desire to be entertained ceases at once when it is known that the -entertainment will be of a poor quality; and the desire to exhibit the -internal arrangements of our houses ceases when we are too poor to do -justice to the refinement of our taste. - -The story of the rich man who had many friends and saw them fall away from -him when he became poor, which, under various forms, reappears in every -age and is common to all literatures, is explained by these -considerations. Bucklaw does not find Lord Ravenswood a valuable -gratuitous innkeeper; and Ravenswood is not anxious to exhibit to Bucklaw -the housekeeping at Wolf's Crag. - -But quite outside of parasite guests and exhibiting entertainers, there -still remains the undeniable fact that if you like a rich man and a poor -one equally well, you will prefer the rich man's hospitality for its -greater convenience. Nay, more, you will rightly and excusably prefer the -rich man's hospitality even if you like the poor man better, but find his -household arrangements disagreeable, his wife fagged, worn, irritable, and -ungracious, his children ill-bred, obtrusive, and dirty, himself unable to -talk about anything rational on account of family interruptions, and -scarcely his own better and higher self at all in the midst of his -domestic plagues.[10] - -There is no nation in the world that has so acute a sense of the value, -almost the necessity, of wealth for human intercourse as the English -nation. Whilst in other countries people think "Wealth is peace of mind, -wealth is convenience, wealth is _la vie elegante_," in England they -silently accept the maxim, "A large income is a necessary of life;" and -they class each other according to the scale of their establishments, -looking up with unfeigned reverence to those who have many servants, many -horses, and gigantic houses where a great hospitality is dispensed. An -ordinary Englishman thinks he has failed in life, and his friends are of -the same opinion, if he does not arrive at the ability to imitate this -style and state, at least in a minor degree. I have given the best reasons -why it is desired; I understand and appreciate them; but at the same time -I think it deeply to be deplored that an expenditure far beyond what can -be met by the physical or intellectual labor of ordinary workers should be -thought necessary in order that people may meet and talk in comfort. The -big English house is a machine that runs with unrivalled smoothness; but -it masters its master, it possesses its nominal possessor. George Borrow -had the deepest sense of the Englishman's slavery to his big, well-ordered -dwelling, and saw in it the cause of unnumbered anxieties, often ending in -heart-disease, paralysis, bankruptcy, and in minor cases sacrificing all -chance of leisure and quiet happiness. Many a land-owner has crippled -himself by erecting a great house on his estate,--one of those huge, -tasteless buildings that express nothing but pompous pride. What wisdom -there is in the excellent old French adage, "A petite terre, petite -maison"! - -The reader may remember Herbert Spencer's idea that the display of wealth -is intended to subjugate. Royal palaces are made very vast and magnificent -to subjugate those who approach the sovereign; and all rich and powerful -people use the same means, for the same purpose, though in minor degrees. -This leads us to the price that has to be paid for intercourse with -persons of great rank and wealth. May we not suspect that there is a heavy -price of some kind, since many of the best and noblest minds in the world -either avoid it altogether or else accept it cautiously and only with a -very few rich men whom they esteem independently of their riches? - -The answer is that wealth and rank expect deference, not so much humble -and slavish manners as that intellectual deference which a thinker can -never willingly give. The higher the rank of the personage the more it is -considered ill-bred to contradict him, or even to have an opinion of your -own in his presence. This, to a thinker, is unendurable. He does not see -that because a person is rich and noble his views on everything must be -the best and soundest views. - -You, my dear Aristophilus, who by your pleasing manners are so well fitted -for the very best society, could give interesting answers to the following -questions: Have you never found it advisable to keep silence when your -wealthy host was saying things against which you inwardly protested? Have -you not sometimes gone a step further, and given a kind of assent to some -opinion that was not your own? Have you not, by practice, attained the -power of giving a still stronger and heartier assent to what seemed -doubtful propositions? - -There is one form of this assent which is deeply damaging to character. -Some great person, a great lady perhaps, unjustly condemns, in your -presence, a public man for whom you have a sincere respect. Instead of -boldly defending him, you remain silent and acquiescent. You are afraid -to offend, afraid to lose favor, afraid that if you spoke openly you would -not be invited to the great house any more. - -Sometimes not a single individual but a class is attacked at once. A great -lady is reported to have said that she "had a deep objection to French -literature in all its branches." Observe that this expression of opinion -contains a severe censure on _all_ French authors and on all readers of -French literature. Would you have ventured to say a word in their defence? -Would you have dared to hint, for example, that a serious mind might be -none the worse for some acquaintance with Montesquieu and De Tocqueville? -No, sir, you would have bowed your head and put on a shocked expression of -countenance. - -In this way, little by little, by successive abandonments of what we -think, and abdications of what we know, we may arrive at a state of -habitual and inane concession that softens every fibre of the mind. - - - - -ESSAY XI. - -THE OBSTACLE OF LANGUAGE. - - -The greatest impediment to free intercourse between nations is neither -distance nor the differences of mental habits, nor the opposition of -national interests; it is simply the imperfect manner in which languages -are usually acquired, and the lazy contentment of mankind with a low -degree of attainment in a foreign tongue when a much higher degree of -attainment would be necessary to any efficient interchange of ideas. - -It seems probable that much of the future happiness of humanity will -depend upon a determination to learn foreign languages more thoroughly. -International ill-will is the parent of innumerable evils. From the -intellectual point of view it is a great evil, because it narrows our -range of ideas and deprives us of light from foreign thinkers. From the -commercial point of view it is an evil, because it leads a nation to deny -itself conveniences in order to avoid the dreaded result of doing good to -another country. From the political point of view it is an enormous evil, -because it leads nations to make war upon each other and to inflict and -endure all the horrors, the miseries, the impoverishment of war rather -than make some little concession on one side or on both sides that would -have been made with little difficulty if the spirit of the two countries -had been more friendly. May we not believe that a more general spirit of -friendliness would result from more personal intercourse, and that this -would be the consequence of more thorough linguistic acquirement? - -It has always seemed to me an inexpressible misfortune to the French that -they should not be better acquainted with English literature; and this not -simply from the literary point of view, but because on so many questions -that interest active minds in France it would be such an advantage to -those minds to be able to see how those questions have appeared to men -bred in a different and a calmer atmosphere. If the French read English -easily they might often avoid (without ceasing to be national) many of -those errors that result from seeing things only from a single point of -view. I know a few intelligent Frenchmen who do read our most thoughtful -writers in the original, and I can see what a gain this enlarged -experience has been to them. On the other hand, it is certain that good -French literature may have an excellent effect on the literary training of -an Englishman. The careful study of that clear, concise, and moderate -French writing which is the most perfect flower of the cultivated national -mind has been most beneficial to some English writers, by making them less -clumsy, less tedious, less verbose. - -Of commercial affairs it would be presumptuous in me to say much, but no -one disputes that international commerce is a benefit, and that it would -not be possible without a class of men who are acquainted with foreign -languages. On this class of men, be they merchants or corresponding -clerks, the commercial intercourse between nations must depend. I find it -stated by foreign tradesmen that if they were better acquainted with the -English language much trade that now escapes them might be made to pass -through their hands. I have myself often observed, on a small scale, that -transactions of an international character have taken place because one of -the parties happened to know the language of the other, when they would -certainly not have taken place if it had been necessary to make them -through an agent or an interpreter. - -With regard to peace and war, can it be doubted that the main reason for -our peaceful relations with the United States lies in the fact of our -common language? We may have newspaper quarrels, but the newspapers -themselves help to make every question understood. It is far harder to -gain acceptance for English ideas in France, yet even our relations with -France are practically more peaceful than of old, and though there is -intense jealousy between the two countries, they understand each other -better, so that differences which would certainly have produced bloodshed -in the days of Pitt, cause nothing worse than inkshed in the days of -Gladstone. This happy result may be attributed in great part to the -English habit of learning French and going to Paris or to the south of -France. We need not expect any really cordial understanding between the -two countries, though it would be an incalculable benefit to both. That is -too much to be hoped for; their jealousy, on both sides, is too irritable -and too often inflamed afresh by new incidents, for neither of them can -stir a foot without putting the other out of temper; but we may hope that -through the quietly and constantly exerted influence of those who know -both languages, war may be often, though perhaps not always, avoided. - -Unfortunately an imperfect knowledge of a foreign language is of little -use, as it does not give any real freedom of intercourse. Foreigners do -not open their minds to one who blunders about their meaning; they -consider him to be a sort of child, and address to him "easy things to -understand." Their confidence is only to be won by a demonstration of -something like equality in intelligence, and nobody can give proof of this -unless he has the means of making his thoughts intelligible, and even of -assuming, when the occasion presents itself, a somewhat bold and -authoritative tone. People of mature and superior intellect, but imperfect -linguistic acquirements, are liable to be treated with a kind of -condescending indulgence when out of their own country, as if they were as -young in years and as feeble in power of thought as they are in their -knowledge of foreign languages. - -The extreme rarity of that degree of attainment in a foreign language -which deserves to be called _mastery_ is well known to the very few who -are competent to judge. At a meeting of French professors Lord Houghton -said that the wife of a French ambassador had told him that she knew only -three Englishmen who could speak French. One of these was Sir Alexander -Cockburn, another the Duke of Bedford, and we may presume the third to -have been Lord Houghton himself. Amongst men of letters Lord Houghton only -knew one, Henry Reeve, the editor of the "Edinburgh Review" and -translator of the works of De Tocqueville. He mentioned Lord Arthur -Russell as an example of accomplishment, but he is "quasi French by -_l'esprit_, education, and marriage." - -On reading the report of Lord Houghton's speech, I asked a cultivated -Parisian lady (who knows English remarkably well and has often been in -England) what her own experience had been. After a little hesitation she -said it had been exactly that of the French ambassadress. She, also, had -met with three Englishmen who spoke French, and she named them. I -suggested several others, and amongst them some very learned scholars, -merely to hear what she would say, but her answer was that their -inadequate power of expression compelled them to talk far below the level -of their abilities, so that when they spoke French nobody would suppose -them to be clever men. She also affirmed that they did not catch the -shades of French expression, so that in speaking French to them one was -never sure of being quite accurately understood. - -I myself have known many French people who have studied English more or -less, including several who read English authors with praiseworthy -industry, but I have only met with one or two who can be said to have -mastered the language. I am told that M. Beljame, the learned Professor of -English Literature at the Sorbonne, has a wonderful mastery of our tongue. -Many French professors of English have considerable historical and -grammatical knowledge of it, but that is not practical mastery. In -general, the knowledge of English attained by French people (not without -more labor than the result would show) is so poor and insufficient as to -be almost useless. - -I remember an accidental circumstance that put into my hands some curious -materials for judging of the attainments of a former generation. A Belgian -lady, for a reason that has no concern with our present subject, lent me -for perusal an important packet of letters in the French language written -by English ladies of great social distinction about the date of Waterloo. -They showed a rough familiarity with French, but no knowledge of its finer -shades, and they abounded in glaring errors. The effect of this -correspondence on my mind was that the writers had certainly used (or -abused) the language, but that they had never condescended to learn it. - -These and other experiences have led me to divide progress in languages -into several stages, which I place at the reader's disposal in the belief -that they may be convenient to him as they have been convenient to me. - -The first stage in learning a language is when every sentence is a puzzle -and exercises the mind like a charade or a conundrum. There are people to -whom this kind of exercise is a sport. They enjoy the puzzle for its own -sake and without any reference to the literary value of the sentence or -its preciousness as an utterance of wisdom. Such people are much better -adapted to the early stage of linguistic acquirement than those who like -reading and dislike enigmas. - -The excessive slowness with which one works in this early stage is a cause -of irritation when the student interests himself in the thoughts or the -narrative, because what comes into his mind in a given time is so small a -matter that it seems not worth while to go on working for such a little -intellectual income. Therefore in this early stage it is a positive -disadvantage to have eager literary desires. - -In the second stage the student can push along with the help of a -translation and a dictionary; but this is not _reading_, it is only aided -construing. It is disagreeable to a reader, though it may be endured by -one who is indifferent to reading. This may be made clear by reference to -other pursuits. A man who loves rowing, and who knows what rowing is, does -not like to pull a slow and heavy boat, such as an ordinary Scottish -Highlander pulls with perfect contentment. So a man who loves reading, and -knows what reading is, does not like the heavy work of laborious -translation. This explains the fact which is often so unintelligible to -parents, that boys who are extremely fond of reading often dislike their -classical studies. Grammar, prosody, philology, so far as they are the -subjects of _conscious attention_ (which they are with all pedagogues), -are the rivals of literature, and so it happens that pedagogy is -unfavorable to literary art. It is only when the sciences of dissection -are forgotten that we can enjoy the arts of poetry and prose. - -If, then, the first stage of language-learning requires rather a taste for -solving puzzles than a taste for literature, so I should say that the -second stage requires rather a turn for grammatical and philological -considerations than an interest in the ideas or an appreciation of the -style of great authors. The most favorable state of mind for progress in -this stage is that of a philologist; and if a man has literary tastes in -great strength, and philological tastes in a minor degree, he will do -well, in this stage, to encourage the philologist in himself and keep his -love of literature in abeyance. - -In the third stage the vocabulary has become rich enough to make -references to the dictionary less frequent, and the student can read with -some degree of literary enjoyment. There is, however, this remaining -obstacle, that even when the reader knows the words and can construe well, -the foreign manner of saying things still appears _unnatural_. I have made -many inquiries concerning this stage of acquirement and find it to be very -common. Men of fair scholarship in Latin tell me that the Roman way of -writing does not seem to be really a natural way. I find that even those -Latin works which were most familiar to me in youth, such as the Odes of -Horace, for example, seem unnatural still, though I may know the meaning -of every word, and I do not believe that any amount of labor would ever -rid me of this feeling. This is a great obstacle, and not the less that it -is of such a subtle and intangible nature.[11] - -In the fourth stage the mode of expression seems natural, and the words -are perfectly known, but the sense of the paragraph is not apparent at a -glance. There is the feeling of a slight obstacle, of something that has -to be overcome; and there is a remarkable counter-feeling which always -comes after the paragraph is mastered. The reader then wonders that such -an obviously intelligible page can have offered any opposition whatever. -What surprises us is that this fourth stage can last so long as it does. -It seems as if it would be so easily passed, and yet, in fact, it is for -most persons impassable. - -The fifth stage is that of perfection in reading. It is not reached by -everybody even in the native language itself. The reader who has attained -it sees the contents of a page and catches their meaning at a glance even -before he has had time to read the sentences. - -This condition of extreme lucidity in a language comes, when it comes at -all, long after the mere acquisition of it. I have said that it does not -always come even in the native tongue. Some educated people take a much -longer time than others to make themselves acquainted with the contents of -a newspaper. A clever newspaper reader sees in one minute if there is -anything of importance. He knows what articles and telegrams are worth -reading before he separates the words. - -These five stages refer only to reading, because educated people learn to -read first and to speak afterwards. Uneducated people learn foreign -languages by ear in a most confused and blundering way. I need not add -that they never master them, as only the educated ever master their native -tongue. It is unnecessary to go through the stages of progress in -conversation, as they are in a great degree dependent upon reading, though -they lag behind it; but I will say briefly that the greatest of all -difficulties in using foreign languages is to become really insensible to -the absurdities that they contain. All languages, I believe, abound in -absurd expressions; and a foreigner, with his inconveniently fresh -perceptions, can hardly avoid being tickled by them. He cannot use the -language seriously without having first become unconscious of these -things, and it is inexpressibly difficult to become unconscious of -something that has once provoked us to laughter. Again, it is most -difficult to arrive at that stage when foreign expressions of politeness -strike us no more and no less than they strike the native; or, in other -words, it is most difficult for us to attach to them the exact value which -they have in the country where they prevail. French forms seem absurdly -ceremonious to Englishmen; in reality, they are only convenient, but the -difficulty for an Englishman is to feel that they are convenient. There -are in every foreign tongue two classes of absurdities,--the real inherent -absurdities to which the natives are blinded by habit, though they are -seen at once to be comical when attention is directed to them, and the -expressions that are not absurd in themselves but only seem so to us -because they are not like our own. - -The difficulty of becoming insensible to these things must be especially -great for humorous people, who are constantly on the look-out for subjects -of odd remarks. I have a dear friend who is gifted with a delightful -genius for humor, and he knows a little French. All that he has acquired -of that language is used by him habitually as material for fun, and as he -is quite incapable of regarding the language as anything but a funny way -of talking, he cannot make any progress in it. If he were asked to read -prayers in French the idea would seem to him incongruous, a mingling of -frivolous with sacred things. Another friend is serious in French because -he knows it well, and therefore has become unconscious of its real or -apparent absurdities, but when he is in a merry mood he talks Italian, -with which he is much less intimately acquainted, so that it still seems -droll and amusing. - -Many readers will be already familiar with the idea of a universal -language, which has often been the subject of speculation in recent times, -and has even been discussed in a sort of informal congress connected with -one of the universal exhibitions. Nobody now looks forward to anything so -unlikely, or so undesirable, as the abandonment of all the languages in -the world except one. What is considered practicable is the selection of -one language as the recognized international medium, and the teaching of -that language everywhere in addition to the mother tongue, so that no two -educated men could ever meet without possessing the means of -communication. To a certain degree we have this already in French, but -French is not known so generally, or so perfectly, as to make it answer -the purpose. It is proposed to adopt modern Greek, which has several great -advantages. The first is that the old education has familiarized us -sufficiently with ancient Greek to take away the first sense of -strangeness in the same language under its modern form. The second is that -everything about modern arts and sciences, and political life, and trade, -can be said easily in the Greek of the present day, whilst it has its own -peculiar interest for scholars. The third reason is of great practical -importance. Greece is a small State, and therefore does not awaken those -keen international jealousies that would be inevitably aroused by -proposing the language of a powerful State to be learned, without -reciprocity, by the youth of the other powerful States. It may be some -time before the Governments of great nations agree to promote the study of -modern Greek, or any other living language, amongst their peoples; but if -all who feel the immense desirableness of a common language for -international intercourse would agree to prepare the way for its adoption, -the time might not be very far distant when statesmen would begin to -consider the question within the horizon of the practical. Let us try to -imagine the difference between the present Babel-confusion of tongues, -which makes it a mere chance whether we shall be able to communicate with -a foreigner or not, and the sudden facility that would result from the -possession of a common medium of intercourse! If it were once agreed by a -union of nations (of which the present Postal Union may be the forerunner) -that the learning of the universal language should be encouraged, that -language would be learned with a zest and eagerness of which our present -languid linguistic attempts give but a faint idea. There would be such -powerful reasons for learning it! All those studies that interest men in -different nations would lead to intercommunication in the common tongue. -Many books would be written in it, to be circulated everywhere, without -being enfeebled and falsified by translation. International commerce would -be transacted by its means. Travelling would be enormously facilitated. -There would be such a gain to human intercourse by language that it might -be preferred, in many cases, to the old-fashioned international -intercourse by means of bayonets and cannon-balls. - - - - -ESSAY XII. - -THE OBSTACLE OF RELIGION. - - -Human intercourse, on equal terms, is difficult or impossible for those -who do not belong to that religion which is dominant in the country where -they live. The tendency has always been either to exclude such persons -from human intercourse altogether (a fate so hard to bear during a whole -life-time that they have often compromised the matter by outward -conformity), or else to maintain some degree of intercourse with them in -placing them at a social disadvantage. In barbarous times such persons, -when obstinate, are removed by taking away their lives; or if somewhat -less obstinate they are effectually deterred from the profession of -heretical opinions by threats of the most pitiless punishments. In -semi-barbarous times they are paralyzed, so far as public action is -concerned, by political disabilities expressly created for their -inconvenience. In times which pride themselves on having completely -emerged from barbarism political disabilities are almost entirely removed, -but certain class-exclusions still persist, by which it is arranged -(whilst avoiding all appearance of persecution) that although heretics are -no longer banished from their native land they may be excluded from their -native class, and either deprived of human intercourse altogether, or -left to seek it in classes inferior to their own. - -The religious obstacle differs from all other obstacles in one remarkable -characteristic. It is maintained only against honest and truth-speaking -persons. Exemption from its operation has always been, and is still, -uniformly pronounced in favor of all heretics who will consent to lie. The -honorable unbeliever has always been treated harshly; the unbeliever who -had no sense of honor has been freely permitted, in every age, to make the -best use of his abilities for his own social advancement. For him the -religious obstacle is simply non-existent. He has exactly the same chances -of preferment as the most orthodox Christian. In Pagan times, when public -religious functions were a part of the rank of great laymen, unbelief in -the gods of Olympus did not hinder them from seeking and exercising those -functions. Since the establishment of Christianity as a State religion, -the most stringently framed oaths have never prevented an unscrupulous -infidel from attaining any position that lay within reach of his wits and -his opportunities. He has sat in the most orthodox Parliaments, he has -been admitted to Cabinet councils, he has worn royal crowns, he has even -received the mitre, the Cardinal's hat, and the Papal tiara. We can never -sufficiently admire the beautiful order of society by which -heretic-plus-liar is so graciously admitted everywhere, and -heretic-plus-honest man is so cautiously and ingeniously kept out. It is, -indeed, even more advantageous to the dishonest unbeliever than at first -sight appears; for not only does it open to him all positions accessible -to the orthodox, but it even gives him a noteworthy advantage over honest -orthodoxy itself by training him daily and hourly in dissimulation. To be -kept constantly in the habit of dissimulation on one subject is an -excellent discipline in the most serviceable of social arts. An atheist -who reads prayers with a pious intonation, and is exemplary in his -attendance at church, and who never betrays his real opinions by an -unguarded word or look, though always preserving the appearance of the -simplest candor, the most perfect openness, is, we may be sure, a much -more formidable person to contend with in the affairs of this world than -an honest Christian who has never had occasion to train himself in -habitual imposture. Yet good Christians willingly admit these dangerous, -unscrupulous rivals, and timidly exclude those truthful heretics who are -only honest, simple people like themselves. - -After religious liberty has been nominally established in a country by its -lawgivers, its enemies do not consider themselves defeated, but try to -recover, through the unwritten law of social customs and observances, the -ground they have lost in formal legislation. Hence we are never sure that -religious liberty will exist within the confines of a class even when it -is loudly proclaimed in a nation as one of the most glorious conquests of -the age. It is often enjoyed very imperfectly, or at a great cost of -social and even pecuniary sacrifice. In its perfection it is the liberty -to profess openly, and in their full force, those opinions on religious -subjects which a man holds in his own conscience, and without incurring -any kind of punishment or privation on account of them, legal or social. -For example, a really sincere member of the Church of England enjoys -perfect religious liberty in England.[12] He can openly say what he -thinks, openly take part in religious services that his conscience -approves, and without incurring the slightest legal or social penalty for -so doing. He meets with no hindrance, no obstacle, placed in the path of -his worldly life on account of his religious views. True liberty is not -that which is attainable at some cost, some sacrifice, but that which we -can enjoy without being made to suffer for it in any way. It is always -enjoyed, to the full, by every one whose sincere convictions are heartily -on the side of authority. Sincere Roman Catholics enjoyed perfect -religious liberty in Spain under Ferdinand and Isabella, and in England -under Mary Tudor. Even a Trappist who loves the rule of his order enjoys -the best kind of liberty within the walls of his monastery. He is not -allowed to neglect the prescribed services and other obligations; but as -he feels no desire to neglect them he is a free agent, as free as if he -dwelt in the Abbaye de Theleme of Rabelais, with its one rule, "Fay ce que -vouldras." We may go farther, and say that not only are people whose -convictions are on the side of authority perfectly free agents, but, like -successful artists, they are rewarded for doing what they themselves -prefer. They are always rewarded by the approval of their superiors and -very frequently by opportunities for social advancement that are denied to -those who think differently from persons in authority. - -There are cases in which liberty is less complete than this, yet is still -spoken of as liberty. A man is free to be a Dissenter in England and a -Protestant in France. By this we mean that he will incur no legal -disqualification for his opinions; but does he incur no social penalty? -The common answer to this question is that the penalty is so slight that -there is nothing to complain of. This depends upon the particular -situation of the Dissenter, because the penalty is applied very -differently in different cases, and may vary between an unperceived -hindrance to an undeveloped ambition and an insurmountable obstacle to an -eager and aspiring one. To understand this thoroughly, let us ask whether -there are any positions in which a member of the Church of England would -incur a penalty for leaving it. Are there any positions that are socially -considered to be incompatible with the religious profession of a -Dissenter? - -It will be generally admitted that royal personages do not enjoy any -religious liberty at all. A royal personage _must_ profess the State -religion of his country, and it is so well understood that this is -obligatory and has nothing to do with the convictions of the conscience -that such personages are hardly expected to have any conscience in the -matter. They take up a religion as part of their situation in the world. A -princess may abjure her faith for that of an imperial lover, and if he -dies before marriage she may abjure her adopted faith; and if she is asked -again in marriage she may abjure the religion of her girlhood a second -time without exciting comment, because it is well understood that her -private convictions may remain undisturbed by such changes, and that she -submits to them as a necessity for which she has no personal -responsibility.[13] And whilst princes are compelled to take up the -religion which best suits their worldly interests, they are not allowed -simply to bear the name of the State Church but must also conform to its -services with diligent regularity. In many cases they probably have no -objection to this, as they may be really conscientious members of the -State Church, or they may accept it in a general way as an expression of -duty towards God (without going into dogmatic details), or they may be -ready and willing to conform to it for political reasons, as the best -means of conciliating public opinion; but however this may be, all human -fellowship, so far as religion is concerned, must, for them, be founded on -deference to the State religion and a conciliatory attitude towards its -ministers. The Court circulars of different countries register the -successive acts of outward conformity by which the prince acknowledges the -power of the national priesthood, and it would be impossible for him to -suspend these acts of conformity for any reason except illness. The daily -account of the life of a French sovereign during the hunting season used -to be, "His Majesty heard mass; His Majesty went out to hunt." Louis -XVIII. had to hear mass like his ancestors; but after the long High Mass -which he was compelled to listen to on Sundays, and which he found -extremely wearisome, he enjoyed a compensation and a consolation in -talking impiously to his courtiers, and was maliciously pleased in -shocking pious people and in forcing them to laugh against their -conscience, as by courtly duty bound, at the blasphemous royal jests. This -is one of the great evils of a compulsory conformity. It drives the victim -into a reaction against the religion that tyrannizes over him, and makes -him _anti_-religious, when without pressure he would have been simply and -inoffensively _non_-religious. To understand the pressure that weighs upon -royal personages in this respect, we have only to remember that there is -not a sovereign in the whole world who could venture to say openly that he -was a conscientious Unitarian, and would attend a Unitarian place of -worship. If a King of England held Unitarian opinions, and was at the same -time scrupulously honest, he would have no resource but abdication, for -not only is the King a member of the Anglican Church, but he is its living -head. The sacerdotal position of the Emperor of Russia is still more -marked, and he can no more avoid taking part in the fatiguing ceremonies -of the orthodox Greek religion than he can avoid sitting on horseback and -reviewing troops. - -The religious slavery of princes is, however, exclusively in ceremonial -acts and verbal professions. With regard to the moral side of religion, -with regard to every religious doctrine that is practically favorable to -good conduct, exalted personages have always enjoyed an astonishing amount -of liberty. They are not free to hold themselves aloof from public -ceremonies, but they are free to give themselves up to every kind of -private self-indulgence, including flagrant sexual immoralities, which are -readily forgiven them by a loyal priesthood and an admiring populace, if -only they show an affable condescension in their manners. Surely morality -is a part of Christianity; surely it is as unchristian an act to commit -adultery as to walk out during service-time on Sunday morning; yet -adultery is far more readily forgiven in a prince, and far easier for him, -than the merely negative religious sin of abstinence from church-going. -Amongst the great criminal sovereigns of the world, the Tudors, Bourbons, -Bonapartes, there has never been any neglect of ceremonies, but they have -treated the entire moral code of Christianity as if it were not binding -on persons of their degree. - -Every hardship is softened, at least in some measure, by a compensation; -and when in modern times a man is so situated that he has no outward -religious liberty it is perfectly understood that his conformity is -official, like that of a soldier who is ordered to give the Host a -military salute without regard for his private opinion about -transubstantiation. This being understood, the religious slavery of a -royal personage is far from being the hardest of such slaveries. The -hardest cases are those in which there is every appearance of liberty, -whilst some subtle secret force compels the slave to acts that have the -appearance of the most voluntary submission. There are many positions of -this kind in the world. They abound in countries where the right of -private judgment is loudly proclaimed, where a man is told that he may act -in religious matters quite freely according to the dictates of his -conscience, whilst he well knows, at the same time, that unless his -conscience happens to be in unison with the opinions of the majority, he -will incur some kind of disability, some social paralysis, for having -obeyed it. - -The rule concerning the ceremonial part of religion appears to be that a -man's liberty is in inverse proportion to his rank. A royal personage has -none; he must conform to the State Church. An English nobleman has two -churches to choose from: he may belong to the Church of England or the -Church of Rome. A simple private gentleman, a man of good family and -moderate independent fortune, living in a country where the laws are so -liberal as they are in England, and where on the whole there is so little -bitterness of religious hatred, might be supposed to enjoy perfect -religious liberty, but he finds, in a practical way, that it is scarcely -possible for him to do otherwise than the nobility. He has the choice -between Anglicanism and Romanism, because, though untitled, he is still a -member of the aristocracy. - -As we go down lower in the social scale, to the middle classes, and -particularly to the lower middle classes, we find a broader liberty, -because in these classes the principle is admitted that a man may be a -good Christian beyond the pale of the State Churches. The liberty here is -real, so far as it goes, for although these persons are not obliged by -their own class opinion to be members of a State Church, as the -aristocracy are, they are not compelled, on the other hand, to be -Dissenters. They may be good Churchmen, if they like, and still be -middle-class Englishmen, or they may be good Methodists, Baptists, -Independents, and still be respectable middle-class Englishmen. This -permits a considerable degree of freedom, yet it is still by no means -unlimited freedom. The middle-class Englishman allows dissent, but he does -not encourage honesty in unbelief. - -There is, however, a class in English society in which for some time past -religious liberty has been as nearly as possible absolute,--I mean the -working population in the large towns. A working-man may belong to the -Church of England, or to any one of the dissenting communities; or, if he -does not believe in Christianity, he may say so and abstain from -religious hypocrisy of all kinds. Whatever his opinions, he will not be -regarded very coldly on account of them by persons of his own class, nor -prevented from marrying, nor hindered from pursuing his trade. - -We find, therefore, that amongst the various classes of society, from the -highest to the humblest, religious liberty increases as we go lower. The -royal family is bound to conform to whatever may be the dominant religion -for the time being; the nobility and gentry have the choice between the -present dominant faith and its predecessor; the middle class has, in -addition, the liberty of dissent; the lower class has the liberty, not -only of dissent, but also of abstinence and negation. And in each case the -increase of liberty is real; it is not that illusory kind of extension -which loses in one direction the freedom that it wins in another. All the -churches are open to the plebeian secularist if he should ever wish to -enter them. - -We have said that religious liberty increases as we go lower in the social -scale. Let us consider, now, how it is affected by locality. The rule may -be stated at once. _Religious liberty diminishes with the number of -inhabitants in a place._ - -However humble may be the position of the dweller in a small village at a -distance from a town, he must attend the dominant church because no other -will be represented in the place. He may be in heart a Dissenter, but his -dissent has no opportunity of expressing itself by a different form of -worship. The laws of his country may be as liberal as you please; their -liberality is of no practical service in such a case as this because -religious profession requires public worship, and an isolated family -cannot institute a cult. - -If, indeed, there were the liberty of abstinence the evil would not be so -great. The liberty of rejection is a great and valuable liberty. If a -particular kind of food is unsuited to my constitution, and only that kind -of food is offered me, the permission to fast is the safeguard of my -health and comfort. The loss of this negative liberty is terrible in -convivial customs, when the victim is compelled to drink against his will. - -The Dissenter in the country can be forced to conform by his employer or -by public opinion, acting indirectly. The master may avoid saying, "I -expect you to go to Church," but he may say, "I expect you to attend a -place of worship," which attains precisely the same end with an appearance -of greater liberality. Public opinion may be really liberal enough to -tolerate many different forms of religion, but if it does not tolerate -abstinence from public services the Dissenter has to conform to the -dominant worship in places where there is no other. In England it may seem -that there is not very much hardship in this, as the Church is not extreme -in doctrine and is remarkably tolerant of variety, yet even in England a -conscientious Unitarian might feel some difficulty about creeds and -prayers which were never intended for him. There are, however, harder -cases than those of a Dissenter forced to conform to the Church of -England. The Church of Rome is far more extreme and authoritative, far -more sternly repressive of human reason; yet there are thousands of rural -places on the Continent where religious toleration is supposed to exist, -and where, nevertheless, the inhabitants are compelled to hear mass to -avoid the imputation of absolute irreligion. A man like Wesley or Bunyan -would, in such a position, have to choose between apparent Romanism and -apparent Atheism, if indeed the village opinion did not take good care -that he should have no choice in the matter. - -It may be said that people should live in places where their own form of -worship is publicly practised. No doubt many do so. I remember an -Englishman belonging to a Roman Catholic family who would not spend a -Sunday in an out-of-the-way place in Scotland because he could not hear -mass. Such a person, having the means to choose his place of residence, -and a faith so strong that religious considerations always came first with -him, would compel everything to give way to the necessity for having mass -every Sunday, but this is a very exceptional case. Ordinary people are the -victims of circumstances and not their masters. - -If a villager has little religious freedom he does not greatly enlarge it -when he becomes a soldier. He has the choice between the Church of England -and the Church of Rome. In some countries even this very moderate degree -of liberty is denied. Within the present century Roman Catholic soldiers -were compelled to attend Protestant services in Prussia. The truth is that -the genuine military spirit is strongly opposed to individual opinion in -matters of religion. Its ideal is that every detail in a soldier's -existence should be settled by the military authorities, his religious -belief amongst the rest. - -What may be truly said about military authority in religious matters is -that as the force employed is perfectly well known,--as it is perfectly -well known that soldiers take part in religious services under -compulsion,--there is no hypocrisy in their case, especially where the -conscription exists, and therefore but slight moral hardship. Certainly -the greatest hardship of all is to be compelled to perform acts of -conformity with all the appearance of free choice. The tradesman who must -go to mass to have customers is in a harder position than the soldier. For -this reason, it is better for the moral health of a nation, when there is -to be compulsion of some kind, that it should be boldly and openly -tyrannical; that its work should be done in the face of day; that it -should be outspoken, uncompromising, complete. To tyranny of that kind a -man may give way without any loss of self-respect, he yields to _force -majeure_; but to that viler and meaner kind of tyranny which keeps a man -in constant alarm about the means of earning his living, about the -maintenance of some wretched little peddling position in society, he -yields with a sense of far deeper humiliation, with a feeling of contempt -for the social power that uses such miserable means, and of contempt for -himself also. - - - - -ESSAY XIII. - -PRIESTS AND WOMEN. - - -PART I.--SYMPATHY. - -Women hate the Inexorable. They like a condition of things in which -nothing is so surely fixed but that the rule may be broken in their favor, -or the hard decision reversed. They like concession for concession's sake, -even when the matter is of slight importance. A woman will ask a favor -from a person in authority when a man will shrink from the attempt; and if -the woman gains her point by entreaty she will have a keen and peculiar -feminine satisfaction in having successfully exercised what she feels to -be her own especial power, to which the strong, rough creature, man, may -often be made to yield. A woman will go forth on the most hopeless errands -of intercession and persuasion, and in spite of the most adverse -circumstances will not infrequently succeed. Scott made admirable use of -this feminine tendency in the "Heart of Mid-Lothian." Jeanie Deans, with a -woman's feelings and perseverance, had a woman's reliance on her own -persuasive powers, and the result proved that she was right. All things in -a woman combine to make her mighty in persuasion. Her very weakness aids -her; she can assume a pitiful, childlike tenderness. Her ignorance aids -her, as she seems never to know that a decision can be fixed and final; -then she has tears, and besides these pathetic influences she has -generally some magnetism of sex, some charm or attraction, at least, in -voice or manner, and sometimes she has that marvellous--that all but -irresistible--gift of beauty which has ruled and ruined the masters of the -world. - -Having constantly used these powers of persuasion with the strongest being -on this planet, and used them with such wonderful success that it is even -now doubtful whether the occult feminine government is not mightier than -the open masculine government, whilst it is not a matter of doubt at all, -but of assured fact, that society is ruled by queens and ladies and not by -kings and lords,--with all these evidences of their influence in this -world, it is intelligible that women should willingly listen to those who -tell them that they have similar influence over supernatural powers, and, -through them, on the destinies of the universe. Far less willingly would -they listen to some hard scientific teacher who should say, "No, you have -no influence beyond this planet, and that which you exercise upon its -surface is limited by the force that you are able to set in motion. The -Empress Eugenie had no supernatural influence through the Virgin Mary, but -she had great and dangerous natural influence through her husband; and it -may be true, what is asserted, that she caused in this way a disastrous -war." An exclusively _originating_ Intelligence, acting at the beginning -of Evolution,--a setter-in-motion of a prodigious self-acting machinery -of cause producing effect, and effects in their turn becoming a new -complexity of causes,--an Intelligence that we cannot persuade because we -are born millions of years too late for the first impulse that started all -things,--this may be the God of the future, but it will be a distant -future before the world of women will acknowledge him. - -There is another element in the feminine nature that urges women in the -same direction. They have a constant sense of dependence in a degree -hardly ever experienced by men except in debilitating illness; and as this -sense of dependence is continual with them and only occasional with us, it -becomes, from habit, inseparable from their mental action, whereas even in -sickness a man looks forward to the time when he will act again freely for -himself. Men choose a course of action; women choose an adviser. They feel -themselves unable to continue the long conflict without help, and in spite -of their great patience and courage they are easily saddened by solitude, -and in their distress of mind they feel an imperious need for support and -consolation. "Our valors are our best gods," is a purely masculine -sentiment, and to a woman such self-reliance seems scarcely -distinguishable from impiety. The feminine counterpart of that would be, -"In our weakness we seek refuge in Thy strength, O Lord!" - -A woman is not satisfied with merely getting a small share in a vast -bounty for the general good; she is kind and affectionate herself, she is -personally attentive to the wants of children and animals, and cares for -each of them separately, and she desires to be cared for in the same way. -The philosopher does not give her any assurance of this whatever; but the -priest, on the contrary, gives it in the most positive form. It is not -merely one of the doctrines of religion, but the central doctrine, the -motive for all religious exercises, that God cares for every one of us -individually; that he knows Jane Smith by name, and what she is earning a -week, and how much of it she devotes to keeping her poor paralyzed old -mother. The philosopher says, "If you are prudent and skilful in your -conformity to the laws of life you will probably secure that amount of -mental and physical satisfaction which is attainable by a person of your -organization." There is nothing in this about personal interest or -affection; it is a bare statement of natural cause and consequence. The -priest holds a very different language; the use of the one word _love_ -gives warmth and color to his discourse. The priest says, "If you love God -with all your soul and with all your strength He will love and cherish you -in return, and be your own true and tender Father. He will watch over -every detail and every minute of your existence, guard you from all real -evil, and at last, when this earthly pilgrimage shall be over, He will -welcome you in His eternal kingdom." But this is not all; God may still -seem at too unapproachable a distance. The priest then says that means -have been divinely appointed to bridge over that vast abyss. "The Father -has given us the Son, and Christ has instituted the Church, and the Church -has appointed _me_ as her representative in this place,--_me_, to whom you -may come always for guidance and consolation that will never be refused -you." - -This is the language for which the ears of a woman thirst as parched -flowers thirst for the summer rain. Instead of a great, blank universe -with fixed laws, interesting to _savans_ but not to her, she is told of -love and affection that she thoroughly understands. She is told of an -affectionate Creator, of His beloved and loving Son, of the tender care of -the maternal Church that He instituted; and finally all this chain of -affectionate interest ends close to her in a living link,--a man with -soft, engaging manners, with kind and gentle voice, who takes her hand, -talks to her about all that she really cares for, and overflows with the -readiest sympathy for all her anxieties. This man is so different from -common men, so very much better and purer, and, above all, so much more -accessible, communicative, and consolatory! He seems to have had so much -spiritual experience, to know so well what trouble and sorrow are, to -sympathize so completely with the troubles and sorrows of a woman! With -him, the burden of life is ten times easier to bear; without his precious -fellowship, that burden would be heavy indeed! - -It may be objected to this, that the clergy do not entirely teach a -religion of love; that, in fact, they curse as well as bless, and foretell -eternal punishment for the majority. All this, it may be thought, must be -as painful to the feelings of women as Divine kindness and human felicity -must be agreeable to them. Whoever made this objection would show that he -had not quite understood the feminine nature. It is at the same time -kinder and tenderer than the masculine nature, and more absolute in -vindictiveness. Women do not generally like the infliction of pain that -they believe to be undeserved;[14] they are not generally advocates for -vivisection; but as their feelings of indignation against evil-doers are -very easily aroused, and as they are very easily persuaded that severe -punishments are just, they have often heartily assented to them even when -most horrible. In these cases their satisfaction, though it seems to us -ferocious, may arise from feeling themselves God's willing allies against -the wicked. When heretics were burnt in Spain the great ladies gazed -calmly from their windows and balconies on the grotesque procession of -miserable _morituri_ with flames daubed on their tabards, so soon to be -exchanged for the fiery reality. With the influence that women possess -they could have stopped those horrors; but they countenanced them; and yet -there is no reason to believe that they were not gentle, tender, -affectionate. The most relentless persecutor who ever sat on the throne of -England was a woman. Nor is it only in ages of fierce and cruel -persecution that women readily believe God to be on the side of the -oppressor. Other ages succeed in which human injustice is not so bold and -bloodthirsty, not so candid and honest, but more stealthily pursues its -end by hampering and paralyzing the victim that it dares not openly -destroy. It places a thousand little obstacles in his way, the -well-calculated effect of which is to keep him alive in impotent -insignificance. In those ages of weaker malevolence the heretic is quietly -but carefully excluded from the best educational and social advantages, -from public office, from political power. Wherever he turns, whatever he -desires to do, he feels the presence of a mysterious invisible force that -quietly pushes him aside or keeps him in shadow. Well, in this milder, -more coldly cruel form of wrong, vast numbers of the gentlest and most -amiable women have always been ready to acquiesce.[15] - -I willingly pass from this part of the subject, but it was impossible not -to make one sad reference to it, for of all the sorrowful things in the -history of the world I see none more sorrowful than this,--that the -enormous influence of women should not have been more on the side of -justice. It is perhaps too much to expect that they should have placed -themselves in advance of their age, but they have been innocent abettors -and perpetuators of the worst abuses, and all from their proneness to -support any authority, however corrupt, if only it can succeed in -confounding itself with goodness. - -As the representatives of a Deity who tenderly cares for every one of His -creatures, the clergy themselves are bound to cultivate all their own -powers and gifts of sympathy. The best of them do this with the important -result that after some years spent in the exercise of their profession -they become really and unaffectedly more sympathetic than laymen generally -are. The power of sympathy is a great power everywhere, but it is so -particularly in those countries where the laity are not much in the habit -of cultivating the sympathetic feelings, and timidly shrink from the -expression of them even when they exist. I remember going with a French -gentleman to visit a lady who had very recently lost her father; and my -friend made her a little speech in which he said no more than what he -felt, but he said it so elegantly, so delicately, so appropriately, and in -such feeling terms, that I envied him the talent of expressing condolence -in that way. I never knew an English layman who could have got through -such an expression of feeling, but I have known English clergymen who -could have done it. Here is a very great and real superiority over us, -and especially with women, because women are exquisitely alive to -everything in which the feelings are concerned, and we often seem to them -dead in feeling when we are only awkward, and dumb by reason of our -awkwardness. - -I think it probable that most readers of this page will find, on -consulting their own recollections, that they have received warmer and -kinder expressions of sympathy from clerical friends than from laymen. It -is certainly so in my own case. On looking back to the expressions of -sympathy that have been addressed to me on mournful occasions, and of -rejoicing on happy ones, I find that the clearest and most ample and -hearty utterances of these feelings have generally come either from -clergymen of the Church of England, or priests of the Church of Rome. - -The power of sympathy in clergymen is greatly increased by their easy -access to all classes of society. They are received everywhere on terms -which may be correctly defined as easily respectful; for their sacred -character gives them a status of their own, which is neither raised by -association with rich people nor degraded by friendliness with the poor or -with that lower middle class which, of all classes, is the most perilous -to the social position of a layman. They enter into the joys and sorrows -of the most different orders of parishioners, and in this way, if there is -any natural gift of sympathy in the mind of a clergyman, it is likely to -be developed and brought to perfection. - -Partly by arrangements consciously devised by ecclesiastical authorities, -and partly by the natural force of circumstances, the work of the Church -is so ordered that her representatives are sure to be present on the most -important occasions in human life. This gives them some influence over -men, but that which they gain by it over women is immeasurably greater, -because the minds of women are far more closely and exclusively bound up -in domestic interests and events. - -Of these the most visibly important is marriage. Here the priest has his -assured place and conspicuous function, and the wonderful thing is that -this function seems to survive the religious beliefs on which it was -originally founded. It seems to be not impossible that a Church might -still survive for an indefinite length of time in the midst of surrounding -scepticism simply for the purpose of performing marriage and funeral -rites. The strength of the clerical position with regard to marriage is so -great, even on the Continent, that, although a woman may have scarcely a -shred of faith in the doctrines of the Church, it is almost certain that -she will desire the services of a priest, and not feel herself to be -really married without them. Although the civil ceremony may be the only -one recognized by the law, the woman openly despises it, and reserves all -her feelings and emotions for the pompous ceremony at the church. On such -occasions women laugh at the law, and will even sometimes declare that the -law itself is not legal. I once happened to say that civil marriage was -obligatory in France, but only legal in England; on which an English lady -attacked me vehemently, and stoutly denied that civil marriage was legal -in England at all. I asked if she had never heard of marriages in a -Registrar's office. "Yes, I have," she answered, with a shocked expression -of countenance, "but they are not legal. The Church of England does not -recognize them, and that is the legal church." - -As soon as a child is born the mother begins to think about its baptism; -and at a time of life when the infant is treated by laymen as a little -being whose importance lies entirely in the future the clergyman gives it -consequence in the present by admitting it, with solemn ceremony, to -membership in the Church of Christ. It is not possible to imagine anything -more likely to gratify the feelings of a mother than this early admission -of her unconscious offspring to the privileges of a great religious -community. Before this great initiation it was alone in the world, loved -only by her, and with all its prospects darkened by original sin; now it -is purified, blessed, admitted into the fellowship of the holy and the -wise. A certain relationship of a peculiar kind is henceforth established -between priest and infant. In after years he prepares it for confirmation, -another ceremony touching to the heart of a mother when she sees her son -gravely taking upon himself the responsibilities of a thinking being. The -marriage of a son or daughter renews in the mother all those feelings -towards the friendly, consecrating power of the Church which were excited -at her own marriage. - -Then come those anxious occasions when the malady of one member of the -family casts a shadow on the happiness of all. In these cases any -clergyman who unites natural kindness of heart with the peculiar training -and experience of his profession can offer consolation incomparably -better than a layman; he is more accustomed to it, more _authorized_. A -friendly physician is a great help and a great stay so long as the disease -is not alarming, but when he begins to look very grave (the reader knows -that look), and says that recovery is not probable, by which physicians -mean that death is certain and imminent, the clergyman says there is hope -still, and speaks of a life beyond the grave in which human existence will -be delivered from the evils that afflict it here. When death has come, the -priest treats the dead body with respect and the survivors with sympathy, -and when it is laid in the ground he is there to the last moment with the -majesty of an ancient and touching form of words already pronounced over -the graves of millions who have gone to their everlasting rest.[16] - - -PART II. ART. - -I have not yet by any means exhausted the advantages of the priestly -position in its influence upon women. If the reader will reflect upon the -feminine nature as he has known it, especially in women of the best kind, -he will at once admit that not only are women more readily moved by the -expression of sympathy than men, and more grateful for it, but they are -also more alive to poetical and artistic influences. In our sex the -aesthetic instinct is occasionally present in great strength, but more -frequently it is altogether absent; in the female sex it seldom reaches -much creative force, but it is almost invariably present in minor degrees. -Almost all women take an interest in furniture and dress; most of them in -the comfortable classes have some knowledge of music; drawing has been -learned as an accomplishment more frequently by girls than by boys. The -clergy have a strong hold upon the feminine nature by its aesthetic side. -All the external details of public worship are profoundly interesting to -women. When there is any splendor in ritual the details of vestments and -altar decorations are a constant occupation for their thoughts, and they -frequently bestow infinite labor and pains to produce beautiful things -with their own hands to be used in the service of the Church. In cases -where the service itself is too austere and plain to afford much scope for -this affectionate industry, the slightest pretext is seized upon with -avidity. See how eagerly ladies will decorate a church at Christmas, and -how they will work to get up an ecclesiastical bazaar! Even in that Church -which most encourages or permits aesthetic industry, the zeal of ladies -sometimes goes beyond the desires of the clergy, and has to be more or -less decidedly repressed. We all can see from the outside how fond women -generally are of flowers, though I believe it is impossible for us to -realize all that flowers are to them, as there are no inanimate objects -that men love with such affectionate and even tender solicitude. However, -we see that women surround themselves with flowers, in gardens, in -conservatories, and in their rooms; we see that they wear artificial -flowers in their dress, and that they paint flowers in water-color and on -china. Now observe how the Church of Rome and the Ritualists in England -show sympathy with this feminine taste! Innumerable millions of flowers -are employed annually in the churches on the Continent; they are also -used in England, though in less lavish profusion, and a sermon on flowers -is preached annually in London, when every pew is full of them. - -It is well known that women take an unfailing interest in dress. The -attention they give to it is close, constant, and systematic, like an -orderly man's attention to order. Women are easily affected by official -costumes, and they read what great people have worn at levees and -drawing-rooms. The clergy possess, in ecclesiastical vestments, a very -powerful help to their influence. That many of them are clearly aware of -this is proved by their boldness and perseverance in resuming ornamental -vestments; and (as might be expected) that Church which has the most -influence over women is at the same time the one whose vestments are most -gorgeous and most elaborate. Splendor, however, is not required to make a -costume impressive. It is enough that it be strikingly peculiar, even in -simplicity, like the white robe of the Dominican friars. - -Costume naturally leads our minds to architecture. I am not the first to -remark that a house is only a cloak of a larger size. The gradation is -insensible from a coat to a cathedral: first, the soldier's heavy cloak -which enabled the Prussians to dispense with the little tent, then the -tent, hut, cottage, house, church, cathedral, heavier and larger as we -ascend the scale. "He has clothed himself with his church," says Michelet -of the priest; "he has wrapped himself in this glorious mantle, and in it -he stands in triumphant state. The crowd comes, sees, admires. Assuredly, -if we judge the man by his covering, he who clothes himself with a _Notre -Dame de Paris_, or with a Cologne Cathedral, is, to all appearance, the -giant of the spiritual world. What a dwelling such an edifice is, and how -vast the inhabitant must be! All proportions change; the eye is deceived -and deceives itself again. Sublime lights, powerful shadows, all help the -illusion. The man who in the street looked like a village schoolmaster is -a prophet in this place. He is transfigured by these magnificent -surroundings; his heaviness becomes power and majesty; his voice has -formidable echoes. Women and children are overawed." - -To a mind that does not analyze but simply receives impressions, -magnificent architecture is a convincing proof that the words of the -preacher are true. It appears inconceivable that such substantial glories, -so many thousands of tons of masonry, such forests of timber, such acres -of lead and glass, all united in one harmonious work on which men lavished -wealth and toil for generations,--it appears inconceivable that such a -monument can perpetuate an error or a dream. The echoing vaults bear -witness. Responses come from storied window and multitudinous imagery. -When the old cosmogony is proclaimed to be true in York Minster, the -scientists sink into insignificance in their modern ordinary rooms; when -the acolyte rings his bell in Rouen Cathedral, and the Host is lifted up, -and the crowd kneels in silent adoration on the pavement, who is to deny -the Real Presence? Does not every massive pillar stand there to affirm -sturdily that it is true; and do not the towers outside announce it to -field and river, and to the very winds of heaven? - -The musical culture of women finds its own special interest in the vocal -and instrumental parts of the church service. Women have a direct -influence on this part of the ritual, and sometimes take an active share -in it. Of all the arts music is the most closely connected with religion, -and it is the only one that the blessed are believed to practise in a -future state. A suggestion that angels might paint or carve is so -unaccustomed that it seems incongruous; yet the objection to these arts -cannot be that they employ matter, since both poets and painters give -musical instruments to the angels,-- - - "And angels meeting us shall sing - To their citherns and citoles." - -Worship naturally becomes musical as it passes from the prayer that asks -for benefits to the expression of joyful praise; and though the austerity -of extreme Protestantism has excluded instruments and encouraged reading -instead of chanting, I am not aware that it has ever gone so far as to -forbid the singing of hymns. - -I have not yet touched upon pulpit eloquence as one of the means by which -the clergy gain a great ascendency over women. The truth is that the -pulpit is quite the most advantageous of all places for any one who has -the gift of public speaking. He is placed there far more favorably than a -Member of Parliament in his place in the House, where he is subject to -constant and contemptuous interruptions from hearers lounging with their -hats on. The chief advantage is that no one present is allowed either to -interrupt or to reply; and this is one reason why some men will not go to -church, as they say, "We may hear our principles misrepresented and not be -permitted to defend them." A Bishop, in my hearing, touched upon this very -point. "People say," he remarked, "that a preacher is much at his ease -because no one is allowed to answer him; but I invite discussion. If any -one here present has doubts about the soundness of my reasoning, I invite -him to come to me at the Episcopal Palace, and we will argue the question -together in my study." This sounded unusually liberal, but how the -advantages were still on the side of the Bishop! His attack on heresy was -public. It was uttered with long-practised professional eloquence, it was -backed by a lofty social position, aided by a peculiar and dignified -costume, and mightily aided also by the architecture of a magnificent -cathedral. The doubter was invited to answer, but not on equal terms. The -attack was public, the answer was to be private, and the heretic was to -meet the Bishop in the Episcopal Palace, where, again, the power of rank -and surroundings would be all in the prelate's favor. - -Not only are clergymen privileged speakers, in being as secure from -present contradiction as a sovereign on the throne, but they have the -grandest of all imaginable subjects. In a word, they have the subject of -Dante,--they speak to us _del Inferno_, _del Purgatorio_, _del Paradiso_. -If they have any gift of genius, any power of imagination, such a subject -becomes a tremendous engine in their hands. Imagine the difference between -a preacher solemnly warning his hearers that the consequences of -inattention may be everlasting torment, and a politician warning the -Government that inattention may lead to a deficit! The truth is, that -however terrible may be the earthly consequences of imprudence and of sin, -they sink into complete insignificance before the menaces of the Church; -nor is there, on the other hand, any worldly success that can be proposed -as a motive comparable to the permanent happiness of Paradise. The good -and the bad things of this world have alike the fatal defect, as subjects -for eloquence, that they equally end in death; and as death is near to all -of us, we see the end to both. The secular preacher is like a man who -predicts a more or less comfortable journey, which comes to the same end -in any case. A philosophic hearer is not very greatly elated by the -promise of comforts so soon to be taken away, nor is he overwhelmed by the -threat of evils that can but be temporary. Hence, in all matters belonging -to this world only, the tone of quiet advice is the reasonable and -appropriate tone, and it is that of the doctor and lawyer; but in matters -of such tremendous import as eternal happiness and misery the utmost -energy of eloquence can never be too great for the occasion; so that if a -preacher can threaten like peals of thunder, and appal like flashes of -lightning, he may use such terrible gifts without any disproportionate -excess. On the other hand, if he has any charm of language, any brilliancy -of imagination, there is nothing to prevent him from alluring his hearers -to the paths of virtue by the most lavish and seductive promises. In -short, his opportunities in both directions are of such a nature that -exaggeration is impossible; and all his power, all his charm, are as free -to do their utmost as an ocean wave in a tempest or the nightingale in the -summer woods. - -I cannot quit the subject of clerical oratory without noticing one of its -marked characteristics. The priest is not in a position of disinterested -impartiality, like a man of science, who is ready to renounce any doctrine -when he finds evidence against it. The priest is an advocate whose -life-long pleading must be in favor of the Church as he finds her, and in -opposition to her adversaries. To attack adversaries is therefore one of -the recognized duties of his profession; and if he is not a man of -uncommon fairness, if he has not an inborn love of justice which is rare -in human nature, he will not only attack his adversaries but misrepresent -them. There is even a worse danger than simple misrepresentation. A priest -may possibly be a man of a coarse temper, and if he is so he will employ -the weapons of outrage and vituperation, knowing that he can do so with -impunity. One would imagine that these methods must inevitably repel and -displease women, but there is a very peculiar reason why they seldom have -this effect. A highly principled woman is usually so extremely eager to be -on the side of what is right that suspension of judgment is most difficult -for her. Any condemnation uttered by a person she is accustomed to trust -has her approval on the instant. She cannot endure to wait until the crime -is proved, but her feelings of indignation are at once aroused against the -supposed criminal on the ground that there must be clear distinctions -between right and wrong. The priest, for her, is the good man,--the man on -the side of God and virtue; and those whom he condemns are the bad -men,--the men on the side of the Devil and vice. This being so, he may -deal with such men as roughly as he pleases. Nor have these men the -faintest chance of setting themselves right in her opinion. She quietly -closes the avenues of her mind against them; she declines to read their -books; she will not listen to their arguments. Even if one of them is a -near relation whose opinions inflict upon her what she calls "the deepest -distress of mind," she will positively prefer to go on suffering such -distress until she dies, rather than allow him to remove it by a candid -exposition of his views. She prefers the hostile misrepresentation that -makes her miserable, to an authentic account of the matter that would -relieve her anguish. - - -PART III.--ASSOCIATION. - -The association of clergymen with ladies in works of charity affords -continual opportunities for the exercise of clerical influence over women. -A partnership in good works is set up which establishes interesting and -cordial relations, and when the lady has accomplished some charitable -purpose she remembers for long afterwards the clergyman without whose -active assistance her project might have fallen to the ground. She sees in -the clergyman a reflection of her own goodness, and she feels grateful to -him for lending his masculine sense and larger experience to the -realization of her ideas. There are other cases of a different nature in -which the self-esteem of the lady is deeply gratified when she is selected -by the clergyman as being more capable of devoted effort in a sacred cause -than women of inferior piety and strength of mind. This kind of clerical -selection is believed to be very influential in furthering clerical -marriages. The lady is told that she will serve the highest of all causes -by lending a willing ear to her admirer. Every reader will remember how -thoroughly this idea is worked out in "Jane Eyre," where St. John urges -Jane to marry him on the plain ground that she would be a valuable -fellow-worker with a missionary. Charlotte Bronte was, indeed, so strongly -impressed with this aspect of clerical influence that she injured the best -and strongest of her novels by an almost wearisome development of that -episode. - -Clerical influence is immensely aided by the possession of leisure. -Without underrating the self-devotion of hard-working clergymen (which is -all the more honorable to them that they might take life more easily if -they chose), we see a wide distinction, in point of industry, between the -average clergyman and the average solicitor, for example. The clergyman -has leisure to pay calls, to accept many invitations, and to talk in full -detail about the interests that he has in common with his female friends. -The solicitor is kept to his office by strictly professional work -requiring very close application and allowing no liberty of mind. - -Much might be said about the effect of clerical leisure on clerical -manners. Without leisure it is difficult to have such quiet and pleasant -manners as the clergy generally have. Very busy men generally seem -preoccupied with some idea of their own which is not what you are talking -about, but a leisurely man will give hospitality to your thought. A busy -man wants to get away, and fidgets you; a man of leisure dwells with you, -for the time, completely. Ladies are exquisitely sensitive to these -differences, and besides, they are generally themselves persons of -leisure. Overworked people often confound leisure with indolence, which is -a great mistake. Leisure is highly favorable to intelligence and good -manners; indolence is stupid, from its dislike to mental effort, and -ill-bred, from the habit of inattention. - -The feeling of women towards custom draws them strongly to the clergy, -because a priesthood is the instinctive upholder of ancient customs and -ceremonies, and steadily maintains external decorum. Women are naturally -more attracted by custom than we are. A few men have an affectionate -regard for the sanctities of usage, but most men only submit to them from -an idea that they are generally helpful to the "maintenance of order;" and -if women could be supposed absent from a nation for a time, it is probable -that external observances of all kinds would be greatly relaxed. Women do -not merely submit passively to custom; they uphold it actively and -energetically, with a degree of faith in the perfect reasonableness of it -which gives them great decision in its defence. It seems to them the -ultimate reason from which there is no appeal. Now, in the life of every -organized Church there is much to gratify this instinct, especially in -those which have been long established. The recurrence of holy seasons, -the customary repetition of certain forms of words, the observance at -stated intervals of the same ceremonies, the adherence to certain -prescribed decencies or splendors of dress, the reservation of sacred days -on which labor is suspended, give to the religious life a charm of -customariness which is deeply gratifying to good, order-loving women. It -is said that every poet has something feminine in his nature; and it is -certainly observable that poets, like women, are tenderly affected by the -recurrence of holy seasons, and the observance of fixed religious rites. I -will only allude to Keble's "Christian Year," because in this instance it -might be objected that the poet was secondary to the Christian; but the -reader will find instances of the same sentiment in Tennyson, as, for -example, in the profoundly affecting allusions to the return of Christmas -in "In Memoriam." I could not name another occupation so closely and -visibly bound up with custom as the clerical profession, but for the sake -of contrast I may mention one or two others that are completely -disconnected from it. The profession of painting is an example, and so is -that of literature. An artist, a writer, has simply nothing whatever to do -with custom, except as a private man. He may be an excellent and a famous -workman without knowing Sunday from week-day or Easter from Lent. A man of -science is equally unconnected with traditional observances. - -It may be a question whether a celibate or a married clergy has the -greater influence over women. - -There are two sides to this question. The Church of Rome is, from the -worldly point of view, the most astute body of men who have ever leagued -themselves together in a corporation; and that Church has decided for -celibacy, rejecting thereby all the advantages to be derived from rich -marriages and good connections. In a celibate church the priest has a -position of secure dignity and independence. It is known from the first -that he will not marry, so there is no idle and damaging gossip about his -supposed aspirations after fortune, or tender feelings towards beauty. -Women can treat him with greater confidence than if he were a possible -suitor, and then can confess to him, which is felt to be difficult with a -married or a marriageable clergy. By being decidedly celibate the clergy -avoid the possible loss of dignity which might result from allying -themselves with families in a low social position. They are simply -priests, and escape all other classification. A married man is, as it -were, made responsible for the decent appearance, the good manners, and -the proper conduct of three different sets of people. There is the family -he springs from, there is his wife's family, and, lastly, there is the -family in his own house. Any one of these may drag a man down socially -with almost irresistible force. The celibate priest is only affected by -the family he springs from, and is generally at a distance from that. He -escapes the invasion of his house by a wife's relations, who might -possibly be vulgar, and, above all, he escapes the permanent degradation -of a coarse and ill-dressed family of his own. No doubt, from the -Christian point of view, poverty is as honorable as wealth; but from the -worldly point of view its visible imperfections are mean, despicable, and -even ridiculous. In the early days of English Protestants the liberty to -marry was ruinous to the social position of the clergy. They generally -espoused servant-girls or "a lady's maid whose character had been blown -upon, and who was therefore forced to give up all hope of catching the -steward."[17] Queen Elizabeth issued "special orders that no clergyman -should presume to marry a servant-girl without the consent of the master -or mistress." "One of the lessons most earnestly inculcated on every girl -of honorable family was to give no encouragement to a lover in orders; and -if any young lady forgot this precept she was almost as much disgraced as -by an illicit amour." The cause of these low marriages was simply poverty, -and it is needless to add that they increased the evil. "As children -multiplied and grew, the household of the priest became more and more -beggarly. Holes appeared more and more plainly in the thatch of his -parsonage and in his single cassock. His boys followed the plough, and his -girls went out to service." - -When clergymen can maintain appearances they gain one advantage from -marriage which increases their influence with women. The clergyman's wife -is almost herself in holy orders, and his daughter often takes an equally -keen interest in ecclesiastical matters. These "clergywomen," as they have -been called, are valuable allies, through whom much may be done that -cannot be effected directly. This is the only advantage on the side of -marriage, and it is but relative; for a celibate clergy has also its -female allies who are scarcely less devoted; and in the Church of Rome -there are great organized associations of women entirely under the control -of ecclesiastics. Again, there is a lay element in a clergyman's family -which brings the world into his own house, to the detriment of its -religious character. The sons of the clergy are often anything but -clerical in feeling. They are often strongly laic, and even sceptical, by -a natural reaction from ecclesiasticism. On the whole, therefore, it seems -certain that an unmarried clergy more easily maintains both its own -dignity and the distinction between itself and the laity. - -Auricular confession is so well known as a means of influencing women that -I need scarcely do more than mention it; but there is one characteristic -of it which is little understood by Protestants. They fancy (judging from -Protestant feelings of antagonism) that confession must be felt as a -tyranny. A Roman Catholic woman does not feel it to be an infliction that -the Church imposes, but a relief that she affords. Women are not naturally -silent sufferers. They like to talk about their anxieties and interests, -especially to a patient and sympathetic listener of the other sex who will -give them valuable advice. There is reason to believe that a good deal of -informal confession is done by Protestant ladies; in the Church of Rome it -is more systematic and leads to a formal absolution. The subject which the -speaker has to talk about is that most interesting of all subjects, self. -In any other place than a confessional to talk about self at any length is -an error; in the confessional it is a virtue. The truth is that pious -Roman Catholic women find happiness in the confessional and try the -patience of the priests by minute accounts of trifling or imaginary sins. -No doubt confession places an immense power in the hands of the Church, -but at an incalculable cost of patience. It is not felt to weigh unfairly -on the laity, because the priest who to-day has forgiven your faults will -to-morrow kneel in penitence and ask forgiveness for his own. I do not see -in the confessional so much an oppressive institution as a convenience for -both parties. The woman gets what she wants,--an opportunity of talking -confidentially about herself; and the priest gets what he wants,--an -opportunity of learning the secrets of the household. - -Nothing has so powerfully awakened the jealousy of laymen as this -institution of the confessional. The reasons have been so fully treated by -Michelet and others, and are in fact so obvious, that I need not repeat -them. - -The dislike for priests that is felt by many Continental laymen is -increased by a cause that helps to win the confidence of women. "Observe," -the laymen say, "with what art the priest dresses so as to make women feel -that he is without sex, in order that they may confess to him more -willingly. He removes every trace of hair from his face, his dress is half -feminine, he hides his legs in petticoats, his shoulders under a tippet, -and in the higher ranks he wears jewelry and silk and lace. A woman would -never confess to a man dressed as we are, so the wolf puts on sheep's -clothing." - -Where confession is not the rule the layman's jealousy is less acrid and -pungent in its expression, but it often manifests itself in milder forms. -The pen that so clearly delineated the Rev. Charles Honeyman was impelled -by a layman's natural and pardonable jealousy. A feeling of this kind is -often strong in laymen of mature years. They will say to you in -confidence, "Here is a man about the age of one of my sons, who knows no -more concerning the mysteries of life and death than I do, who gets what -he thinks he knows out of a book which is as accessible to me as it is to -him, and yet who assumes a superiority over me which would only be -justifiable if I were ignorant and he enlightened. He calls me one of his -sheep. I am not a sheep relatively to him. I am at least his equal in -knowledge, and greatly his superior in experience. Nobody but a parson -would venture to compare me to an animal (such a stupid animal too!) and -himself to that animal's master. His one real and effective superiority is -that he has all the women on his side." - -You poor, doubting, hesitating layman, not half so convinced as the ladies -of your family, who and what are you in the presence of a man who comes -clothed with the authority of the Church? If you simply repeat what he -says, you are a mere echo, a feeble repetition of a great original, like -the copy of a famous picture. If you try to take refuge in philosophic -indifference, in silent patience, you will be blamed for moral and -religious inertia. If you venture to oppose and discuss, you will be the -bad man against the good man, and as sure of condemnation as a murderer -when the judge is putting on the black cap. There is no resource for you -but one, and that does not offer a very cheering or hopeful prospect. By -the exercise of angelic patience, and of all the other virtues that have -been preached by good men from Socrates downwards, you may in twenty or -thirty years acquire some credit for a sort of inferior goodness of your -own,--a pinchbeck goodness, better than nothing, but not in any way -comparable to the pure golden goodness of the priest; and when you come to -die, the best that can be hoped for your disembodied soul will be mercy, -clemency, indulgence; not approbation, welcome, or reward. - - - - -ESSAY XIV. - -WHY WE ARE APPARENTLY BECOMING LESS RELIGIOUS. - - -It has happened to me on more than one occasion to have to examine papers -left by ladies belonging to the last generation, who had lived in the -manner most esteemed and respected by the general opinion of their time, -and who might, without much risk of error, be taken for almost perfect -models of English gentlewomen as they existed before the present -scientific age. The papers left by these ladies consisted either of -memoranda of their private thoughts, or of thoughts by others which seemed -to have had an especial interest for them. I found that all these papers -arranged themselves naturally and inevitably under two heads: either they -concerned family interests and affections, or they were distinctly -religious in character, like the religious meditations we find in books of -devotion. - -There may be nothing extraordinary in this. Thousands of other ladies may -have left religious memoranda; but consider what a preponderance of -religious ideas is implied when written thoughts are entirely confined to -them! The ladies in question lived in the first half of the nineteenth -century, a period of great intellectual ferment, of the most important -political and social changes, and of wonderful material progress; but -they did not seem to have taken any real interest in these movements. The -Bible and the commentaries of the clergy satisfied not only their -spiritual but also their intellectual needs. They seem to have desired no -knowledge of the universe, or of the probable origin and future of the -human race, which the Bible did not supply. They seem to have cared for no -example of human character and conduct other than the scriptural examples. - -This restfulness in Biblical history and philosophy, this substitution of -the Bible for the world as a subject of study and contemplation, this -absence of desire to penetrate the secrets of the world itself, this want -of aspiration after any ideal more recent than the earlier ages of -Christianity, permitted a much more constant and uninterrupted dwelling -with what are considered to be religious ideas than is possible to any -active and inquiring mind of the present day. Let it be supposed, for -example, that a person to whom the Bible was everything desired -information about the origin of the globe, and of life upon it; he would -refer to the Book of Genesis as the only authority, and this reference -would have the character of a religious act, and he would get credit for -piety on account of it; whilst a modern scientific student would refer to -some great modern paleontologist, and his reference would not have the -character of a religious act, nor bring him any credit for piety; yet the -prompting curiosity, the desire to know about the remote past, would be -exactly the same in both cases. And I think it may be easily shown that if -the modern scientific student appears to be less religious than others -think he ought to be, it is often because he possesses and uses more -abundant sources of information than those which were accessible to the -ancient Jews. It is not his fault if knowledge has increased; he cannot be -blamed if he goes where information is most copious and most exact; yet -his preference for such information gives an unsanctified aspect to his -studies. The study of the most ancient knowledge wears a religious aspect, -but the study of modern knowledge appears to be non-religious. - -Again, when we come to the cultivation of the idealizing faculties, of the -faculties which do not seek information merely, but some kind of -perfection, we find that the very complexity of modern life, and the -diversity of the ideal pleasures and perfections that we modern men -desire, have a constant tendency to take us outside of strictly religious -ideals. As long as the writings which are held to be sacred supply all -that our idealizing faculties need, so long will our imaginative powers -exercise themselves in what is considered to be a religious manner, and we -shall get credit for piety; but when our minds imagine what the sacred -writers could not or did not conceive, and when we seek help for our -imaginative faculty in profane writers, we appear to be less religious. So -it is with the desire to study and imitate high examples of conduct and -character. There is no nobler or more fruitful instinct in man than a -desire like this, which is possible only to those who are at once humble -and aspiring. An ancient Jew who had this noble instinct could satisfy it -by reading the sacred books of the Hebrews, and so his aspiration appeared -to be wholly religious. It is not so with an active-minded young -Englishman of the present day. He cannot find the most inspiriting models -amongst the ancient Hebrews, for the reason that their life was altogether -so much simpler and more primitive than ours. They had nothing that can -seriously be called science; they had not any organized industry; they had -little art, and hardly any secular literature, so that in these directions -they offer us no examples to follow. Our great inspiriting examples in -these directions are to be found either in the Renaissance or in recent -times, and therefore in profane biography. From this it follows that an -active modern mind seems to study and follow non-religious examples, and -so to differ widely, and for the worse, from the simpler minds of old -time, who were satisfied with the examples they found in their Bibles. -This appearance is misleading; it is merely on the surface; for if we go -deeper and do not let ourselves be deceived by the words "sacred" and -"profane," we shall find that when a simple mind chooses a model from a -primitive people, and a cultivated one chooses a model from an advanced -people, and from the most advanced class in it, they are both really doing -the same thing, namely, seeking ideal help of the kind which is best for -each. Both of them are pursuing the same object,--a mental discipline and -elevation which may be comprised under the general term _virtue_; the only -difference being that one is studying examples of virtue in the history of -the ancient Jews, whilst the other finds examples of virtue more to his -own special purpose in the lives of energetic Englishmen, Frenchmen, or -Germans. - -A hundred such examples might be mentioned, for every occupation worth -following has its own saints and heroes; but I will confine myself to two. -The first shall be a French gentleman of the eighteenth century, to whom -life offered in the richest profusion everything that can tempt a man to -what is considered an excusable and even a respectable form of idleness. -He had an independent fortune, excellent health, a good social position, -and easy access to the most lively, the most entertaining, the most -amiable society that ever was, namely, that of the intelligent French -nobility before the Revolution. There is no merit in renouncing what we do -not enjoy; but he enjoyed all pleasant things, and yet renounced them for -a higher and a harder life. At the age of thirty-two he retired to the -country, made a rule of early rising and kept it, sallied forth from his -house every morning at five, went and shut himself up in an old tower with -a piece of bread and a glass of water for his breakfast, worked altogether -eleven or twelve hours a day in two sittings, and went to bed at nine. -This for eight months in the year, regularly, the remaining four being -employed in scientific and administrative work at the Jardin des Plantes. -He went on working in this way for forty years, and in the whole course of -that time never let pass an ill-considered page or an ill-constructed -sentence, but always did his best, and tried to make himself able to do -better. - -Such was the great life of Buffon; and in our own time another great life -has come to its close, inferior to that of Buffon only in this, that as it -did not begin in luxury, the first renunciation was not so difficult to -make. Yet, however austere his beginnings, it is not a light or easy thing -for a man to become the greatest intellectual worker of his time, so that -one of his days (including eight hours of steady nocturnal labor) was -equivalent to two or more of our days. No man of his time in Europe had so -vast a knowledge of literature and science in combination; yet this -knowledge was accompanied by perfect modesty and by a complete -indifference to vulgar distinctions and vain successes. For many years he -was the butt of coarse and malignant misrepresentation on the part of -enemies who easily made him odious to a shallow society; but he bore it -with perfect dignity, and retained unimpaired the tolerance and charity of -his nature. His way of living was plain and frugal; he even contented -himself with narrow dwellings, though the want of space must have -occasioned frequent inconvenience to a man of his pursuits. He -scrupulously fulfilled his domestic duties, and made use of his medical -education in ministering gratuitously to the poor. Such was his courage -that when already advanced in life he undertook a gigantic task, requiring -twenty years of incessant labor; and such were his industry and -perseverance that he brought it to a splendidly successful issue. At -length, after a long life of duty and patience, after bearing calumny and -ridicule, he was called to endure another kind of suffering,--that of -incessant physical pain. This he bore with perfect fortitude, retaining to -the last his mental serenity, his interest in learning, and a high-minded -patriotic thoughtfulness for his country and its future, finding means in -the midst of suffering to dictate long letters to his fellow-citizens on -political subjects, which, in their calm wisdom, stood in the strongest -possible contrast to the violent party writing of the hour. - -Such was the great life of Littre; and now consider whether he who studies -lives like these, and wins virtue from their austere example, does not -occupy his thoughts with what would have been considered religious -aspirations, if these two men, instead of being Frenchmen of the -eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, had happened to be ancient Jews. If -it had been possible for so primitive a nation as the Jewish to produce -men of such steady industry and so large a culture, we should have read -the story of their lives in the Jewish sacred books, and then it would -have been a part of the popular religion to study them, whereas now the -study of such biography is held to be non-religious, if not (at least in -the case of Littre) positively irreligious. Yet surely when we think of -the virtues which made these lives so fruitful, our minds are occupied in -a kind of religious thought; for are we not thinking of temperance, -self-discipline, diligence, perseverance, patience, charity, courage, -hope? Were not these men distinguished by their aspiration after higher -perfection, by a constant desire to use their talents well, and by a -vigilant care in the employment of their time? And are not these virtues -and these aspirations held to be parts of a civilized man's religion, and -the best parts? - -The necessity for an intellectual expansion beyond the limits of the Bible -was felt very strongly at the time of the Renaissance, and found ample -satisfaction in the study of the Greek and Latin classics. There are many -reasons why women appear to be more religious than men; and one of them is -because women study only one collection of ancient writings, whilst men -have been accustomed to study three; consequently that which women study -(if such a word is applicable to devotional, uncritical reading) occupies -their minds far more exclusively than it occupies the mind of a classical -scholar. But, though the intellectual energies of men were for a time -satisfied with classical literature, they came at length to look outside -of that as their fathers had looked outside of the Bible. Classical -literature was itself a kind of religion, having its own sacred books; and -it had also its heretics,--the students of nature,--who found nature more -interesting than the opinions of the Greeks and Romans. Then came the -second great expansion of the human mind, in the midst of which we -ourselves are living. The Renaissance opened for it a world of mental -activity which had the inappreciable intellectual advantage of lying well -outside of the popular beliefs and ideas, so that cultivated men found in -it an escape from the pressure of the uneducated; but the new scientific -expansion offers us a region governed by laws of a kind peculiar to -itself, which protect those who conform to them against every assailant. -It is a region in which authority is unknown, for, however illustrious any -great man may appear in it, every statement that he makes is subject to -verification. Here the knowledge of ancient writers is continually -superseded by the better and more accurate knowledge of their successors; -so that whereas in religion and learning the most ancient writings are the -most esteemed, in science it is often the most recent, and even these have -no authority which may not be called in question freely by any student. -The new scientific culture is thus encouraging a habit of mind different -from old habits, and which in our time has caused such a degree of -separation that the most important and the most interesting of all topics -are those upon which we scarcely dare to venture for fear of being -misunderstood. - -If I had to condense in a short space the various reasons why we are -apparently becoming less religious, I should say that it is because -knowledge and feeling, embodied or expressed in the sciences and arts, are -now too fully and too variously developed to remain within the limits of -what is considered sacred knowledge or religious emotion. It was possible -for them to remain well within those limits in ancient times, and it is -still possible for a mind of very limited activity and range to dwell -almost entirely in what was known or felt at the time of Christ; but this -is not possible for an energetic and inquiring mind, and the consequence -is that the energetic mind will seem to the other, by contrast, to be -negligent of holy things, and too much occupied with purely secular -interests and concerns. A great misunderstanding arises from this, which -has often had a lamentable effect on intercourse between relations and -friends. Pious ladies, to whom theological writings appear to contain -almost everything that it is desirable to know, often look with secret -misgiving or suspicion on young men of vigorous intellect who cannot rest -satisfied with the old knowledge, and what such ladies vaguely hear of the -speculations of the famous scientific leaders inspires them with profound -alarm. They think that we are becoming less religious because theological -writings do not occupy the same space in our time and thoughts as they do -in theirs; whereas, if such a matter could be put to any kind of positive -test, it would probably be found that we know more, even of their own -theology, than they do, and that, instead of being indifferent to the -great problems of the universe, we have given to such problems an amount -of careful thought far surpassing, in mental effort, their own simple -acquiescence. The opinions of a thoughtful and studious man in the present -day have never been lightly come by; and if he is supposed to be less -religious than his father or his grandfather it may be that his religion -is different from theirs, without being either less earnest or less -enlightened. There is, however, one point of immense importance on which I -believe that we really are becoming less religious, indeed on that point -we seem to be rapidly abandoning the religious principle altogether; but -the subject is of too much consequence to be treated at the end of an -Essay. - - - - -ESSAY XV. - -HOW WE ARE REALLY BECOMING LESS RELIGIOUS. - - -The reader may remember how, after the long and unsuccessful siege of -Syracuse, the Athenian general Nikias, seeing his discouraged troops ill -with the fever from the marshes, determined to raise the siege; and that, -when his soldiers were preparing to retreat, and striking their tents for -the march, there occurred an eclipse of the moon. Nikias, in his anxiety -to know what the gods meant by this with reference to him and his army, at -once consulted a soothsayer, who told him that he would incur the Divine -anger if he did not remain where he was for three times nine days. He -remained, doing nothing, allowing his troops to perish and his ships to be -shut up by a line of the enemy's vessels chained together across the -entrance of the port. At length the three times nine days came to an end, -and what was left of the Athenian army had to get out of a situation that -had become infinitely more difficult during its inaction. The ships tried -to get out in vain; the army was able to retreat by land, but only to be -harassed by the enemy, and finally placed in such distress that it was -compelled to surrender. Most of the remnant died miserably in the old -quarries of Syracuse. - -The conduct of Nikias throughout these events was in the highest degree -religious. He was fully convinced that the gods concerned themselves about -him and his doings, that they were watching over him, and that the eclipse -was a communication from them not to be neglected without a breach of -religious duty. He, therefore, in the spirit of the most perfect religious -faith, which we are compelled to admire for its sincerity and -thoroughness, shut his eyes resolutely to all the visible facts of a -situation more disastrous every day, and attended only to the invisible -action of the invisible gods, of which nothing could be really known by -him. For twenty-seven days he went on quietly sacrificing his soldiers to -his faith, and only moved at last when he believed that the gods allowed -it. - -In contrast with this, let us ask what we think of an eclipse ourselves, -and how far any religious emotion, determinant of action or of inaction, -is connected with the phenomenon in our experience. We know, in the first -place, that eclipses belong to the natural order, and we do not feel -either grateful to the supernatural powers, or ungrateful, with regard to -them. Even the idea that eclipses demonstrate the power of God is hardly -likely to occur to us, for we constantly see terrestrial objects eclipsed -by cast shadows; and the mere falling of a shadow is to us only the -natural interruption of light by the intervention of any opaque object. In -the true theory of eclipses there is absolutely no ground whatever for -religious emotion, and accordingly the phenomenon is now entirely -disconnected from religious ideas. The consequence is that where the -Athenian general had a strong motive for religious emotion, a motive so -strong that he sacrificed his army to the supposed will of Heaven, a -modern general in the same situation would feel no emotion and make no -sacrifice. - -If this process stopped at eclipses the result would be of little -importance, as eclipses of the celestial bodies are not frequently -visible, and to lose the opportunity of emotion which they present is not -a very sensible loss. But so far is the process from stopping at eclipses, -that exactly the same process is going on with regard to thousands of -other phenomena which are one by one, yet with increasing rapidity, -ceasing to be regarded as special manifestations of Divine will, and -beginning to be regarded as a part of that order of nature with which, to -quote Professor Huxley's significant language, "nothing interferes." Every -one of these transferrences from supernatural government to natural order -deprives the religious sentiment of one special cause or motive for its -own peculiar kind of emotion, so that we are becoming less and less -accustomed to such emotion (as the opportunities for it become less -frequent), and more and more accustomed to accept events and phenomena of -all kinds as in that order of nature "with which nothing interferes." - -This single mental conception of the unfailing regularity of nature is -doing more in our time to affect the religious condition of thoughtful -people than could be effected by many less comprehensive conceptions. - -It has often been said, not untruly, that merely negative arguments have -little permanent influence over the opinions of men, and that institutions -which have been temporarily overthrown by negation will shortly be set up -again, and flourish in their old vigor, unless something positive can be -found to supply their place. But here is a doctrine of a most positive -kind. "The order of nature is invariably according to regular sequences." -It is a doctrine which cannot be proved, for we cannot follow all the -changes which have ever taken place in the universe; but, although -incapable of demonstration, it may be accepted until something happens to -disprove it; and it _is_ accepted, with the most absolute faith, by a -constantly increasing number of adherents. - -To show how this doctrine acts in diminishing religious emotion by taking -away the opportunity for it, let me narrate an incident which really -occurred on a French line of railway in the winter of 1882. The line, on -which I had travelled a few days before, passes between a river and a -hill. The river has a rocky bed and is torrential in winter; the hill is -densely covered with a pine forest coming down to the side of the line. -The year 1882 had been the rainiest known in France for two centuries, and -the roots of the trees on the edge of this pine forest had been much -loosened by the rain. In consequence of this, two large pine-trees fell -across the railway early one morning, and soon afterwards a train -approached the spot by the dim light of early dawn. There was a curve just -before the engine reached the trees, and it had come rapidly for several -miles down a decline. The driver reversed his steam, the engine and tender -leaped over the trees, and then went over the embankment to a place within -six feet of the rapid river. The carriages remained on the line, but were -much broken. Nobody was killed; nobody was seriously injured. The -remarkable escape of the passengers was accounted for as follows by the -religious people in the neighborhood. There happened to be a priest in the -train, and at the time when the shock took place he made what is called "a -pious ejaculation." This, it was said, had saved the lives of the -passengers. In the ages of faith this explanation would have been received -without question; but the notion of natural sequences--Professor Huxley's -"order with which nothing interferes"--had obtained such firm hold on the -minds of the townsmen generally that they said the priest was trying to -make ecclesiastical capital out of an occurrence easily explicable by -natural causes. They saw nothing supernatural either in the production of -the accident or its comparative harmlessness. The trickling of much water -had denuded the roots of the trees, which fell because they could not -stand with insufficient roothold; the lives of the passengers were saved -because they did not happen to be in the most shattered carriage; and the -men on the engine escaped because they fell on soft ground, made softer -still by the rain. It was probable, too, they said, that if any beneficent -supernatural interference had taken place it would have maintained the -trees in an erect position, by preventive miracle, and so spared the -slight injuries which really were inflicted, and which, though treated -very lightly by others because there were neither deaths nor amputations, -still caused suffering to those who had to bear them. - -Now if we go a little farther into the effects of this accident on the -minds of the people who shared in it, or whose friends had been imperilled -by it, we shall see very plainly the effect of the modern belief in the -regularity of natural sequences. Those who believed in supernatural -intervention would offer thanksgivings when they got home, and probably go -through some special religious thanksgiving services for many days -afterwards; those who believed in the regularity of natural sequences -would simply feel glad to have escaped, without any especial sense of -gratitude to supernatural powers. So much for the effect as far as -thanksgiving is concerned; but there is another side of the matter at -least equally important from the religious point of view,--that of prayer. -The believers in supernatural interference would probably, in all their -future railway journeys, pray to be supernaturally protected in case of -accident, as they had been in 1882; but the believers in the regularity of -natural sequences would only hope that no trees had fallen across the -line, and feel more than usually anxious after long seasons of rainy -weather. Can there be a doubt that the priest's opinion, that he had won -safety by a pious ejaculation, was highly favorable to his religious -activity afterwards, whilst the opinion of the believers in "the natural -order with which nothing interferes" was unfavorable both to prayer and -thanksgiving in connection with railway travelling? - -Examples of this kind might easily be multiplied, for there is hardly any -enterprise that men undertake, however apparently unimportant, which -cannot be regarded both from the points of view of naturalism and -supernaturalism; and in every case the naturalist manner of regarding the -enterprise leads men to study the probable influence of natural causes, -whilst the supernaturalist opinion leads them to propitiate supernatural -powers. Now, although some new sense may come to be attached to the word -"religion" in future ages, so that it may come to mean scientific -thoroughness, intellectual ingenuousness, or some other virtue that may be -possessed by a pure naturalist, the word has always been understood, down -to the present time, to imply a constant dependence upon the supernatural; -and when I say that we are becoming less religious, I mean that from our -increasing tendency to refer everything to natural causes the notion of -the supernatural is much less frequently present in our minds than it was -in the minds of our forefathers. Even the clergy themselves seem to be -following the laity towards the belief in natural law, at least so far as -matter is concerned. The Bishop of Melbourne, in 1882, declined to order -prayers for rain, and gave his reason honestly, which was that material -phenomena were under the control of natural law, and would not be changed -in answer to prayer. The Bishop added that prayer should be confined to -spiritual blessings. Without disputing the soundness of this opinion, we -cannot help perceiving that if it were generally received it would put an -end to one half of the religious activity of the human race; for half the -prayers and half the thanksgivings addressed to the supernatural powers -are for material benefits only. It is possible that, in the future, -religious people will cease to pray for health, but take practical -precautions to preserve it; that they will cease to pray for prosperity, -but study the natural laws which govern the wealth of nations; that they -will no longer pray for the national fleets and armies, but see that they -are well supplied and intelligently commanded. All this and much more is -possible; but when it comes to pass the world will be less religious than -it was when men believed that every pestilence, every famine, every -defeat, was a chastisement specially, directly, and intentionally -inflicted by an angry Deity. Even now, what an immense step has been made -in this direction! In the fearful description of the pestilence at -Florence, given with so much detail by Boccaccio, he speaks of "l'ira di -Dio a punire la iniquita degli uomini con quella pestilenza;" and he -specially implies that those who sought to avoid the plague by going to -healthier places in the country deceived themselves in supposing that the -wrath of God would not follow them whithersoever they went. That is the -old belief expressing itself in prayers and humiliations. It is still -recognized officially. If the plague could occur in a town on the whole so -well cared for as modern London, the language of Boccaccio would still be -used in the official public prayers; but the active-minded practical -citizens would be thinking how to destroy the germs, how to purify air and -water. An instance of this divergence occurred after the Egyptian war of -1882. The Archbishop of York, after the battle of Tel-el-Kebir, ordered -thanksgivings to be offered in the churches, on the ground that God was in -Sir Garnet Wolseley's camp and fought with him against the Egyptians, -which was a survival of the antique idea that national deities fought -with the national armies. On this a Member of Parliament, Mr. George -Palmer, said to his constituents in a public meeting at Reading, "At the -same time I cannot agree with the prayers that have been made in churches. -Though I respect the consciences of other men, I must say that it was not -by Divine interference, but from the stuff of which our army was made and -our great ironclads, that victory was achieved." I do not quote this -opinion for any originality in itself, as there have always been men who -held that victory was a necessary result of superior military efficiency, -but I quote it as a valuable test of the change in general opinion. It is -possible that such views may have been expressed in private in all ages of -the world; but I doubt if in any age preceding ours a public man, at the -very time when he was cultivating the good graces of his electors, would -have refused to the national Deity a special share in a military triumph. -To an audience imbrued with the old conception of incessant supernatural -interferences, the doctrine that a victory was a natural result would have -sounded impious; and such an audience, if any one had ventured to say what -Mr. Palmer said, would have received him with a burst of indignation. But -Mr. Palmer knew the tendencies of the present age, and was quite correct -in thinking that he might safely express his views. His hearers were not -indignant, they were not even grave and silent, as Englishmen are when -they simply disapprove, but they listened willingly, and marked their -approbation by laughter and cheers. Even a clergyman may hold Mr. -Palmer's opinion. Soon after his speech at Reading the Rev. H. R. Haweis -said the same thing in the pulpit. "Few people," he said, "really doubt -that we have conquered the Egyptians, not because we were in the right and -they were in the wrong, but because we had the heaviest hand." The -preacher went on to say that the idea of God fighting on one side more -than another in particular battles seemed to him to be a Pagan or at most -a Jewish one. How different was the old sentiment as expressed by Macaulay -in the stirring ballad of Ivry! "We of the religion" had no doubt about -the Divine interference in the battle, - - "For our God hath crushed the tyrant, our God hath raised the slave, - And mocked the counsel of the wise, and the valor of the brave; - Then glory to his holy name from whom all glories are, - And glory to our Sovereign Lord, King Henry of Navarre!" - -The way in which the great mental movement of our age towards a more -complete recognition of natural order is affecting human intercourse may -be defined in a few words. If the movement were at an equal rate of -advance for all civilized people they would be perfectly agreed amongst -themselves at any one point of time, as it would be settled which events -were natural in their origin and which were due to the interposition of -Divine or diabolical agency. Living people would differ in opinion from -their predecessors, but they would not differ from each other. The change, -however, though visible and important, is not by any means uniform, so -that a guest sitting at dinner may have on his right hand a lady who sees -supernatural interferences in many things, and on his left a student of -science who is firmly convinced that there are no supernatural -interferences in the present, and that there never have been any in the -past. Private opinion, out of which public opinion slowly and gradually -forms itself, is in our time in a state of complete anarchy, because two -opposite doctrines are held loosely, and one or the other is taken up as -it happens to seem appropriate. The interpositions of Providence are -recognized or rejected according to political or personal bias. The French -Imperialists saw the Divine vengeance in the death of Gambetta, whilst in -their view the death of Napoleon III. was the natural termination of his -disease, and that of the Prince Imperial a simple accident, due to the -carelessness of his English companions. Personal bias shows itself in the -belief, often held by men occupying positions of importance, that they are -necessary, at least for a time, to fulfil the intentions of Providence. -Napoleon III. said in a moment of emotion, "So long as I am needed I am -invulnerable; but when my hour comes I shall be broken like glass!" Even -in private life a man will sometimes think, "I am so necessary to my wife -and family that Providence will not remove me," though every newspaper -reports the deaths of fathers who leave their families destitute. -Sometimes men believe that Providence takes the same view of their -enterprises that they themselves take; and when a great enterprise is -drawing near to its termination they feel assured that supernatural power -will protect them till it is quite concluded, but they believe that the -enterprises of other men are exposed to all the natural risks. When Mr. -Gifford Palgrave was wrecked in the sea of Oman, he was for some time in -an open boat, and thus describes his situation: "All depended on the -steerage, and on the balance and support afforded by the oars, and even -more still on the Providence of Him who made the deep; nor indeed could I -get myself to think that He had brought me thus far to let me drown just -at the end of my journey, and in so very unsatisfactory a way too; for had -we then gone down, what news of the event off Sowadah would ever have -reached home, or when?--so that altogether I felt confident of getting -somehow or other on shore, though by what means I did not exactly know." -Here the writer thinks of his own enterprise as deserving Divine -solicitude, but does not attach the same importance to the humbler -enterprises of the six passengers who went down with the vessel. I cannot -help thinking, too, of the poor passenger Ibraheem, who swam to the boat -and begged so piteously to be taken in, when a sailor "loosened his grasp -by main force and flung him back into the sea, where he disappeared -forever." Neither can I forget the four who imprudently plunged from the -boat and perished. We may well believe that these lost ones would have -been unable to write such a delightful and instructive book as Mr. -Palgrave's "Travels in Arabia," yet they must have had their own humble -interests in life, their own little objects and enterprises. - -The calculation that Providence would spare a traveller towards the close -of a long journey may be mistaken, but it is pious; it affords an -opportunity for the exercise of devout emotion which the scientific -thinker would miss. If Mr. Herbert Spencer had been placed in the same -situation he would, no doubt, have felt the most perfect confidence that -the order of nature would not be disturbed, that even in such a turmoil of -winds and waters the laws of buoyancy and stability would be observed in -every motion of the boat to the millionth of an inch; but he would not -have considered himself likely to escape death on account of the important -nature of his undertakings. Mr. Spencer's way of judging the situation as -one of equal peril for himself and his humble companions would have been -more reasonable, but at the same time he would have lost that opportunity -for special and personal gratitude which Mr. Palgrave enjoyed when he -believed himself to be supernaturally protected. The curious inconsistency -of the common French expression, "C'est un hasard providentiel" is another -example of the present state of thought on the question. A Frenchman is -upset from a carriage, breaks no bones, and stands up, exclaiming, as he -dusts himself, "It was un hasard vraiment providentiel that I was not -lamed for life." It is plain that if his escape was providential it could -not be accidental at the same time, yet in spite of the obvious -inconsistency of his expression there is piety in his choice of an -adjective. - -The distinction, as it has usually been understood hitherto, between -religious and non-religious explanations of what happens, is that the -religious person believes that events happen by supernatural direction, -and he is only thinking religiously so long as he thinks in that manner; -whilst the non-religious theory is that events happen by natural sequence, -and so long as a person thinks in this manner, his mind is acting -non-religiously, whatever may be his religious profession. "To study the -universe as it is manifested to us; to ascertain by patient inquiry the -order of the manifestations; to discover that the manifestations are -connected with one another after regular ways in time and space; and, -after repeated failures, to give up as futile the attempt to understand -the power manifested, is condemned as irreligious. And meanwhile the -character of religious is claimed by those who figure to themselves a -Creator moved by motives like their own; who conceive themselves as seeing -through His designs, and who even speak of Him as though He laid plans to -outwit the Devil!" - -Yes, this is a true account of the way in which the words irreligious and -religious have always been used and there does not appear to be any -necessity for altering their signification. Every event which is -transferred, in human opinion, from supernatural to natural action is -transferred from the domain of religion to that of science; and it is -because such transferrences have been so frequent in our time that we are -becoming so much less religious than our forefathers were. In how many -things is the modern man perfectly irreligious! He is so in everything -that relates to applied science, to steam, telegraphy, photography, -metallurgy, agriculture, manufactures. He has not the slightest belief in -spiritual intervention, either for or against him, in these material -processes. He is beginning to be equally irreligious in government. -Modern politicians have been accused of thinking that God cannot govern, -but that is not a true account of their opinion. What they really think is -that government is an application of science to the direction of national -life, in which no invisible powers will either thwart a ruler in that -which he does wisely, or shield him from the evil consequences of his -errors. - -But though we are less religious than our ancestors because we believe -less in the interferences of the supernatural, do we deserve censure for -our way of understanding the world? Certainly not. Was Nikias a proper -object of praise because the eclipse seen by him at Syracuse seemed a -warning from the gods; and was Wolseley a proper object of blame because -the comet seen by him on the Egyptian plain was without a Divine message? -Both these opinions are quite outside of merit, although the older opinion -was in the highest degree religious, and the later one is not religious in -the least. Such changes simply indicate a gradual revolution in man's -conception of the universe, which is the result of more accurate -knowledge. So why not accept the fact, why not admit that we have really -become less religious? Possibly we have a compensation, a gain equivalent -to our loss. If the gods do not speak to us by signs in the heavens; if -the entrails of victims and the flight of birds no longer tell us when to -march to battle and where to remain inactive in our tents; if the oracle -is silent at Delos, and the ark lost to Jerusalem; if we are pilgrims to -no shrine; if we drink of no sacred fountain and plunge into no holy -stream; if all the special sanctities once reverenced by humanity are -unable any longer to awaken our dead enthusiasm, have we gained nothing in -exchange for the many religious excitements that we have lost? Yes, we -have gained a keener interest in the natural order, and a knowledge of it -at once more accurate and more extensive, a gain that Greek and Jew might -well have envied us, and which a few of their keener spirits most ardently -desired. Our passion for natural knowledge is not a devout emotion, and -therefore it is not religious; but it is a noble and a fruitful passion -nevertheless, and by it our eyes are opened. The good Saint Bernard had -his own saintly qualities; but for us the qualities of a De Saussure are -not without their worth. Saint Bernard, in the perfection of ancient -piety, travelling a whole day by the lake of Geneva without seeing it, too -much absorbed by devout meditation to perceive anything terrestrial, was -blinded by his piety, and might with equal profit have stayed in his -monastic cell. De Saussure was a man of our own time. Never, in his -writings, do you meet with any allusion to supernatural interferences -(except once or twice in pity for popular superstitions); but fancy De -Saussure passing the lake of Geneva, or any other work of nature, without -seeing it! His life was spent in the continual study of the natural world; -and this study was to him so vigorous an exercise for the mind, and so -strict a discipline, that he found in it a means of moral and even of -physical improvement. There is no trace in his writings of what is called -devout emotion, but the bright light of intelligent admiration illumines -every page; and when he came to die, if he could not look back, like -Saint Bernard, upon what is especially supposed to be a religious life, he -could look back upon many years wisely and well spent in the study of that -nature of which Saint Bernard scarcely knew more than the mule that -carried him. - - - - -ESSAY XVI. - -ON AN UNRECOGNIZED FORM OF UNTRUTH. - - -In the art of painting there are two opposite ways of dealing with natural -color. It may be intensified, or it may be translated by tints of inferior -chromatic force. In either case the picture may be perfectly harmonious, -provided only that the same principle of interpretation be consistently -followed throughout. - -The first time that I became acquainted with the first of these two -methods of interpretation was in my youth, when I met with a Scottish -painter who has since become eminent in his art. He was painting studies -from nature; and I noticed that whenever in the natural object there was a -trace of dull gold, as in some lichen, he made it a brighter gold, and -whenever there was a little rusty red he made it a more vivid red. So it -was with every other tint. His eye seemed to become excited by every hue, -and he translated it by one of greater intensity and power. - -Now that is a kind of exaggeration which is very commonly recognized as a -departure from the sober truth. People complain that the sky is too blue, -the fields too green, and so on. - -Afterwards I saw French painters at work, and I noticed that they (in -those days) interpreted natural color by an intentional lowering of the -chromatic force. When they had to deal with the splendors of autumnal -woods against a blue sky they interpreted the azure by a blue-gray, and -the flaming gold by a dull russet. They even refused themselves the more -quiet brightness of an ordinary wheat-field, and translated the yellow of -the wheat by an earthy brown. - -Unlike falsehood by exaggeration, this other kind of falsehood (by -diminution) is very seldom recognized as a departure from the truth. Such -coloring as this French coloring excited but few protests, and indeed was -often praised for being "modest" and "subdued." - -Both systems are equally permissible in the fine arts, if consistently -followed, because in art the unity and harmony of the work are of greater -importance than the exact imitation of nature. It is not as an art-critic -that I should have any fault to find with a well-understood and thoroughly -consistent conventionalism in the interpretation of nature; but the two -kinds of falsity we have noticed are constantly found in action outside of -the fine arts, and yet only one of them is recognized in its true -character, the other being esteemed as a proof of modesty and moderation. - -The general opinion, in our own country, condemns falsehood by -exaggeration, but it does not blame falsehood by diminution. Overstatement -is regarded as a vice, and understatement as a sort of modest virtue, -whilst in fact they are both untruthful, exactly in the degree of their -departure from perfect accuracy. - -If a man states his income as being larger than it really is, if he adopts -a degree of ostentation which (though he may be able to pay for it) -conveys the idea of more ample means than he really possesses, and if we -find out afterwards what his income actually is, we condemn him as an -untruthful person; but lying by diminution with reference to money matters -is looked upon simply as modesty. - -I remember a most respectable English family who had this modesty in -perfection. It was their great pleasure to represent themselves as being -much less rich than they really were. Whenever they heard of anybody with -moderate or even narrow means, they pretended to think that he had quite -an ample income. If you mentioned a man with a family, struggling on a -pittance, they would say he was "very comfortably provided for," and if -you spoke of another whose expenses were the ordinary expenses of -gentlemen, they wondered by what inventions of extravagance he could get -through so much money. They themselves pretended to spend much less than -they really spent, and they always affected astonishment when they heard -how much it cost other people to live exactly in their own way. They -considered that this was modesty; but was it not just as untruthful as the -commoner vice of assuming a style more showy than the means warrant? - -In France and Italy the departure from the truth is almost invariably in -the direction of overstatement, unless the speaker has some distinct -purpose to serve by adopting the opposite method, as when he desires to -depreciate the importance of an enemy. In England people habitually -understate, and the remarkable thing is that they believe themselves to be -strictly truthful in doing so. The word "lying" is too harsh a term to be -applied either to the English or the Continental habit in this matter; but -it is quite fair to say that both of them miss the truth, one in falling -short of it, the other in going beyond it. - -An English family has seen the Alps for the first time. A young lady says -Switzerland is "nice;" a young gentleman has decided that it is "jolly." -This is what the habit of understatement may bring us down to,--absolute -inadequacy. The Alps are not "nice," and they are not "jolly;" far more -powerful adjectives are only the precise truth in this instance. The Alps -are stupendous, overwhelming, magnificent, sublime. A Frenchman in similar -circumstances will be embarrassed, not by any timidity about using a -sufficiently forcible expression, but because he is eager to exaggerate; -and one scarcely knows how to exaggerate the tremendous grandeur of the -finest Alpine scenery. He will have recourse to eloquent phraseology, to -loudness of voice, and finally, when he feels that these are still -inadequate, he will employ energetic gesture. I met a Frenchman who tried -to make me comprehend how many English people there were at Cannes in -winter. "Il y en a--des Anglais--il y en a,"--then he hesitated, whilst -seeking for an adequate expression. At last, throwing out both his arms, -he cried, "_Il y en a plus qu'en Angleterre!_" - -The English love of understatement is even more visible in moral than in -material things. If an Englishman has to describe any person or action -that is particularly admirable on moral grounds, he will generally -renounce the attempt to be true, and substitute for the high and -inspiring truth some quiet little conventional expression that will -deliver him from what he most dreads,--the appearance of any noble -enthusiasm. It does not occur to him that this inadequacy, this -insufficiency of expression, is one of the forms of untruth; that to -describe noble and admirable conduct in commonplace and non-appreciative -language is to pay tribute of a kind especially acceptable to the Father -of Lies. If we suppose the existence of a modern Mephistopheles watching -the people of our own time and pleased with every kind of moral evil, we -may readily imagine how gratified he must be to observe the moral -indifference which uses exactly the same terms for ordinary and heroic -virtue, which never rises with the occasion, and which always seems to -take it for granted that there are neither noble natures nor high purposes -in the world. The dead mediocrity of common talk, too timid and too -indolent for any expression equivalent either to the glory of external -nature or the intellectual and moral grandeur of great and excellent men, -has driven many of our best minds from conversation into literature, -because in literature it is not thought extraordinary for a man to express -himself with a degree of force and clearness equivalent to the energy of -his feelings, the accuracy of his knowledge, and the importance of his -subject. The habit of using inadequate expression in conversation has led -to the strange result that if an Englishman has any power of thought, any -living interest in the great problems of human destiny, you will know -hardly anything of the real action of his mind unless he becomes an -author. He dares not express any high feelings in conversation, because -he dreads what Stuart Mill called the "sneering depreciation" of them; and -if such feelings are strong enough in him to make expression an imperative -want, he has to utter them on paper. By a strange result of -conventionalism, a man is admired for using language of the utmost -clearness and force in literature, whilst if he talked as vigorously as he -wrote (except, perhaps, in extreme privacy and even secrecy with one or -two confidential companions) he would be looked upon as scarcely -civilized. This may be one of the reasons why English literature, -including the periodical, is so abundant in quantity and so full of -energy. It is a mental outlet, a _derivatif_. - -The kind of untruthfulness which may be called _untruthfulness by -inadequacy_ causes many strong and earnest minds to keep aloof from -general society, which seems to them insipid. They find frank and clear -expression in books, they find it even in newspapers and reviews, but they -do not find it in social intercourse. This deficiency drives many of the -more intelligent of our countrymen into the strange and perfectly -unnatural position of receiving ideas almost exclusively through the -medium of print, and of communicating them only by writing. I remember an -Englishman of great learning and ability who lived almost entirely in that -manner. He received his ideas through books and the learned journals, and -whenever any thought occurred to him he wrote it immediately on a slip of -paper. In society he was extremely absent, and when he spoke it was in an -apologetic and timidly suggestive manner, as if he were always afraid -that what he had to say might not be interesting to the hearer, or might -even appear objectionable, and as if he were quite ready to withdraw it. -He was far too anxious to be well-behaved ever to venture on any forcible -expression of opinion or to utter any noble sentiment; and yet his -convictions on all important subjects were very serious, and had been -arrived at after deep thought, and he was capable of real elevation of -mind. His writings are the strongest possible contrast to his oral -expression of himself. They are bold in opinion, very clear and decided in -statement, and full of well-ascertained knowledge. - - - - -ESSAY XVII. - -ON A REMARKABLE ENGLISH PECULIARITY. - - -In De Tocqueville's admirable book on "Democracy in America" there is an -interesting chapter on the behavior of Englishmen to each other when they -meet in a foreign country:-- - - "Two Englishmen meet by chance at the antipodes; they are surrounded - by foreigners whose language and mode of life are hardly known to - them. - - "These two men begin by studying each other very curiously and with a - kind of secret uneasiness; they then turn away, or, if they meet, they - are careful to speak only with a constrained and absent air, and to - say things of little importance. - - "And yet they know nothing of each other; they have never met, and - suppose each other to be perfectly honorable. Why, then, do they take - such pains to avoid intercourse?" - -De Tocqueville was a very close observer, and I hardly know a single -instance in which his faculty of observation shows itself in greater -perfection. In his terse style of writing every word tells; and even in my -translation, unavoidably inferior to the original, you actually see the -two Englishmen and the minute details of their behavior. - -Let me now introduce the reader to a little scene at a foreign _table -d'hote_, as described with great skill and truth by a well-known English -novelist, Miss Betham-Edwards:-- - - "The time, September; the scene, a _table d'hote_ dinner in a - much-frequented French town. For the most part nothing can be more - prosaic than these daily assemblies of English tourists bound for - Switzerland and the South, and a slight sprinkling of foreigners, the - two elements seldom or never blending; a visitant from another planet - might, indeed, suppose that between English and French-speaking people - lay such a gulf as divides the blond New Englander from the swarth - African, so icy the distance, so unbroken the reserve. Nor is there - anything like cordiality between the English themselves. Our imaginary - visitant from Jupiter would here find matter for wonder also, and - would ask himself the reason of this freezing reticence among the - English fellowship. What deadly feud of blood, caste, or religion - could thus keep them apart? Whilst the little knot of Gallic - travellers at the farther end of the table straightway fall into - friendliest talk, the long rows of Britons of both sexes and all ages - speak only in subdued voices and to the members of their own family." - -Next, let me give an account of a personal experience in a Parisian hotel. -It was a little, unpretending establishment that I liked for its quiet and -for the honest cookery. There was a _table d'hote_, frequented by a few -French people, generally from the provinces, and once there came some -English visitors who had found out the merits of the little place. It -happened that I had been on the Continent a long time without revisiting -England, so when my fellow-countrymen arrived I had foolish feelings of -pleasure on finding myself amongst them, and spoke to them in our common -English tongue. The effect of this bold experiment was extremely curious, -and to me, at the time, almost inexplicable, as I had forgotten that -chapter by De Tocqueville. The new-comers were two or three young men and -one in middle life. The young men seemed to be reserved more from timidity -than pride. They were quite startled and frightened when spoken to, and -made answer with grave brevity, as if apprehensive of committing -themselves to some compromising statement. With an audacity acquired by -habits of intercourse with foreigners, I spoke to the older Englishman. -His way of putting me down would have been a charming study for a -novelist. His manner resembled nothing so much as that of a dignified -English minister,--Mr. Gladstone for example, when he is questioned in the -House by some young and presumptuous member of the Opposition. A few brief -words were vouchsafed to me, accompanied by an expression of countenance -which, if not positively stern, was intentionally divested of everything -like interest or sympathy. It then began to dawn upon me that perhaps this -Englishman was conscious of some august social superiority; that he might -even know a lord; and I thought, "If he does really know a lord we are -very likely to hear his lordship's name." My expectation was not fulfilled -to the letter, but it was quite fulfilled in spirit; for in talking to a -Frenchman (for me to hear) our Englishman shortly boasted that he knew an -English duchess, giving her name and place of abode. "One day when I was -at ---- House I said to the Duchess of ----," and he repeated what he had -said to Her Grace; but it would have no interest for the reader, as it -probably had none for the great lady herself. Shade of Thackeray! why -wast thou not there to add a paragraph to the "Book of Snobs"? - -The next day came another Englishman of about fifty, who distinguished -himself in another way. He did not know a duchess, or, if he did, we were -not informed of his good fortune; but he assumed a wonderful air of -superiority to his temporary surroundings, that filled me, I must say, -with the deepest respect and awe. The impression he desired to produce was -that he had never before been in so poor a little place, and that our -society was far beneath what he was accustomed to. He criticised things -disdainfully, and when I ventured to speak to him he condescended, it is -true, to enter into conversation, but in a manner that seemed to say, "Who -and what are you that you dare to speak to a gentleman like me, who am, as -you must perceive, a person of wealth and consideration?" - -This account of our English visitors is certainly not exaggerated by any -excessive sensitiveness on my part. Paris is not the Desert; and one who -has known it for thirty years is not dependent for society on a chance -arrival from beyond the sea. For me these Englishmen were but actors in a -play, and perhaps they afforded me more amusement with their own peculiar -manners than if they had been pleasant and amiable. One result, however, -was inevitable. I had been full of kindly feeling towards my -fellow-countrymen when they came, but this soon gave place to -indifference; and their departure was rather a relief. When they had left -Paris, there arrived a rich French widow from the south with her son and -a priest, who seemed to be tutor and chaplain. The three lived at our -_table d'hote_; and we found them most agreeable, always ready to take -their share in conversation, and, although far too well-bred to commit the -slightest infraction of the best French social usages, either through -ignorance or carelessness, they were at the same time perfectly open and -easy in their manners. They set up no pretensions, they gave themselves no -airs, and when they returned to their own southern sunshine we felt their -departure as a loss. - -The foreign idea of social intercourse under such conditions (that is, of -intercourse between strangers who are thrown together accidentally) is -simply that it is better to pass an hour agreeably than in dreary -isolation. People may not have much to say that is of any profound -interest, but they enjoy the free play of the mind; and it sometimes -happens, in touching on all sorts of subjects, that unexpected lights are -thrown upon them. Some of the most interesting conversations I have ever -heard have taken place at foreign _tables d'hote_, between people who had -probably never met before and who would separate forever in a week. If by -accident they meet again, such acquaintances recognize each other by a -bow, but there is none of that intrusiveness which the Englishman so -greatly dreads. - -Besides these transient acquaintanceships which, however brief, are by no -means without their value to one's experience and culture, the foreign way -of understanding a _table d'hote_ includes the daily and habitual meeting -of regular subscribers, a meeting looked forward to with pleasure as a -break in the labors of the day, or a mental refreshment when they are -over. Nothing affords such relief from the pressure of work as a free and -animated conversation on other subjects. Of this more permanent kind of -_table d'hote_, Mr. Lewes gave a lively description in his biography of -Goethe:-- - - "The English student, clerk, or bachelor, who dines at an - eating-house, chop-house, or hotel, goes there simply to get his - dinner, and perhaps look at the 'Times.' Of the other diners he knows - nothing, cares little. It is rare that a word is interchanged between - him and his neighbor. Quite otherwise in Germany. There the same - society is generally to be found at the same table. The _table d'hote_ - is composed of a circle of _habitues_, varied by occasional visitors - who in time become, perhaps, members of the circle. _Even with - strangers conversation is freely interchanged_; and in a little while - friendships are formed over these dinner-tables, according as natural - tastes and likings assimilate, which, extending beyond the mere hour - of dinner, are carried into the current of life. Germans do not rise - so hastily from the table as we, for time with them is not so - precious; life is not so crowded; time can be found for quiet - after-dinner talk. The cigars and coffee, which appear before the - cloth is removed, keep the company together; and in that state of - suffused comfort which quiet digestion creates, they hear without - anger the opinions of antagonists." - -In this account of German habits we see the repast made use of as an -opportunity for human intercourse, which the Englishman avoids except with -persons already known to him or known to a private host. The reader has -noticed the line I have italicized,--"Even with strangers conversation is -freely interchanged." The consequence is that the stranger does not feel -himself to be isolated, and if he is not an Englishman he does not take -offence at being treated like an intelligent human being, but readily -accepts the welcome that is offered to him. - -The English peculiarity in this respect does not, however, consist so much -in avoiding intercourse with foreigners as in shunning other English -people. It is true that in the description of a _table d'hote_ by Miss -Betham-Edwards, the English and foreign elements are represented as -separated by an icy distance, and the description is strikingly accurate; -but this shyness and timidity as regards foreigners may be sufficiently -accounted for by want of skill and ease in speaking their language. Most -English people of education know a little French and German, but few speak -those languages freely, fluently, and correctly. When it does happen that -an Englishman has mastered a foreign tongue, he will generally talk more -readily and unreservedly with a foreigner than with one of his own -countrymen. This is the notable thing, that if English people do not -really dislike and distrust one another, if there is not really "a deadly -feud of blood, caste, or religion" to separate them, they expose -themselves to the accusation of John Stuart Mill, that "everybody acts as -if everybody else was either an enemy or a bore." - -This English avoidance of English people is so remarkable and exceptional -a characteristic that it could not but greatly interest and exercise so -observant a mind as that of De Tocqueville. We have seen how accurately he -noticed it; how exactly the conduct of shy Englishmen had fixed itself in -his memory. Let us now see how he accounted for it. - -Is it a mark of aristocracy? Is it because our race is more aristocratic -than other races? - -De Tocqueville's theory was, that it is _not_ the mark of an aristocratic -society, because, in a society classed by birth, although people of -different castes hold little communication with each other, they talk -easily when they meet, without either fearing or desiring social fusion. -"Their intercourse is not founded on equality, but it is free from -constraint." - -This view of the subject is confirmed by all that I know, through personal -tradition, of the really aristocratic time in France that preceded the -Revolution. The old-fashioned facility and directness of communication -between ranks that were separated by wide social distances would surprise -and almost scandalize a modern aspirant to false aristocracy, who has -assumed the _de_, and makes up in _morgue_ what is wanting to him in -antiquity of descent. I believe, too, that when England was a far more -aristocratic country than it is at present, manners were less distant and -not so cold and suspicious. - -If the blame is not to be laid on the spirit of aristocracy, what is the -real cause of the indisputable fact that an Englishman avoids an -Englishman? De Tocqueville believed that the cause was to be found in the -uncertainty of a transition state from aristocratic to plutocratic ideas; -that there is still the notion of a strict classification; and yet that -this classification is no longer determined by blood, but by money, which -has taken its place, so that although the ranks exist still, as if the -country were really aristocratic, it is not easy to see clearly, and at -the first glance, who occupies them. Hence there is a _guerre sourde_ -between all the citizens. Some try by a thousand artifices to edge their -way in reality or apparently amongst those above them; others fight -without ceasing to repel the usurpers of their rights; or rather, the same -person does both; and whilst he struggles to introduce himself into the -upper region he perpetually endeavors to put down aspirants who are still -beneath him. - -"The pride of aristocracy," said De Tocqueville, "being still very great -with the English, and the limits of aristocracy having become doubtful, -every one fears that he may be surprised at any moment into undesirable -familiarity. Not being able to judge at first sight of the social position -of those they meet, the English prudently avoid contact. They fear, in -rendering little services, to form in spite of themselves an ill-assorted -friendship; they dread receiving attention from others; and they withdraw -themselves from the indiscreet gratitude of an unknown fellow-countryman -as carefully as they would avoid his hatred." - -This, no doubt, is the true explanation, but something may be added to it. -An Englishman dreads acquaintances from the apprehension that they may end -by coming to his house; a Frenchman is perfectly at his ease on that point -by reason of the greater discretion of French habits. It is perfectly -understood, in France, that you may meet a man at a _cafe_ for years, and -talk to him with the utmost freedom, and yet he will not come near your -private residence unless you ask him; and when he meets you in the street -he will not stop you, but will simply lift his hat,--a customary -salutation from all who know your name, which does not compromise you in -any way. It might perhaps be an exaggeration to say that in France there -is absolutely no struggling after a higher social position by means of -acquaintances, but there is certainly very little of it. The great -majority of French people live in the most serene indifference as regards -those who are a little above them socially. They hardly even know their -titles; and when they do know them they do not care about them in the -least.[18] - -It may not be surprising that the conduct of Americans should differ from -that of Englishmen, as Americans have no titles; but if they have not -titles they have vast inequalities of wealth, and Englishmen can be -repellent without titles. Yet, in spite of pecuniary differences between -Americans, and notwithstanding the English blood in their veins, they do -not avoid one another. "If they meet by accident," says De Tocqueville, -"they neither seek nor avoid one another; their way of meeting is natural, -frank, and open; it is evident that they hope or fear scarcely anything -from each other, and that they neither try to exhibit nor to conceal the -station they occupy. If their manner is often cold and serious, it is -never either haughty or stiff; and when they do not speak it is because -they are not in the humor for conversation, and not because they believe -it their interest to be silent. In a foreign country two Americans are -friends at once, simply because they are Americans. They are separated by -no prejudice, and their common country draws them together. In the case of -two Englishmen the same blood is not enough; there must be also identity -of rank." - -The English habit strikes foreigners by contrast, and it strikes -Englishmen in the same way when they have lived much in foreign countries. -Charles Lever had lived abroad, and was evidently as much struck by this -as De Tocqueville himself. Many readers will remember his brilliant story, -"That Boy of Norcott's," and how the young hero, after finding himself -delightfully at ease with a society of noble Hungarians, at the Schloss -Hunyadi, is suddenly chilled and alarmed by the intelligence that an -English lord is expected. "When they shall see," he says, "how my titled -countryman will treat me,--the distance at which he will hold me, and the -measured firmness with which he will repel, not my familiarities, for I -should not dare them, _but simply the ease of my manner_,--the foreigners -will be driven to regard me as some ignoble upstart who has no pretension -whatever to be amongst them." - -Lever also noted that a foreigner would have had a better chance of civil -treatment than an Englishman. "In my father's house I had often had -occasion to remark that while Englishmen freely admitted the advances of a -foreigner and accepted his acquaintance with a courteous readiness, with -each other they maintained a cold and studied reserve, as though no -difference of place or circumstance was to obliterate that insular code -which defines class, and limits each man to the exact rank he belongs to." - -These readings and experiences, and many others too long to quote or -narrate, have led me to the conclusion that it is scarcely possible to -attempt any other manner with English people than that which the very -peculiar and exceptional state of national feeling appears to authorize. -The reason is that in the present state of feeling the innovator is almost -sure to be misunderstood. He may be perfectly contented with his own -social position; his mind may be utterly devoid of any desire to raise -himself in society; the extent of his present wishes may be to wile away -the tedium of a journey or a repast with a little intelligent -conversation; yet if he breaks down the barrier of English reserve he is -likely to be taken for a pushing and intrusive person who is eager to lift -himself in the world. Every friendly expression on his part, even in a -look or the tone of his voice, "simply the ease of his manner," may be -repelled as an impertinence. In the face of such a probable -misinterpretation one feels that it is hardly possible to be too distant -or too cold. When two men meet it is the colder and more reserved man who -always has the advantage. He is the rock; the other is the wave that comes -against the rock and falls shattered at its foot. - -It would be wrong to conclude this Essay without a word of reference to -the exceptional Englishman who can pass an hour intelligently with a -stranger, and is not constantly preoccupied with the idea that the -stranger is plotting how to make some ulterior use of him. Such Englishmen -are usually men of ripe experience, who have travelled much and seen much -of the world, so that they have lost our insular distrust. I have met with -a few of them,--they are not very numerous,--and I wish that I could meet -the same fellow-countrymen by some happy accident again. There is nothing -stranger in life than those very short friendships that are formed in an -hour between two people born to understand each other, and cut short -forever the next day, or the next week, by an inevitable separation.[19] - - - - -ESSAY XVIII. - -OF GENTEEL IGNORANCE. - - -All virtue has its negative as well as its positive side, and every ideal -includes not having as well as having. Gentility, for those who aspire to -it and value it, is an ideal condition of humanity, a superior state which -is maintained by selection amongst the things that life offers to a man -who has the power to choose. He is judged by his selection. The genteel -person selects in his own way, not only amongst things that can be seen -and handled, such as the material adjuncts of a high state of -civilization, but also amongst the things of the mind, including all the -varieties of knowledge. - -That a selection of this kind should be one of the marks of gentility is -in itself no more than a natural consequence of the idealizing process as -we see it continually exercised in the fine arts. Every work of fine art -is a result of selection. The artist does not give us the natural truth as -it is, but he purposely omits very much of it, and alters that which he -recognizes. The genteel person is himself a work of art, and, as such, -contains only partial truth. - -This is the central fact about gentility, that it is a narrow ideal, -impoverishing the mind by the rejection of truth as much as it adorns it -by elegance; and it is for this reason that gentility is disliked and -refused by all powerful and inquiring intellects. They look upon it as a -mental condition with which they have nothing to do, and they pursue their -labors without the slightest deference or condescension to it. They may, -however, profitably study it as one of the states of human life, and a -state towards which a certain portion of humanity, aided by wealth, -appears to tend inevitably. - -The misfortune of the genteel mind is that it is carried by its own -idealism so far away from the truth of nature that it becomes divorced -from fact and unable to see the movement of the actual world; so that -genteel people, with their narrow and erroneous ideas, are sure to find -themselves thrust aside by men of robust intelligence, who are not -genteel, but who have a stronger grip upon reality. There is, -consequently, a pathetic element in gentility, with its fallacious hopes, -its certain disappointments, so easily foreseen by all whom it has not -blinded, and its immense, its amazing, its ever invincible ignorance. - -There is not a country in Europe more favorable than France for the study -of the genteel condition of mind. There you have it in its perfection in -the class _qui n'a rien appris et rien oublie_, and in the numerous -aspirants to social position who desire to mix themselves and become -confounded with that class. It has been in the highest degree fashionable, -since the establishment of the Republic, to be ignorant of the real course -of events. In spite of overwhelming evidence to the contrary, genteel -people either really believed or universally professed to believe during -the life-time of the Count de Chambord, that his restoration was not only -probable but imminent. No belief could have been more destitute of -foundation in fact; and if genteel people had not been compelled by -gentility to shut their eyes against what was obvious to everybody else, -they might have ascertained the truth with the utmost facility. The truth -was simply this, that the country was going away further and further from -divine right every day, and from every sort of real monarchy, or one-man -government, and was becoming more and more attached to representative -institutions and an elective system everywhere; and what made this truth -glaringly evident was not only the steadily increasing number of -republican elections, but the repeated return to power of the very -ministers whom the party of divine right most bitterly execrated. The same -class of genteel French people affected to believe that the end of the -temporal power of the Papacy by the foundation of the Italian kingdom was -but a temporary crisis, probably of short duration; though the process -which had brought the Papacy to nothing as a temporal sovereignty had been -slow, gradual, and natural,--the progressive enfeeblement of a theocracy -unable to defend itself against its own subjects, and dependent on foreign -soldiers for every hour of its artificial survival. Such is genteel -ignorance in political matters. It is a polite shutting of the eyes -against all facts and tendencies that are disagreeable to people of -fashion. It is unpleasant to people of fashion to be told that the France -of the future is more likely to be governed by men of business than by -kings and cardinals; it is disagreeable to them to hear that the Pope is -not to do what he likes with the Roman people; and so, to please them, we -are to pretend that we do not understand the course of recent history, -which is obvious to everybody who thinks. The course of events has always -proved the blindness of the genteel world, its incapacity to understand -the present and forecast the future; yet still it goes on in the old way, -shutting its eyes resolutely against surrounding facts, and making -predictions that are sure to be falsified by the event. Such a state of -mind is unintelligent to the last degree, but then it is genteel; and -there is always, in every country, a large class of persons who would -rather be gentlemanly than wise. - -In religion, genteel ignorance is not less remarkable than in politics. -Here the mark of gentility is to ignore the unfashionable churches, and -generally to underestimate all those forces of opinion that are not on the -side of the particular form of orthodoxy which is professed by the upper -class. In France it is one of the marks of high breeding not to know -anything about Protestantism. The fact that there are such people as -Protestants is admitted, and it is believed that some of them are decent -and respectable people in their line of life, who may follow an erroneous -religion with an assiduity praiseworthy in itself, but the nature of their -opinions is not known, and it is thought better not to inquire into them. - -In England the gentry know hardly anything about Dissenters. As to the -organization of dissenting communities, nobody ever hears of any of them -having bishops, and so it is supposed that they must have some sort of -democratic system. Genteel knowledge of dissenting faith and practice is -confined to a very few points,--that Unitarians do not believe in the -Trinity, that Baptists have some unusual practice about baptism, and that -Methodists are fond of singing hymns. This is all, and more than enough; -as it is inconceivable that an aristocratic person can have anything to do -with Dissent, unless he wants the Nonconformist vote in politics. If -Dissenters are to be spoken of at all, it should be in a condescending -tone, as good people in their way, who may be decent members of the middle -and lower classes, of some use in withstanding the tide of infidelity. - -I remember a lady who condemned some eminent man as an atheist, on which I -ventured to object that he was a deist only. "It is exactly the same -thing," she replied. Being at that time young and argumentative, I -maintained that there existed a distinction: that a deist believed in God, -and an atheist had not that belief. "That is of no consequence," she -rejoined; "what concerns us is that we should know as little as possible -about such people." When this dialogue took place the lady seemed to me -unreasonable and unjust, but now I perceive that she was genteel. She -desired to keep her soul pure from the knowledge which gentility did not -recognize; she wanted to know nothing about the shades and colors of -heresy. - -There is a delightful touch of determined ignorance in the answer of the -Russian prelates to Mr. William Palmer, who went to Russia in 1840 with a -view to bring about a recognition of Anglicanism by Oriental orthodoxy. -In substance, according to Cardinal Newman, it amounted to this: "We know -of no true Church besides our own. We are the only Church in the world. -The Latins are heretics, or all but heretics; you are worse; _we do not -even know your name_." It would be difficult to excel this last touch; it -is the perfection of uncontaminated orthodoxy, of the pure Russian -religious _comme il faut_. We, the holy, the undefiled, the separate from -heretics and from those lost ones, worse than heretics, into whose -aberrations we never inquire, "_we do not even know your name_." - -Of all examples of genteel ignorance, there are none more frequent than -the ignorance of those necessities which are occasioned by a limited -income. I am not, at present, alluding to downright poverty. It is genteel -to be aware that the poor exist; it is genteel, even, to have poor people -of one's own to pet and patronize; and it is pleasant to be kind to such -poor people when they receive our kindness in a properly submissive -spirit, with a due sense of the immense distance between us, and read the -tracts we give them, and listen respectfully to our advice. It is genteel -to have to do with poor people in this way, and even to know something -about them; the real genteel ignorance consists in not recognizing the -existence of those impediments that are familiar to people of limited -means. "I cannot understand," said an English lady, "why people complain -about the difficulties of housekeeping. Such difficulties may almost -always be included under one head,--insufficiency of servants; people have -only to take more servants, and the difficulties disappear." Of course -the cost of maintaining a troup of domestics is too trifling to be taken -into consideration. A French lady, in my hearing, asked what fortune had -such a family. The answer was simple and decided, they had no fortune at -all. "No fortune at all! then how can they possibly live? How can people -live who have no fortune?" This lady's genteel ignorance was enlightened -by the explanation that when there is no fortune in a family it is -generally supported by the labor of one or more of its members. "I cannot -understand," said a rich Englishman to one of my friends, "why men are so -imprudent as to allow themselves to sink into money embarrassments. There -is a simple rule that I follow myself, and that I have always found a -great safeguard,--it is, _never to let one's balance at the banker's fall -below five thousand pounds_. By strictly adhering to this rule one is -always sure to be able to meet any unexpected and immediate necessity." -Why, indeed, do we not all follow a rule so evidently wise? It may be -especially recommended to struggling professional men with large families. -If only they can be persuaded to act upon it they will find it an -unspeakable relief from anxiety, and the present volume will not have been -penned in vain. - -Genteel ignorance of pecuniary difficulties is conspicuous in the case of -amusements. It is supposed, if you are inclined to amuse yourself in a -certain limited way, that you are stupid for not doing it on a much more -expensive scale. Charles Lever wrote a charming paper for one of the early -numbers of the "Cornhill Magazine," in which he gave an account of the -dangers and difficulties he had encountered in riding and boating, simply -because he had set limits to his expenditure on those pastimes, an economy -that seemed unaccountably foolish to his genteel acquaintances. "Lever -will ride such screws! Why won't he give a proper price for a horse? It's -the stupidest thing in the world to be under-horsed; and bad economy -besides." These remarks, Lever said, were not sarcasms on his skill or -sneers at his horsemanship, but they were far worse, they were harsh -judgments on himself expressed in a manner that made reply impossible. So -with his boating. Lever had a passion for boating, for that real boating -which is perfectly distinct from yachting and incomparably less costly; -but richer acquaintances insisted on the superior advantages of the more -expensive amusement. "These cockle-shells, sir, must go over; they have no -bearings, they lee over, and there you are,--you fill and go down. Have a -good decked boat,--I should say five-and-thirty or forty tons; _get a -clever skipper and a lively crew_." Is not this exactly like the lady who -thought people stupid for not having an adequate establishment of -servants? - -Another form of genteel ignorance consists in being so completely blinded -by conventionalism as not to be able to perceive the essential identity of -two modes of life or habits of action when one of them happens to be in -what is called "good form," whilst the other is not accepted by polite -society. My own tastes and pursuits have often led me to do things for the -sake of study or pleasure which in reality differ but very slightly from -what genteel people often do; yet, at the same time, this slight -difference is sufficient to prevent them from seeing any resemblance -whatever between my practice and theirs. When a young man, I found a -wooden hut extremely convenient for painting from nature, and when at a -distance from other lodging I slept in it. This was unfashionable; and -genteel people expressed much wonder at it, being especially surprised -that I could be so imprudent as to risk health by sleeping in a little -wooden house. Conventionalism made them perfectly ignorant of the fact -that they occasionally slept in little wooden houses themselves. A railway -carriage is simply a wooden hut on wheels, generally very ill-ventilated, -and presenting the alternative of foul air or a strong draught, with -vibration that makes sleep difficult to some and to others absolutely -impossible. I have passed many nights in those public wooden huts on -wheels, but have never slept in them so pleasantly as in my own private -one.[20] Genteel people also use wooden dwellings that float on water. A -yacht's cabin is nothing but a hut of a peculiar shape with its own -special inconveniences. On land a hut will remain steady; at sea it -inclines in every direction, and is tossed about like Gulliver's large -box. An Italian nobleman who liked travel, but had no taste for dirty -Southern inns, had four vans that formed a square at night, with a little -courtyard in the middle that was covered with canvas and served as a -spacious dining-room. The arrangement was excellent, but he was -considered hopelessly eccentric; yet how slight was the difference between -his vans and a train of saloon carriages for the railway! He simply had -saloon carriages that were adapted for common roads. - -It is difficult to see what advantage there can be in genteel ignorance to -compensate for its evident disadvantages. Not to be acquainted with -unfashionable opinions, not to be able to imagine unfashionable -necessities, not to be able to perceive the real likeness between -fashionable and unfashionable modes of life on account of some external -and superficial difference, is like living in a house with closed -shutters. Surely a man, or a woman either, might have as good manners, and -be as highly civilized in all respects, with accurate notions of things as -with a head full of illusions. To understand the world as it really is, to -see the direction in which humanity is travelling, ought to be the purpose -of every strong and healthy intellect, even though such knowledge may take -it out of gentility altogether. - -The effect of genteel ignorance on human intercourse is such a deduction -from the interest of it that men of ability often avoid genteel society -altogether, and either devote themselves to solitary labors, cheered -principally by the companionship of books, or else keep to intimate -friends of their own order. In Continental countries the public -drinking-places are often frequented by men of culture, not because they -want to drink, but because they can talk freely about what they think and -what they know without being paralyzed by the determined ignorance of the -genteel. In England, no doubt, there is more information; and yet Stuart -Mill said that "general society as now carried on in England is so insipid -an affair, even to the persons who make it what it is, that it is kept up -for any reason rather than the pleasure it affords. All serious discussion -on matters in which opinions differ being considered ill-bred, and the -national deficiency in liveliness and sociability having prevented the -cultivation of the art of talking agreeably on trifles, the sole -attraction of what is called society to those who are not at the top of -the tree is the hope of being aided to climb a little higher. To a person -of any but a very common order in thought or feeling, such society, unless -he has personal objects to serve by it, must be supremely unattractive; -and most people in the present day of any really high class of intellect -make their contact with it so slight and at such long intervals as to be -almost considered as retiring from it altogether." The loss here is -distinctly to the genteel persons themselves. They may not feel it, they -may be completely insensible of it, but by making society insipid they -eliminate from it the very men who might have been its most valuable -elements, and who, whether working in solitude or living with a few -congenial spirits, are really the salt of the earth. - - - - -ESSAY XIX. - -PATRIOTIC IGNORANCE. - - -Patriotic ignorance is maintained by the satisfaction that we feel in -ignoring what is favorable to another nation. It is a voluntary closing of -the mind against the disagreeable truth that another nation may be on -certain points equal to our own, or even, though inferior, in some degree -comparable to our own. - -The effect of patriotic ignorance as concerning human intercourse is to -place any one who knows the exact truth in the unpleasant dilemma of -having either to correct mistakes which are strongly preferred to truth, -or else to give assent to them against his sense of justice. International -intercourse is made almost impossible by patriotic ignorance, except -amongst a few highly cultivated persons who are superior to it. Nothing is -more difficult than to speak about one's own country with foreigners who -are perpetually putting forward the errors which they have imbibed all -their lives, and to which they cling with such tenacity that it seems as -if those errors were, in some mysterious way, essential to their mental -comfort and well-being. If, on the other hand, we have any really intimate -knowledge of a foreign country, gained by long residence in it and -studious observation of the inhabitants, then we find a corresponding -difficulty in talking reasonably about it and them with our own -countrymen, because they, too, have their patriotic ignorance which they -prize and value as foreigners value theirs. - -At the risk of turning this Essay into a string of anecdotes, I intend to -give a few examples of patriotic ignorance, in order to show to what an -astonishing degree of perfection it may attain. When we fully understand -this we shall also understand how those who possess such a treasure should -be anxious for its preservation. Their anxiety is the more reasonable that -in these days there is a difficulty in keeping things when they are easily -injured by light. - -A French lady who possessed this treasure in its perfection gave, in my -hearing, as a reason why French people seldom visited England, that there -were no works of art there, no collections, no architecture, nothing to -gratify the artistic sense or the intelligence; and that it was only -people specially interested in trade and manufactures who went to England, -as the country had nothing to show but factories and industrial products. -On hearing this statement, there suddenly passed before my mind's eye a -rapid vision of the great works of architecture, sculpture, and painting -that I had seen in England, and a confused recollection of many minor -examples of these arts not quite unworthy of a studious man's attention. -It is impossible to contradict a lady; and any statement of the simple -truth would, in this instance, have been a direct and crushing -contradiction. I ventured on a faint remonstrance, but without effect; and -my fair enemy triumphed. There were no works of art in England. Thus she -settled the question. - -This little incident led me to take note of French ideas about England -with reference to patriotic ignorance; and I discovered that there existed -a very general belief that there was no intellectual light of any kind in -England. Paris was the light of the world, and only so far as Parisian -rays might penetrate the mental fog of the British Islands was there a -chance of its becoming even faintly luminous. It was settled that the -speciality of England was trade and manufacture, that we were all of us -either merchants or cotton-spinners, and I discovered that we had no -learned societies, no British Museum, no Royal Academy of Arts. - -An English painter, who for many years had exhibited on the line of the -Royal Academy, happened to be mentioned in my presence and in that of a -French artist. I was asked by some French people who knew him personally -whether the English painter had a good professional standing. I answered -that he had a fair though not a brilliant reputation; meanwhile the French -artist showed signs of uneasiness, and at length exploded with a vigorous -protest against the inadmissible idea that a painter could be anything -whatever who was not known at the French _Salon_. "Il n'est pas connu au -Salon de Paris, donc, il n'existe pas--il n'existe pas. Les reputations -dans les beaux-arts se font au Salon de Paris et pas ailleurs." This -Frenchman had no conception whatever of the simple fact that artistic -reputations are made in every capital of the civilized world. That was a -truth which his patriotism could not tolerate for a moment. - -A French gentleman expressed his surprise that I did not have my books -translated into French, "because," said he, "no literary reputation can be -considered established until it has received the consecration of Parisian -approval." To his unfeigned astonishment I answered that London and not -Paris was the capital city of English literature, and that English authors -had not yet fallen so low as to care for the opinion of critics ignorant -of their language. - -I then asked myself why this intense French patriotic ignorance should -continue so persistently; and the answer appeared to be that there was -something profoundly agreeable to French patriotic sentiment in the belief -that England had no place in the artistic and intellectual world. Until -quite recently the very existence of an English school of painting was -denied by all patriotic Frenchmen, and English art was rigorously excluded -from the Louvre.[21] Even now a French writer upon art can scarcely -mention English painting without treating it _de haut en bas_, as if his -Gallic nationality gave him a natural right to treat uncivilized islanders -with lofty disdain or condescending patronage. - -My next example has no reference to literature or the fine arts. A young -French gentleman of superior education and manners, and with the instincts -of a sportsman, said in my hearing, "There is no game in England." His -tone was that of a man who utters a truth universally acknowledged. - -It might be a matter of little consequence, as touching our national -pride, whether there was game in England or not. I have no doubt that some -philosophers would consider, and perhaps with reason, that the -non-existence of game, where it can only be maintained by an army of -keepers and a penal code of its own, would be the sign of an advancing -social state; but my young Frenchman was not much of a philosopher, and no -doubt he considered the non-existence of game in England a mark of -inferiority to France. There is something in the masculine mind, inherited -perhaps from ancestors who lived by the chase, which makes it look upon an -abundance of wild things that can be shot at, or run after with horses and -dogs, as a reason for the greatest pride and glorification. On reflection, -it will be found that there is more in the matter than at first sight -appears. As there is no game in England, of course there are no sportsmen -in that country. The absence of game means the absence of shooters and -huntsmen, and consequently an inferiority in manly exercises to the -French, thousands of whom take shooting licenses and enjoy the -invigorating excitement of the chase. For this reason it is agreeable to -French patriotic sentiment to be perfectly certain that there is no game -in England. When I inquired what reason my young friend had for holding -his conviction on the subject, he told me that in a country like England, -so full of trade and manufactures, there could not be any room for game. - -One of the most popular of French songs is that charming one by Pierre -Dupont in praise of his vine. Every Frenchman who knows anything knows -that song, and believes that he also knows the tune. The consequence is -that when one of them begins to sing it his companions join in the refrain -or chorus, which is as follows:-- - - "Bons Francais, quand je vois mon verre - Plein de ce vin couleur de feu - Je songe en remerciant Dieu - Qu'ils n'en ont pas dans l'Angleterre!" - -The singers repeat "qu'ils n'en ont pas," and besides this the whole of -the last line is repeated with triumphant emphasis. - -We need not feel hurt by this little outburst of patriotism. There is no -real hatred of England at the bottom of it, only a little "malice" of a -harmless kind, and the song is sometimes sung good-humoredly in the -presence of Englishmen. It is, however, really connected with patriotic -ignorance. The common French belief is that as vines are not grown in -England, we have no wine in our cellars, so that English people hardly -know the taste of wine; and this belief is too pleasing to the French mind -to be readily abandoned by those who hold it. They feel that it enhances -the delightfulness of every glass they drink. The case is precisely the -same with fruit. The French enjoy plenty of excellent fruit, and they -enjoy it all the more heartily from a firm conviction that there is no -fruit of any kind in England. "Pas un fruit," said a countryman of Pierre -Dupont in writing about our unfavored island, "pas un fruit ne murit dans -ce pays." What, not even a gooseberry? Were the plums, pears, -strawberries, apples, apricots, that we consumed in omnivorous boyhood -every one of them unripe? It is lamentable to think how miserably the -English live. They have no game, no wine, no fruit (it appears to be -doubtful, too, whether they have any vegetables), and they dwell in a -perpetual fog where sunshine is totally unknown. It is believed, also, -that there is no landscape-beauty in England,--nothing but a green field -with a hedge, and then another green field with another hedge, till you -come to the bare chalk cliffs and the dreary northern sea. The English -have no Devonshire, no valley of the Severn, no country of the Lakes. The -Thames is a foul ditch, without a trace of natural beauty anywhere.[22] - -It would be easy to give many more examples of the patriotism of our -neighbors, but perhaps for the sake of variety it may be desirable to turn -the glass in the opposite direction and see what English patriotism has to -say about France. We shall find the same principle at work, the same -determination to believe that the foreign country is totally destitute of -many things on which we greatly pride ourselves. I do not know that there -is any reason to be proud of having mountains, as they are excessively -inconvenient objects that greatly impede agriculture and communication; -however, in some parts of Great Britain it is considered, somehow, a glory -for a nation to have mountains; and there used to be a firm belief that -French landscape was almost destitute of mountainous grandeur. There were -the Highlands of Scotland, but who had ever heard of the Highlands of -France? Was not France a wearisome, tame country that unfortunately had to -be traversed before one could get to Switzerland and Italy? Nobody seemed -to have any conception that France was rich in mountain scenery of the -very grandest kind. Switzerland was understood to be the place for -mountains, and there was a settled but erroneous conviction that Mont -Blanc was situated in that country. As for the Grand-Pelvoux, the Pointe -des Ecrins, the Mont Olan, the Pic d'Arsine, and the Trois Ellions, nobody -had ever heard of them. If you had told any average Scotchman that the -most famous Bens would be lost and nameless in the mountainous departments -of France, the news would have greatly surprised him. He would have been -astonished to hear that the area of mountainous France exceeded the area -of Scotland, and that the height of its loftiest summits attained three -times the elevation of Ben Nevis. - -It may be excusable to feel proud of mountains, as they are noble objects -in spite of their inconvenience, but it seems less reasonable to be -patriotic about hedges, which make us pay dearly for any beauty they may -possess by hiding the perspective of the land. A hedge six feet high -easily masks as many miles of distance. However, there is a pride in -English hedges, accompanied by a belief that there are no such things in -France. The truth is that regions of large extent are divided by hedges in -France as they are in England Another belief is that there is little or -no wood in France, though wood is the principal fuel, and vast forests are -reserved for its supply. I have heard an Englishman proudly congratulating -himself, in the spirit of Dupont's song, on the supposed fact that the -French had neither coal nor iron; and yet I have visited a vast -establishment at the Creuzot, where ten thousand workmen are continually -employed in making engines, bridges, armor-plates, and other things from -iron found close at hand, by the help of coal fetched from a very little -distance. I have read in an English newspaper that there were no singing -birds in France; and by way of commentary a hundred little French -songsters kept up a merry din that would have gladdened the soul of -Chaucer. It happened, too, to be the time of the year for nightingales, -which filled the woods with their music in the moonlight. - -Patriotic ignorance often gets hold of some partial truth unfavorable to -another country, and then applies it in such an absolute manner that it is -truth no longer. It is quite true, for example, that athletic exercises -are not so much cultivated in France, nor held in such high esteem, as -they are in England, but it is not true that all young Frenchmen are -inactive. They are often both good swimmers and good pedestrians, and, -though they do not play cricket, many of them take a practical interest in -gymnastics and are skilful on the bar and the trapeze. The French learn -military drill in their boyhood, and in early manhood they are inured to -fatigue in the army, besides which great numbers of them learn fencing on -their own account, that they may hold their own in a duel. Patriotic -ignorance likes to shut its eyes to all inconvenient facts of this kind, -and to dwell on what is unfavorable. A man may like a glass of absinthe in -a _cafe_ and still be as energetic as if he drank port wine at home. I -know an old French officer who never misses his daily visit to the _cafe_, -and so might serve as a text for moralizing, but at the same time he walks -twenty kilometres every day. Patriotic ignorance has its opportunity in -every difference of habit. What can be apparently more indolent, for an -hour or two after _dejeuner_, than a prosperous man of business in Paris? -Very possibly he may be caught playing cards or dominoes in the middle of -the day, and severely blamed by a foreign censor. The difference between -him and his equal in London is simply in the arrangement of time. The -Frenchman has been at his work early, and divides his day into two parts, -with hours of idleness between them. - -Many examples of those numerous international criticisms that originate in -patriotic ignorance are connected with the employment of words that are -apparently common to different nations, yet vary in their signification. -One that has given rise to frequent patriotic criticisms is the French -word _univers_. French writers often say of some famous author, such as -Victor Hugo, "Sa renommee remplit l'univers;" or of some great warrior, -like Napoleon, "Il inquieta l'univers." English critics take up these -expressions and then say, "Behold how bombastic these French writers are, -with their absurd exaggerations, as if Victor Hugo and Napoleon astonished -the universe, as if they were ever heard of beyond our own little -planet!" Such criticism only displays patriotic ignorance of a foreign -language. The French expression is perfectly correct, and not in the least -exaggerated. Napoleon did not disquiet the universe, but he disquieted -_l'univers_. Victor Hugo is not known beyond the terrestrial globe, but he -is known, by name at least, throughout _l'univers_. The persistent -ignorance of English writers on this point would be inexplicable if it -were not patriotic; if it did not afford an opportunity for deriding the -vanity of foreigners. It is the more remarkable that the deriders -themselves constantly use the word in the same restricted sense as an -adjective or an adverb. I open Mr. Stanford's atlas, and find that it is -called "The London Atlas of _Universal Geography_," though it does not -contain a single map of any planet but our own, not even one of the -visible hemisphere of the moon, which might easily have been given. I take -a newspaper, and I find that the late President of the Royal Society died -_universally_ respected, though he was known only to the cultivated -inhabitants of a single planet. Such is the power of patriotic ignorance -that it is able to prevent men from understanding a foreign word when they -themselves employ a nearly related word in identically the same -sense.[23] - -The word _univers_ reminds me of universities, and they recall a striking -example of patriotic ignorance in my own countrymen. I wonder how many -Englishmen there are who know anything about the University of France. I -never expect an Englishman to know anything about it; and, what is more, I -am always prepared to find him impervious to any information on the -subject. As the organization of the University of France differs -essentially from that of English universities, each of which is localized -in one place, and can be seen in its entirety from the top of a tower, the -Englishman hears with contemptuous inattention any attempt to make him -understand an institution without a parallel in his own country. Besides -this, the Universities of Oxford and Cambridge are venerable and wealthy -institutions, visibly beautiful, whilst the University of France is of -comparatively recent origin; and, though large sums are expended in its -service, the result does not strike the eye because the expenditure is -distributed over the country. I remember having occasion to mention the -Academy of Lyons to a learned doctor of Oxford who was travelling in -France, and I found that he had never heard of the Academy of Lyons, and -knew nothing about the organization of the national university of which -that academy forms a part. From a French point of view this is quite as -remarkable an example of patriotic ignorance as if some foreigner had -never heard of the diocese of York, or the episcopal organization of the -Church of England. Every Frenchman who has any education at all knows the -functions of academies in the university, and which of the principal -cities are the seats of those learned bodies. - -As Englishmen ignore the University of France, they naturally at the same -time ignore the degrees that it confers. They never know what a _Licencie_ -is, they have no conception of the _Agregation_, or of the severe ordeal -of competitive examination through which an _Agrege_ must have passed. -Therefore, if a Frenchman has attained either of these grades, his title -is unintelligible to an Englishman. - -There is, no doubt, great ignorance in France on the subject of the -English universities, but it is neither in the same degree nor of the same -kind. I should hardly call French ignorance of the classes at Oxford -patriotic ignorance, because it does not proceed from the belief that a -foreign university is unworthy of a Frenchman's attention. I should call -French ignorance of the Royal Academy, for example, genuine patriotic -ignorance, because it proceeds from a conviction that English art is -unworthy of notice, and that the French _Salon_ is the only exhibition -that can interest an enlightened lover of art. That is the essence of -patriotism in ignorance,--to be ignorant of what is done in another -nation, because we believe our own to be first and the rest nowhere; and -so the English ignorance of the University of France is genuine patriotic -ignorance. It is caused by the existence of Oxford and Cambridge, as the -French ignorance of the Royal Academy is caused by the French _Salon_. - -Patriotic ignorance is one of the most serious impediments to conversation -between people of different nationality, because occasions are continually -arising when the national sentiments of the one are hurt by the ignorance -of the other. But we may also wound the feelings of a foreigner by -assuming a more complete degree of ignorance on his part than that which -is really his. This is sometimes done by English people towards Americans, -when English people forget that their national literature is the common -possession of the two countries. A story is told by Mr. Grant White of an -English lady who informed him that a novel (which she advised him to read) -had been written about Kenilworth, by Sir Walter Scott; and he expected -her to recommend a perusal of the works of William Shakespeare. Having -lived much abroad, I am myself occasionally the grateful recipient of -valuable information from English friends. For example, I remember an -Englishman who kindly and quite seriously informed me that Eton College -was a public school where many sons of the English aristocracy were -educated. - -There is a very serious side to patriotic ignorance in relation to war. -There can be no doubt that many of the most foolish, costly, and -disastrous wars ever undertaken were either directly due to patriotic -ignorance, or made possible only by the existence of such ignorance in the -nation that afterwards suffered by them. The way in which patriotic -ignorance directly tends to produce war is readily intelligible. A nation -sees its own soldiers, its own cannons, its own ships, and becomes so -proud of them as to remain contentedly and even wilfully ignorant of the -military strength and efficiency of its neighbors. The war of 1870-71, so -disastrous to France, was the direct result of patriotic ignorance. The -country and even the Emperor himself were patriotically ignorant of their -own inferior military condition and of the superior Prussian organization. -One or two isolated voices were raised in warning, but it was considered -patriotic not to listen to them. The war between Turkey and Russia, which -cost Turkey Bulgaria and all but expelled her from Europe, might easily -have been avoided by the Sultan; but he was placed in a false position by -the patriotic ignorance of his own subjects, who believed him to be far -more powerful than he really was, and who would have probably dethroned or -murdered him if he had acted rationally, that is to say, in accordance -with the degree of strength that he possessed. In almost every instance -that I am able to remember, the nations that have undertaken imprudent and -easily avoidable wars have done so because they were blinded by patriotic -ignorance, and therefore either impelled their rulers into a foolish -course against their better knowledge, or else were themselves easily led -into peril by the temerity of a rash master, who would risk the well-being -of all his subjects that he might attain some personal and private end. -The French have been cured of their most dangerous patriotic -ignorance,--that concerning the military strength of the country,--by the -war of 1870, but the cure was of a costly nature. - -Patriotism has been so commonly associated with a wilful closing of the -eyes against unpleasant facts, that those who prefer truth to illusion are -often considered unpatriotic. Yet surely ignorance has not the immense -advantage over knowledge of having all patriotism on her side. There is a -far higher and better patriotism than that of ignorance; there is a love -of country that shows itself in anxiety for its best welfare, and does not -remain satisfied with the vain delusion of a fancied superiority in -everything. It is the interest of England as a nation to be accurately -informed about all that concerns her position in the world, and it is -impossible for her to receive this information if a stupid national vanity -is always ready to take offence when it is offered. It is desirable for -England to know exactly in what degree she is a military power, and also -how she stands with reference to the naval armaments of other nations, not -as they existed in the days of Nelson, but as they will exist next year. -It is the interest of England to know by what tenure she holds India, just -as in the reign of George the Third it would have been very much the -interest of England to know accurately both the rights of the American -colonists and their strength. I cannot imagine any circumstances that -might make ignorance more desirable for a free people than knowledge. With -enslaved peoples the case is different: the less they know and the -greater, perhaps, are their chances of enjoying the dull kind of somnolent -happiness which alone is attainable by them; but this is a kind of -happiness that no citizen of a free country would desire. - - - - -ESSAY XX. - -CONFUSIONS. - - -Surely the analytical faculty must be very rare, or we should not so -commonly find people confounding together things essentially distinct. Any -one who possesses that faculty naturally, and has followed some occupation -which strengthens it, must be continually amused if he has a humorous -turn, or irritated if he is irascible, by the astounding mental confusions -in which men contentedly pass their lives. To be just, this account ought -to include both sexes, for women indulge in confusions even more -frequently than men, and are less disposed to separate things when they -have once been jumbled together. - -A confusion of ideas in politics which is not uncommon amongst the enemies -of all change is to believe that whoever desires the reform of some law -wants to do something that is not legal, and has a rebellious, subversive -spirit. Yet the reformer is not a rebel; it is indeed the peculiar -distinction of his position not to be a rebel, for there has never been a -real reformer (as distinguished from a revolutionist) who wished to do -anything illegal. He desires, certainly, to do something which is not -legal just at present, but he does not wish to do it so long as it remains -in the condition of illegality. He wishes first to make it legal by -obtaining legislative sanction for his proposal, and then to do it when it -shall have become as legal as anything else, and when all the most -conservative people in the kingdom will be strenuous in its defence as -"part and parcel of the law of the land." - -Another confusion in political matters which has always been extremely -common is that between private and public liberty. Suppose that a law were -enacted to the effect that each British subject without exception should -go to Mass every Sunday morning, on pain of death, and should take the -Roman Catholic Sacrament of Holy Communion, involving auricular -confession, at Easter; such a law would not be an infringement of the -sensible liberty of Roman Catholics, because they do these things already. -Then they might say, "People talk of the tyranny of the law, yet the law -is not tyrannical at all; we enjoy perfect liberty in England, and it is -most unreasonable to say that we do not." The Protestant part of the -community would exclaim that such a law was an intolerable infringement of -liberty, and would rush to arms to get rid of it. This is the distinction -between private and public liberty. There is private liberty when some men -are not interfered with in the ordinary habits of their existence; and -there has always been much of such private liberty under the worst of -despotisms; but there is not public liberty until every man in the country -may live according to his own habits, so long as he does not interfere -with the rights of others. Here is a distinction plain enough to be -evident to a very commonplace understanding; yet the admirers of tyrants -are often successful in producing a confusion between the two things, and -in persuading people that there was "ample liberty" under some foreign -despot, because they themselves, when they visited the country that lay -prostrate under his irresistible power, were allowed to eat good dinners, -and drive about unmolested, and amuse themselves by day and by night -according to every suggestion of their fancy. - -Many confusions have been intentionally maintained by political enemies in -order to cast odium on their adversaries; so that it becomes of great -importance to a political cause that it should not bear a name with two -meanings, or to which it may be possible to give another meaning than that -which was originally intended. The word "Radical" is an instance of this. -According to the enemies of radicalism it has always meant a political -principle that strikes at the root of the constitution; but it was not -that meaning of the word which induced the first Radicals to commit the -imprudence of adopting it. The term referred to agriculture rather than -tree-felling, the original idea being to uproot abuses as a gardener pulls -weeds up by the roots. I distinctly remember my first boyish notion of the -Radicals. I saw them in a sort of sylvan picture,--violent savage men -armed with sharp axes, and hewing away at the foot of a majestic oak that -stood for the glory of England. Since then I have become acquainted with -another instance of the unfortunate adoption of a word which may be -plausibly perverted from its meaning. The French republican motto is -_Liberte, Egalite, Fraternite_, and to this day there is hardly an -English newspaper that does not from time to time sneer at the French -Republicans for aspiring to equality, as if equality were not impossible -in the nature of things, and as if, supposing an unnatural equality to be -established to-day, the operation of natural causes would not bring about -inequality to-morrow. We are told that some men would be stronger, or -cleverer, or more industrious than others, and earn more and make -themselves leaders; that children of the same parents, starting in life -with the same fortunes, never remain in precisely the same positions; and -much more to the same purpose. All this trite and familiar reasoning is -without application here. The word _Egalite_ in the motto means something -which _can_ be attained, and which, though it did not exist in France -before the Revolution, is now almost a perfect reality there,--it means -equality before the law; it means that there shall not be privileged -classes exempt from paying taxes, and favored with such scandalous -partiality that all posts of importance in the government, the army, the -magistracy, and the church are habitually reserved for them. If it meant -absolute equality, no Republican could aim at wealth, which is the -creation of inequality in his own favor; neither would any Republican -labor for intellectual reputation, or accept honors. There would not even -be a Republican in the gymnastic societies, where every member strives to -become stronger and more agile than his fellows, and knows that, whether -in his favor or against him, the most striking inequalities will be -manifested in every public contest. There would be no Republicans in the -University, for has it not a hierarchy with the most marked gradations of -title, and differences of consideration and authority? Yet the University -is so full of Republicans that it is scarcely too much to say that it is -entirely composed of them. I am aware that there are dreamers in the -working classes, both in France and elsewhere, who look forward to a -social state when all men will work for the same wages,--when the -Meissonier of the day will be paid like a sign-painter, and the -sign-painter like a white-washer, and all three perform each other's tasks -by turns for equality of agreeableness in the work; but these dreams are -only possible in extreme ignorance, and lie quite outside of any theories -to be seriously considered. - -Religious intolerance, when quite sincere and not mixed up with social -contempt or political hatred, is founded upon a remarkable confusion of -ideas, which is this. The persecutor assumes that the heretic knowingly -and maliciously resists the will of God in rejecting the theology which he -knows that God desires him to receive. This is a confusion between the -mental states of the believer and the unbeliever, and it does not -accurately describe either, for the believer of course accepts the -doctrine, and the unbeliever does not reject it as coming from God, but -precisely because he is convinced that it has a purely human origin. - -"Are you a Puseyite?" was a question put to a lady in my hearing; and she -at once answered, "Certainly not, I should be ashamed of being a -Puseyite." Here was a confusion between her present mental state and her -supposed possible mental state as a Puseyite; for it is impossible to be a -real Puseyite and at the same time to think of one's belief with an inward -sense of shame. A believer always thinks that his belief is simply the -truth, and nobody feels ashamed of believing what is true. Even -concealment of a belief does not imply shame; and those who have been -compelled, in self-defence, to hide their real opinions, have been -ashamed, if at all, of hiding and not of having them. - -A confusion common to all who do not think, and avoided only with the -greatest difficulty by those who do, is that between their own knowledge -and the knowledge possessed by another person who has different tastes, -different receptive powers, and other opportunities. They cannot imagine -that the world does not appear the same to him that it appears to them. -They do not really believe that he can feel quite differently from -themselves and still be in every respect as sound in mind and as -intelligent as they are. The incapacity to imagine a different mental -condition is strikingly manifested in what we call the Philistine mind, -and is one of its strongest characteristics. The true Philistine thinks -that every form of culture which opens out a world that is closed against -himself leaves the votary exactly where he was before. "I cannot imagine -why you live in Italy," said a Philistine to an acquaintance; "nothing -could induce _me_ to live in Italy." He did not take into account the -difference of gifts and culture, but supposed the person he addressed to -have just his own mental condition, the only one that he was able to -conceive, whereas, in fact, that person was so endowed and so educated as -to enjoy Italy in the supreme degree. He spoke the purest Italian with -perfect ease; he had a considerable knowledge of Italian literature and -antiquities; his love of natural beauty amounted to an insatiable passion; -and from his youth he had delighted in architecture and painting. Of these -gifts, tastes, and acquirements the Philistine was simply destitute. For -him Italy could have had no meaning. Where the other found unfailing -interest he would have suffered from unrelieved _ennui_, and would have -been continually looking back, with the intolerable longing of nostalgia, -to the occupations of his English home. In the same spirit a French -_bourgeois_ once complained in my hearing that too much space was given to -foreign affairs in the newspapers, "car, vous comprenez, cela n'interesse -pas." This was simply an attribution of his personal apathy to everybody -else. Certainly, as a nation, the French take less interest in foreign -affairs than we do, but they do take some interest, and the degree of it -is exactly reflected by the importance given to foreign affairs in their -journals, always greatest in the best of them. An Englishman said, also in -my hearing, that to have a library was a mistake, as a library was of no -use; he admitted that a few books might be useful if the owner read them -through. Here, again, is the attribution of one person's experience to all -cases. This man had never himself felt the need of a library, and did not -know how to use one. He could not realize the fact that a few books only -allow you to read, whilst a library allows you to pursue a study. He could -not at all imagine what the word "library" means to a scholar,--that it -means the not being stopped at every turn for want of light, the not being -exposed to scornful correction by men of inferior ability and inferior -industry, whose only superiority is the great and terrible one of living -within a cabfare of the British Museum. I remember reading an account of -the establishment of a Greek professorship in a provincial town, and it -was wisely proposed, by one who understood the difficulties of a scholar -remote from the great libraries, that provision should be made for the -accumulation of books for the use of the future occupants of the chair, -but the trustees (honest men of business, who had no idea of a scholar's -wants and necessities) said that each professor must provide his own -library, just as road commissioners advertise that a surveyor must have -his own horse. - -One of the most serious reasons why it is imprudent to associate with -people whose opinions you do not wish to be made responsible for is that -others will confound you with them. There is an old Latin proverb, and -also a French one, to the effect that if a man knows what your friends -are, he knows what you are yourself. These proverbs are not true, but they -well express the popular confusion between having something in common and -having everything in common. If you are on friendly terms with clergymen, -it is inferred that you have a clerical mind; when the reason may be that -you are a scholar living in the country, and can find no scholarship in -your neighborhood except in the parsonage houses. You associate with -foreigners, and are supposed to be unpatriotic; when in truth you are as -patriotic as any rational and well-informed creature can be, but have a -faculty for languages that you like to exercise in conversation. This kind -of confusion takes no account of the indisputable fact that men constantly -associate together on the ground of a single pursuit that they have in -common, often a mere amusement, or because, in spite of every imaginable -difference, they are drawn together by one of those mysterious natural -affinities which are so obscure in their origin and action that no human -intelligence can explain them. - -Not only are a man's tastes liable to be confounded with those of his -personal acquaintances, but he may find some trade attributed to him, by a -perfectly irrational association of ideas, because it happens to be -prevalent in the country where he lives. I have known instances of men -supposed to have been in the cotton trade simply because they had lived in -Lancashire, and of others supposed to be in the mineral oil trade for no -other reason than because they had lived in a part of France where mineral -oil is found. - -Professional men are usually very much alive to the danger of confusion as -affecting their success in life. If you are known to do two things, a -confusion gets established between the two, and you are no longer classed -with that ease and decision which the world finds to be convenient. It -therefore becomes a part of worldly wisdom to keep one of the occupations -in obscurity, and if that is not altogether possible, then to profess as -loudly and as frequently as you can that it is entirely secondary and only -a refreshment after more serious toils. Many years ago a well-known -surgeon published a set of etchings, and the merit of them was so -dangerously conspicuous, so superior, in fact, to the average of -professional work, that he felt constrained to keep those too clever -children in their places by a quotation from Horace,-- - - "O laborum - Dulce lenimen!" - -To present one's self to the world always in one character is a great help -to success, and maintains the stability of a position. The kings in the -story-books and on playing cards who have always their crowns on their -heads and sceptres in their hands, appear to enjoy a decided advantage -over modern royalty, which dresses like other people and enters into -common interests and pursuits. Literary men admire the prudent -self-control of our literary sovereign, Tennyson, who by his rigorous -abstinence from prose takes care never to appear in public without his -singing robes and his crown of laurel. Had he carelessly and familiarly -employed the commoner vehicle of expression, there would have been a -confusion of two Tennysons in the popular idea, whilst at present his name -is as exclusively associated with the exquisite music of his verse as that -of Mozart with another kind of melody. - -The great evil of confusions, as they affect conversation, is that they -constantly place a man of accurate mental habits in such trying situations -that, unless he exercises the most watchful self-control, he is sure to -commit the sin of contradiction. We have all of us met with the lady who -does not think it necessary to distinguish between one person and -another, who will tell a story of some adventure as having happened to A, -when in reality it happened to B; who will attribute sayings and opinions -to C, when they properly belong to D; and deliberately maintain that it is -of no consequence whatever, when some suffering lover of accuracy -undertakes to set her right. It is in vain to argue that there really does -exist, in the order of the universe, a distinction between one person and -another, though both belong to the human race; and that organisms are -generally isolated, though there has been an exception in the case of the -Siamese twins. The death of the wonderful swimmer who attempted to descend -the rapids of Niagara afforded an excellent opportunity for confounders. -In France they all confounded him with Captain Boyton, who swam with an -apparatus; and when poor Webb was sucked under the whirlpool they said, -"You see that, after all, his inflated dress was of no avail." Fame of a -higher kind does not escape from similar confusions. On the death of -George Eliot, French readers of English novels lamented that they would -have nothing more from the pen that wrote "John Halifax," and a cultivated -Frenchman expressed his regret for the author of "Adam Bede" and "Uncle -Tom's Cabin."[24] - -Men who have trained themselves in habits of accurate observation often -have a difficulty in realizing the confused mental condition of those who -simply receive impressions without comparison and classification. A fine -field for confused tourists is architecture. They go to France and Italy, -they talk about what they have seen, and leave you in bewilderment, until -you make the discovery that they have substituted one building for -another, or, better still, mixed two different edifices inextricably -together. Foreigners of this class are quite unable to establish any -distinction between the Houses of Parliament and Westminster Abbey, -because both have towers; and they are not clear about the difference -between the British Museum and the National Gallery, because there are -columns in the fronts of both.[25] English tourists will stay some time in -Paris, and afterwards not be able to distinguish between photographs of -the Louvre and the Hotel de Ville. We need not be surprised that people -who have never studied architecture at all should not be sure whether St. -Paul's is a Gothic building or not, but the wonder is that they seem to -retain no impressions received merely by the eye. One would think that the -eye alone, without knowledge, would be enough to establish a distinction -between one building and another altogether different from it; yet it is -not so. - -I cannot close this chapter without some allusion to a crafty employment -of words only too well understood already by those who influence the -popular mind. There is such a natural tendency to confusion in all -ordinary human beings that if you repeatedly present to them two totally -distinct things at the same time, they will, before long, associate them -so closely as to consider them inseparable by their very nature. This is -the reason why all those branches of education that train the mind in -analysis are so valuable. To be able to distinguish between accidental -connections of things or characteristics and necessary connections, is one -of the best powers that education bestows upon us. By far the greater -number of erroneous popular notions are due simply to the inability to -make this distinction which belongs to all undisciplined minds. Calumnies, -that have great influence over such minds, must lose their power as the -habit of analysis enables people to separate ideas which the uncultivated -mingle together. - -Insufficient analysis leads to a very common sort of confusion between the -defectiveness of a part only and a defect pervading the whole. An -invention (as often happens) does not visibly succeed on the first trial, -and then the whole of the common public will at once declare the invention -to be bad, when, in reality, it may be a good invention with a local -defect, easily remediable. Suppose that a yacht misses stays, the common -sort of criticism would be to say that she was a bad boat, when, in fact, -her hull and everything else might be thoroughly well made, and the defect -be due only to a miscalculation in the placing of her canvas. I have -myself seen a small steel boat sink at her anchorage, and a crowd laugh -at her as badly contrived, when her only defect was the unobserved -starting of a rivet. The boat was fished up, the rivet replaced, and she -leaked and sank no more. When Stephenson's locomotive did not go because -its wheels slid on the rails, the vulgar spectators were delighted with -the supposed failure of a benefactor of the human species, and set up a -noise of jubilant derision. The invention, they had decided, was of no -good, and they sang their own foolish _gaudeamus igitur_. Stephenson at -once perceived that the only defect was want of weight, and he immediately -proceeded to remedy it by loading the machine with ballast. So it is in -thousands of cases. The common mind, untrained in analysis, condemns the -whole as a failure, when the defect lies in some small part which the -specialist, trained in analysis, seeks for and discovers. - -I have not touched upon the confusions due to the decline of the -intellectual powers. In that case the reason is to be sought for in the -condition of the brain, and there is, I believe, no remedy. In healthy -people, enjoying the complete vigor of their faculties, confusions are -simply the result of carelessness and indolence, and are proper subjects -for sarcasm. With senile confusions the case is very different. To treat -them with hard, sharp, decided correction, as is so often done by people -of vigorous intellect, is a most cruel abuse of power. Yet it is difficult -to say what ought to be done when an old person falls into manifest errors -of this kind. Simple acquiescence is in this case a pardonable abandonment -of truth, but there are situations in which it is not possible. Then you -find yourself compelled to show where the confusion lies. You do it as -gently as may be, but you fail to convince, and awaken that tenacious, -unyielding opposition which is a characteristic of decline in its earlier -stages. All that can be said is, that when once it has become evident that -confusions are not careless but senile, they ought to be passed over if -possible, and if not, then treated with the very utmost delicacy and -gentleness. - - - - -ESSAY XXI. - -THE NOBLE BOHEMIANISM. - - -Amongst the common injustices of the world there have been few more -complete than its reprobation of the state of mind and manner of life that -have been called Bohemianism; and so closely is that reprobation attached -to the word that I would gladly have substituted some other term for the -better Bohemianism had the English language provided me with one. It may, -however, be a gain to justice itself that we should be compelled to use -the same expression, qualified only by an adjective, for two states of -existence that are the good and the bad conditions of the same, as it will -tend to make us more charitable to those whom we must always blame, and -yet may blame with a more or less perfect understanding of the causes that -led them into error. - -The lower forms of Bohemianism are associated with several kinds of vice, -and are therefore justly disliked by people who know the value of a -well-regulated life, and, when at the worst, regarded by them with -feelings of positive abhorrence. The vices connected with these forms of -Bohemianism are idleness, irregularity, extravagance, drunkenness, and -immorality; and besides these vices the worst Bohemianism is associated -with many repulsive faults that may not be exactly vices, and yet are -almost as much disliked by decent people. These faults are slovenliness, -dirt, a degree of carelessness in matters of business, often scarcely to -be distinguished from dishonesty, and habitual neglect of the decorous -observances that are inseparable from a high state of civilization. - -After such an account of the worst Bohemianism, in which, as the reader -perceives, I have extenuated nothing, it may seem almost an act of -temerity to advance the theory that this is only the bad side of a state -of mind and feeling that has its good and perfectly respectable side also. -If this seems difficult to believe, the reader has only to consider how -certain other instincts of humanity have also their good and bad -developments. The religious and the sexual instincts, in their best -action, are on the side of national and domestic order, but in their worst -action they produce sanguinary quarrels, ferocious persecutions, and the -excesses of the most degrading sensuality. It is therefore by no means a -new theory that a human instinct may have a happy or an unfortunate -development, and it is not a reason for rejecting Bohemianism, without -unprejudiced examination, that the worst forms of it are associated with -evil. - -Again, before going to the _raison d'etre_ of Bohemianism, let me point to -one consideration of great importance to us if we desire to think quite -justly. It is, and has always been, a characteristic of Bohemianism to be -extremely careless of appearances, and to live outside the shelter of -hypocrisy; so its vices are far more visible than the same vices when -practised by men of the world, and incomparably more offensive to persons -with a strong sense of what is called "propriety." At the time when the -worst form of Bohemianism was more common than it is now, its most serious -vices were also the vices of the best society. If the Bohemian drank to -excess, so did the nobility and gentry; if the Bohemian had a mistress, so -had the most exalted personages. The Bohemian was not so much blamed for -being a sepulchre as for being an ill-kept sepulchre, and not a whited -sepulchre like the rest. It was far more his slovenliness and poverty than -his graver vices that made him offensive to a corrupt society with fine -clothes and ceremonious manners. - -Bohemianism and Philistinism are the terms by which, for want of better, -we designate two opposite ways of estimating wealth and culture. There are -two categories of advantages in wealth,--the intellectual and the -material. The intellectual advantages are leisure to think and read, -travel, and intelligent conversation. The material advantages are large -and comfortable houses, tables well served and abundant, good coats, clean -linen, fine dresses and diamonds, horses, carriages, servants, hot-houses, -wine-cellars, shootings. Evidently the most perfect condition of wealth -would unite both classes of advantages; but this is not always, or often, -possible, and it so happens that in most situations a choice has to be -made between them. The Bohemian is the man who with small means desires -and contrives to obtain the intellectual advantages of wealth, which he -considers to be leisure to think and read, travel, and intelligent -conversation. The Philistine is the man who, whether his means are small -or large, devotes himself wholly to the attainment of the other set of -advantages,--a large house, good food and wine, clothes, horses, and -servants. - -The Philistine gratifies his passion for comfort to a wonderful extent, -and thousands of ingenious people are incessantly laboring to make his -existence more comfortable still, so that the one great inconvenience he -is threatened with is the super-multiplication of conveniences. Now there -is a certain noble Bohemianism which perceives that the Philistine life is -not really so rich as it appears, that it has only some of the advantages -which ought to belong to riches, and these not quite the best advantages; -and this noble Bohemianism makes the best advantages its first aim, being -contented with such a small measure of riches as, when ingeniously and -skilfully employed, may secure them. - -A highly developed material luxury, such as that which fills our modern -universal exhibitions and is the great pride of our age, has in itself so -much the appearance of absolute civilization that any proposal to do -without it may seem like a return to savagery; and Bohemianism is exposed -to the accusation of discouraging arts and manufactures. There is a -physical side to Bohemianism to be considered later; and there may, -indeed, be some connection between Bohemianism and the life of a red -Indian who roams in his woods and contents himself with a low standard of -physical well-being. The fair statement of the case between Bohemianism -and the civilization of arts and manufactures is as follows: the -intelligent Bohemian does not despise them; on the contrary, when he can -afford it, he encourages them and often surrounds himself with beautiful -things; but he will not barter his mental liberty in exchange for them, as -the Philistine does so readily. If the Bohemian simply prefers sordid -idleness to the comfort which is the reward of industry, he has no part in -the higher Bohemianism, but combines the Philistine fault of intellectual -apathy with the Bohemian fault of standing aloof from industrial -civilization. If a man abstains from furthering the industrial -civilization of his country he is only excusable if he pursues some object -of at least equal importance. Intellectual civilization really is such an -object, and the noble Bohemianism is excusable for serving it rather than -that other civilization of arts and manufactures which has such numerous -servants of its own. If the Bohemian does not redeem his negligence of -material things by superior intellectual brightness, he is half a -Philistine, he is destitute of what is best in Bohemianism (I had nearly -written of all that is worth having in it), and his contempt for material -perfection has no longer any charm, because it is not the sacrifice of a -lower merit to a higher, but the blank absence of the lower merit not -compensated or condoned by the presence of anything nobler or better. - -Bohemianism and Philistinism are alike in combining self-indulgence with -asceticism, but they are ascetic or self-indulgent in opposite directions. -Bohemianism includes a certain self-indulgence, on the intellectual side, -in the pleasures of thought and observation and in the exercise of the -imaginative faculties, combining this with a certain degree of asceticism -on the physical side, not a severe religious asceticism, but a -disposition, like that of a thorough soldier or traveller, to do without -luxury and comfort, and take the absence of them gayly when they are not -to be had. The self-indulgence of Philistinism is in bodily comfort, of -which it has never enough; its asceticism consists in denying itself -leisure to read and think, and opportunities for observation. - -The best way of describing the two principles will be to give an account -of two human lives that exemplified them. These shall not be described -from imagination, but from accurate memory; and I will not have recourse -to the easy artifice of selecting an unfavorable example of the class with -which I happen to have a minor degree of personal sympathy. My Philistine -shall be one whom I sincerely loved and heartily respected. He was an -admirable example of everything that is best and most worthy in the -Philistine civilization; and I believe that nobody who ever came into -contact with him, or had dealings with him, received any other impression -than this, that he had a natural right to the perfect respect which -surrounded him. The younger son of a poor gentleman, he began life with -narrow means, and followed a profession in a small provincial town. By -close attention and industry he saved a considerable sum of money, which -he lost entirely through the dishonesty of a trusted but untrustworthy -acquaintance. He had other mishaps, which but little disturbed his -serenity, and he patiently amassed enough to make himself independent. In -every relation of life he was not only above reproach, he was much more -than that: he was a model of what men ought to be, yet seldom are, in -their conduct towards others. He was kind to every one, generous to those -who needed his generosity, and, though strict with himself, tolerant -towards aberrations that must have seemed to him strangely unreasonable. -He had great natural dignity, and was a gentleman in all his ways, with an -old-fashioned grace and courtesy. He had no vanity; there may have been -some pride as an ingredient in his character, but if so it was of a kind -that could hurt nobody, for he was as simple and straightforward in his -intercourse with the poor as he was at ease with the rich. - -After this description (which is so far from being overcharged that I have -omitted, for the sake of brevity, many admirable characteristics), the -reader may ask in what could possibly consist the Philistinism of a nature -that had attained such excellence. The answer is that it consisted in the -perfect willingness with which he remained outside of every intellectual -movement, and in the restriction of his mental activity to riches and -religion. He used to say that "a man must be contentedly ignorant of many -things," and he lived in this contented ignorance. He knew nothing of the -subjects that awaken the passionate interest of intellectual men. He knew -no language but his own, bought no books, knew nothing about the fine -arts, never travelled, and remained satisfied with the life of his little -provincial town. Totally ignorant of all foreign literatures, ancient or -modern, he was at the same time so slightly acquainted with that of his -own country that he had not read, and scarcely even knew by name, the most -famous authors of his own generation. His little bookcase was filled -almost exclusively with evangelical sermons and commentaries. This is -Philistinism on the intellectual side, the mental inertness that remains -"contentedly ignorant" of almost everything that a superior intellect -cares for. But, besides this, there is also a Philistinism on the physical -side, a physical inertness; and in this, too, my friend was a real -Philistine. In spite of great natural strength, he remained inexpert in -all manly exercises, and so had not enjoyed life on that side as he might -have done, and as the Bohemian generally contrives to do. He belonged to -that class of men who, as soon as they reach middle age, are scarcely more -active than the chairs they sit upon, the men who would fall from a horse -if it were lively, upset a boat if it were light, and be drowned if they -fell into the water. Such men can walk a little on a road, or they can sit -in a carriage and be dragged about by horses. By this physical inertia my -friend was deprived of one set of impressions, as he was deprived by his -intellectual inertia of another. He could not enjoy that close intimacy -with nature which a Bohemian generally finds to be an important part of -existence. - -I wonder if it ever occurred to him to reflect, in the tedious hours of -too tranquil age, how much of what is best in the world had been simply -_missed_ by him; how he had missed all the variety and interest of travel, -the charm of intellectual society, the influences of genius, and even the -physical excitements of healthy out-door amusements. When I think what a -magnificent world it is that we inhabit, how much natural beauty there is -in it, how much admirable human work in literature and the fine arts, how -many living men and women there are in each generation whose acquaintance -a wise man would travel far to seek, and value infinitely when he had -found it, I cannot avoid the conclusion that my friend might have lived as -he did in a planet far less richly endowed than ours, and that after a -long life he went out of the world without having really known it. - -I have said that the intelligent Bohemian is generally a man of small or -moderate means, whose object is to enjoy the _best_ advantages (not the -most visible) of riches. In his view these advantages are leisure, travel, -reading, and conversation. His estimate is different from that of the -Philistine, who sets his heart on the lower advantages of riches, -sacrificing leisure, travel, reading, and conversation, in order to have a -larger house and more servants. But how, without riches, is the Bohemian -to secure the advantages that he desires, for they also belong to riches? -There lies the difficulty, and the Bohemian's way of overcoming it -constitutes the romance of his existence. In absolute destitution the -intelligent Bohemian life is not possible. A little money is necessary for -it, and the art and craft of Bohemianism is to get for that small amount -of money such an amount of leisure, reading, travel, and good conversation -as may suffice to make life interesting. The way in which an old-fashioned -Bohemian usually set about it was this: he treated material comfort and -outward appearances as matters of no consequence, accepting them when they -came in his way, but enduring the privation of them gayly. He learned the -art of living on a little. - - "Je suis pauvre, tres pauvre, et vis pourtant fort bien - C'est parce que je vis comme les gens de rien."[26] - -He spent the little that he had, first for what was really necessary, and -next for what really gave him pleasure, but he spent hardly anything in -deference to the usages of society. In this way he got what he wanted. His -books were second-hand and ill bound, but he _had_ books and read them; -his clothes were shabby, yet still they kept him warm; he travelled in all -sorts of cheap ways and frequently on foot; he lived a good deal in some -unfashionable quarters in a capital city, and saw much of art, nature, and -humanity. - -To exemplify the true theory of Bohemianism let me describe from memory -two rooms, one of them inhabited by an English lady, not at all Bohemian, -the other by a German of the coarser sex who was essentially and -thoroughly Bohemian. The lady's room was not a drawing-room, being a -reasonable sort of sitting-room without any exasperating inutilities, but -it was extremely, excessively comfortable. Half hidden amongst its -material comforts might be found a little rosewood bookcase containing a -number of pretty volumes in purple morocco that were seldom, if ever, -opened. My German Bohemian was a steady reader in six languages; and if -he had seen such a room as that he would probably have criticised it as -follows. He would have said, "It is rich in superfluities, but has not -what is necessary. The carpet is superfluous; plain boards are quite -comfortable enough. One or two cheap chairs and tables might replace this -costly furniture. That pretty rosewood bookcase holds the smallest number -of books at the greatest cost, and is therefore contrary to true economy; -give me, rather, a sufficiency of long deal shelves all innocent of paint. -What is the use of fine bindings and gilt edges? This little library is -miserably poor. It is all in one language, and does not represent even -English literature adequately; there are a few novels, books of poems, and -travels, but I find neither science nor philosophy. Such a room as that, -with all its comfort, would seem to me like a prison. My mind needs wider -pastures." I remember his own room, a place to make a rich Englishman -shudder. One climbed up to it by a stone corkscrew-stair, half-ruinous, in -an old mediaeval house. It was a large room, with a bed in one corner, and -it was wholly destitute of anything resembling a carpet or a curtain. The -remaining furniture consisted of two or three rush-bottomed chairs, one -large cheap lounging-chair, and two large plain tables. There were plenty -of shelves (common deal, unpainted), and on them an immense litter of -books in different languages, most of them in paper covers, and bought -second-hand, but in readable editions. In the way of material luxury there -was a pot of tobacco; and if a friend dropped in for an evening a jug of -ale would make its appearance. My Bohemian was shabby in his dress, and -unfashionable; but he had seen more, read more, and passed more hours in -intelligent conversation than many who considered themselves his -superiors. The entire material side of life had been systematically -neglected, in his case, in order that the intellectual side might -flourish. It is hardly necessary to observe that any attempt at luxury or -visible comfort, any conformity to fashion, would have been incompatible, -on small means, with the intellectual existence that this German scholar -enjoyed. - -Long ago I knew an English Bohemian who had a small income that came to -him very irregularly. He had begun life in a profession, but had quitted -it that he might travel and see the world, which he did in the oddest, -most original fashion, often enduring privation, but never ceasing to -enjoy life deeply in his own way, and to accumulate a mass of observations -which would have been quite invaluable to an author. In him the two -activities, physical and mental, were alike so energetic that they might -have led to great results had they been consistently directed to some -private or public end; but unfortunately he remained satisfied with the -existence of an observant wanderer who has no purpose beyond the healthy -exercise of his faculties. In usefulness to others he was not to be -compared with my good and admirable Philistine, but in the art of getting -for himself what is best in the world he was by far the more accomplished -of the two. He fully enjoyed both the physical and the intellectual life; -he could live almost like a red Indian, and yet at the same time carry in -his mind the most recent results of European thought and science. His -distinguishing characteristic was a heroic contempt for comfort, in which -he rather resembled a soldier in war-time than any self-indulgent -civilian. He would sleep anywhere,--in his boat under a sail, in a -hayloft, under a hedge if belated, and he would go for days together -without any regular meal. He dressed roughly, and his clothes became old -before he renewed them. He kept no servant, and lived in cheap lodgings in -towns, or hired one or two empty rooms and adorned them with a little -portable furniture. In the country he contrived to make very economical -arrangements in farmhouses, by which he was fed and lodged quite as well -as he ever cared to be. It would be difficult to excel him in simple -manliness, in the quiet courage that accepts a disagreeable situation or -faces a dangerous one; and he had the manliness of the mind as well as -that of the body; he estimated the world for what it is worth, and cared -nothing for its transient fashions either in appearances or opinion. I am -sorry that he was a useless member of society,--if, indeed, such an -eccentric is to be called a member of society at all,--but if uselessness -is blamable he shares the blame, or ought in justice to share it, with a -multitude of most respectable gentlemen and ladies who receive nothing but -approbation from the world. - -Except this fault of uselessness there was nothing to blame in this man's -manner of life, but his want of purpose and discipline made his fine -qualities seem almost without value. And now comes the question whether -the fine qualities of the useless Bohemian may not be of some value in a -life of a higher kind. I think it is evident that they may, for if the -Bohemian can cheerfully sacrifice luxury for some mental gain he has made -a great step in the direction of the higher life, and only requires a -purpose and a discipline to attain it. Common men are completely enslaved -by their love of comfort, and whoever has emancipated himself from this -thraldom has gained the first and most necessary victory. The use that he -will make of it depends upon himself. If he has high purposes, his -Bohemianism will be ennobled by them, and will become a most precious -element in his character; and if his purposes are not of the highest, the -Bohemian element may still be very valuable if accompanied by -self-discipline. Napoleon cannot be said to have had high purposes, but -his Bohemianism was admirable. A man who, having attained success, with -boundless riches at his disposal, could quit the luxury of his palaces and -sleep anywhere, in any poor farmhouse, or under the stars by the fire of a -bivouac, and be satisfied with poor meals at the most irregular hours, -showed that, however he may have estimated luxury, he was at least -entirely independent of it. The model monarch in this respect was Charles -XII. of Sweden, who studied his own personal comfort as little as if he -had been a private soldier. Some royal commanders have carried luxury into -war itself, but not to their advantage. When Napoleon III. went in his -carriage to meet his fate at Sedan the roads were so encumbered by wagons -belonging to the Imperial household as to impede the movements of the -troops. - -There is often an element of Bohemianism where we should least expect to -find it. There is something of it in our English aristocracy, though it is -not _called_ Bohemianism here because it is not accompanied by poverty; -but the spirit that sacrifices luxury to rough travelling is, so far, the -true Bohemian spirit. In the aristocracy, however, such sacrifices are -only temporary; and a rough life accepted for a few weeks or months gives -the charm of a restored freshness to luxury on returning to it. The class -in which the higher Bohemianism has most steadily flourished is the -artistic and literary class, and here it is visible and recognizable -because there is often poverty enough to compel the choice between the -objects of the intelligent Bohemian and those of ordinary men. The early -life of Goldsmith, for example, was that of a genuine Bohemian. He had -scarcely any money, and yet he contrived to get for himself what the -intelligent Bohemian always desires, namely, leisure to read and think, -travel, and interesting conversation. When penniless and unknown he -lounged about the world thinking and observing; he travelled in Holland, -France, Switzerland, and Italy, not as people do in railway carriages, but -in leisurely intercourse with the inhabitants. Notwithstanding his poverty -he was received by the learned in different European cities, and, notably, -heard Voltaire and Diderot talk till three o'clock in the morning. So long -as he remained faithful to the true principles of Bohemianism he was happy -in his own strange and eccentric way, and all the anxieties, all the -slavery of his later years were due to his apostasy from those -principles. He no longer estimated leisure at its true value when he -allowed himself to be placed in such a situation that he was compelled to -toil like a slave in order to clear off work that had been already paid -for, such advances having been rendered necessary by expenditure on -Philistine luxuries. He no longer enjoyed humble travel but on his later -tour in France with Mrs. Horneck and her two beautiful daughters, instead -of enjoying the country in his own old simple innocent way, he allowed his -mind to be poisoned with Philistine ideas, and constantly complained of -the want of physical comfort, though he lived far more expensively than in -his youth. The new apartments, taken on the success of the "Good-natured -Man," consisted, says Irving, "of three rooms, which he furnished with -mahogany sofas, card-tables, and bookcases; with curtains, mirrors, and -Wilton carpets." At the same time he went even beyond the precept of -Polonius, for his garments were costlier than his purse could buy, and his -entertainments were so extravagant as to give pain to his acquaintances. -All this is a desertion of real Bohemian principles. Goldsmith ought to -have protected his own leisure, which, from the Bohemian point of view, -was incomparably more precious to himself than Wilton carpets and coats -"of Tyrian bloom." - -Corot, the French landscape-painter, was a model of consistent Bohemianism -of the best kind. When his father said, "You shall have L80 a year, your -plate at my table, and be a painter; or you shall have L4,000 to start -with if you will be a shop-keeper," his choice was made at once. He -remained always faithful to true Bohemian principles, fully understanding -the value of leisure, and protecting his artistic independence by the -extreme simplicity of his living. He never gave way to the modern rage for -luxuries, but in his latter years, when enriched by tardy professional -success and hereditary fortune, he employed his money in acts of fraternal -generosity to enable others to lead the intelligent Bohemian life. - -Wordsworth had in him a very strong element of Bohemianism. His long -pedestrian rambles, his interest in humble life and familiar intercourse -with the poor, his passion for wild nature, and preference of natural -beauty to fine society, his simple and economical habits, are enough to -reveal the tendency. His "plain living and high thinking" is a thoroughly -Bohemian idea, in striking opposition to the Philistine passion for rich -living and low thinking. There is a story that he was seen at a -breakfast-table to cut open a new volume with a greasy butter-knife. To -every lover of books this must seem horribly barbarous, yet at the same -time it was Bohemian, in that Wordsworth valued the thought only and cared -nothing for the material condition of the volume. I have observed a like -indifference to the material condition of books in other Bohemians, who -took the most lively interest in their contents. I have also seen -"bibliophiles" who had beautiful libraries in excellent preservation, and -who loved to fondle fine copies of books that they never read. That is -Philistine, it is the preference of material perfection to intellectual -values. - -The reader is, I hope, fully persuaded by this time that the higher -Bohemianism is compatible with every quality that deserves respect, and -that it is not of necessity connected with any fault or failing. I may -therefore mention as an example of it one of the purest and best -characters whom it was ever my happiness to know. There was a strong -element of noble Bohemianism in Samuel Palmer, the landscape-painter. -"From time to time," according to his son, "he forsook his easel, and -travelled far away from London smoke to cull the beauties of some favorite -country side. His painting apparatus was complete, but singularly simple, -his dress and other bodily requirements simpler still; so he could walk -from village to hamlet easily carrying all he wanted, and utterly -indifferent to luxury. With a good constitution it mattered little to him -how humble were his quarters or how remote from so-called civilization. -'In exploring wild country,' he writes, 'I have been for a fortnight -together, uncertain each day whether I should get a bed under cover at -night; and about midsummer I have repeatedly been walking all night to -watch the mystic phenomena of the silent hours.' He enjoyed to the full -this rough but not uncomfortable mode of travelling, and was better -pleased to take his place, after a hard day's work, in some old chimney -corner--joining on equal terms the village gossip--than to mope in the -dull grandeur of a private room." - -Here are two of my Bohemian elements,--the love of travel and the love of -conversation. As for the other element,--the love of leisure to think and -read,--it is not visible in this extract (though the kind of travel -described is leisurely), but it was always present in the man. During the -quiet, solitary progress by day and night there were ample opportunities -for thinking, and as for reading we know that Palmer never stirred without -a favorite author in his pocket, most frequently Milton or Virgil. To -complete the Bohemian we only require one other -characteristic,--contentment with a simple material existence; and we are -told that "the painting apparatus was singularly simple, the dress and -other bodily requirements simpler still." So here we have the intelligent -Bohemian in his perfection. - -All this is the exact opposite of Philistine "common sense." A Philistine -would not have exposed himself, voluntarily, to the certainty of poor -accommodation. A Philistine would not have remained out all night "to -watch the mystic phenomena of the silent hours." In the absence of a -railway he would have hired a carriage, and got through the wild country -rapidly to arrive at a good dinner. Lastly, a Philistine would not have -carried either Milton or Virgil in his pocket; he would have had a -newspaper. - -Some practical experience of the higher Bohemianism is a valuable part of -education. It enables us to estimate things at their true worth, and to -extract happiness from situations in which the Philistine is both dull and -miserable. A true Bohemian, of the best kind, knows the value of mere -shelter, of food enough to satisfy hunger, of plain clothes that will keep -him sufficiently warm; and in the things of the mind he values the liberty -to use his own faculties as a kind of happiness in itself. His philosophy -leads him to take an interest in talking with human beings of all sorts -and conditions, and in different countries. He does not despise the poor, -for, whether poor or rich in his own person, he understands simplicity of -life, and if the poor man lives in a small cottage, he, too, has probably -been lodged less spaciously still in some small hut or tent. He has lived -often, in rough travel, as the poor live every day. I maintain that such -tastes and experiences are valuable both in prosperity and in adversity. -If we are prosperous they enhance our appreciation of the things around -us, and yet at the same time make us really know that they are not -indispensable, as so many believe them to be; if we fall into adversity -they prepare us to accept lightly and cheerfully what would be depressing -privations to others. I know a painter who in consequence of some change -in the public taste fell into adversity at a time when he had every reason -to hope for increased success. Very fortunately for him, he had been a -Bohemian in early life,--a respectable Bohemian, be it understood,--and a -great traveller, so that he could easily dispense with luxuries. "To be -still permitted to follow art is enough," he said; so he reduced his -expenses to the very lowest scale consistent with that pursuit, and lived -as he had done before in the old Bohemian times. He made his old clothes -last on, he slung a hammock in a very simple painting-room, and cooked his -own dinner on the stove. With the canvas on his easel and a few books on a -shelf he found that if existence was no longer luxurious it had not yet -ceased to be interesting. - - - - -ESSAY XXII. - -OF COURTESY IN EPISTOLARY COMMUNICATION. - - -The universal principle of courtesy is that the courteous person manifests -a disposition to sacrifice something in favor of the person whom he -desires to honor; the opposite principle shows itself in a disposition to -regard our own convenience as paramount over every other consideration. - -Courtesy lives by a multitude of little sacrifices, not by sacrifices of -sufficient importance to impose any burdensome sense of obligation. These -little sacrifices may be both of time and money, but more of time, and the -money sacrifice should be just perceptible, never ostentatious. - -The tendency of a hurried age, in which men undertake more work or more -pleasure (hardest work of all!) than they are able properly to accomplish, -is to abridge all forms of courtesy because they take time, and to replace -them by forms, if any forms survive, which cost as little time as -possible. This wounds and injures courtesy itself in its most vital part, -for the essence of it is the willingness to incur that very sacrifice -which modern hurry avoids. - -The first courtesy in epistolary communication is the mere writing of the -letter. Except in cases where the letter itself is an offence or an -intrusion, the mere making of it is an act of courtesy towards the -receiver. The writer sacrifices his time and a trifle of money in order -that the receiver may have some kind of news. - -It has ever been the custom to commence a letter with some expression of -respect, affection, or good will. This is graceful in itself, and -reasonable, being nothing more than the salutation with which a man enters -the house of his friend, or his more ceremonious act of deference in -entering that of a stranger or a superior. In times and seasons where -courtesy has not given way to hurry, or a selfish dread of unnecessary -exertion, the opening form is maintained with a certain amplitude, and the -substance of the letter is not reached in the first lines, which gently -induce the reader to proceed. Afterwards these forms are felt to involve -an inconvenient sacrifice of time, and are ruthlessly docked. - -In justice to modern poverty in forms it is fair to take into -consideration the simple truth, so easily overlooked, that we have to -write thirty letters where our ancestors wrote one; but the principle of -sacrifice in courtesy always remains essentially the same; and if of our -more precious and more occupied time we consecrate a smaller portion to -forms, it is still essential that there should be no appearance of a -desire to escape from the kind of obligation which we acknowledge. - -The most essentially modern element of courtesy in letter-writing is the -promptitude of our replies. This promptitude was not only unknown to our -remote ancestors, but even to our immediate predecessors. They would -postpone answering a letter for days or weeks, in the pure spirit of -procrastination, when they already possessed all the materials necessary -for the answer. Such a habit would try our patience very severely, but our -fathers seem to have considered it a part of their dignity to move slowly -in correspondence. This temper even yet survives in official -correspondence between sovereigns, who still notify to each other their -domestic events long after the publication of them in the newspapers. - -A prompt answer equally serves the purpose of the sender and the receiver. -It is a great economy of time to answer promptly, because the receiver of -the letter is so much gratified by the promptitude itself that he readily -pardons brevity in consideration of it. An extremely short but prompt -letter, that would look curt without its promptitude, is more polite than -a much longer one written a few days later. - -Prompt correspondents save all the time that others waste in excuses. I -remember an author and editor whose system imposed upon him the tax of -perpetual apologizing. He always postponed writing until the delay had put -his correspondent out of temper, so that when at last he _did_ write, -which somehow happened ultimately, the first page was entirely occupied -with apologies for his delay, as he felt that the necessity had arisen for -soothing the ruffled feelings of his friend. It never occurred to him that -the same amount of pen work which these apologies cost him would, if given -earlier, have sufficed for a complete answer. A letter-writer of this sort -must naturally be a bad man of business, and this gentleman was so, though -he had excellent qualities of another order. - -I remember receiving a most extraordinary answer from a correspondent of -this stamp. I wrote to him about a matter which was causing me some -anxiety, and did not receive an answer for several weeks. At last the -reply came, with the strange excuse that as he knew I had guests in my -house he had delayed writing from a belief that I should not be able to -attend to anything until after their departure. If such were always the -effect of entertaining friends, what incalculable perturbation would be -caused by hospitality in all private and public affairs! - -The reader may, perhaps, have met with a collection of letters called the -"Plumpton Correspondence," which was published by the Camden Society in -1839. I have always been interested in this for family reasons, and also -because the manuscript volume was found in the neighborhood where I lived -in youth;[27] but it does not require any blood connection with the now -extinct house of Plumpton of Plumpton to take an interest in a collection -of letters which gives so clear an insight into the epistolary customs of -England in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. The first peculiarity -that strikes the modern reader is the extreme care of almost all the -writers, even when near relations, to avoid a curt and dry style, -destitute of the ambages which were in those days esteemed an essential -part of politeness. The only exception is a plain, straightforward -gentleman, William Gascoyne, who heads his letters, "To my Uncle Plumpton -be these delivered," or "To my Uncle Plumpton this letter be delivered in -hast." He begins, "Uncle Plumpton, I recommend me unto you," and -finishes, "Your nephew," simply, or still more laconically, "Your." Such -plainness is strikingly rare. The rule was, to be deliberately perfect in -all epistolary observances, however near the relationship. Not that the -forms used were hard forms, entirely fixed by usage and devoid of personal -feeling and individuality. They appear to have been more flexible and -living than our own, as they were more frequently varied according to the -taste and sentiment of the writers. Sometimes, of course, they were -perfunctory, but often they have an original and very graceful turn. One -letter, which I will quote at length, contains curious evidence of the -courtesy and discourtesy of those days. The forms used in the letter -itself are perfect, but the writer complains that other letters have not -been answered. - -In the reign of Henry VII. Sir Robert Plumpton had a daughter, Dorothy, -who was in the household of Lady Darcy (probably as a sort of maid of -honor to her ladyship), but was not quite pleased with her position, and -wanted to go home to Plumpton. She had written to her father several -times, but had received no answer, so she now writes again to him in these -terms. The date of the letter is not fully given, as the year is wanting; -but her parents were married in 1477, and her father died in 1523, at the -age of seventy, after a life of strange vicissitudes. The reader will -observe two leading characteristics in this letter,--that it is as -courteous as if the writer were not related to the receiver, and as -affectionate as if no forms had been observed. As was the custom in those -days, the young lady gives her parents their titles of worldly honor, but -she always adds to them the most affectionate filial expressions: - - _To the right worshipfull and my most entyerly beloved, good, kind - father, Sir Robart Plompton, knyght, lying at Plompton in Yorkshire, - be thes delivered in hast._ - - Ryght worshipfull father, in the most humble manner that I can I - recommend me to you, and to my lady my mother, and to all my brethren - and sistren, whom I besech almyghtie God to mayntayne and preserve in - prosperus health and encrese of worship, entyerly requiering you of - your daly blessing; letting you wyt that I send to you mesuage, be - Wryghame of Knarsbrugh, of my mynd, and how that he should desire you - in my name to send for me to come home to you, and as yet I had no - answere agane, the which desire my lady hath gotten knowledg. - Wherefore, she is to me more better lady than ever she was before, - insomuch that she hath promysed me hir good ladyship as long as ever - she shall lyve; and if she or ye can fynd athing meyter for me in this - parties or any other, she will helpe to promoote me to the uttermost - of her puyssaunce. Wherefore, I humbly besech you to be so good and - kind father unto me as to let me know your pleasure, how that ye will - have me ordred, as shortly as it shall like you. And wryt to my lady, - thanking hir good ladyship of hir so loving and tender kyndnesse - shewed unto me, beseching hir ladyship of good contynewance thereof. - And therefore I besech you to send a servant of yours to my lady and - to me, and show now by your fatherly kyndnesse that I am your child; - for I have sent you dyverse messuages and wryttings, and I had never - answere againe. Wherefore yt is thought in this parties, by those - persones that list better to say ill than good, that ye have litle - favor unto me; the which error ye may now quench yf yt will like you - to be so good and kynd father unto me. Also I besech you to send me a - fine hatt and some good cloth to make me some kevercheffes. And thus I - besech _Jesu_ to have you in his blessed keeping to his pleasure, and - your harts desire and comforth. Wryten at the Hirste, the xviii day of - Maye. - - By your loving daughter, - DORYTHE PLOMPTON. - -It may be worth while, for the sake of contrast, and that we may the -better perceive the lost fragrance of the antique courtesy, to put the -substance of this letter into the style of the present day. A modern young -lady would probably write as follows:-- - - HIRST, _May 18_. - - DEAR PAPA,--Lady Darcy has found out that I want to leave her, but she - has kindly promised to do what she can to find something else for me. - I wish you would say what you think, and it would be as well, perhaps, - if you would be so good as to drop a line to her ladyship to thank - her. I have written to you several times, but got no answer, so people - here say that you don't care very much for me. Would you please send - me a handsome bonnet and some handkerchiefs? Best love to mamma and - all at home. - - Your affectionate daughter, - DOROTHY PLUMPTON. - -This, I think, is not an unfair specimen of a modern letter.[28] The -expressions of worship, of humble respect, have disappeared, and so far it -may be thought that there is improvement, yet that respect was not -incompatible with tender feeling; on the contrary, it was closely -associated with it, and expressions of sentiment have lost strength and -vitality along with expressions of respect. Tenderness may be sometimes -shown in modern letters, but it is rare; and when it occurs it is -generally accompanied by a degree of familiarity which our ancestors would -have considered in bad taste. Dorothy Plumpton's own letter is far richer -in the expression of tender feeling than any modern letter of the -courteous and ceremonious kind, or than any of those pale and commonplace -communications from which deep respect and strong affection are almost -equally excluded. Please observe, moreover, that the young lady had reason -to be dissatisfied with her father for his neglect, which does not in the -least diminish the filial courtesy of her style, but she chides him in the -sweetest fashion,--"_Show now by your fatherly kindness that I am your -child_." Could anything be prettier than that, though the reproach -contained in it is really one of some severity? - -Dorothy's father, Sir Robert, puts the following superscription on a -letter to his wife, "To my entyrely and right hartily beloved wife, Dame -Agnes Plumpton, be this Letter delivered." He begins his letter thus, "My -deare hart, in my most hartily wyse, I recommend mee unto you;" and he -ends tenderly, "By your owne lover, Robert Plumpton, Kt." She, on the -contrary, though a faithful and brave wife, doing her best for her husband -in a time of great trial, and enjoying his full confidence, begins her -letters, "Right worshipful Sir," and ends simply, "By your wife, Dame -Agnes Plumpton." She is so much absorbed by business that her expressions -of feeling are rare and brief. "Sir, I am in good health, and all your -children prays for your daly blessing. And all your servants is in good -health and prays diligently for your good speed in your matters." - -The generally courteous tone of the letters of those days may be judged of -by the following example. The reader will observe how small a space is -occupied with the substance of the letter in comparison with the -expressions of pure courtesy, and how simply and handsomely regret for the -trespass is expressed:-- - - _To his worshipful Cosin, Sir Robart Plompton, Kt._ - - Right reverend and worshipful Cosin, I commend me unto you as hertyly - as I can, evermore desiring to heare of your welfare, the which I - besech _Jesu_ to continew to his pleasure, and your herts desire. - Cosin, please you witt that I am enformed, that a poor man somtyme - belonging to mee, called Umfrey Bell, hath trespased to a servant of - youres, which I am sory for. Wherefore, Cosin, I desire and hartily - pray you to take upp the matter into your own hands for my sake, and - rewle him as it please you; and therein you wil do, as I may do that - may be plesur to you, and my contry, the which I shalbe redy too, by - the grace of God, who preserve you. - - By your own kynsman, - ROBART WARCOPP, of Warcoppe. - -The reader has no doubt by this time enough of these old letters, which -are not likely to possess much charm for him unless, like the present -writer, he is rather of an antiquarian turn.[29] - -The quotations are enough to show some of the forms used in correspondence -by our forefathers, forms that were right in their own day, when the state -of society was more ceremonious and deferential, but no one would propose -to revive them. We may, however, still value and cultivate the beautifully -courteous spirit that our ancestors possessed and express it in our own -modern ways. - -I have already observed that the essentially modern form of courtesy is -the rapidity of our replies. This, at least, is a virtue that we can -resolutely cultivate and maintain. In some countries it is pushed so far -that telegrams are very frequently sent when there is no need to employ -the telegraph. The Arabs of Algeria are extremely fond of telegraphing for -its own sake: the notion of its rapidity pleases and amuses them; they -like to wield a power so wonderful. It is said that the Americans -constantly employ the telegraph on very trivial occasions, and the habit -is increasing in England and France. The secret desire of the present age -is to find a plausible excuse for excessive brevity in correspondence, and -this is supplied by the comparative costliness of telegraphing. It is a -comfort that it allows you to send a single word. I have heard of a letter -from a son to a father consisting of the Latin word _Ibo_, and of a still -briefer one from the father to the son confined entirely to the imperative -_I_. These miracles of brevity are only possible in letters between the -most intimate friends or relations, but in telegraphy they are common. - -It is very difficult for courtesy to survive this modern passion for -brevity, and we see it more and more openly cast aside. All the long -phrases of politeness have been abandoned in English correspondence for a -generation, except in formal letters to official or very dignified -personages; and the little that remains is reduced to a mere shred of -courteous or affectionate expression. We have not, it is true, the -detestable habit of abridging words, as our ancestors often did, but we -cut our phrases short, and sometimes even words of courtesy are abridged -in an unbecoming manner. Men will write Dr. Sir for Dear Sir. If I am -dear enough to these correspondents for their sentiments of affection to -be worth uttering at all, why should they be so chary of expressing them -that they omit two letters from the very word which is intended to affect -my feelings? - - "If I be dear, if I be dear," - -as the poet says, why should my correspondent begrudge me the four letters -of so brief an adjective? - -The long French and Italian forms of ceremony at the close of letters are -felt to be burdensome in the present day, and are gradually giving place -to briefer ones; but it is the very length of them, and the time and -trouble they cost to write, that make them so courteous, and no brief form -can ever be an effective substitute in that respect. - -I was once placed in the rather embarrassing position of having suddenly -to send telegrams in my own name, containing a request, to two high -foreign authorities in a corps where punctilious ceremony is very strictly -observed. My solution of the difficulty was to write two full ceremonious -letters, with all the formal expressions unabridged, and then have these -letters telegraphed _in extenso_. This was the only possible solution, as -an ordinary telegram would have been entirely out of the question. It -being rather expensive to telegraph a very formal letter, the cost added -to the appearance of deference, so I had the curious but very real -advantage on my side that I made a telegram seem even more deferential -than a letter. - -The convenience of the letter-writer is consulted in inverse ratio to the -appearances of courtesy. In the matter of sealing, for example, that seems -so slight and indifferent a concern, a question of ceremony and courtesy -is involved. The old-fashioned custom of a large seal with the sender's -arms or cipher added to the importance of the contents both by strictly -guarding the privacy of the communication and by the dignified assertion -of the writer's rank. Besides this, the time that it costs to take a -proper impression of a seal shows the absence of hurry and the disposition -to sacrifice which are a part of all noble courtesy; whilst the act of -rapidly licking the gum on the inside of an envelope and then giving it a -thump with your fist to make it stick is neither dignified nor elegant. -There were certain beautiful associations with the act of sealing. There -was the taper that had to be lighted, and that had its own little -candlestick of chased or gilded silver, or delicately painted porcelain; -there was the polished and graven stone of the seal, itself more or less -precious, and enhanced in value by an art of high antiquity and noble -associations, and this graven signet-stone was set in massive gold. The -act of sealing was deliberate, to secure a fair impression, and as the wax -caught flame and melted it disengaged a delicate perfume. These little -things may be laughed at by a generation of practical men of business who -know the value of every second, but they had their importance, and have it -still, amongst those who possess any delicacy of perception.[30] The -reader will remember the sealing of Nelson's letter to the Crown Prince of -Denmark during the battle of Copenhagen. "A wafer was given him," says -Southey, "but he ordered a candle to be brought from the cockpit, and -sealed the letter with wax, _affixing a larger seal than he ordinarily -used_. 'This,' said he, 'is no time to appear hurried and informal.'" The -story is usually told as a striking example of Nelson's coolness in a time -of intense excitement, but it might be told with equal effect as a proof -of his knowledge of mankind and of the trifles which have a powerful -effect on human intercourse. The preference of wax to a wafer, and -especially the deliberate choice of a larger seal as more ceremonious and -important, are clear evidence of diplomatic skill. No doubt, too, the -impression of Nelson's arms was very careful and clear. - -In writing to French Ministers of State it is a traditional custom to -employ a certain paper called "papier ministre," which is very much larger -than that sent to ordinary mortals. Paper is by no means a matter of -indifference. It is the material costume under which we present ourselves -to persons removed from us by distance; and as a man pays a call in -handsome clothes as a sign of respect to others, and also of self-respect, -so he sends a piece of handsome paper to be the bearer of his salutation. -Besides, a letter is in itself a gift, though a small one, and however -trifling a gift may be it must never be shabby. The English understand -this art of choosing good-looking letter-paper, and are remarkable for -using it of a thickness rare in other nations. French love of elegance has -led to charming inventions of tint and texture, particularly in delicate -gray tints, and these papers are now often decorated with embossed -initials of heraldic devices on a large scale, but that is carrying -prettiness too far. The common American habit of writing letters on ruled -paper is not to be recommended, as the ruling reminds us of copy-books and -account-books, and has a mechanical appearance that greatly detracts from -what ought to be the purely personal air of an autograph. - -Modern love of despatch has led to the invention of the post-card, which, -from our present point of view, that of courtesy, deserves unhesitating -condemnation. To use a post-card is as much as to say to your -correspondent, "In order to save for myself a very little money and a very -little time, I will expose the subject of our correspondence to the eyes -of any clerk, postman, or servant, who feels the slightest curiosity about -it; and I take this small piece of card, of which I am allowed to use one -side only, in order to relieve myself from the obligation, and spare -myself the trouble, of writing a letter." To make the convenience -absolutely perfect, it is customary in England to omit the opening and -concluding salutations on post-cards, so that they are the _ne plus -ultra_, I will not say of positive rudeness, but of that negative rudeness -which is not exactly the opposite of courtesy, but its absence. Here -again, however, comes the modern principle; and promptitude and frequency -of communication may be accepted as a compensation for the sacrifice of -formality. It may be argued, and with reason, that when a man of our own -day sends a post-card his ancestors would have been still more laconic, -for they would have sent nothing at all, and that there are a thousand -circumstances in which a post-card may be written when it is not possible -to write a letter. A husband on his travels has a supply of such cards in -a pocket-book. With these, and his pencil, he writes a line once or twice -a day in train or steamboat, or at table between two dishes, or on the -windy platform of a railway station, or in the street when he sees a -letter-box. He sends fifty such communications where his father would -have written three letters, and his grandfather one slowly composed and -slowly travelling epistle. - -Many modern correspondents appreciate the convenience of the post-card, -but their conscience, as that of well-bred people, cannot get over the -fault of its publicity. For these the stationers have devised several -different substitutes. There is the French plan of what is called "Un Mot -a la Poste," a piece of paper with a single fold, gummed round the other -three edges, and perforated like postage-stamps for the facility of the -opener.[31] There is the miniature sheet of paper that you have not to -fold, and there is the card that you enclose in an envelope, and that -prepares the reader for a very brief communication. Here, again, is a very -curious illustration of the sacrificial nature of courtesy. A card is -sent; why a card? Why not a piece of paper of the same size which would -hold as many words? The answer is that a card is handsomer and more -costly, and from its stiffness a little easier to take out of the -envelope, and pleasanter to hold whilst reading, so that a small sacrifice -is made to the pleasure and convenience of the receiver, which is the -essence of courtesy in letter-writing. All this brief correspondence is -the offspring of the electric telegraph. Our forefathers were not used to -it, and would have regarded it as an offence. Even at the present date -(1884) it is not quite safe to write in our brief modern way to persons -who came to maturity before the electric telegraph was in use. - -There is a wide distinction between brevity and hurry; in fact, brevity, -if of the intelligent kind, is the best preservative against hurry. Some -men write short letters, but are very careful to observe all the forms; -and they have the great advantage that the apparent importance of the -formal expressions is enhanced by the shortness of the letter itself. This -is the case in Robert Warcopp's letter to Sir Robert Plumpton. - -When hurry really exists, and it is impossible to avoid the appearance of -it, as when a letter _cannot_ be brief, yet must be written at utmost -speed, the proper course is to apologize for hurry at the beginning and -not at the end of the letter. The reader is then propitiated at once, and -excuses the slovenly penmanship and style. - -It is remarkable that legibility of handwriting should never have been -considered as among the essentials of courtesy in correspondence. It is -obviously for the convenience of the reader that a letter should be easily -read; but here another consideration intervenes. To write very legibly is -the accomplishment of clerks and writing-masters, who are usually poor -men, and, as such, do not hold a high social position. Aristocratic pride -has always had it for a principle to disdain, for itself, the -accomplishments of professional men; and therefore a careless scrawl is -more aristocratic than a clean handwriting, if the scrawl is of a -fashionable kind. Perhaps the historic origin of this feeling may be the -scorn of the ignorant mediaeval baron for writing of all kinds as beneath -the attention of a warrior. In a cultured age there may be a reason of a -higher order. It may be supposed that attention to mechanical excellence -is incompatible with the action of the intellect; and people are curiously -ready to imagine incompatibilities where they do not really exist. As a -matter of fact, some men of eminent intellectual gifts write with as -exquisite a clearness in the formation of their letters as in the -elucidation of their ideas. It is easily forgotten, too, that the same -person may use different kinds of handwriting, according to circumstances, -like the gentleman whose best hand some people could read, whose middling -hand the writer himself could read, and whose worst neither he nor any -other human being could decipher. Legouve, in his exquisite way, tells a -charming story of how he astonished a little girl by excelling her in -calligraphy. His scribble is all but illegible, and she was laughing at it -one day, when he boldly challenged her to a trial. Both sat down and -formed their letters with great patience, as in a writing class, and it -turned out, to the girl's amazement, that the scribbling Academician had -by far the more copperplate-like hand of the two. He then explained that -his bad writing was simply the result of speed. Frenchmen provokingly -reserve their very worst and most illegible writing for the signature. You -are able to read the letter but not the signature, and if there is not -some other means of ascertaining the writer's name you are utterly at -fault. - -The old habit of crossing letters, now happily abandoned, was a direct -breach of real, though not of what in former days were conventional, good -manners. To cross a letter is as much as to say, "In order to spare myself -the cost of another sheet of paper or an extra stamp, I am quite willing -to inflict upon you, my reader, the trouble of disengaging one set of -lines from another." Very economical people in the past generation saved -an occasional penny in another way at the cost of the reader's eyes. They -diluted their ink with water, till the recipient of the letter cried, -"Prithee, why so pale?" - -The modern type-writing machine has the advantage of making all words -equally legible; but the receiver of the printed letter is likely to feel -on opening it a slight yet perceptible shock of the kind always caused by -a want of consideration. The letter so printed is undoubtedly easier to -read than all but the very clearest manuscript, and so far it may be -considered a politeness to use the instrument; but unluckily it is -impersonal, so that the performer on the instrument seems far removed from -the receiver of the letter and not in that direct communication with him -which would be apparent in an autograph. The effect on the mind is almost -like that of a printed circular, or at least of a letter which has been -dictated to a short-hand writer. - -The dictation of letters is allowable in business, because men of business -have to use the utmost attainable despatch, and (like the use of the lead -pencil) it is permitted to invalids, but with these exceptions it is sure -to produce a feeling of distance almost resembling discourtesy. In the -first place, a dictated letter is not strictly private, its contents -being already known to the amanuensis; and besides this it is felt that -the reason for dictating letters is the composer's convenience, which he -ought not to consult so obviously. If he dictates to a short-hand writer -he is evidently chary of his valuable time, whereas courtesy always at -least _seems_ willing to sacrifice time to others. These remarks, I -repeat, have no reference to business correspondence, which has its own -code of good manners. - -The most irritating letters to receive are those which, under a great show -of courtesy, with many phrases and many kind inquiries about your health -and that of your household, and even with some news adapted to your taste, -contain some short sentence which betrays the fact that the whole letter -was written with a manifestly selfish purpose. The proper answer to such -letters is a brief business answer to the one essential sentence that -revealed the writer's object, not taking any notice whatever of the froth -of courteous verbiage. - -Is it a part of necessary good breeding to answer letters at all? Are we -really, in the nature of things, under the obligation to take a piece of -paper and write phrases and sentences thereupon because it has pleased -somebody at a distance to spend his time in that manner? - -This requires consideration; there can be no general rule. It seems to me -that people commit the error of transferring the subject from the region -of oral conversation to the region of written intercourse. If a man asked -me the way in the street it would be rudeness on my part not to answer -him, because the answer is easily given and costs no appreciable time, -but in written correspondence the case is essentially different. I am -burdened with work; every hour, every minute of my day is apportioned to -some definite duty or necessary rest, and three strangers make use of the -post to ask me questions. To answer them I must make references; however -brief the letters may be they will take time,--altogether the three will -consume an hour. Have these correspondents any right to expect me to work -an hour for them? Would a cabman drive them about the streets of London -during an hour for nothing? Would a waterman pull them an hour on the -Thames for nothing? Would a shoe-black brush their boots and trousers an -hour for nothing? And why am I to serve these men gratuitously and be -called an ill-bred, discourteous person if I tacitly decline to be their -servant? We owe sacrifices--occasional sacrifices--of this kind to friends -and relations, and we can afford them to a few, but we are under no -obligation to answer everybody. Those whom we do answer may be thankful -for a word on a post-card in Gladstone's brief but sufficient fashion. I -am very much of the opinion of Rudolphe in Ponsard's "L'Honneur et -l'Argent." A friend asks him what he does about letters:-- - - _Rudolphe._ Je les mets - Soigneusement en poche et ne reponds jamais. - _Premier Ami._ Oh! vous raillez. - _Rudolphe._ Non pas. Je ne puis pas admettre - Qu'un importun m'oblige a repondre a sa lettre, - Et, parcequ'il lui plait de noircir du papier - Me condamne moi-meme a ce facheux metier. - - - - -ESSAY XXIII. - -LETTERS OF FRIENDSHIP. - - -If the art of writing had been unknown till now, and if the invention of -it were suddenly to burst upon the world as did that of the telephone, one -of the things most generally said in praise of it would be this. It would -be said, "What a gain to friendship, now that friends can communicate in -spite of separation by the very widest distances!" - -Yet we have possessed this means of communication, the fullest and best of -all, from remote antiquity, and we scarcely make any use of it--certainly -not any use at all responding to its capabilities, and as time goes on, -instead of developing those capabilities by practice in the art of -friendly correspondence, we allow them to diminish by disuse. - -The lowering of cost for the transport of letters, instead of making -friendly correspondents numerous, has made them few. The cheap -postage-stamp has increased business correspondence prodigiously, but it -has had a very different effect on that of friendship. Great numbers of -men whose business correspondence is heavy scarcely write letters of -friendship at all. Their minds produce the business letter as by a second -nature, and are otherwise sterile. - -As for the facilities afforded by steam communication with distant -countries, they seem to be of little use to friendship, since a moderate -distance soon puts a stop to friendly communication. Except in cases of -strong affection the Straits of Dover are an effectual though imaginary -bar to intercourse of this kind, not to speak of the great oceans. - -The impediment created by a narrow sea is, as I have said, imaginary, but -we may speculate on the reasons for it; and my own reflections have ended -in the somewhat strange conclusion that it must have something to do with -sea-sickness. It must be that people dislike the idea of writing a letter -that will have to cross a narrow channel of salt-water, because they -vaguely and dimly dread the motion of the vessel. Nobody would consciously -avow to himself such a sympathy with a missive exempt from all human ills, -but the feeling may be unconsciously present. How else are we to account -for the remarkable fact that salt-water breaks friendly communication by -letter? If you go to live anywhere out of your native island your most -intimate friends cease to give any news of themselves. They do not even -send printed announcements of the marriages and deaths in their families. -This does not imply any cessation of friendly feeling on their part. If -you appeared in England again they would welcome you with the utmost -kindness and hospitality, but they do not like to post anything that will -have to cross the sea. The news-vendors have not the same delicate -imaginative sympathy with the possible sufferings of rag-pulp, so you get -your English journals and find therein, by pure accident, the marriage of -one intimate old friend and the death of another. You excuse the married -man, because he is too much intoxicated with happiness to be responsible -for any omission; and you excuse the dead man, because he cannot send -letters from another world. Still you think that somebody not preoccupied -by bridal joys or impeded by the last paralysis might have sent you a line -directly, were it only a printed card. - -Not only do the writers of letters feel a difficulty in sending their -manuscript across the sea, but people appear to have a sense of difficulty -in correspondence proportionate to the distance the letter will have to -traverse. One would infer that they really experience, by the power of -imagination, a feeling of fatigue in sending a letter on a long journey. -If this is not so, how are we to account for the fact that the rarity of -letters from friends increases in exact proportion to our remoteness from -them? A simple person without correspondence would naturally imagine that -it would be resorted to as a solace for separation, and that the greater -the distance the more the separated friends would desire to be drawn -together occasionally by its means, but in practice this rarely happens. -People will communicate by letter across a space of a hundred miles when -they will not across a thousand. - -The very smallest impediments are of importance when the desire for -intercourse is languid. The cost of postage to colonies and to countries -within the postal union is trifling, but still it is heavier than the cost -of internal postage, and it may be unconsciously felt as an impediment. -Another slight impediment is that the answer to a letter sent to a great -distance cannot arrive next day, so that he who writes in hope of an -answer is like a trader who cannot expect an immediate return for an -investment. - -To prevent friendships from dying out entirely through distance, the -French have a custom which seems, but is not, an empty form. On or about -New Year's Day they send cards to _all_ friends and many acquaintances, -however far away. The useful effects of this custom are the following:-- - -1. It acquaints you with the fact that your friend is still -alive,--pleasing information if you care to see him again. - -2. It shows you that he has not forgotten you. - -3. It gives you his present address. - -4. In case of marriage, you receive his wife's card along with his own; -and if he is dead you receive no card at all, which is at least a negative -intimation.[32] - -This custom has also an effect upon written correspondence, as the printed -card affords the opportunity of writing a letter, when, without the -address, the letter might not be written. When the address is well known -the card often suggests the idea of writing. - -When warm friends send visiting-cards they often add a few words of -manuscript on the card itself, expressing friendly sentiments and giving a -scrap of brief but welcome news. - -Here is a suggestion to a generation that thinks friendly letter-writing -irksome. With a view to the sparing of time and trouble, which is the -great object of modern life (sparing, that is, in order to waste in other -ways), cards might be printed as forms of invitation are, leaving only a -few blanks to be filled up; or there might be a public signal-book in -which the phrases most likely to be useful might be represented by -numbers. - -The abandonment of letter-writing between friends is the more to be -regretted that, unless our friends are public persons, we receive no news -of them indirectly; therefore, when we leave their neighborhood, the -separation is of that complete kind which resembles temporary death. "No -word comes from the dead," and no word comes from those silent friends. It -is a melancholy thought in leaving a friend of this kind, when you shake -hands at the station and still hear the sound of his voice, that in a few -minutes he will be dead to you for months or years. The separation from a -corresponding friend is shorn of half its sorrows. You know that he will -write, and when he writes it requires little imagination to hear his voice -again. - -To write, however, is not all. For correspondence to reach its highest -value, both friends must have the natural gift of friendly letter-writing, -which may be defined as the power of talking on paper in such a manner as -to represent their own minds with perfect fidelity in their friendly -aspect. - -This power is not common. A man may be a charming companion, full of humor -and gayety, a well of knowledge, an excellent talker, yet his -correspondence may not reveal the possession of these gifts. Some men are -so constituted that as soon as they take a pen their faculties freeze. I -remember a case of the same congelation in another art. A certain painter -had exuberant humor and mimicry, with a marked talent for strong effects -in talk; in short, he had the gifts of an actor, and, as Pius VII. called -Napoleon I., he was both _commediante_ and _tragediante_. Any one who knew -him, and did not know his paintings, would have supposed at once that a -man so gifted must have painted the most animated works; but it so -happened (from some cause in the deepest mysteries of his nature) that -whenever he took up a brush or a pencil his humor, his tragic power, and -his love of telling effects all suddenly left him, and he was as timid, -slow, sober, and generally ineffectual in his painting as he was full of -fire and energy in talk. So it is in writing. That which ought to be the -pouring forth of a man's nature often liberates only a part of his nature, -and perhaps that part which has least to do with friendship. Your friend -delights you by his ease and affectionate charm of manner, by the -happiness of his expressions, by his wit, by the extent of his -information, all these being qualities that social intercourse brings out -in him as colors are revealed by light. The same man, in dull solitude at -his desk, may write a letter from which every one of these qualities may -be totally absent, and instead of them he may offer you a piece of -perfunctory duty-writing which, as you see quite plainly, he only wanted -to get done with, and in which you do not find a trace of your friend's -real character. Such correspondence as that is worth having only so far -as it informs you of your friend's existence and of his health. - -Another and a very different way in which a man may represent himself -unfairly in correspondence, so that his letters are not his real self, is -when he finds that he has some particular talent as a writer, and -unconsciously cultivates that talent when he holds a pen, whereas his real -self has many other qualities that remain unrepresented. In this way humor -may become the dominant quality in the letters of a correspondent whose -conversation is not dominantly humorous. - -Habits of business sometimes produce the effect that the confirmed -business correspondent will write to his friend willingly and promptly on -any matter of business, and will give him excellent advice, and be glad of -the opportunity of rendering him a service, but he will shrink from the -unaccustomed effort of writing any other kind of letter. - -There is a strong temptation to blame silent friends and praise good -correspondents; but we do not reflect that letter-writing is a task to -some and a pleasure to others, and that if people may sometimes be justly -blamed for shirking a _corvee_ they can never deserve praise for indulging -in an amusement. There is a particular reason why, when friendly -letter-writing is a task, it is more willingly put off than many other -tasks that appear far heavier and harder. It is either a real pleasure or -a feigned pleasure, and feigned pleasures are the most wearisome things in -life, far more wearisome than acknowledged work. For in work you have a -plain thing to do and you see the end of it, and there is no need for -ambages at the beginning or for a graceful retiring at the close; but a -feigned pleasure has its own observances that must be gone through whether -one has any heart for them or not. The groom who cleans a rich man's -stable, and whistles at his work, is happier than the guest at a state -dinner who is trying to look other than what he is,--a wearied victim of -feigned and formal pleasure with a set false smile upon his face. In -writing a business letter you have nothing to affect; but a letter of -friendship, unless you have the real inspiration for it, is a narrative of -things you have no true impulse to narrate, and the expression of feelings -which (even if they be in some degree existent) you do not earnestly -desire to utter. - -The sentiment of friendship is in general rather a quiet feeling of regard -than any lively enthusiasm. It may be counted upon for what it is,--a -disposition to receive the friend with a welcome or to render him an -occasional service, but there is not, commonly, enough of it to be a -perennial warm fountain of literary inspiration. Therefore the worst -mistake in dealing with a friend is to reproach him for not having been -cordial and communicative enough. Sometimes this reproach is made, -especially by women, and the immediate effect of it is to close whatever -communicativeness there may be. If the friend wrote little before being -reproached he will write less after. - -The true inspiration of the friendly letter is the perfect faith that all -the concerns of the writer will interest his friend. If James, who is -separated by distance from John, thinks that John will not care about what -James has been doing, hoping, suffering, the fount of friendly -correspondence is frozen at its source. James ought to believe that John -loves him enough to care about every little thing that can affect his -happiness, even to the sickness of his old horse or the accident that -happened to his dog when the scullery-maid threw scalding water out of the -kitchen window; then there will be no lack, and James will babble on -innocently through many a page, and never have to think. - -The believer in friendship, he who has the true undoubting faith, writes -with perfect carelessness about great things and small, avoiding neither -serious interests, as a wary man would, nor trivial ones that might be -passed over by a writer avaricious of his time. William of Orange, in his -letters to Bentinck, appears to have been the model of friendly -correspondents; and he was so because his letters reflected not a part -only of his thinking and living, but the whole of it, as if nothing that -concerned him could possibly be without interest for the man he loved. -Familiar as it must be to many readers, I cannot but quote a passage from -Macaulay: - - "The descendants of Bentinck still preserve many letters written by - William to their master, and it is not too much to say that no person - who has not studied those letters can form a correct notion of the - Prince's character. He whom even his admirers generally accounted the - most frigid and distant of men here forgets all distinctions of rank, - and pours out all his thoughts with the ingenuousness of a schoolboy. - He imparts without reserve secrets of the highest moment. He explains - with perfect simplicity vast designs affecting all the governments of - Europe. Mingled with his communications on such subjects are other - communications of a very different but perhaps not of a less - interesting kind. All his adventures, all his personal feelings, his - long runs after enormous stags, his carousals on St. Hubert's Day, the - growth of his plantations, the failure of his melons, the state of his - stud, his wish to procure an easy pad-nag for his wife, his vexation - at learning that one of his household, after ruining a girl of good - family, refused to marry her, his fits of sea-sickness, his coughs, - his headaches, his devotional moods, his gratitude for the Divine - protection after a great escape, his struggles to submit himself to - the Divine will after a disaster, are described with an amiable - garrulity hardly to have been expected from the most discreetly sedate - statesman of his age. Still more remarkable is the careless effusion - of his tenderness, and the brotherly interest which he takes in his - friend's domestic felicity." - -Friendly letters easily run over from sheet to sheet till they become -ample and voluminous. I received a welcome epistle of twenty pages -recently, and have seen another from a young man to his comrade which -exceeded fifty; but the grandest letter that I ever heard of was from -Gustave Dore to a very old lady whom he liked. He was travelling in -Switzerland, and sent her a letter eighty pages long, full of lively -pen-sketches for her entertainment. Artists often insert sketches in their -letters,--a graceful habit, as it adds to their interest and value. - -The talent for scribbling friendly letters implies some rough literary -power, but may coexist with other literary powers of a totally different -kind, and, as it seems, in perfect independence of them. There is no -apparent connection between the genius in "Childe Harold," "Manfred," -"Cain," and the talent of a lively letter-writer, yet Byron was the best -careless letter-writer in English whose correspondence has been published -and preserved. He said "dreadful is the exertion of letter-writing," but -by this he must have meant the first overcoming of indolence to begin the -letter, for when once in motion his pen travelled with consummate -naturalness and ease, and the exertion is not to be perceived. The length -and subject of his communications were indeterminate. He scribbled on and -on, every passing mood being reflected and fixed forever in his letters, -which complete our knowledge of him by showing us the action of his mind -in ordinal times as vividly as the poems display its power in moments of -highest exaltation. We follow his mental phases from minute to minute. He -is not really in one state and pretending to be in another for form's -sake, so you have all his moods, and the letters are alive. The -transitions are quick as thought. He darts from one topic to another with -the freedom and agility of a bird, dwelling on each just long enough to -satisfy his present need, but not an instant longer, and this without any -reference to the original subject or motive of the letter. He is one of -those perfect correspondents _qui causent avec la plume_. Men, women, and -things, comic and tragic adventures, magnificent scenery, historical -cities, all that his mind spontaneously notices in the world, are touched -upon briefly, yet with consummate power. Though the sentences were written -in the most careless haste and often in the strangest situations, many a -paragraph is so dense in its substance, so full of matter, that one could -not abridge it without loss. But the supreme merit of Byron's letters is -that they record his own sensations with such fidelity. What do I, the -receiver of a letter, care for second-hand opinions about anything? I can -hear the fashionable opinions from echoes innumerable. What I _do_ want is -a bit of my friend himself, of his own peculiar idiosyncrasy, and if I get -_that_ it matters nothing that his feelings and opinions should be -different from mine; nay, the more they differ from mine the more -freshness and amusement they bring me. All Byron's correspondents might be -sure of getting a bit of the real Byron. He never describes anything -without conveying the exact effect upon himself. Writing to his publisher -from Rome in 1817, he gives in a single paragraph a powerful description -of the execution of three robbers by the guillotine (rather too terrible -to quote), and at the end of it comes the personal effect:-- - - "The pain seems little, and yet the effect to the spectator and the - preparation to the criminal are very striking and chilling. The first - turned me quite hot and thirsty, and made me shake so that I could - hardly hold the opera-glass (I was close, but was determined to see as - one should see everything once, with attention); the second and third - (which shows how dreadfully soon things grow indifferent), I am - ashamed to say, had no effect on me as a horror, though I would have - saved them if I could." - -How accurately this experience is described with no affectation of -impassible courage (he trembles at first like a woman) or of becoming -emotion afterwards, the instant that the real emotion ceased! Only some -pity remains,--"I would have saved them if I could." - -The bits of frank criticism thrown into his letters, often quite by -chance, were not the least interesting elements in Byron's -correspondence. Here is an example, about a book that had been sent him:-- - - "Modern Greece--good for nothing; written by some one who has never - been there, and, not being able to manage the Spenser stanza, has - invented a thing of his own, consisting of two elegiac stanzas, an - heroic line and an Alexandrine, twisted on a string. Besides, why - _modern_? You may say _modern Greeks_, but surely _Greece_ itself is - rather more ancient than ever it was." - -The carelessness of Byron in letter-writing, his total indifference to -proportion and form, his inattention to the beginning, middle, and end of -a letter, considered as a literary composition, are not to be counted for -faults, as they would be in writings of any pretension. A friendly letter -is, by its nature, a thing without pretension. The one merit of it which -compensates for every defect is to carry the living writer into the -reader's presence, such as he really is, not such as by study and art he -might make himself out to be. Byron was energetic, impetuous, impulsive, -quickly observant, disorderly, generous, open-hearted, vain. All these -qualities and defects are as conspicuous in his correspondence as they -were in his mode of life. There have been better letter-writers as to -literary art,--to which he gave no thought,--and the literary merits that -his letters possess (their clearness, their force of narrative and -description, their conciseness) are not the results of study, but the -characteristics of a vigorous mind. - -The absolutely best friendly letter-writer known to me is Victor -Jacquemont. He, too, wrote according to the inspiration of the moment, but -it was so abundant that it carried him on like a steadily flowing tide. -His letters are wonderfully sustained, yet they are not _composed_; they -are as artless as Byron's, but much more full and regular. Many scribblers -have facility, a flux of words, but who has Jacquemont's weight of matter -along with it? The development of his extraordinary epistolary talent was -due to another talent deprived of adequate exercise by circumstances. -Jacquemont was by nature a brilliant, charming, amiable talker, and the -circumstances were various situations in which this talker was deprived of -an audience, being often, in long wanderings, surrounded by dull or -ignorant people. Ideas accumulated in his mind till the accumulation -became difficult to bear, and he relieved himself by talking on paper to -friends at a distance, but intentionally only to one friend at a time. He -tried to forget that his letters were passed round a circle of readers, -and the idea that they would be printed never once occurred to him:-- - - "En ecrivant aujourd'hui aux uns et aux autres, j'ai cherche a oublier - ce que tu me dis de l'echange que chacun fait des lettres qu'il recoit - de moi. Cette pensee m'aurait retenu la plume, ou du moins, _ne - l'aurait pas laissee couler assez nonchalamment sur le papier pour en - noircir, en un jour, cinquante-huit feuilles_, comme je l'ai fait.... - _Je sais et j'aime beaucoup causer a deux; a trois, c'est autre chose; - il en est de meme pour ecrire._ Pour parler comme je pense et sans - blague, _il me faut la persuasion que je ne serai lu que de celui a - qui j'ecris_." - -To read these letters, in the four volumes of them which have been happily -preserved, is to live with the courageous observer from day to day, to -share pleasures enjoyed with the freshness of sensation that belongs to -youth and strength, and privations borne with the cheerfulness of a truly -heroic spirit. - -This Essay would run to an inordinate length if I even mentioned the best -of the many letter-writers who are known to us; and it is generally by -some adventitious circumstance that they have ever been known at all. A -man wins fame in something quite outside of letter-writing, and then his -letters are collected and given to the world, but perfectly obscure people -may have been equal or superior to him as correspondents. Occasionally the -letters of some obscure person are rescued from oblivion. Madame de -Remusat passed quietly through life, and is now in a blaze of posthumous -fame. Her son decided upon the publication of her letters, and then it -became at once apparent that this lady had extraordinary gifts of the -observing and recording order, so that her testimony, as an eye-witness of -rare intelligence, must affect all future estimates of the conqueror of -Austerlitz. There may be at this moment, there probably are, persons to -whom the world attributes no literary talent, yet who are cleverly -preserving the very best materials of history in careless letters to their -friends. - -It seems an indiscretion to read private letters, even when they are in -print, but it is an indiscretion we cannot help committing. What can be -more private than a letter from a man to his wife on purely family -matters? Surely it is wrong to read such letters; but who could repent -having read that exquisite one from Tasso's father, Bernardo Tasso, -written to his wife about the education of their children during an -involuntary separation? It shows to what a degree a sheet of paper may be -made the vehicle of a tender affection. In the first page he tries, and, -lover-like, tries again and again, to find words that will draw them -together in spite of distance. "Not merely often," he says, "but -continually our thoughts must meet upon the road." He expresses the -fullest confidence that her feelings for him are as strong and true as his -own for her, and that the weariness of separation is painful alike for -both, only he fears that she will be less able to bear the pain, not -because she is wanting in prudence but by reason of her abounding love. At -length the tender kindness of his expressions culminates in one passionate -outburst, "poi ch' io amo voi in quello estremo grado che si possa amar -cosa mortale." - -It would be difficult to find a stronger contrast than that between -Bernardo Tasso's warmth and the tranquil coolness of Montaigne, who just -says enough to save appearances in that one conjugal epistle of his which -has come down to us. He begins by quoting a sceptical modern view of -marriage, and then briefly disclaims it for himself, but does not say -exactly what his own sentiments may be, not having much ardor of affection -to express, and honestly avoiding any feigned declarations:-- - - "Ma Femme vous entendez bien que ce n'est pas le tour d'vn galand - homme, aux reigles de ce temps icy, de vous courtiser & caresser - encore. Car ils disent qu'vn habil homme peut bien prendre femme: mais - que de l'espouser c'est a faire a vn sot. Laissons les dire: ie me - tiens de ma part a la simple facon du vieil aage, aussi en porte-ie - tantost le poil. Et de vray la nouuellete couste si cher iusqu'a - ceste heure a ce pauure estat (& si ie ne scay si nous en sommes a la - derniere enchere) qu'en tout & par tout i'en quitte le party. Viuons - ma femme, vous & moy, a la vieille Francoise." - -If friendship is maintained by correspondence, it is also liable to be -imperilled by it. Not unfrequently have men parted on the most amiable -terms, looking forward to a happy meeting, and not foreseeing the evil -effects of letters. Something will be written by one of them, not quite -acceptable to the other, who will either remonstrate and cause a rupture -in that way, or take his trouble silently and allow friendship to die -miserably of her wound. Much experience is needed before we entirely -realize the danger of friendly intercourse on paper. It is ten times more -difficult to maintain a friendship by letter than by personal intercourse, -not for the obvious reason that letter-writing requires an effort, but -because as soon as there is the slightest divergence of views or -difference in conduct, the expression of it or the account of it in -writing cannot be modified by kindness in the eye or gentleness in the -tone of voice. My friend may say almost anything to me in his private -room, because whatever passes his lips will come with tones that prove him -to be still my friend; but if he wrote down exactly the same words, and a -postman handed me the written paper, they might seem hard, unkind, and -even hostile. It is strange how slow we are to discover this in practice. -We are accustomed to speak with great freedom to intimate friends, and it -is only after painful mishaps that we completely realize the truth that it -is perilous to permit ourselves the same liberty with the pen. As soon as -we _do_ realize it we see the extreme folly of those who timidly avoid the -oral expression of friendly censure, and afterwards write it all out in -black ink and send it in a missive to the victim when he has gone away. He -receives the letter, feels it to be a cold cruelty, and takes refuge from -the vexations of friendship in the toils of business, thanking Heaven that -in the region of plain facts there is small place for sentiment. - - - - -ESSAY XXIV. - -LETTERS OF BUSINESS. - - -The possibilities of intercourse by correspondence are usually -underestimated. - -That there are great natural differences of talent for letter-writing is -certainly true; but it is equally true that there are great natural -differences of talent for oral explanation, yet, although we constantly -hear people say that this or that matter of business cannot be treated by -correspondence, we _never_ hear them say that it cannot be treated by -personal interviews. The value of the personal interview is often as much -over-estimated as that of letters is depreciated; for if some men do best -with the tongue, others are more effective with the pen. - -It is presumed that there is nothing in correspondence to set against the -advantages of pouring forth many words without effort, and of carrying on -an argument rapidly; but the truth is, that correspondence has peculiar -advantages of its own. A hearer seldom grasps another person's argument -until it has been repeated several times, and if the argument is of a very -complex nature the chances are that he will not carry away all its points -even then. A letter is a document which a person of slow abilities can -study at his leisure, until he has mastered it; so that an elaborate -piece of reasoning may be set forth in a letter with a fair chance that -such a person will ultimately understand it. He will read the letter three -or four times on the day of its arrival, then he will still feel that -something may have escaped him, and he will read it again next day. He -will keep it and refer to it afterwards to refresh his memory. He can do -nothing of all this with what you say to him orally. His only resource in -that case is to write down a memorandum of the conversation on your -departure, in which he will probably make serious omissions or mistakes. -Your letter is a memorandum of a far more direct and authentic kind. - -Appointments are sometimes made in order to settle a matter of business by -talking, and after the parties have met and talked for a long time one -says to the other, "I will write to you in a day or two;" and the other -instantly agrees with the proposal, from a feeling that the matter can be -settled more clearly by letter than by oral communication. - -In these cases it may happen that the talking has cleared the way for the -letter,--that it has removed subjects of doubt, hesitation, or dispute, -and left only a few points on which the parties are very nearly agreed. - -There are, however, other cases, which have sometimes come under my own -observation, in which men meet by appointment to settle a matter, and then -seem afraid to cope with it, and talk about indifferent subjects with a -half-conscious intention of postponing the difficult one till there is no -longer time to deal with it on that day. They then say, when they -separate, "We will settle that matter by correspondence," as if they could -not have done so just as easily without giving themselves the trouble of -meeting. In such cases as these the reason for avoiding the difficult -subject is either timidity or indolence. Either the parties do not like to -face each other in an opposition that may become a verbal combat, or else -they have not decision and industry enough to do a hard day's work -together; so they procrastinate, that they may spread the work over a -larger space of time. - -The timidity that shrinks from a personal encounter is sometimes the cause -of hostile letter-writing about matters of business even when personal -interviews are most easy. There are instances of disputes by letter -between people who live in the same town, in the same street, and even in -the same house, and who might quarrel with their tongues if they were not -afraid, but fear drives them to fight from a certain distance, as it -requires less personal courage to fire a cannon at an enemy a league away -than to face his naked sword. - -Timidity leads people to write letters and to avoid them. Some timorous -people feel bolder with a pen; others, on the contrary, are extremely -afraid of committing anything to paper, either because written words -remain and may be referred to afterwards, or because they may be read by -eyes they were never intended for, or else because the letter-writer feels -doubtful about his own powers in composition, grammar, or spelling. - -Of these reasons against doing business by letter the second is really -serious. You write about your most strictly private affairs, and unless -the receiver of the letter is a rigidly careful and orderly person, it may -be read by his clerks or servants. You may afterwards visit the recipient -and find the letter lying about on a disorderly desk, or stuck on a hook -suspended from a wall, or thrust into a lockless drawer; and as the letter -is no longer your property, and you have not the resource of destroying -it, you will keenly appreciate the wisdom of those who avoid -letter-writing when they can. - -The other cause of timidity, the apprehension that some fault may be -committed, some sin against literary taste or grammatical rule, has a -powerful effect as a deterrent from even necessary business -correspondence. The fear which a half-educated person feels that he will -commit faults causes a degree of hesitation which is enough of itself to -produce them; and besides this cause of error there is the want of -practice, also caused by timidity, for persons who dread letter-writing -practise it as little as possible. - -The awkwardness of uneducated letter-writers is a most serious cause of -anxiety to people who are compelled to intrust the care of things to -uneducated dependants at a distance. Such care-takers, instead of keeping -you regularly informed of the state of affairs as an intelligent -correspondent would, write rarely, and they have such difficulty in -imagining the necessary ignorance of one who is not on the spot, that the -information they give you is provokingly incomplete on some most important -points. - -An uneducated agent will write to you and tell you, for example, that -damage has occurred to something of yours, say a house, a carriage, or a -yacht, but he will not tell you its exact nature or extent, and he will -leave you in a state of anxious conjecture. If you question him by letter, -he will probably miss what is most essential in your questions, so that -you will have great difficulty in getting at the exact truth. After much -trouble you will perhaps have to take the train and go to see the extent -of damage for yourself, though it might have been described to you quite -accurately in a short letter by an intelligent man of business. - -Nothing is more wonderful than the mistakes in following written -directions that can be committed by uneducated men. With clear directions -in the most legible characters before their eyes they will quietly go and -do something entirely different, and appear unfeignedly surprised when you -show them the written directions afterwards. In these cases it is probable -that they have unconsciously substituted a notion of their own for your -idea, which is the common process of what the uneducated consider to be -understanding things. - -The extreme facility with which this is done may be illustrated by an -example. The well-known French _savant_ and inventor, Ruolz, whose name is -famous in connection with electro-plating, turned his attention to paper -for roofing and, as he perceived the defects of the common bituminous -papers, invented another in which no bitumen was employed. This he -advertised constantly and extensively as the "Carton _non_ bitume Ruolz," -consequently every one calls it the "Carton bitume Ruolz." The reason here -is that the notion of papers for roofs was already so associated in the -French mind with bitumen, that it was absolutely impossible to effect the -disjunction of the two ideas. - -Instances have occurred to everybody in which the consequence of warning a -workman that he is not to do some particular thing, is that he goes and -does it, when if nothing had been said on the subject he might, perchance, -have avoided it. Here are two good instances of this, but I have met with -many others. I remember ordering a binder to bind some volumes with red -edges, specially stipulating that he was not to use aniline red. He -therefore carefully stained the edges with aniline. I also remember -writing to a painter that he was to stain some new fittings of a boat with -a transparent glaze of raw sienna, and afterwards varnish them, and that -he was to be careful _not_ to use opaque paint anywhere. I was at a great -distance from the boat and could not superintend the work. In due time I -visited the boat and discovered that a foul tint of opaque paint had been -employed everywhere on the new fittings, without any glaze or varnish -whatever, in spite of the fact that old fittings, partially retained, were -still there, with mellow transparent stain and varnish, in the closest -juxtaposition with the hideous thick new daubing. - -It is the evil of mediocrity in fortune to have frequently to trust to -uneducated agents. Rich men can employ able representatives, and in this -way they can inform themselves accurately of what occurs to their -belongings at a distance. Without riches, however, we may sometimes have a -friend on the spot who will see to things for us, which is one of the -kindest offices of friendship. The most efficient friend is one who will -not only look to matters of detail, but will take the trouble to inform -you accurately about them, and for this he must be a man of leisure. Such -a friend often spares one a railway journey by a few clear lines of report -or explanation. Judging from personal experience, I should say that -retired lawyers and retired military officers were admirably adapted to -render this great service efficiently, and I should suppose that a man who -had retired from busy commercial life would be scarcely less useful, but I -should not hope for precision in one who had always been unoccupied, nor -should I expect many details from one who was much occupied still. The -first would lack training and experience; the second would lack leisure. - -The talent for accuracy in affairs may be distinct from literary talent -and education, and though we have been considering the difficulty of -corresponding on matters of business with the uneducated, we must not too -hastily infer that because a man is inaccurate in spelling, and inelegant -in phraseology, he may not be an agreeable and efficient business -correspondent. There was a time when all the greatest men of business in -England were uncertain spellers. Clear expression and completeness of -statement are more valuable than any other qualities in a business -correspondent. I sometimes have to correspond with a tradesman in Paris -who rose from an humble origin and scarcely produces what a schoolmaster -would consider a passable letter; yet his letters are models in essential -qualities, as he always removes by plain statements or questions every -possibility of a mistake, and if there is any want of absolute precision -in my orders he is sure to find out the deficiency, and to call my -attention to it sharply. - -The habit of _not acknowledging orders_ is one of the worst negative vices -in business correspondence. It is most inconveniently common in France, -but happily much rarer in England. Where this vice prevails you cannot -tell whether the person you wish to employ has read your order or not; and -if you suppose him to have read it, you have no reason to feel sure that -he has understood it, or will execute it in time. - -It is a great gain to the writer of letters to be able to make them brief -and clear at the same time, but as there is obscurity in a labyrinth of -many words so there may be another kind of obscurity from their -paucity,--that kind which Horace alluded to with reference to poetry,-- - - "Brevis esse laboro - Obscurus fio." - -Sometimes one additional word would spare the reader a doubt or a -misunderstanding. This is likely to become more and more the dominant -fault of correspondence as it imitates the brevity of the telegram. - -Observe the interesting use of the word _laboro_ by Horace. You may, in -fact, _labor_ to be brief, although the result is an appearance of less -labor than if you had written at ease. It may take more time to write a -very short letter than one of twice the length, the only gain in this -case being to the receiver. - -Letters of business often appear to be written in the most rapid and -careless haste; the writing is almost illegible from its speed, the -composition slovenly, the letter brief. And yet such a letter may have -cost hours of deliberate reflection before one word of it was committed to -paper. It is the rapid registering of a slowly matured decision. - -It is a well-known principle of modern business correspondence that if a -letter refers only to one subject it is more likely to receive attention -than if it deals with several; therefore if you have several different -orders or directions to give it is bad policy to write them all at once, -unless you are absolutely compelled to do so because they are all equally -pressing. Even if there is the same degree of urgency for all, yet a -practical impossibility that all should be executed at the same time, it -is still the best policy to give your orders successively and not more -quickly than they can be executed. The only danger of this is that the -receiver of the orders may think at first that they are small matters in -which postponement signifies little, as they can be executed at any time. -To prevent this he should be strongly warned at first that the order will -be rapidly followed by several others. If there is not the same degree of -urgency for all, the best way is to make a private register of the -different matters in the order of their urgency, and then to write several -short notes, at intervals, one about each thing. - -People have such a marvellous power of misunderstanding even the very -plainest directions that a business letter never _can_ be made too clear. -It will, indeed, frequently happen that language itself is not clear -enough for the purposes of explanation without the help of drawing, and -drawing may not be clear to one who has not been educated to understand -it, which compels you to have recourse to modelling. In these cases the -task of the letter-writer is greatly simplified, as he has nothing to do -but foresee and prevent any misunderstanding of the drawing or model. - -Every material thing constructed by mankind may be explained by the three -kinds of mechanical drawing,--plan, section, and elevation,--but the -difficulty, is that so many people are unable to understand plans and -sections; they only understand elevations, and not always even these. The -special incapacity to understand plans and sections is common in every -rank of society, and it is not uncommon even in the practical trades. All -letter-writing that refers to material construction would be immensely -simplified if, by a general rule in popular and other education, every -future man and woman in the country were taught enough about mechanical -drawing to be able at least to _read_ it. - -It is delightful to correspond about construction with any trained -architect or engineer, because to such a correspondent you can explain -everything briefly, with the perfect certainty of being accurately -understood. It is terrible toil to have to explain construction by letter -to a man who does not understand mechanical drawing; and when you have -given great labor to your explanation, it is the merest chance whether he -will catch your meaning or not. The evil does not stop at mechanical -drawing. Not only do uneducated people misunderstand a mechanical plan or -section, but they are quite as liable to misunderstand a perspective -drawing, as the great architect and draughtsman Viollet-le-Duc charmingly -exemplified by the work of an intelligent child. A little boy had drawn a -cat as he had seen it in front with its tail standing up, and this front -view was stupidly misunderstood by a mature _bourgeois_, who thought the -animal was a biped (as the hind-legs were hidden), and believed the erect -tail to be some unknown object sticking out of the nondescript creature's -head. If you draw a board in perspective (other than isometrical) a -workman is quite likely to think that one end of it is to be narrower than -the other. - -Business correspondence in foreign languages is a very simple matter when -it deals only with plain facts, and it does not require any very extensive -knowledge of the foreign tongue to write a common order; but if any -delicate or complicated matter has to be explained, or if touchy -sensitiveness in the foreigner has to be soothed by management and tact, -then a thorough knowledge of the shades of expression is required, and -this is extremely rare. The statement of bare facts, or the utterance of -simple wants, is indeed only a part of business correspondence, for men of -business, though they are not supposed to display sentiment in affairs, -are in reality just as much human beings as other men, and consequently -they have feelings which are to be considered. A correspondent who is able -to write a foreign language with delicacy and tact will often attain his -object when one with a ruder and more imperfect knowledge of the language -would meet with certain failure, though he asked for exactly the same -thing. - -It is surety possible to be civil and even polite in business -correspondence without using the deplorable commercial slang which exists, -I believe, in every modern language. The proof that such abstinence is -possible is that some of the most efficient and most active men of -business never have recourse to it at all. This commercial slang consists -in the substitution of conventional terms originally intended to be more -courteous than plain English, French, etc., but which, in fact, from their -mechanical use, become wholly destitute of that best politeness which is -personal, and does not depend upon set phrases that can be copied out of a -tradesman's model letter-writer. Anybody but a tradesman calls your letter -a letter; why should an English tradesman call it "your favor," and a -French one "_votre honoree_"? A gentleman writing in the month of May -speaks of April, May, and June, when a tradesman carefully avoids the -names of the months, and calls them _ultimo_, _courant_, and _proximo_; -whilst instead of saying "by" or "according to," like other Englishmen, he -says _per_. This style was touched upon by Scott in Provost Crosbie's -letter to Alexander Fairford: "Dear Sir--Your _respected favor_ of 25th -_ultimo_, _per_ favor of Mr. Darsie Latimer, reached me in safety." This -is thought to be a finished commercial style. One sometimes meets with the -most astonishing and complicated specimens of it, which the authors are -evidently proud of as proofs of their high commercial training. I regret -not to have kept some fine examples of these, as their perfections are far -beyond all imitation. This is not surprising when we reflect that the very -worst commercial style is the result of a striving by many minds, during -several generations, after a preposterous ideal. - -Tradesmen deserve credit for understanding the one element of courtesy in -letter-writing which has been neglected by gentlemen. They value legible -handwriting, and they print clear names and addresses on their -letter-paper, by which they spare much trouble. - -Before closing this chapter let me say something about the reading of -business letters as well as the writing of them. It is, perhaps, a harder -duty to read such letters with the necessary degree of attention than to -compose them, for the author has his head charged with the subject, and -writing the letter is a relief to him; but to the receiver the matter is -new, and however lucid may be the exposition it always requires some -degree of real attention on his part. How are you, being at a distance, to -get an indolent man to bestow that necessary attention? He feels secure -from a personal visit, and indulges his indolence by neglecting your -concerns, even when they are also his own. Long ago I heard an English -Archdeacon tell the following story about his Bishop. The prelate was one -of that numerous class of men who loathe the sight of a business letter; -and he had indulged his indolence in that respect to such a degree that, -little by little, he had arrived at the fatal stage where one leaves -letters unopened for days or weeks. At one particular time the Archdeacon -was aware of a great arrear of unopened letters, and impressed his -lordship with the necessity for taking some note of their contents. -Yielding to a stronger will, the Bishop began to read; and one of the -first communications was from a wealthy man who offered a large sum for -church purposes (I think for building), but if the offer was not accepted -within a certain lapse of time he declared his intention of making it to -that which a Bishop loveth not--a dissenting community. The prelate had -opened the letter too late, and he lost the money. I believe that the -Archdeacon's vexation at the loss was more than counterbalanced by -gratification that his hierarchical superior had received such a lesson -for his neglect. Yet he did but imitate Napoleon, of whom Emerson says, -"He directed Bourrienne to leave all letters unopened for three weeks, and -then observed with satisfaction how large a part of the correspondence had -disposed of itself and no longer required an answer." This is a very -unsafe system to adopt, as the case of the Bishop proves. Things may -"dispose of themselves" in the wrong way, like wine in a leaky cask, -which, instead of putting itself carefully into a sound cask, goes -trickling into the earth. - -The indolence of some men in reading and answering letters of business -would be incredible if they did not give clear evidence of it. The most -remarkable example that ever came under my notice is the following. A -French artist, not by any means in a condition of superfluous prosperity, -exhibited a picture at the _Salon_. He waited in Paris till after the -opening of the exhibition and then went down into the country. On the day -of his departure he received letters from two different collectors -expressing a desire to purchase his work, and asking its price. Any real -man of business would have seized upon such an opportunity at once. He -would have answered both letters, stayed in town, and contrived to set the -two amateurs bidding against each other. The artist in question was one of -those unaccountable mortals who would rather sacrifice all their chances -of life than indite a letter of business, so he left both inquiries -unanswered, saying that if the men had really wanted the picture they -would have called to see him. He never sold it, and some time afterwards -was obliged to give up his profession, quite as much from the lack of -promptitude in affairs as from any artistic deficiency. - -Sometimes letters of business are _read_, but read so carelessly that it -would be better if they were thrown unopened into the fire. I have seen -some astounding instances of this, and, what is most remarkable, of -repeated and incorrigible carelessness in the same person or firm, -compelling one to the conclusion that in corresponding with that person or -that firm the clearest language, the plainest writing, and the most -legible numerals, are all equally without effect. I am thinking -particularly of one case, intimately known to me in all its details, in -which a business correspondence of some duration was finally abandoned, -after infinite annoyance, for the simple reason that it was impossible to -get the members of the firm, or their representatives, to attend to -written orders with any degree of accuracy. Even whilst writing this very -Essay I have given an order with regard to which I foresaw a probable -error. Knowing by experience that a probable error is almost certain if -steps are not taken energetically to prevent it, I requested that this -error might not be committed, and to attract more attention to my request -I wrote the paragraph containing it in red ink,--a very unusual -precaution. The foreseen error was accurately committed. - - - - -ESSAY XXV. - -ANONYMOUS LETTERS. - - -Probably few of my mature readers have attained middle age without -receiving a number of anonymous letters. Such letters are not always -offensive, sometimes they are amusing, sometimes considerate and kind, yet -there is in all cases a feeling of annoyance on receiving them, because -the writer has made himself inaccessible to a reply. It is as if a man in -a mask whispered a word in your ear and then vanished suddenly in a crowd. -You wish to answer a calumny or acknowledge a kindness, and you may talk -to the winds and streams. - -Anonymous letters of the worst kind have a certain value to the student of -human nature, because they afford him glimpses of the evil spirit that -disguises itself under the fair seemings of society. You believe with -childlike simplicity and innocence that, as you have never done any -intentional injury to a human being, you cannot have a human enemy, and -you make the startling discovery that somewhere in the world, perhaps even -amongst the smiling people you meet at dances and dinners, there are -creatures who will have recourse to the foulest slanders if thereby they -may hope to do you an injury. What _can_ you have done to excite such -bitter animosity? You may both have done much and neglected much. You may -have had some superiority of body, mind, or fortune; you may have -neglected to soothe some jealous vanity by the flattery it craved with a -tormenting hunger. - -The simple fact that you seem happier than Envy thinks you ought to be is -of itself enough to excite a strong desire to diminish your offensive -happiness or put an end to it entirely. That is the reason why people who -are going to be married receive anonymous letters. If they are not really -happy they have every appearance of being happy, which is not less -intolerable. The anonymous letter-writer seeks to put a stop to such a -state of things. He might go to one of the parties and slander the other -openly, but it would require courage to do that directly to his face. A -letter might be written, but if name and address were given there would -come an inconvenient demand for proofs. One course remains, offering that -immunity from consequences which is soothing to the nerves of a coward. -The envious or jealous man can throw his vitriol in the dark and slip away -unperceived--_he can write an anonymous letter_. - -Has the reader ever really tried to picture to himself the state of that -man's or woman's mind (for women write these things also) who can sit -down, take a sheet of paper, make a rough draft of an anonymous letter, -copy it out in a very legible yet carefully disguised hand, and make -arrangements for having it posted at a distance from the place where it -was written? Such things are constantly done. At this minute there are a -certain number of men and women in the world who are vile enough to do -all that simply in order to spoil the happiness of some person whom they -regard with "envy, hatred, malice, and all uncharitableness." I see in my -mind's eye the gentleman--the man having all the apparent delicacy and -refinement of a gentleman--who is writing a letter intended to blast the -character of an acquaintance. Perhaps he meets that acquaintance in -society, and shakes hands with him, and pretends to take an interest in -his health. Meanwhile he secretly reflects upon the particular sort of -calumny that will have the greatest degree of verisimilitude. Everything -depends upon his talent in devising the most _credible_ sort of -calumny,--not the calumny most likely to meet general credence, but that -which is most likely to be believed by the person to whom it is addressed, -and most likely to do injury when believed. The anonymous calumniator has -the immense advantage on his side that most people are prone to believe -evil, and that good people are unfortunately the most prone, as they hate -evil so intensely that even the very phantom of it arouses their anger, -and they too frequently do not stop to inquire whether it is a phantom or -a reality. The clever calumniator is careful not to go too far; he will -advance something that might be or that might have been; he does not love -_le vrai_, but he is a careful student of _le vraisemblable_. He will -assume an appearance of reluctance, he will drop hints more terrible than -assertions, because they are vague, mysterious, disquieting. When he -thinks he has done enough he stops in time; he has inoculated the drop of -poison, and can wait till it takes effect. - -It must be rather an anxious time for the anonymous letter-writer when he -has sent off his missive. In the nature of things he cannot receive an -answer, and it is not easy for him to ascertain very soon what has been -the result of his enterprise. If he has been trying to prevent a marriage -he does not know immediately if the engagement is broken off, and if it is -not broken off he has to wait till the wedding-day before he is quite sure -of his own failure, and to suffer meanwhile from hope deferred and -constantly increasing apprehension. If the rupture occurs he has a moment -of Satanic joy, but it _may_ be due to some other cause than the success -of his own calumny, so that he is never quite sure of having himself -attained his object. - -It is believed that most people who are engaged to be married receive -anonymous letters recommending them to break off the match. Not only are -such letters addressed to the betrothed couple themselves, but also to -their relations. If there is not a doubt that the statements in such -letters are purely calumnious, the right course is to destroy them -immediately and never allude to them afterwards; but if there is the -faintest shadow of a doubt--if there is the vaguest feeling that there may -be _some_ ground for the attack--then the only course is to send the -letter to the person accused, and to say that this is done in order to -afford him an opportunity for answering the anonymous assailant. I -remember a case in which this was done with the best results. A -professional man without fortune was going to marry a young heiress; I do -not mean a great heiress, but one whose fortune might be a temptation. -Her family received the usual anonymous letters, and in one of them it was -stated that the aspirant's father, who had been long dead, had dishonored -himself by base conduct with regard to a public trust in a certain town -where he occupied a post of great responsibility towards the municipal -authorities. The letter was shown to the son, and he was asked if he knew -anything of the matter, and if he could do anything to clear away the -imputation. Then came the difficulty that the alleged betrayal of trust -was stated to have occurred twenty years before, and that the Mayor was -dead, and probably most of the common councillors also. What was to be -done? It is not easy to disprove a calumny, and the _onus_ of proof ought -always to be thrown upon the calumniator, but this calumniator was -anonymous and intangible, so the son of the victim was requested to repel -the charge. By a very unusual and most fortunate accident, his father had -received on quitting the town in question a letter from the Mayor of a -most exceptional character, in which he spoke with warm and grateful -appreciation of services rendered and of the happy relations of trust and -confidence that had subsisted between himself and the slandered man down -to the very termination of their intercourse. This letter, again by a most -lucky accident, had been preserved by the widow, and by means of it one -dead man defended the memory of another. It removed the greatest obstacle -to the marriage; but another anonymous writer, or the same in another -handwriting, now alleged that the slandered man had died of a disease -likely to be inherited by his posterity. Here, again, luck was on the -side of the defence, as the physician who had attended him was still -alive, so that this second invention was as easily disposed of as the -first. The marriage took place; it has been more than usually happy, and -the children are pictures of health. - -The trouble to which anonymous letter-writers put themselves to attain -their ends must sometimes be very great. I remember a case in which some -of these people must have contrived by means of spies or agents to procure -a private address in a foreign country, and must have been at great pains -also to ascertain certain facts in England which were carefully mingled -with the lies in the calumnious letter. The nameless writer was evidently -well informed, possibly he or she may have been a "friend" of the intended -victim. In this case no attention was paid to the attack, which did not -delay the marriage by a single hour. Long afterwards the married pair -happened to be talking about anonymous letters, and it then appeared that -each side had received several of these missives, coarsely or ingeniously -concocted, but had given them no more attention than they deserved. - -An anonymous letter is sometimes written in collaboration by two persons -of different degrees of ability. When this is done one of the slanderers -generally supplies the basis of fact necessary to give an appearance of -knowledge, and the other supplies or improves the imaginative part of the -common performance and its literary style. Sometimes one of the two may be -detected by the nature of the references to fact, or by the supposed -writer's personal interest in bringing about a certain result. - -It is very difficult at the first glance entirely to resist the effect of -a clever anonymous letter, and perhaps it is only men of clear strong -sense and long experience who at once overcome the first shock. In a very -short time, however, the phantom evil grows thin and disappears, and the -motive of the writer is guessed at or discerned. - -The following brief anonymous letter or one closely resembling it (I quote -from memory) was once received by an English gentleman on his travels. - - "DEAR SIR,--I congratulate you on the fact that you will be a - grandfather in about two months. I mention this as you may like to - purchase baby-linen for your grandchild during your absence. I am, - Sir, yours sincerely, - - "A WELL-WISHER." - -The receiver had a family of grown-up children of whom not one was -married. The letter gave him a slight but perceptible degree of -disquietude which he put aside to the best of his ability. In a few days -came a signed letter from one of his female servants confessing that she -was about to become a mother, and claiming his protection as the -grandfather of the child. It then became evident that the anonymous letter -had been written by the girl's lover, who was a tolerably educated man -whilst she was uneducated, and that the pair had entered into this little -plot to obtain money. The matter ended by the dismissal of the girl, who -then made threats until she was placed in the hands of the police. Other -circumstances were recollected proving her to be a remarkably audacious -liar and of a slanderous disposition. - -The torture that an anonymous letter may inflict depends far more on the -nature of the person who receives it than on the circumstances it relates. -A jealous and suspicious nature, not opened by much experience or -knowledge of the world, is the predestined victim of the anonymous -torturer. Such a nature jumps at evil report like a fish at an artificial -fly, and feels the anguish of it immediately. By a law that seems really -cruel such natures seize with most avidity on those very slanders that -cause them the most pain. - -A kind of anonymous letter of which we have heard much in the present -disturbed state of European society is the letter containing threats of -physical injury. It informs you that you will be "done for" or "disabled" -in a short time, and exhorts you in the meanwhile to prepare for your -awful doom. The object of these letters is to deprive the receiver of all -feeling of security or comfort in existence. His consolation is that a -real intending murderer would probably be thinking too much of his own -perilous enterprise to indulge in correspondence about it, and we do not -perceive that the attacks on public men are at all proportionate in number -to the menaces addressed to them. - -As there are malevolent anonymous letters intended to inflict the most -wearing anxiety, so there are benevolent ones written to save our souls. -Some theologically minded person, often of the female sex, is alarmed for -our spiritual state because she fears that we have doubts about the -supernatural, and so she sends us books that only make us wonder at the -mental condition for which such literature can be suitable. I remember one -of my female anonymous correspondents who took it for granted that I was -like a ship drifting about without compass or rudder (a great mistake on -her part), and so she offered me the safe and spacious haven of -Swedenborgianism! Others will tell you of the "great pain" with which they -have read this or that passage of your writings, to which an author may -always reply that as there is no Act of Parliament compelling British -subjects to read his books the sufferers have only to let them alone in -order to spare themselves the dolorous sensations they complain of. - -Some kind anonymous correspondents write to console us for offensive -criticism by maintaining the truth of our assertions as supported by their -own experience. I remember that when the novel of "Wenderholme" was -published, and naturally attacked for its dreadful portraiture of the -drinking habits of a past generation, a lady wrote to me anonymously from -a locality of the kind described bearing mournful witness to the veracity -of the description.[33] In this case the employment of the anonymous form -was justified by two considerations. There was no offensive intention, and -the lady had to speak of her own relations whose names she desired to -conceal. Authors frequently receive letters of gently expressed criticism -or remonstrance from readers who do not give their names. The only -objection to these communications, which are often interesting, is that it -is rather teasing and vexatious to be deprived of the opportunity for -answering them. The reader may like to see one of these gentle anonymous -letters. An unmarried lady of mature age (for there appears to be no -reason to doubt the veracity with which she gives a slight account of -herself) has been reading one of my books and thinks me not quite just to -a most respectable and by no means insignificant class in English society. -She therefore takes me to task,--not at all unkindly. - - "DEAR SIR,--I have often wished to thank you for the intense pleasure - your books have given me, especially the 'Painter's Camp in the - Highlands,' the word-pictures of which reproduced the enjoyment, - intense even to pain, of the Scottish scenery. - - "I have only now become acquainted with your 'Intellectual Life,' - which has also given me great pleasure, though of another kind. Its - general fairness and candor induce me to protest against your judgment - of a class of women whom I am sure you underrate from not having a - sufficient acquaintance with their capabilities. - - "'_Women who are not impelled by some masculine influence are not - superior, either in knowledge or in discipline of the mind, at the age - of fifty to what they were at twenty-five.... The best illustration of - this is a sisterhood of three or four rich old maids.... You will - observe that they invariably remain, as to their education, where they - were left by their teachers many years before.... Even in what most - interests them--theology, they repeat but do not extend their - information._' - - "My circle of acquaintance is small, nevertheless I know many women - between twenty-five and forty whose culture is always steadily - progressing; who keep up an acquaintance with literature for its own - sake, and not 'impelled' thereto 'by masculine influence;' who, though - without creative power, yet have such capability of reception that - they can appreciate the best authors of the day; whose theology is not - quite the fossil you represent it, though I confess it is for but a - small number of my acquaintance that I can claim the power of - judicially estimating the various schools of theology. - - "Without being specialists, the more thoughtful of our class have such - an acquaintance with current literature that they are able to enter - into the progress of the great questions of the day, and may even - estimate the more fairly a Gladstone or a Disraeli for being - spectators instead of actors in politics. - - "I have spoken of my own acquaintances, but they are such as may be - met within any middle-class society. For myself, I look back to the - painful bewilderment of twenty-five and contrast it with satisfaction - with the brighter perceptions of forty, finding out 'a little more, - and yet a little more, of the eternal order of the universe.' One - reason for your underrating us may be that our receptive powers only - are in constant use, and we have little power of expression. I dislike - anonymous letters as a rule, but as I write as the representative of a - class, I beg to sign myself, - - "Yours gratefully, - "ONE OF THREE OR FOUR RICH OLD MAIDS. - - "_November 13, 1883._" - -Letters of this kind give no pain to the receiver, except when they compel -him to an unsatisfactory kind of self-examination. In the present case I -make the best amends by giving publicity and permanence to this clearly -expressed criticism. Something may be said, too, in defence of the -passages incriminated. Let me attempt it in the form of a letter which may -possibly fall under the eye of the Rich Old Maid. - - DEAR MADAM,--Your letter has duly reached me, and produced feelings of - compunction. Have I indeed been guilty of injustice towards a class so - deserving of respect and consideration as the Rich Old Maids of - England? It has always seemed to me one of the privileges of my native - country that such a class should flourish there so much more amply and - luxuriantly than in other lands. Married women are absorbed in the - cares and anxieties of their own households, but the sympathies of old - maids spread themselves over a wider area. Balzac hated them, and - described them as having souls overflowing with gall; but Balzac was a - Frenchman, and if he was just to the rare old maids of his native - country (which I cannot believe) he knew nothing of the more numerous - old maids of Great Britain. I am not in Balzac's position. Dear - friends of mine, and dearer relations, have belonged to that kindly - sisterhood. - - The answer to your objection is simple. "The Intellectual Life" was - not published in 1883 but in 1873. It was written some time before, - and the materials had been gradually accumulating in the author's mind - several years before it was written. Consequently your criticism is of - a much later date than the work you criticise, and as you are forty in - 1883 you were a young maid in the times I was thinking of when - writing. It is certainly true that many women of the now past - generation, particularly those who lived in celibacy, had a remarkable - power of remaining intellectually in the same place. This power is - retained by some of the present generation, but it is becoming rarer - every day because the intellectual movement is so strong that it is - drawing a constantly increasing number of women along with it; indeed - this movement is so accelerated as to give rise to a new anxiety, and - make us look back with a wistful regret. We are now beginning to - perceive that a certain excellent old type of Englishwomen whom we - remember with the greatest affection and respect will soon belong as - entirely to the past as if they had lived in the days of Queen - Elizabeth. From the intellectual point of view their lives were hardly - worth living, but we are beginning to ask ourselves whether their - ignorance (I use the plain term) and their prejudices (the plain term - again) were not essential parts of a whole that commanded our respect. - Their simplicity of mind may have been a reason why they had so much - simplicity of purpose in well-doing. Their strength of prejudice may - have aided them to keep with perfect steadfastness on the side of - moral and social order. Their intellectual restfulness in a few clear - settled ideas left a degree of freedom to their energy in common - duties that may not always be possible amidst the bewildering theories - of an unsettled and speculative age. - - Faithfully yours, - THE AUTHOR OF "THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE." - - - - -ESSAY XXVI. - -AMUSEMENTS. - - -One of the most unexpected discoveries that we make on entering the -reflective stage of existence is that amusements are social obligations. - -The next discovery of this kind is that the higher the rank of the person -the more obligatory and the more numerous do his so-called "amusements" -become, till finally we reach the princely life which seems to consist -almost exclusively of these observances. - -Why should it ever be considered obligatory upon a man to amuse himself in -some way settled by others? There appear to be two principal reasons for -this. The first is, that when amusements are practised by many persons in -common it appears unsociable and ungracious to abstain. Even if the -amusement is not interesting in itself it is thought that the society it -leads us into ought to be a sufficient reason for following it. - -The second reason is that, like all things which are repeated by many -people together, amusements soon become fixed customs, and have all the -weight and authority of customs, so that people dare not abstain from -observing them for fear of social penalties. - -If the amusements are expensive they become not only a sign of wealth but -an actual demonstration and display of it, and as nothing in the world is -so much respected as wealth, or so efficient a help to social position, -and as the expenditure which is visible produces far more effect upon the -mind than that which is not seen, it follows that all costly amusements -are useful for self-assertion in the world, and become even a means of -maintaining the political importance of great families. - -On the other hand, not to be accustomed to expensive amusements implies -that one has lived amongst people of narrow means, so that most of those -who have social ambition are eager to seize upon every opportunity for -enlarging their experience of expensive amusements in order that they may -talk about them afterwards, and so affirm their position as members of the -upper class. - -The dread of appearing unsociable, of seeming rebellious against custom, -or inexperienced in the habits of the rich, are reasons quite strong -enough for the maintenance of customary amusements even when there is very -little real enjoyment of them for their own sake. - -But, in fact, there are always _some_ people who practise these amusements -for the sake of the pleasure they give, and as these people are likely to -excel the others in vivacity, activity, and skill, as they have more -_entrain_ and gayety, and talk more willingly and heartily about the -sports they love, so they naturally come to lead opinion upon the subject -and to give it an appearance of earnestness and warmth that is beyond its -real condition. Hence the tone of conversation about amusements, though it -may accurately represent the sentiments of those who enjoy them, does not -represent all opinion fairly. The opposite side of the question found a -witty exponent in Sir George Cornewall Lewis, when he uttered that -immortal saying by which his name will endure when the recollection of his -political services has passed away,--"How tolerable life would be were it -not for its pleasures!" There you have the feeling of the thousands who -submit and conform, but who would have much to say if it were in good -taste to say anything against pleasures that are offered to us in -hospitality. - -Amusements themselves become work when undertaken for an ulterior purpose -such as the maintenance of political influence. A great man goes through a -certain regular series of dinners, balls, games, shooting and hunting -parties, races, wedding-breakfasts, visits to great houses, excursions on -land and water, and all these things have the outward appearance of -amusement, but may, in reality, be labors that the great man undertakes -for some purpose entirely outside of the frivolous things themselves. A -Prime Minister scarcely goes beyond political dinners, but what an endless -series of engagements are undertaken by a Prince of Wales! Such things are -an obligation for him, and when the obligation is accepted with unfailing -patience and good temper, the Prince is not only working, but working with -a certain elegance and grace of art, often involving that prettiest kind -of self-sacrifice which hides itself under an appearance of enjoyment. -Nobody supposes that the social amusements so regularly gone through by -the eldest son of Queen Victoria can be, in all cases, very entertaining -to him; we suppose them to be accepted as forms of human intercourse that -bring him into personal relations with his future subjects. The difference -between this Prince and King Louis II. of Bavaria is perhaps the most -striking contrast in modern royal existences. Prince Albert Edward is -accessible to everybody, and shares the common pleasures of his -countrymen; the Bavarian sovereign is never so happy as when in one of his -romantic and magnificent residences, surrounded by the sublimity of nature -and the embellishments of art, he sits alone and dreams as he listens to -the strains of exquisite music. Has he not erected his splendid castle on -a rock, like the builder of "The Palace of Art"? - - "A huge crag-platform, smooth as burnish'd brass - I chose. The ranged ramparts bright - From level meadow-bases of deep grass - Suddenly scaled the light. - - "Thereon I built it firm. Of ledge or shelf - The rock rose clear, or winding stair. - My soul would live alone unto herself - In her high palace there." - -The life of the King of Bavaria, sublimely serene in its independence, is -a long series of tranquil omissions. There may be a wedding-feast in one -of his palaces, but such an occurrence only seems to him the best of all -reasons why he should be in another. He escapes from the pleasures and -interests of daily life, making himself an earthly paradise of -architecture, music, and gardens, and lost in his long dream, assuredly -one of the most poetical figures in the biographies of kings, and one of -the most interesting, but how remote from men! This remoteness is due, in -great part, to a sincerity of disposition which declines amusements that -do not amuse, and desires only those real pleasures which are in perfect -harmony with one's own nature and constitution. We like the sociability, -the ready human sympathy, of the Prince of Wales; we think that in his -position it is well for him to be able to keep all that endless series of -engagements, but has not King Louis some claim upon our indulgence even in -his eccentricity? He has refused the weary round of false amusements and -made his choice of ideal pleasure. If he condescended to excuse himself, -his _Apologia pro vita sua_ might take a form somewhat resembling this. He -might say, "I was born to a great fortune and only ask leave to enjoy it -in my own way. The world's amusements are an infliction that I consider -myself at liberty to avoid. I love musical or silent solitude, and the -enchantments of a fair garden and a lofty dwelling amidst the glorious -Bavarian mountains. Let the noisy world go its way with its bitter -wranglings, its dishonest politics, its sanguinary wars! I set up no -tyranny. I leave my subjects to enjoy their brief human existence in their -own fashion, and they let me dream my dream." - -These are not the world's ways nor the world's view. The world considers -it essential to the character of a prince that he should be at least -apparently happy in those pleasures which are enjoyed in society, that he -should seem to enjoy them along with others to show his fellow-feeling -with common men, and not sit by himself, like King Louis in his theatre, -when "Tannhauser" is performed for the royal ears alone. - -Of the many precious immunities that belong to humble station there are -none more valuable than the freedom from false amusements. A poor man is -under one obligation, he must work, but his work itself is a blessed -deliverance from a thousand other obligations. He is not obliged to shoot, -and hunt, and dance against his will, he is not obliged to affect interest -and pleasure in games that only weary him, he has not to receive tiresome -strangers in long ceremonious repasts when he would rather have a simple -short dinner with his wife. Beranger sang the happiness of beggars with -his sympathetic humorous philosophy, but in all seriousness it might be -maintained that the poor are happier than they know. They get their easy -unrestrained human intercourse by chance meetings, and greetings, and -gossipings, and they are spared all the acting, all the feigning, that is -connected with the routine of imposed enjoyments. - -Avowed work, even when uncongenial, is far less trying to patience than -feigned pleasure. You dislike accounts and you dislike balls, but though -your dislike may be nearly equal in both cases you will assuredly find -that the time hangs less heavily when you are resolutely grappling with -the details of your account-books than when you are only wishing that the -dancers would go to bed. The reason is that any hard work, whatever it is, -has the qualities of a mental tonic, whereas unenjoyed pleasures have an -opposite effect, and even though work may be uncongenial you see a sort -of result, whilst a false pleasure leaves no result but the extreme -fatigue that attends it,--a kind of fatigue quite exceptional in its -nature, and the most disagreeable that is known to man. - -The dislike for false amusements is often misunderstood to be a -puritanical intolerance of all amusement. It is in this as in all things -that are passionately enjoyed,--the false thing is most disliked by those -who best appreciate the true. - -What may be called the truth or falsehood of amusements is not in the -amusements themselves, but in the relation between one human idiosyncrasy -and them. Every idiosyncrasy has its own strong mysterious affinities, -generally distinguishable in childhood, always clearly distinguishable in -youth. We are like a lute or a violin, the tuned strings vibrate in answer -to certain notes but not in answer to others. - -To convert amusements into social customs or obligations, to make it a -man's duty to shoot birds or ride after foxes because it is agreeable to -others to discharge guns and gallop across fields, is an infringement of -individual liberty which is less excusable in the case of amusements than -it is in more serious things. For in serious things, in politics and -religion, there is always the plausible argument that the repression of -the individual conscience is good for the unity of the State; whereas -amusements are supposed to exist for the recreation of those who practise -them, and when they are not enjoyed they are not amusements but something -else. There is no single English word that exactly expresses what they -are, but there is a French one, the word _corvee_, which means forced -labor, labor under dictation, all the more unpleasant in these cases that -it must assume the appearance of enjoyment.[34] - -Surely there is nothing in which the independence of the individual ought -to be so absolute, so unquestioned, as in amusements. What right have I, -because a thing is a pleasant pastime to me, to compel my friend or my son -to do that thing when it is a _corvee_ to him? No man can possibly amuse -himself in obedience to a word of command, the most he can do is to -submit, to try to appear amused, wishing all the time that the weary task -was over. - -To mark the contrast clearly I will describe some amusements from the -opposite points of view of those who enjoy them naturally, and those to -whom they would be indifferent if they were not imposed, and hateful if -they were. - -Shooting is delightful to genuine sportsmen in many ways. It renews in -them the sensations of the vigorous youth of humanity, of the tribes that -lived by the chase. It brings them into contact with nature, gives a zest -and interest to hard pedestrian exercise, makes the sportsmen minutely -acquainted with the country, and leads to innumerable observations of the -habits of wild animals that have the interest without the formal -pretensions of a science. Shooting is a delightful exercise of skill, -requiring admirable promptitude and perfect nerve, so that any success in -it is gratifying to self-esteem. Sir Samuel Baker is always proud of -being such a good marksman, and frankly shows his satisfaction. "I had -fired three _beautifully correct_ shots with No. 10 bullets, and seven -drachms of powder in each charge; these were so nearly together that they -occupied a space in her forehead of about three inches." He does not aim -at an animal in a general way, but always at a particular and penetrable -spot, recording each hit, and the special bullet used. Of course he loves -his guns. These modern instruments are delightful toys on account of the -highly developed art employed in their construction, so that they would be -charming things to possess, and handle, and admire, even if they were -never used, whilst the use of them gives a terrible power to man. See a -good marksman when he takes a favorite weapon in his hand! More -redoubtable than Roland with the sword Durindal, he is comparable rather -to Apollo with the silver bow, or even to Olympian Zeus himself grasping -his thunders. Listen to him when he speaks of his weapon! If he thinks you -have the free-masonry of the chase, and can understand him, he talks like -a poet and lover. Baker never fails to tell us what weapon he used on each -occasion, and how beautifully it performed, and due honor and -advertisement are kindly given to the maker, out of gratitude. - - "I accordingly took my trusty little Fletcher double rifle No. 24, and - running knee-deep into the water to obtain a close shot I fired - exactly between the eyes near the crown of the head. At the reports of - the little Fletcher the hippo disappeared." - -Then he adds an affectionate foot-note about the gun, praising it for -going with him for five years, as if it had had a choice about the matter, -and could have offered its services to another master. He believes it to -be alive, like a dog. - - "This excellent and handy rifle was made by Thomas Fletcher, of - Gloucester, and accompanied me like a faithful dog throughout my - journey of nearly five years to the Albert Nyanza, and returned with - me to England as good as new." - -In the list of Baker's rifles appears his bow of Ulysses, his Child of a -Cannon, familiarly called the Baby, throwing a half-pound explosive shell, -a lovely little pet of a weapon with a recoil that broke an Arab's -collar-bone, and was not without some slight effect even upon that mighty -hunter, its master. - - "Bang went the Baby; round I spun like a weather-cock with the blood - flowing from my nose, as the recoil had driven the top of the hammer - deep into the bridge. My Baby not only screamed but kicked viciously. - However I knew the elephant would be bagged, as the half-pound shell - had been aimed directly behind the shoulder." - -We have the most minute descriptions of the effects of these projectiles -in the head of a hippopotamus and the body of an elephant. "I was quite -satisfied with my explosive shells," says the enthusiastic sportsman, and -the great beasts appear to have been satisfied too. - -Now let me attempt to describe the feelings of a man not born with the -natural instinct of a sportsman. We need not suppose him to be either a -weakling or a coward. There are strong and brave men who can exercise -their strength and prove their courage without willingly inflicting wounds -or death upon any creature. To some such men a gun is simply an -encumbrance, to wait for game is a wearisome trial of patience, to follow -it is aimless wandering, to slaughter it is to do the work of a butcher or -a poulterer, to wound it is to incur a degree of remorse that is entirely -destructive of enjoyment. The fact that somewhere on mountain or in forest -poor creatures are lying with festering flesh or shattered bones to die -slowly in pain and hunger, and the terrible thirst of the wounded, and all -for the pleasure of a gentleman,--such a fact as that, when clearly -realized, is not to be got over by anything less powerful than the genuine -instinct of the sportsman who is himself one of Nature's own born -destroyers, as panthers and falcons are. The feeling of one who has not -the sporting instinct has been well expressed as follows by Mr. Lewis -Morris, in "A Cynic's Day-dream:"-- - - "Scant pleasure should I think to gain - From endless scenes of death and pain; - 'Twould little profit me to slay - A thousand innocents a day; - I should not much delight to tear - With wolfish dogs the shrieking hare; - With horse and hound to track to death - A helpless wretch that gasps for breath; - To make the fair bird check its wing, - And drop, a dying, shapeless thing; - To leave the joy of all the wood - A mangled heap of fur and blood, - Or else escaping, but in vain, - To pine, a shattered wretch, in pain; - Teeming, perhaps, or doomed to see - Its young brood starve in misery." - -Hunting may be classed with shooting and passed over, as the instinct is -the same for both, with this difference only that the huntsman has a -natural passion for horsemanship that may be wanting to the pedestrian -marksman. An amusement entirely apart from every other, and requiring a -special instinct, is that of sailing. - -If you have the nautical passion it was born with you, and no reasoning -can get it out of you. Every sheet of navigable water draws you with a -marvellous attraction, fills you with an indescribable longing. Miles away -from anything that can be sailed upon, you cannot feel a breeze upon your -cheek without wishing to be in a sailing-boat to catch it in a spread of -canvas. A ripple on a duck-pond torments you with a teazing reminder of -larger surfaces, and if you had no other field for navigation you would -want to be on that duck-pond in a tub. "I would rather have a plank and a -handkerchief for a sail," said Charles Lever, "than resign myself to give -up boating." You have pleasure merely in being afloat, even without -motion, and all the degrees of motion under sail have their own peculiar -charm for you, from an insensible gliding through glassy waters to a fight -against opposite winds and raging seas. You have a thorough, intimate, and -affectionate knowledge of all the details of your ship. The constant -succession of little tasks and duties is an unfailing interest, a -delightful occupation. You enjoy the manual labor, and acquire some skill -not only as a sailor but as ship's carpenter and painter. You take all -accidents and disappointments cheerfully, and bear even hardship with a -merry heart. Nautical exercise, though on the humble scale of the modest -amateur, has preserved or improved your health and activity, and brought -you nearer to Nature by teaching you the habits of the winds and waters -and by displaying to you an endless variety of scenes, always with some -fresh interest, and often of enchanting beauty. - -Now let us suppose that you are simple enough to think that what pleases -you, who have the instinct, will gratify another who is destitute of it. -If you have power enough to make him accompany you, he will pass through -the following experiences. - -Try to realize the fact that to him the sailing-boat is only a means of -locomotion, and that he will refer to his watch and compare it with other -means of locomotion already known to him, not having the slightest -affectionate prejudice in its favor or gentle tolerance of its defects. If -you could always have a steady fair wind he would enjoy the boat as much -as a coach or a very slow railway train, but he will chafe at every delay. -None of the details that delight you can have the slightest interest for -him. The sails, and particularly the cordage, seem to him an irritating -complication which, he thinks, might be simplified, and he will not give -any mental effort to master them. He cares nothing about those qualities -of sails and hull which have been the subject of such profound scientific -investigation, such long and passionate controversy. You cannot speak of -anything on board without employing technical terms which, however -necessary, however unavoidable, will seem to him a foolish and useless -affectation by which an amateur tries to give himself nautical airs. If -you say "the mainsheet" he thinks you might have said more rationally and -concisely "the cord by which you pull towards you that long pole which is -under the biggest of the sails," and if you say "the starboard quarter," -he thinks you ought to have said, in simple English, "that part of the -vessel's side that is towards the back end of it and to your right hand -when you are standing with your face looking forwards." If you happen to -be becalmed he suffers from an infinite _ennui_. If you have to beat to -windward he is indifferent to the wonderful art and vexed with you -because, as his host, you have not had the politeness and the forethought -to provide a favorable breeze. If you are a yachtsman of limited means and -your guest has to take a small share in working the vessel, he will not -perform it with any cheerful alacrity, but consider it unfit for a -gentleman. If this goes on for long it is likely that there will be -irritation on both sides, snappish expressions, and a quarrel. Who is in -fault? Both are excusable in the false situation that has been created, -but it ought not to have been created at all. You ought not to have -invited a man without nautical instincts, or he ought not to have accepted -the invitation. He was a charming companion on land, and that misled you -both. Meet him on land again, receive him hospitably at your house. I -would say "forgive him!" if there were anything to forgive, but it is not -any fault of his or any merit of yours if, by the irrevocable fate of -congenital idiosyncrasy, the amusement that you were destined to seek and -enjoy is the _corvee_ that he was destined to avoid. - -I find no language strong enough to condemn the selfishness of those who, -in order that they may enjoy what is a pleasure to themselves, -deliberately and knowingly inflict a _corvee_ upon others. This objection -does not apply to paid service, for that is the result of a contract. -Servants constantly endure the tedium of waiting and attendance, but it is -their form of work, and they have freely undertaken it. Work of that kind -is not a _corvee_, it is not forced labor. Real _corvees_ are inflicted by -heads of families on dependent relations, or by patrons on humble friends -who are under some obligation to them, and so bound to them as to be -defenceless. The father or patron wants, let us say, his nightly game at -whist; he must and will have it, if he cannot get it he feels that the -machine of the universe is out of gear. He singles out three people who do -not want to play, perhaps takes for his partner one who thoroughly -dislikes the game, but who has learned something of it in obedience to his -orders. They sit down to their board of green cloth. The time passes -wearily for the principal victim, who is thinking of something else and -makes mistakes. The patron loses his temper, speaks with increasing -acerbity, and finally either flies into a passion and storms (the -old-fashioned way), or else adopts, with grim self-control, a tone of -insulting contempt towards his victim that is even more difficult to -endure. And this is the reward for having been unselfish and obliging, -these are the thanks for having sacrificed a happy evening! - -If this is often done by individuals armed with some kind of power and -authority, it is done still more frequently by majorities. The tyranny of -majorities begins in our school-days, and the principal happiness of -manhood is in some measure to escape from it. Many a man in after-life -remembers with bitterness the weary hours he had to spend for the -gratification of others in games that he disliked. The present writer has -a vivid recollection of what, to him, was the infinite dulness of cricket. -He was not by any means an inactive boy, but it so happened that cricket -never had the slightest interest for him, and to this day he cannot pass a -cricket-ground without a feeling of strong antipathy to its level surface -of green, and of thankfulness that he is no longer compelled to go through -the irksome old _corvee_ of his youth. One of the many charms, to his -taste, of a rocky mountain-side in the Highlands is that cricket is -impossible there. At the same time he quite believes and admits everything -that is so enthusiastically claimed for cricket by those who have a -natural affinity for the game. - -There are not only sports and pastimes, but there is the long -reverberating echo of every sport in endless conversations. Here it may be -remarked that the lovers of a particular amusement, when they happen to be -a majority, possess a terrible power of inflicting _ennui_ upon others, -and they often exercise it without mercy. Five men are dining together, -and three are fox-hunters. Evidently they ought to keep fox-hunting to -themselves in consideration for the other two, but this requires an almost -superhuman self-discipline and politeness, so there is a risk that the -minority may have to submit in silence to an inexhaustible series of -details about horses and foxes and dogs. Indeed you are never safe from -this kind of conversation, even when you have numbers on your side. -Sporting talk may be inflicted by a minority when that minority is -incapable of any other conversation and strong in its own incapacity. Here -is a case in point that was narrated to me by one of the three _convives_. -The host was a country gentleman of great intellectual attainments, one -guest was a famous Londoner, and the other was a sporting squire who had -been invited as a neighbor. Fox-hunting was the only subject of talk, -because the squire was garrulous and unable to converse about any other -topic. - -Ladies are often pitiable sufferers from this kind of conversation. -Sometimes they have the instinct of masculine sport themselves, and then -the subject has an interest for them; but an intelligent woman may find -herself in a wearisome position when she would rather avoid the subject of -slaughter, and all the men around her talk of nothing but killing and -wounding. - -It is natural that men should talk much about their amusements, because -the mere recollection of a true amusement (that for which we have an -affinity) is in itself a renewal of it in imagination, and an immense -refreshment to the mind. In the midst of a gloomy English winter the -yachtsman talks of summer seas, and whilst he is talking he watches, -mentally, his well-set sails, and hears the wash of the Mediterranean -wave. - -There are three pleasures in a true amusement, first anticipation, full of -hope, which is - - "A feast for promised triumph yet to come," - -often the best banquet of all. Then comes the actual fruition, usually -dashed with disappointments that a true lover of the sport accepts in the -most cheerful spirit. Lastly, we go through it all over again, either with -the friends who have shared our adventures or at least with those who -could have enjoyed them had they been there, and who (for vanity often -claims her own delights) know enough about the matter to appreciate our -own admirable skill and courage. - -In concluding this Essay I desire to warn young readers against a very -common mistake. It is very generally believed that literature and the fine -arts can be happily practised as amusements. I believe this to be an error -due to the vulgar notion that artists and literal people do not work but -only display talent, as if anybody could display talent without toil. -Literary and artistic pursuits are in fact _studies_ and not amusements. -Too arduous to have the refreshing quality of recreation, they put too -severe a strain upon the faculties, they are too troublesome in their -processes, and too unsatisfactory in their results, unless a natural gift -has been developed by earnest and long-continued labor. It does indeed -occasionally happen that an artist who has acquired skill by persistent -study will amuse himself by exercising it in sport. A painter may make -idle sketches as Byron sometimes broke out into careless rhymes, or as a -scholar will playfully compose doggerel in Greek, but these gambols of -accomplished men are not to be confounded with the painful efforts of -amateurs who fancy that they are going to dance in the Palace of Art and -shortly discover that the muse who presides there is not a smiling -hostess but a severe and exigent schoolmistress. An able French painter, -Louis Leloir, wrote thus to a friend about another art that he felt -tempted to practise:-- - - "Etching tempts me much. I am making experiments and hope to show you - something soon. Unhappily life is too short; we do a little of - everything and then perceive that each branch of art would of itself - consume the life of a man, to practise it very imperfectly after - all.... We get angry with ourselves and struggle, but too late. It was - at the beginning that we ought to have put on blinkers to hide from - ourselves everything that is not art." - -If we mean to amuse ourselves let us avoid the painful wrestling against -insuperable difficulties, and the humiliation of imperfect results. Let us -shun all ostentation, either of wealth or talent, and take our pleasures -happily like poor children, or like the idle angler who stands in his old -clothes by the purling stream and watches the bobbing of his float, or the -glancing of the fly that his guileful industry has made. - - - - -INDEX. - - - Absinthe, French use, 273. - - Absurdity, in languages, 157. - - Academies, in a university, 275. - - Accidents, Divine connection with (Essay XV.), 218-222. - - Acquaintances: new and humble, 21, 22; - chance, 23-26; - met in travelling (Essay XVII.), 239-252 _passim_. - - Adaptability: a mystery, 9; - in life's journey, 44; - to unrefined people, 72. - - Adultery, overlooked in princes, 168. - - Affection: not blinding to faults, 10; - how to obtain filial, 98; - in the beginning of letters, 316. - - Affinities, mysterious, 288. - - Age: affecting human intercourse, ix; - outrun by youth, 86-93 _passim_; - affecting friendship, 112; - senility hard to convince, 293, 294; - middle and old, 302; - kind letter to an old lady, 345. - - Agnosticism, affecting filial relations, 93. - - Agriculture: under law, 228; - and Radicals, 282. - - Albany, Duke of, his associations, 5. - - Albert Nyanza, Baker's exploits, 392. - - Alexis, Prince, sad relations to his father, 95, 96. - - Alps: first sight, 235; - grandeur, 271. - - Americans: artistic attraction, 8; - inequalities of wealth, 248; - behaviour towards strangers, 249; - treated as ignorant by the English, 277; - under George III., 279; - use of ruled paper, 328. - - Amusements: pursuit of, 27; - sympathy with youthful, 88; - out-door, 302, 303; - praise for indulgence not deserved, 342; - in general (Essay XXVI.), 383-401; - obligatory, 383; - expensive and pleasurable, 384; - laborious, 385; - princely enjoyments, 386, 387; - poverty not compelled to practise, 388; - feigned, 388, 389; - converted into customs, 389; - should be independent in, 390; - shooting, 391-393; - boating, 394-396; - selfish compulsion, 397; - tyranny of majorities, 398; - conversational echoes, 398, 399; - ladies not interested, 399; - three stages of pleasure, 399, 400; - artistic gambols, 400; - to be taken naturally and happily, 401. - - Analysis: important to prevent confusion (Essay XX.), 280-294 _passim_; - analytical faculty wanting, 280, 292-294. - - Ancestry: aristocratic, 123; - boast, 130; - home, 138; - less religion, 214. - - Angels, and the arts, 191. - - Anglicanism, and Russian Church, 257, 258. - - Angling, pleasure of, 401. - - Animals, feminine care, 177. - - Annuities, affecting family ties, 68, 69. - - Answers to letters, 334, 335. - - Anticipation, pleasure of, 399, 400. - - Antiquarianism, author's, 323. - - Apollo, a sportsman compared to, 391. - - Arabs: use of telegraph, 323; - collar-bone broken, 392. - - Archaeology: a friend's interest, x; - affected by railway travel, 14. - - Architecture: illustration, vii, xii; - studies in France, 17, 23, 24; - connection with religion, 189, 190, 192; - ignorance about English, 265; - common mistakes, 291; - letters about, 365. - - Aristocracy: French rural, 18, 19; - English laws of primogeniture, 66; - English instance, 123, 124; - discipline, 128; - often poor, 135, 136; - effect of deference, 146, 147; - a mark of? 246, 247; - Norman influence, 251, 252; - antipathy, to Dissent, 256, 257; - sent to Eton, 277; - and Bohemianism, 309; - dislike of scholarship, 331, 332. - (See _Rank_.) - - Aristophilus, fictitious character, 146. - - Armies: national ignorance, 277-279; - monopoly of places in French, 283. - (See _War_.) - - Art: detached from religion, xii; - affecting friendship, 6, 8; - Claude and Turner, 13; - chance acquaintances, 23, 24; - purposes lowered, 28, 29; - penetrated by love, 42, 43; - affecting fraternity, 64; - friendship, 113, 114; - lifts above mercenary motives, 132; - literary, 154; - adaptability of Greek language, 158; - preferences of artists rewarded, 165; - affecting relations of Priests and Women (Essay XIII. part II.), - 187-195, _passim_; - exaggeration and diminution, both admissible, 232, 233; - result of selection, 253; - French ignorance of English, 265, 266, 267; - antagonized by Philistinism, 285, 286, 301; - not mere amusement, 400. - (See _Painting_, _Sculpture_, _Turner_, etc.) - - Asceticism, tinges both the Philistine and Bohemian, 299, 300. - (See _Priesthood_, _Roman Catholicism_, etc.) - - Association: pleasurable or not, 3; - affected by opinions, 5, 6; - by tastes, 7, 8; - London, 20; - of a certain French painter, 28; - between Priests and Women (Essay XIII. part III.), 195-204 _passim_; - among travellers (Essay XVII.), 239-252; - leads to misapprehension of opinions, 287, 288. - (See _Companionship_, _Friendship_, _Society_, etc.) - - Atavism, puzzling to parents, 88. - - Atheism: reading prayers, 163; - apparent, 173; - confounded with Deism, 257. - (See _God_, _Religion_, etc.) - - Attention: how directed in the study of language, 154; - want of, 197. - - Austerlitz, battle, 350. - (See _Napoleon I._) - - Austria, Empress, 180. - - Authority, of fathers (Essay VI.), 78-98 _passim_. - (See _Priests_.) - - Authors: illustration, 9; - indebtedness to humbler classes, 22, 23; - relations of several to women, 46 _et seq._; - sensitiveness to family indifference, 74; - in society and with the pen, 237, 238; - a procrastinating correspondent, 317; - anonymous letters, 378. - (See _Hamerton_, etc.) - - Authorship, illustrating interdependence, 12. - (See _Literature_, etc.) - - Autobiographies, revelations of faithful family life, 65. - - Autumn tints, 233. - - Avignon, France, burial-place of Mill, 53. - - - Bachelors: independence, 26; - dread of a wife's relations, 73; - lonely hearth, 76; - friendship destroyed by marriage, 115, 116; - reception into society, 120; - eating-habits, 244. - (See _Marriage_, _Wives_, etc.) - - Baker, Sir Samuel, shooting, 390-392. - - Balzac, his hatred of old maids, 381. - - Baptism, religious influence, 184, 185. - (See _Priesthood_.) - - Baptists: in England, 170; - ignorance about, 257. - (See _Religion_.) - - Barbarism, emerging from, 161. - (See _Civilization_.) - - Baronius, excerpts by Prince Alexis, 95. - - Barristers, mercenary motives, 132, 133. - - Bavaria, king of, 385-387. - - Bazaar, charity, 188. - - Beard, not worn by priests, 202. - - Beauty: womanly attraction, 38, 39; - sought by wealth, 299. - - Bedford, Duke of, knowledge of French, 151. - - Belgium, letters written at the date of Waterloo, 153. - - Beljame, his knowledge of English, 152. - - Bell, Umfrey, in old letter, 323. - - Benevolence, priestly and feminine association therein, 195, 196. - (See _Priests_, etc.) - - Ben Nevis, and other Scotch heights, 271. - - Bentinck, William, letters to, 344, 345. - - Betham-Edwards, Amelia, her description of English bad manners, 240, 245. - - Bible: faith in, 6; - allusion to Proverbs and Canticles, 41; - reading, 123; - Babel, 159; - commentaries studied, authority, 206; - examples, 208; - narrow limits, 211, 212; - commentaries and sermons, 302. - (See _Religion_, etc.) - - Bicycle, illustration, 15. - - Birds, in France, 272. - - Birth, priestly connection with, 184, 185. - (See _Priests_, _Women_.) - - Black cap, illustration, 204. - - Blake, William, quotation about Folly and Wisdom, 31. - - Blasphemy, royal, 167. - (See _Immorality_, etc.) - - Boating: affected by railways, 14; - French river, 128; - rich and poor, 138, 139; - comparison, 154; - Lever's experience, 260; - mistaken judgments, 292, 293; - not enjoyed, 302; - sleeping, 307; - on the Thames, 335; - painting a boat, 359; - amusement, 394-396. - (See _Yachts_, etc.) - - Boccaccio, quotation about pestilence, 222. - - Bohemianism: Noble (Essay XXI.), 295-314; - unjust opinions, 295; - lower forms, 296; - social vices, 297; - sees the weakness of Philistinism, 298; - how justifiable, 299; - imagination and asceticism, 300; - intimacy with nature, 302; - estimate of the desirable, 303; - living illustration, 304; - furniture, mental and material, 305; - an English Bohemian's enjoyment, 306; - contempt for comfort, uselessness, 307; - self-sacrifice, 308; - higher sort, 309; - of Goldsmith, 309, 310; - Corot, Wordsworth, 311; - Palmer, 312, 313; - part of education, 313, 314; - a painter's, 314. - (See _Philistinism_.) - - Bonaparte Family, criminality of, 168. - (See _Napoleon I._) - - Books: how far an author's own, 13; - in hospitality, 142; - refusal to read, 195; - indifference to, 286, 287; - cheap and dear, 304, 305; - Wordsworth's carelessness, 311; - binding, 359. - (See _Literature_, etc.) - - Bores, English dread of, 245. - (See _Intrusion_.) - - Borrow, George, on English houses, 145. - - Botany, allusion, 166. - - Bourbon Family, criminality of, 168. - - Bourrienne, Fauvelet de, Napoleon's secretary, 367. - - Boyton, Captain, swimming-apparatus, 290. - - Boys: French, 23, 24; - English fraternal jealousies, 66; - education, and differences with older people, 78-98 _passim_; - roughened by play, 100; - friendships, 111. - (See _Brothers_, _Fathers_, _Sons_, etc.) - - Brassey, Sir Thomas, his yacht, 138, 139. - - Brevity, in correspondence, 324-331, 361. - - Bright, John, his fraternity, 68. - - British Museum: ignorance about, 266; - library, 287; - confused with other buildings, 291. - (See _London_.) - - Bronte, Charlotte, her St. John, in Jane Eyre, 196. - - Brothers: divided by incompatibility, 10; - English divisions, 63; - idiosyncrasy, 64; - petty jealousy, 65, 66; - love and hatred illustrated, 67; - the Brights, 68; - money affairs, 69; - generosity and meanness, 70; - refinement an obstacle, 71; - lack of fraternal interest, 74; - riches and poverty, 77. - (See _Boys_, _Friendship_, _Sons_, etc.) - - Buffon, Georges Louis Leclerc de, his noble life, 209, 210. - - Buildings, literary illustration, vii. - - Bulgaria, lost to Turkey, 278. - - Bull-fights, women's presence, 180. - (See _Cruelty_.) - - Bunyan, John: choice in religion, 173; - imprisoned, 181. - - Business: affecting family ties, 64, 67; - affecting letter-writing, 342, 343; - Letters of (Essay XXIV.), 354-369; - orally conducted or written, 354-357; - stupid agents, 358, 359; - talent for accuracy, 360; - acknowledging orders, 361; - apparent carelessness, one subject best, 362; - knowledge of drawing important to explanations on paper, 363, 364; - acquaintance with languages a help, 364; - commercial slang, 365; - indolence in letter-reading has disastrous results, 366-369. - (See _Correspondence_.) - - Byron, Lord: on Friendship, 30; - Haidee, 39; - marriage relations, 46, 48-50, 55-57; - as a letter-writer, 345-349; - careless rhymes, 400. - - - Calumny: caused by indistinct ideas, 292; - in letters, 370-377. - - Cambridge University, 275, 276. - - Camden Society, publication, 318. - - Cannes, anecdote, 235. - - Cannon-balls, national intercourse, 160. - (See _Wars_.) - - Canoe, illustration, 15. - - Card-playing: incident, 128, 129; - French habit, 273; - kings, 289; - laborious, 397. - - Carelessness, causing wrong judgments, 293. - - Caste: as affecting friendship, 4; - not the uniting force, 9; - French rites, 16; - English prejudice, 19; - sins against, 22; - among authors, 46-56; - kinship of ideas, 67; - ease with lower classes, 64; - really existent, 124, 125; - loss through poverty, 136; - among English travellers, 240-242, 245, 246. - (See _Classes_, _Rank_, _Titles_, etc.) - - Cat, drawing by a child, 364. - - Cathedrals: drawing a French, 23, 24; - imposing, 189, 190, 192. - - Celibacy: Shelley's experience, 34; - in Catholic Church, 120; - clerical, 198-201; - of old maids, 379-382. - (See _Clergy_, _Priests_, _Wives_, etc.) - - Censure, dangerous in letters, 352, 353. - - Ceremony: dependent on prosperity, 125, 126; - fondness of women for, 197, 198; - also 187-195 _passim_. - (See _Manners_, _Rank_, etc.) - - Chamberlain, the title, 137. - - Chambord, Count de, restoration possible, 254, 255. - - Channel, British, illustration, 14. - - Charles II., women's influence during his reign, 181. - - Charles XII., his hardiness, 308. - - Chaucer, Geoffrey, on birds, 272. - - Cheltenham, Eng., treatment of Dissenters, 19. - - Chemistry, illustration, 3. - - Cheshire, Eng., a case of generosity, 68. - - Children: recrimination with parents, 75; - as affecting parental wealth, 119; - social reception, 120; - keenly alive to social distinctions, 121; - imprudent marriages, 123; - a poor woman's, 139; - interruptions, 140, 141; - ignorance of foreign language makes us seem like, 151; - feminine care, 177; - of clergy, 200, 201; - cat picture, 364; - pleasures of poor, 401. - (See _Boys_, _Brothers_, _Marriage_, _Sons_, etc.) - - Chinese mandarins, 130. - - Chirography, in letters, 331-333. - - Christ: his divinity a past issue, 6; - Church instituted, 178, 179; - Dr. Macleod on, 186; - limits of knowledge in Jesus' day, 213. - (See _Church_, _Religion_, etc.) - - Christianity: as affecting intercourse, 5, 6; - its early disciples, 142; - preferment for adherence, 162, 163; - morality a part of, 168, 169; - state churches, 170; - in poetry, 198; - early ideal, 206. - (See _Roman Catholicism_, etc.) - - Christmas: decorations, 188; - in Tennyson, 198. - (See _Clergy_, _Priesthood_, _Women_.) - - Church: attendance of hypocrites, 163; - compulsory, 172; - instituted by God in Christ, 178, 179; - influence at all stages of life, 183-186; - aesthetic industry, 188; - dress, 189; - buildings, 190; - menaces, 193; - partisanship, 194; - power of custom, 198; - authority, 203. - (See _Religion_, _Roman Catholicism_, etc.) - - Church of England: as affecting friendship, 6; - freedom of members in their own country, instance of Dissenting - tyranny, 164; - dangers of forsaking, 165; - bondage of royalty, 166, 168; - adherence of nobility, 169, 170, 173; - of working-people, 170, 171; - compulsory attendance, liberality, 172, 173; - ribaldry sanctioned by its head, 181; - priestly consolation, 183; - the _legal_ church, 185; - ritualistic art, 188-190; - a bishop's invitation to a discussion, 192; - story of a bishop's indolence, 366, 367; - French ignorance of, 275. - (See _England_, _Christ_, etc.) - - Cipher, in letters, 326. - - Civility. (See _Hospitality_.) - - Civilization: liking for, xiii; - antagonism to nature in love-matters, 41; - lower state, 72; - affected by hospitality, 100; - material adjuncts, 253; - physical, 298; - duty to further, 299; - forsaken, 310. - (See _Barbarism_, _Bohemianism_, _Philistinism_, etc.) - - Classes: Differences of Rank (Essay X.), 130-147 _passim_; - affected by religion (Essay XII.), 161-174; - limits, 250; - in connection with Gentility (Essay XVIII.), 253-263 _passim_. - (See _Caste_, _Ceremonies_, _Rank_, etc.) - - Classics, study of, in the Renaissance, 212. - - Claude, helps Turner. (See _Painters_, etc.) - - Clergy: mercenary motives, 132, 133; - more tolerant of immorality than of heresy, 168; - belief in natural law, 221; - dangers of association with, 287. - (See _Priesthood_, _Religion_, etc.) - - Clergywomen, 200, 201. - - Clerks, their knowledge an aid to national intercourse, 149, 150. - (See _Business_, _Languages_, etc.) - - Coats-of-arms: usurped, 135; - in letters, 326, 327. - (See _Rank_.) - - Cockburn, Sir Alexander, knowledge of French, 151. - - Cock Robin, boat, 138. - (See _Boating_.) - - Coffee, satire on trade, 133, 134. - - Cologne Cathedral, 190. - - Colors, in painting, 232, 233. - - Columbus, Voltaire's allusion, 274. - - Comet, in Egyptian war, 229. - (See _Superstition_.) - - Comfort, pursuit of, 27, 298, 299. - (See _Philistinism_.) - - Commerce, affected by language, 148-150, 159, 160. - (See _Business_, _Languages_, etc.) - - Communism, threats, 377. - - Como, Italy, solitude, 31. - - Companionship: how decided, 4; - affected by opinions, 5, 6; - by tastes, 7, 8; - in London, 20; - with the lower classes, 21-23; - chance, 24-26; - intellectual exclusiveness, 27, 28; - books, 29; - nature, 30; - in Marriage (Essay IV.), 44-62; - travelling, absence, 44; - intellectual, 45; - instances of unlawful, 46, 47; - failures not surprising, 48; - of Byron, 49, 50; - Goethe, 51, 52; - Mill, 53, 54; - discouraging examples, 55, 56; - difficulties of extraordinary minds, 57; - artificial, 58; - hopelessness of finding ideal associations, 59; - indications and realizations, 60; - trust, 61, 62; - hindered by refinement, 71, 72; - affected by cousinship, 73; - parents and children (Essay VI.), 78-98 _passim_; - Death of Friendship (Essay VIII.), 110-118; - affected by wealth and poverty (Essays IX. and X.), 119-147 _passim_; - between Priests and Women (Essay XIII.), 175-204. - (See _Association_, _Friendship_, etc.) - - Comradeship, difficult between parents and children, 89. - (See _Association_, etc.) - - Concession: weakening the mind, 147; - national, 148; - feminine liking, 175. - - Confessional, the: influencing women, 201-203; - a supposititious compulsion, 281. - (See _Religion_, etc.) - - Confirmation, priestly connection with, 185. - (See _Women_.) - - Confusion: (Essay XX.), 280-294; - masculine and feminine, 280; - political, 280-284; - rebels and reformers, 280; - private and public liberty, 281; - Radicals, 282; - _egalite_, 283; - religious, 284, 285; - Philistines and Bohemians, 285-287; - confounding people with their associates, 287, 288; - vocations, 288, 289; - persons, 290; - foreign buildings, 291; - inducing calumny, 292; - caused by insufficient analysis, 292, 293; - about inventions, 293; - result of carelessness, indolence, or senility, 293, 294. - - Consolation, of clergy, 179-183. - (See _Religion_.) - - Construing, different from reading, 154. - (See _Languages_.) - - Continent, the: family ties, 63; - friendship broken by marriage, 116; - religious liberality, 173; - marriage, 184; - flowers, 188, 189; - confessional, 202, 203; - exaggeration, 234, 235; - table-manners of travellers, 240-252 _passim_; - drinking-places, 262. - (See _France_, etc.) - - Controversy, disliked, xiii. - - Conventionality: affecting personality, 15-17; - genteel ignorance engendered by, 260-262. - (See _Courtesy_, _Manners_, etc.) - - Conversation: chance, 26; - compared with literature, 29; - study of languages, 156; - at _table d'hote_, 239-249; - among strangers, 247-252 _passim_; - useless to quote, 291; - Goldsmith's enjoyment, 309. - - Convictions, our own to be trusted, iii, iv. - - Copenhagen, battle, 327. - - Cornhill Magazine, Lever's article, 259, 260. - - Corot (Jean Baptiste Camille), his Bohemianism, 310, 311. - - Correspondence: akin to periodicals, 30; - Belgian letters, 153; - Courtesy of Epistolary Communication (Essay XXII.), 315-335; - introductions and number of letters, 316; - promptness, 317, 318; - Plumpton Letters, 318-323; - brevity, 324; - telegraphy and abbreviations, 325; - sealing, 326, 327; - peculiar stationery, 328; - post-cards, 329; - _un mot a la poste_, 330; - brevity and hurry, 331; - handwriting, 332; - crossed lines, ink, type-writers, 333; - dictation, outside courtesy, 334; - to reply or not reply? 335; - Letters of Friendship (Essay XXIII.), 336-353; - a supposed gain to friendship, 336; - neglected, 337; - impediments, 338; - French cards, 339; - abandonment to be regretted, 340; - letter-writing a gift, 341; - real self wanted in letters, 342; - letters of business and friendship, 343; - familiarity best, 344; - lengthy letters, 345; - Byron's, 346-348; - Jacquemont's, 349; - the Remusat letters, 350; - Bernardo Tasso's, Montaigne's, 350; - perils of plain speaking, 352, 353; - Letters of Business (Essay XXIV.), 354-369; - differences of talent, 354; - repeated perusals, 355; - refuge of timidity, 356; - letters exposed, literary faults, omissions, 357; - directions misunderstood, 358, 359; - acknowledging orders, 361; - slovenly writing, one subject in each letter, 362; - misunderstanding through ignorance, 363; - in foreign languages, 364; - conventional slang, 365; - careful reading necessary, 366; - unopened letters, 367; - epistles half-read, 368; - a stupid error, 369; - Anonymous Letters (Essay XXV.), 370-382; - common, 370; - slanderous, 371; - vehicle of calumny, 372; - written to betrothed lovers, 373; - story, 374; - written in collaboration and with pains, 375; - an expected grandchild, 376; - torture and threats, 377; - kindly and critical, 378-382. - - Corvee: allusion, 342; - definition, 389, 390, 396, 397. - (See _Amusements_.) - - Cottage, love in a, 35, 36. - - Court-circulars, 166, 167. - - Courtesy: its forms, 127-129; - idioms, 157; - in Epistolary Communication (Essay XXII.), 315-335; - in what courtesy consists, 315; - the act of writing, phrases, 316; - promptitude, 317; - instance of procrastination, 317, 318; - illustrations, in the Plumpton Correspondence, of ancient courtesy, - 318-323, 331; - consists in modern brevity, 324; - foreign forms, 325; - by telegraph, 326; - in little things, 327; - in stationery, 328; - affected by postal cards, 329, 330; - in chirography, 331, 332; - affected by type-writers, 333; - for show merely, 334; - requiring answers, 335. - (See _Manners_, _Classes_, etc.) - - Cousins: French proverb, general relationship, 72; - lack of friendly interest, 74. - (See _Brothers_, etc.) - - Creuzot, French foundry, 272. - - Cricket: not played in France, 272; - author's dislike, 398. - (See _Amusements_.) - - Crimean War, caused by ignorance, 278. - (See _War_.) - - Criticism: intolerant of certain features in books, 89; - in Byron's letters, 347; - in anonymous letters, 379; - explained by a date, 381. - - Cromwell, Oliver, contrasted with his son, 96. - - Culture and Philistinism, 285-287. - - Customs: upheld by clergy, 197, 198; - amusements changed into, 383, 384, 389. - (See _Ceremonies_, _Courtesy_, _Rank_, etc.) - - - Daily News, London, illustration of natural law _vs._ religion, xii. - - Dancing: French quotation about, 31; - religious aversion, 123; - not compulsory to the poor, 388. - (See _Amusements_, etc.) - - Dante, his subjects, 192. - - Daughters, their respectful and impertinent letters, 319-321. - (See _Fathers_, _Sons_, _Women_, etc.) - - Death: termination of intercourse, x, xi; - from love, 39; - Byron's lines, 50; - ingratitude expressed in a will, 69; - of wife's relations, 73; - of Friendship (Essay VIII.), 110-118; - not personal, 110; - of a French gentleman, 182; - priestly connection with, 184-186, 203; - of absent friends, 338; - French customs, 339; - silence, 340. - (See _Priests_, _Religion_.) - - Debauchery, destructive of love, 34. - - Deference, why liked, 122. - (See _Rank_, etc.) - - Deism, confounded with Atheism, 257. - (See _God_, _Religion_, etc.) - - Delos, oracle of, 229. - - Democracies, illustration of broken friendships, 114, 115. - - Democracy: accusation of, 131; - confounded with Dissent, 257. - (See _Nationality_, etc.) - - Denmark, the crown-prince of, 327. - - Dependence, of one upon all, 12. - - De Saussure, Horace Benedict, his life study, 230, 231. - - Despotism, provincial and social, 17. - (See _Tyranny_.) - - De Tocqueville, Alexis Charles Henri Clerel: allusion, 147; - translation, 152; - on English unsociability (Essay XVII.), 239-252 _passim_. - - Devil: priestly opposition, 195; - belief in agency, 224; - God's relation to, 228. - (See _Clergy_, _Superstition_, _Religion_, etc.) - - Devonshire, Eng., its beauty, 270. - - Dickens, Charles: his middle-class portraitures, 20; - his indebtedness to the poor, 22; - humor, 72. - - Dictionary, references, 155. - (See _Languages_.) - - Diderot, Denis, Goldsmith's interview, 309. - - Dignity, to be maintained in middle-life, 117. - - Diminution, habit in art and life (Essay XVI.), 232-238. - (See _Exaggeration_.) - - Diogenes, his philosophy, 127. - - Discipline: of children, 78-98 _passim_; - delegated, 83; - mental, 208; - of self, 308. - - Discord, the result of high taste, 6. - - Dishonesty, part of Bohemianism, 296. - - Disraeli, Benjamin, female estimate, 380. - - Dissenters: French estimate, 18, 19; - English exclusion, 19, 256; - liberty in religion, 164, 165; - position not compulsory, 170; - small towns, 171-173. - (See _Church of England_, etc.) - - Dissipation: among working-men, 124; - in France, 272, 273. - (See _Wine_, etc.) - - Distinctions forgotten (Essay XX.), 280-294 _passim_. - (See _Confusion_.) - - Divorce, causes of, 38. - (See _Marriage_, _Women_, etc.) - - Dobell, Sidney, social exclusion, 19. - - Dog, rifle compared to, 392. - (See _Amusements_.) - - Dominicans, dress, 189. - (See _Religion_, etc.) - - Dominoes in France, 273. - (See _Amusements_.) - - Don Quixote, illustration of paternal satire, 97. - - Dore, Gustave, his kind and long letter, 345. - - Double, Leopold, home, 142. - - Dover Straits, 337. - - Drama: power of adaptation, 72; - amateur actors, 143. - - Drawing: a French church, 23, 24; - aid to business letters, 363, 364. - (See _Painters_, etc.) - - Dreams, outgrown, 60. - - Dress: connection with manners, 126, 127; - ornaments to indicate wealth, 131; - feminine interest, 187; - clerical vestments, 187, 188, 198; - sexless, 202, 203; - of the Philistines, 297, 298; - Bohemian, 304-307, 313, 314. - (See _Women_.) - - Driving, sole exercise, 302. - - Drunkenness: part of Bohemianism, 296; - in best society, 297. - (See _Table_, _Wine_, etc.) - - Duelling, French, 273. - - Du Maurier, George, his satire on coffee-dealers, 133, 134. - - Dupont, Pierre, song about wine, 268, 269, 272. - - - Ear, learning languages by, 156. - (See _Languages_.) - - Easter: allusion, 198; - confession, 281. - - Eccentricity: high intellect, 56; - in an artist, 307; - claims indulgence, 387. - - Eclipse, superstitious view, 215-217, 229. - - Economy, necessitated by marriage, 26. - (See _Wealth_.) - - Edinburgh Review, editor, 152. - - Editor, a procrastinating correspondent, 317. - - Education: similarity, 10; - affecting idiosyncrasy, 13; - conventional, 15; - effect upon humor, 20; - literary, derived from the poor, 22; - affected by change in filial obedience, 80-88; - home, 81 _et seq._; - authority of teachers, 81, 83; - divergence of parental and filial, 84; - special efforts, 85; - divergent, 90-92; - profound lack of, 91; - never to be thrown off, 92; - of hospitality, 99, 100; - the effect on all religion (Essay XV.), 215-231 _passim_; - knowledge of languages, 245; - of Tasso family, 350, 351. - (See _Languages_, etc.) - - Egypt: Suez Canal, xii; - illustration of school tasks, 85; - war of 1882, 222-224, 229. - - Eliot, George: hints from the poor, 22; - her peculiar relation to Mr. Lewes, 45, 46, 55, 56; - often confounded with other writers, 290. - - Elizabeth, Queen: order about the marriage of clergy, 200; - her times, 381. - (See _Celibacy_.) - - Emerson, Ralph Waldo: the dedication, iii, iv; - anecdote of Napoleon, 367. - - England: newspaper reports, 41; - a French woman's knowledge of, 107; - respect for rank, 136; - title-worship, 137; - estimate of wealth, 144-146; - slavery to houses, 145; - French ideas slowly received, 150; - religious freedom, 164-168, 172; - two religions for the nobility, 169, 170, 173; - a most relentless monarch, 180; - women during reign of Charles II., 181; - marriage rites, 184, 185; - aristocracy, 246; - A Remarkable Peculiarity (Essay XVII.), 239-252; - meeting abroad, 239; - reticence in each other's company, 240; - anecdotes, 241, 242; - dread of intrusion, 243, 244; - freedom with foreigners and with compatriots, 245; - not a mark of aristocracy, 246; - fear of meddlers, 247; - interest in rank, 248; - reticence outgrown, 249; - Lever's illustration, 250; - exceptions, 251; - Saxon and Norman influence, 251, 252; - Dissenters ignored, 256, 257; - general information, 263; - French ignorance of art and literature in, 265-267, 269; - game, 268; - mountains, 270, 271; - landscapes, 270; - Church, 275; - supposed law about attending the Mass, 281; - homes longed for, 286; - the architectural blunders of tourists, 291; - Philistine lady, 304; - painter and Philistine, 306; - letters in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, 318-321; - use of telegraph, 323; - letters shortened, 325; - letter-paper 328; - post-cards, 329, 330; - communication with France, 337; - trade habits, 361, 365; - reading of certain books not compulsory, 378; - old maids, 381; - winter, 399. - (See _Church of England_, _France_, etc.) - - English Language: ignorance of, a misfortune, 149, 150; - familiar knowledge unusual in France, 151-153; - forms of courtesy, 157; - conversation abroad, 240; - _Bohemian_, 295; - literature, 305; - bad spelling, 360, 361; - no synonym for _corvee_, 389; - nautical terms, 396. - (See _England_, etc.) - - English People: Continental repulsion, 7; - artistic attraction, 8; - undervaluation of chance conversations, 26; - looseness of family ties, 63; - ashamed of sentiment, 82; - feeling about heredity, 93; - one lady's empty rooms, 104; - another's incivility, 106; - a merchant's loss of wealth, 121, 122; - deteriorated aristocrat, 123; - letters by ladies, 153; - no consoling power, 182; - gentlewomen of former generation, 205, 206; - where to find inspiriting models, 208; - companions of Prince Imperial, 225; - understatement a habit, 234-238; - a lady's ignorant remark about servants, 258, 259; - ignorance of French mountains, etc., 270-271; - fuel and iron, 272; - universities, 275, 276; - patronage of Americans, 277; - anonymous letter to a gentleman, 376. - - Ennui: banished by labor, 32; - on shipboard, 396. - - Enterprise, affecting individualism, 14. - - Envy, expressed in anonymous letters, 371. - - Epiphany, annual Egyptian ceremony, xii. - (See _Science_, _Superstition_, etc.) - - Epithets, English, 235. - - Equality: affecting intercourse, 246; - _egalite_, 282, 283. - (See _Rank_, _Ignorance_.) - - Equestrianism, affected by railways, 14. - - Etching, Leloir's fondness for, 401. - - Etheredge, Sir George, his ribaldry, 181. - - Eton College, allusion, 277. - - Eugenie, Empress: her influence over her husband, 176; - his regard, 225. - - Europe: vintages, 133; - influence of Littre, 210; - Southern, 240; - allusion, 254; - Turkey nearly expelled, 278; - latest thought, 306; - cities, 309; - William of Orange, on complications, 344; - communistic disturbances, 377. - (See _England_, _France_, etc.) - - Evangelicism, English peculiarities, 123. - (See _Dissenters_, etc.) - - Evans, Marian. (See _George Eliot_.) - - Evolution, theory of, 176. - - Exaggeration, the habit in art and life (Essay XVI.), 232-238. - (See _Diminution_.) - - Exercise: love of, 14; - in the young and the old, 86, 87. - (See _Amusements_.) - - Experience: value, 30; - needed to avoid dangers in letter-writing, 352. - - Extravagance: part of Bohemianism, 295; - Goldsmith's, 310. - - - Family: Ties (Essay V.), 63-77; - looseness in England, 63; - brotherly coolness, 64; - domestic jealousies, 65; - laws of primogeniture, 66; - instances of strong attachment, 67; - illustrations of kindness, 68; - pecuniary relations, 69; - parsimony, 70; - discomfort of refinement, 71; - cousins, 72; - wife's relations, 73; - indifference to the achievements of kindred, 74; - aid from relatives, domestic rudeness, 75; - brutality, misery, 76; - home privations, 77; - Fathers and Sons (Essay VI.), 78-98; - intercourse, to be distinguished from individual, 119, 120; - rich friends, 121; - false, 122; - children's marriages, 123; - old, 135, 136; - clerical, 199, 200; - subjects of letters, 205; - regard of Napoleon III., 225. - (See _Brothers_, _Sons_, etc.) - - Fashion, transient, 307. - - Fathers: separated from children by incompatibility, 10; - by irascibility, 75; - by brutality of tongue, 76; - and Sons (Essay VI.), 78-98; - unsatisfactory relation, interregnum, 78; - old and new feelings and customs, 79; - commanding, 80; - exercise of authority, 81; - Mill's experience, 82; - abdication of authority, 83; - personal education of sons, 84, 85; - mistakes of middle-age, 86; - outstripped by sons, 87; - intimate friendship impossible, 88; - differences of age, 89; - divergences of education and experience, 90, 91; - opinions not hereditary, 92, 93; - the attempted control of marriage, 94; - Peter the Great and Alexis, 95; - other illustrations of discord, 96; - satire and disregard of personality, 97; - true foundation of paternal association, 98; - death of a French parent, 182; - a letter, 319-322. - - Favor, fear of loss, 147. - - Ferdinand and Isabella, religious freedom in their reign, 164. - - Fiction: love in French, 41; - absorbing theme, 42; - in a library, 305. - - Fletcher, Thomas, firearms made by, 391, 392. - - Florence, Italy, pestilence, 222. - - Flowers: illustration, 179; - church use, 188; - Flower Sunday, 189. - (See _Women_, etc.) - - Fly, artificial, 377. - - Fog, English, 270. - - Foreigners: associations with, 7; - view of English family life, 63; - in travelling-conditions (Essay XVII.), 239-252 _passim_; - association leads to misapprehension, 287; - in England, 291. - - Fox-hunting, 180, 398, 399. - (See _Amusements_, _Sports_, etc.) - - France: a peasant's outlook, xii; - social despotism in small cities, 17-19; - pleasant associations in a cathedral city, 23, 24; - political criticism, 115; - noisy card-players, 128, 129; - disregard of titles, 136, 137; - adage about riches, 145; - English ideas slowly received, 150; - travel in Southern, 150; - religious freedom, 165; - marriage, 184; - railway accident, 218-220; - the Imperialists, 225; - feudal fashions, 246; - obstinacy of the old regime, 254-256; - mountains, 271; - vigor of young men, 272, 273; - universities, 275, 276; - equality attained by Revolution, 283; - bourgeois complaint of newspapers, 286; - mineral oil, 288; - confusion of tourists, 291; - Goldsmith's travels, 309, 310; - landscape painter, 310; - end of Plumpton family, 323; - use of telegraph, 323; - letters shortened, 325; - letter-paper, 328; - post-cards, 330; - chirography, 332; - New Year's cards, 339; - _carton non bitume_, 358, 359; - habits of tradesmen, 360, 361, 365; - the _Salon_, 367; - old maids, 381; - a _corvee_, 389, 390; - Leloir the painter, 401. - (See _Continent_, etc.) - - Fraternity, _fraternite_, 282, 283. - (See _Brothers_.) - - Freedom: national, 279; - public and private liberty confounded, 281, 282. - - French Language: teaching, 85; - ignorance a misfortune, 149, 150; - rare knowledge of, by Englishmen, 151, 152; - letters by English ladies, 153; - forms of courtesy, 157; - prayers, 158; - as the universal tongue, 158, 159; - English knowledge of, 245; - _univers_, 273, 274. - (See _Languages_.) - - French People: excellence in painting, and relations to Americans and - English, 7; - an ideal of _good form_, 15; - old conventionality, 16-18; - love in fiction, 41; - family ties, 63; - proverb about cousins, 72; - unbelieving sons, 93; - bourgeois table manners formerly, 101, 102; - state apartments, 105; - incivility towards, at an English table, 106; - girls, 106; - a woman's clever retort, 107; - literature condemned by wholesale, 147; - royal daily life, 167; - power of consolation, 182; - examples of virtue, 208; - old nobility, 209; - Buffon and Littre, 209-211; - _hazard providentiel_, 227; - painters, 232, 233; - overstatement, 234, 235; - sociability with strangers contrasted with the English want of it - (Essay XVII.), 239-252 _passim_; - a widow and suite, 242, 243; - discreet social habits, 247, 248; - a disregard of titles, 248; - a weak question about fortune, 259; - ignorance of English matters, 265-270; - wine-song, 268, 269; - fuel and iron, 271, 272; - seeming vanity of language, 273, 274; - conceit cured by war, 278; - communist dreamers, 284; - proverb, 287; - confusion of persons, 290. - - Friendship: supposed impossible in a given case, viii, ix; - real, x; - how formed, 4; - not confined to the same class, 5; - affected by art and religion, 6; - by taste and nationality, 7, 8; - by likeness, 8; - with those with whom we have not much in common, 9, 10; - affected by incompatibility, 10; - Byron's comparison, 30; - affecting illicit love, 41; - akin to marriage, 48; - elective affinity, 75; - Death of (Essay VIII.), 110-118; - sad subject, no resurrection, definition, 110; - boyish alliances, growth, 111; - personal changes, 112; - differences of opinion, 113; - of prosperity, financial, professional, political, 114; - habits, marriage, 115; - neglect, poor and rich, 116; - equality not essential, acceptance of kindness, new ties, 117; - intimacy easily destroyed, 118; - affected by wealth (Essays IX., X.), 119-147 _passim_; - by language, 149; - between Priests and Women (Essay XIII.), 175-204 _passim_; - formed with strangers, 251; - leads to misunderstood opinions, 287, 288; - disturbed by procrastination, 317; - Letters of, (Essay XXIII.), 336-353; - infrequency, 336; - obstacles, 337; - the sea a barrier, 338; - aid of a few words at New Year's, 339; - death-like silence, 340; - charm of manner not always carried into letters, 341; - excluded by business, 342; - cooled by reproaches, 343; - all topics interesting to a friend, 344; - affection overflows in long letters, 345-351; - fault-finding dangerous, 352, 353; - journeys saved, 360. - (See _Association_, _Companionship_, _Family_, etc.) - - Fruit, ignorance about English, 269, 270. - - Fruition, pleasure of, 400. - - Fuel, French, 272. - - Furniture: feminine interest in, 187; - regard and disregard (Essay XXI.), 295-314 _passim_; - Goldsmith's extravagance, 310. - (See _Women_.) - - - Gambetta, his death, 225. - - Game: in England, 267, 268, 270; - elephant and hippopotamus, 392. - (See _Sports_.) - - Games, connection with amusement, 385, 397. - (See _Cards_, etc.) - - Garden, illustration, 9. - - Gascoyne, William, letters, 318, 319. - - Generosity: affecting family ties, 69, 70; - of a Philistine, 301. - - Geneva Lake, as seen by different eyes, 230, 231. - - Genius, enjoyment of, 303. - - Gentility: Genteel Ignorance (Essay XVIII.), 253-263; - an ideal condition, 253; - misfortune, 254; - French noblesse, 255; - ignores differing forms of religion, 256, 257; - poverty, 258; - inferior financial conditions, 259, 260; - real differences, 261; - genteel society avoided, 262; - because stupid, 263. - - Geography: London Atlas, 274; - work of Reclus, 291. - (See _Ignorance_.) - - Geology, allusion, 166. - (See _Science_.) - - George III., colonial tenure, 279. - - Germany: models of virtue, 208; - hotel fashions, 244; - a Bohemian and scholar, 304-306. - - German Language, English knowledge, 245. - - Gladstone, William E.: the probable effect of a French training, 17, 18; - indebtedness to trade, 135; - _Lord_, 137; - foreign troubles ending in inkshed, 150; - allusion, 241; - use of post-cards, 335; - female estimate, 380. - - Glasgow, steamer experience, 25. - - Gloucester, Eng., manufactory of rifles, 391, 392. - - God: of the future, 177; - personal care, 178, 179; - against wickedness, 180; - Divine love, 178-181, 186, 187; - interference with law (Essay XV.), 215-231 _passim_; - human motives, 228. - (See _Religion_, etc.) - - Gods: our valors the best, 177; - siege of Syracuse, 215-217. - (See _Superstition_.) - - Godwin, Mary, relations to Shelley, 46-48. - - Goethe: Faust's Margaret, 39; - relation to women, 46, 50, 56, 57; - Life, 244. - - Gold: in embroidery to indicate wealth, 131; - color, 232, 233. - - Goldsmith, Oliver, his Bohemianism, 309, 310. - - Gormandizing, 103. - (See _Table_.) - - Government: feminine, 176; - scientific, 229. - - Grammar: French knowledge of, 152; - rival of literature, 154; - in correspondence, 356, 357. - (See _Languages_, etc.) - - Gratitude: a sister's want of, 69; - hospitality not reciprocated, 122. - - Greece: Byron's enthusiasm, 50, 57; - story of Nikias, 215-217; - advance of knowledge, 230; - Byron's notice of a book, 348. - - Greek Church: Czar's headship, 168; - the only true, 258. - (See _Church of England_, etc.) - - Greek Language: teaching, 84; - fitness as the universal language, 158, 159; - in the Renaissance, 212; - professorship and library, 287; - doggerel, 400. - (See _Languages_.) - - Groom, true happiness in a stable, 343. - - Guests: Rights of (Essay VII.), 99-109; - respect, exclusiveness, 99; - two views, 100; - conformity insisted upon, 101; - left to choose for himself, 102; - duties towards a host, generous entertainment, 103; - parsimonious treatment, 104; - illustrations, ideas to be respected, 105; - nationality also, 107; - a host the ally of his guests, 107; - discourtesy towards a host, 108; - illustration, 109; - among rich and poor, 140-144. - - Guiccioli, Countess, her relations to Byron, 49, 50. - - Guillotine, Byron's description, 347. - - Gulliver's Travels, allusion, 261. - - Gymnastics: by young Frenchmen, 272; - aristocratic monopoly, 283. - (See _Amusements_, etc.) - - - Habits: in language, 157; - French discretion, 247, 248. - - Hamerton, Philip Gilbert: indebtedness to Emerson, iii, iv; - plan of the book, vii-ix; - omissions, ix; - the pleasures of friendship, x; - on death, x, xi; - a liking for civilization and all its amenities, xii; - thoughts in French travel, 17 _et seq._; - pleasant experience in studying French architecture, 23, 24; - conversation in Scotland, 24, 25; - in a steamer, 25, 26; - acquaintance with a painter, 28; - belief in Nature's promises, 60 _et seq._; - what a sister said, 65; - the love of two brothers, 67; - delightful experience with wife's relations, 73; - experience of hospitable tyranny, 100 _et seq._; - Parisian dinner, 107; - experience with friendship, 113; - noisy French farmers, 128, 129; - Scotch dinner, 131; - country incident, 139, 140; - questioning a Parisian lady, 152; - Waterloo letters, 156; - how Italian seems to him, 155; - incident of Scotch travel, 173; - visit to a bereaved French lady, 182; - travel in France, 219; - lesson from a painter, 232; - snubbed at a hotel, 240-242; - a French widow on her travels, 242, 243; - a lady's ignorance about religious distinctions, 257; - personal anecdotes about ignorance between the English and French, - 265-279 _passim_; - translations into French, 267; - Puseyite anecdote, 284, 285; - conversations heard, 291; - boat incident, 292, 293; - life-portraits, 300-308; - experience with procrastinators, 317, 318; - residence in Lancashire, 318; - interest in Plumpton family, 323, 324; - telegraphing a letter, 326; - experience with _un mot a la poste_, 330; - his boat wrongly painted, 359; - his Parisian correspondent, 360, 361; - efforts to ensure accuracy, 368, 369; - a strange lady's anxiety for his religious condition, 378; - his Wenderholme, 378; - anonymous letter answered, 379-382; - dislike of cricket, 398. - - Harewood, Earl of, 323. - - Haste, connection with refinement and wealth, 125, 126. - (See _Leisure_.) - - Hastings, Marquis of, his elopement, 321. - - Haweis, H. R., sermon on Egyptian war, 224. - - Hedges: English, 270, 271; - sleeping under, 307. - - Hell, element in oratory, 192, 193. - (See _Priests_.) - - Heredity, opinions not always hereditary, 92-97. - - Heresy: banishment for, 161; - disabilities, 162 _et seq._; - punishment by fire, 180; - pulpit attack, 192; - shades in, 257, 258; - resistance to God, 284. - (See _Roman Catholicism_, etc.) - - Highlanders, their rowing, 154. - - Hirst, Eng., letters from, 320, 321. - - History, French knowledge of, 152. - - Holland, Goldsmith's travels, 309. - - Home: Family Ties (Essay V.), 62-77; - a hell, 76; - crowded, 77; - absence affecting friendship, 111; - French, 142; - English (Essay X.), 130-147 _passim_; - the confessional, 202; - nostalgia, 286. - - Homer: indebtedness to the poor, 22; - on the appetite, 103. - - Honesty, at a discount, 162, 163, 170. - - Honor, in religious conformity, 162. - - Horace: familiarity with, 155; - quoted, 289, 361. - - Horneck, Mrs., Goldsmith's friend, 310. - - Horseback: illustration, 168, 260; - luxury, 298. - - Hospitality: (Essay VII.), 99-109; - help to liberty, 99; - an educator for right or wrong, 100; - opposite views, 100; - tyranny over guests, 101; - reaction against old customs, 102; - a host's rights, some extra effort to be expected, 103; - disregard of a guest's comfort, 104; - instances, opinions to be respected, 105; - host should protect a guest's rights, 106; - anecdote, 107; - invasion of rights, 108; - glaring instance, 109; - affected by wealth, 140-144; - excuse by a procrastinator, 318. - (See _Guests_.) - - Hosts, rights and duties (Essay VII.), 99-109 _passim_. - (See _Hospitality_.) - - Houghton, Lord, his knowledge of French, 151, 152. - - Housekeeping: ignorance of cost, 258, 259; - cares, 381. - - Houses: effect of living in the same, ix; - big, 145; - evolution of dress, 189; - movable, 261, 262; - damage, 358. - - Hugo, Victor, use of a word, 273, 274. - - Humanity: obligations to, 12; - future happiness dependent upon a knowledge of languages, 148 _et seq._ - - Humor: in different classes, 20; - lack of it, 72; - in using a foreign language, 157, 158; - not carried into letters and pictures, 340-342. - - Hungarians, their sociability, 249. - - Hurry, to be distinguished from brevity in letter-writing, 331. - - Husbands: narration of experience, 25, 26; - unsuitable, 40; - relations of noted men to wives, 44-62 _passim_; - compulsory unions, 94-98; - old-fashioned letter, 322; - use of post-cards, 329, 330; - privacy of letters, 350; - Montaigne's letter, 351, 352. - (See _Wives_, etc.) - - Hut: suggestions of a, 261, 262; - for an artist, 314. - - Huxley, Thomas Henry, on natural law, 217, 219. - - Hypocrisy: to be avoided, xi-xiii; - in religion (Essay XII.), 161-174 _passim_; - not a Bohemian vice, 296. - - - Ibraheem, lost at sea, 226. - - Ideas, their interchange dependent upon language, 148. - - Idiosyncrasy: its charm, 9; - in art and authorship, 12, 13; - nullified by travel, 14, 15; - affecting marital happiness, 48-62 _passim_; - affecting family ties, 64; - wanted in letters, 347; - in amusements, 389; - congenital, 396. - - Ignorance: Genteel (Essay XVIII.), 253-263; - among French royalists, 254, 255; - in religion, 256, 257; - in regard to pecuniary conditions, 258, 259; - of likeness and unlikeness, 260, 261; - disadvantages, 262; - drives people from society, 263; - Patriotic (Essay XIX.), 264-279; - a narrow satisfaction, 264; - French ignorance of English art, 265, 267; - of English game, 268; - of English fruit, 269; - English errors as to mountains, 270, 271; - fuel, manly vigor, 272, 273; - word _universal_, 274; - universities, 275, 276; - literature, 277; - leads to war, 277, 278; - not the best patriotism, 279; - unavoidable, 301; - contented, 302; - of gentlewomen, 381, 382. - (See _Nationality_, etc.) - - Imagination, a luxury, 300. - - Immorality: too easily forgiven in princes, 168; - considered essential to Bohemianism, 295. - (See _Vice_.) - - Immortality: connection with music, 191; - menaces and rewards, 193. - (See _Priests_, etc.) - - Impartiality, not shown by clergy, 194. - - Impediments, to national intercourse (Essay XI.), 148-160. - - Impertinence, ease of manner mistaken for, 250. - - Incompatibility: inexplicable, 10; - one of two great powers deciding intercourse, 11. - (See _Friendship_, etc.) - - Independence: (Essay II.), 12-32; - illusory and real, influence of language, 12; - illustrations, 13; - railway travel destructive to, 14; - conventionality and French ideas of _good form_, 15; - social repressions and London life, 16; - local despotism, 17; - the French rural aristocracy, 18; - illustrations and social exclusion, 19; - humor and domestic anxiety, society not essential, 20; - palliations to solitude, outside of society, absolute solitude, 21; - rural illustrations, 22; - incident in a French town, 23; - one in Scotland, 24; - on a steamer, 25; - English reticence, 26; - an evil of solitude, pursuits in common, 27; - illustration from Mill, deterioration of an artist, 28; - patient endurance, the refreshment of books, 29; - companionship of nature, 30; - consolation of labor, 31; - an objection to this relief, 32; - a fault, 69; - of Philistines and Bohemians (Essay XXI.), 295-314 _passim_. - (See _Society_, etc.) - - Independents, the, in England, 170. - - India: a brother's cold farewell, 67; - relations of England, 279. - - Indians, their Bohemian life, 298, 306. - - Individualism, affected by railways, 13-15. - - Individuality, reliance upon our own, iv. - - Indolence: destroying friendship, 116; - stupid, 197; - causes wrong judgment, 293; - part of Bohemianism, 295; - in business, 356; - in reading letters, 366-369. - - Indulgences, affecting friendship, 115. - - Industry: to be respected, 132; - professional work, 196; - Buffon's and Littre's, 209, 210; - ignorance about English, 265, 266; - of a Philistine, 300; - in letter-writing, 356. - - Inertia, in middle-life, 302. - - Infidelity: affecting political rights, 162, 163; - withstood by Dissent, 257. - - Ink: dilution to save expense, 333; - red, 369. - - Inquisition, the, in Spain, 180. - - Inspiration, in Jacquemont's letters, 348. - - Intellectuality: a restraint upon passion, 38; - affecting family ties, 73, 74; - its pursuits, 127; - denied to England, 265, 266, 267; - ambition for, 283; - the accompaniment of wealth, 297; - outside of, 301; - enjoyed, 306. - - Intelligence: the supreme, 176, 177; - connection with leisure, 197. - - Intercession, feminine fondness for, 175, 176. - - Intercourse. (This subject is so interwoven with the whole work that - special references are impossible.) - - Interdependence, illustrated by literary work, 12. - - Interviews, compared with letters, 354-357. - - Intimacy: mysteriously hindered, 10; - with nature, 302. - - Intolerance, of amusements, 389. - - Intrusion, dreaded by the English, 243, 247. - - Inventions, why sometimes misjudged, 292, 293. - - Irascibility, in parents, 75, 76. - - Iron, in France, 272. - - Irving, Washington, on Goldsmith, 310. - - Isolation: affecting study, 28, 29; - alleviations, 29-31. - (See _Independence_.) - - Italian Language: Latin naturalized, 155; - merriment in using, 158. - - Italy: Byron's sojourn, 50; - Goethe's, 51, - titles and poverty, 136; - overstatement a habit, 234; - papal government, 255, 256; - travelling-vans, 261, - allusion, 271; - why live there, 285, 286; - tourists, 291; - Goldsmith's travels, 309; - forms in letter-writing, 325. - - - Jacquemont, Victor, his letters, 348-350. - - James, an imaginary friend, 343, 344. - - Jardin des Plantes, Buffon's work, 209. - - Jealousy: national, 7; - domestic, 65, - youthful, effect of primogeniture, 66; - between England and France, 150; - Greece need not awaken, 159, - excited by the confessional, 202, 203; - in anonymous letters, 371. - - Jerusalem, the Ark lost, 229. - - Jewelry: worn by priests, 202; - enjoyment of, 297. - - Jews: not the only subjects of useful study, 207, 208, 211; - God of Battles, 224; - advance of knowledge, 230. - (See _Bible_.) - - John, an imaginary friend, 344, 345. - - Jones, an imaginary gentleman, 130. - - Justice: feminine disregard, 180; - connection with priesthood, 194. - - - Keble, John, Christian Year, 198. - - Kempis, Thomas a, his great work, 95. - - Kenilworth, anecdote, 277. - - Kindness, how to be received, 117. - - Kindred: affected by incompatibility, 10; - Family Ties (Essay V.), 63, 77; - given by Fate, 75. - (See _Sons_, etc.) - - Kings: divine right, 255; - on cards, 289; - courtesy in correspondence, 317; - a poetic figure, 386, 387. - (See _Rank_, etc.) - - Knarsbrugh, Eng., 320. - - Knyghton, Henry, quotation, 251. - - - Lakes, English, 270. - - Lancashire, Eng.: all residents not in cotton-trade, 288; - residence, 318, - drinking-habits, 378. - - Land-ownership, 131. - - Landscape: companionship, 31; - ignorance about the English, 270. - - Languages: as affecting friendship, 7; - similarity, 10; - influences interdependence, 12; - study of foreign, 29, 84, 85; - ignorance of, an Obstacle (Essay XI.), 148-160; - impediment to national intercourse, 148; - mutual ignorance of the French and English, 149; - commercial advantages, American kinship, 150; - an imperfect knowledge induces reticence, 151; - rarity of full knowledge, 152; - illustrations, first stage of learning a tongue, 153; - second, 154; - third, fourth, 155; - fifth, learning by ear, 156; - absurdities, idioms, forms of politeness, 157; - a universal speech, 158; - Greek commended, 159; - advantages, 160; - one enough, 301, 305; - acquaintance with six, 304; - foreign letters, 364, 365. - - Latin: teaching, 84; - construction unnatural, 155; - in the Renaissance, 212; - church, 258; - proverb, 287; - poetry, 289; - in telegrams, 324; - Horace, 361; - _corrogata_, 390. - - Laws: difficult to ascertain, viii; - human resignation to, xi; - of Human Intercourse (Essay I.), 3-11; - fixed knowledge difficult, 3, - common belief, 4; - similarity of interest, 5; - may breed antagonism, 6; - national prejudices, 7; - likeness begets friendship, 8; - idiosyncrasy and adaptability, 9; - intimacy slow, 10; - law of the pleasure of human intercourse still hidden, 11; - fixed, 179; - feminine disregard, 184; - quiet tone, 193; - regularity and interference (Essay XV.), 215-231 _passim_; - legal distinctions, 280, 281. - - Laymen, contrasted with clergy, 181, 182. - - Lectures, one-sided, 29. - - Legouve, M.: on filial relations, 78; - religious question, 93; - anecdote of chirography, 332. - - Leisure: its connection with refinement, 125, 126; - varying in different professions, 196, 197. - - Leloir, Louis, fondness for etching, 401. - - Lent, allusion, 198. - - Letters. (See _Correspondence_.) - - Lever, Charles: quotation from That Boy of Norcott's, 249, 250; - finances misunderstood, 259, 260; - boating, 259, 394. - - Lewes, George Henry: relation to Marian Evans, 45; - quotation from Life of Goethe, 244. - - Lewis, Sir George Cornewall, immortal saying, 385. - - L'Honneur et l'Argent, quotation, 304, 335. - - Liberality: French lack of, 18, 19; - induced by hospitality, 99, 100; - apparent, 173. - - Liberty: in religion (Essay XII.), 161-174; - private and public, 281, 282; - _liberte_, 282, 283; - with friends in letters, 353. - - Libraries: value, 286, 287; - narrow specimens, 302. - - Lies, at a premium, 162, 163. - - Life: companionship for, 44-62; - enjoyed in different ways, 306. - - Likeness, the secret of companionship, 8. - - Limpet, an illustration of incivility, 108. - - Literature: conventional, 15; - influence of the humbler classes, 22, 23; - softens isolation, 29, 31; - deaths from love, 39; - affecting fraternity, 64; - youthful nonsense not tolerated in books, 89; - superiority to mercenary motives, 132; - advantages of mutual national knowledge, 149-153; - rivals in its own domain, 154; - not necessarily religious, 198; - English periodical, 237; - ignorance about English, 267; - and Philistinism, 286, 287; - singleness of aim, 289; - English, 305; - not an amusement, 400. - - Littre, Maximilien Paul Emile, his noble life, 209-211. - - Livelihood, anxiety about, 20. - - London: mental independence, 16-18; - solitude needless, 20; - Mill's rank, 56; - old but new, 136; - Flower Sunday, 189; - pestilence improbable, 222; - The Times, 244; - centre of English literature, 267; - business time contrasted with that of Paris, 273; - buildings, 291; - Palmer leaving, 310; - cabman, 335; - a famous Londoner, 399. - - Lottery, illustrative of kinship, 75. - - Louis II., amusements, 386-388. - - Louis XVIII., impiety, 167. - - Louvre: English art excluded, 267; - confounded with other buildings, 291. - - Love: of nature, 30; - Passionate (Essay III.), 33-43; - nature, blindness, 33; - not the monopoly of youth, debauchery, 34; - permanence not assured, 35; - "in a cottage," perilous to happiness, socially limited, 36; - restraints, higher and lower, 37; - varieties, selfishness, in intellectual people, 38; - poetic subject, dying for, 39; - old maids, unlawful in married people, 40; - French fiction, early marriage repressed by civilization, 41; - passion out of place, the endless song, 42; - natural correspondences and Shelley, 43; - in marriage, 44-62; - some family illustrations, 63-77; - wife's relations, 73; - paternal and filial (Essay VI.), 78-98 _passim_; - between friends (Essay VIII.), 110-118; - divine, 178, 179; - family, 205. - (See _Brothers_, _Family_, etc.) - - Lowell, James Russell, serious humor, 20. - - Lower Classes, the: English rural, 22; - rudeness, 75; - religious privileges, 170, 171. - - Luxury, material, 298. - (See _Philistinism_.) - - Lyons, France, the Academy, 275. - - - Macaulay, T. B., quotations, 181, 200, 224, 344, 345. - - Macleod, Dr. Norman, his sympathy, 186, 187. - - Magistracy, French, 283. - - Mahometanism, as affecting intercourse, 5. - - Malice: harmless, 269; - in letters, 371-377. - - Manchester, Eng., life there, 31. - - Manners: affected by wealth, 125-129; - by leisure, 197; - by aristocracy, 246. - (See _Courtesy_, etc.) - - Manufactures: under fixed law, 228; - ignorance about English, 265, 266, 268. - - Marriage: responsibility increased, 25, 26; - or celibacy? 34; - Shelley's, does not assure love, 35; - following love, 36; - irregular, 37; - restraints of superior intellects, 38; - love outside of, 40; - early marriage restrained by civilization, 41; - philosophy of this, 42; - Companionship in (Essay IV.), 44-62; - life-journey, 44; - alienations for the sake of intellectual companionship, 45; - illustrations, 46, 47; - mistakes not surprising, 48; - Byron, 49, 50; - Goethe, 51, 52; - Mill, 53, 54; - difficulty in finding true mates, 55; - exceptional cases not discouraging, 56; - easier for ordinary people, 57; - inequality, 58; - hopeless tranquillity, 59; - youthful dreams dispelled, 60; - Nature's promises, how fulfilled, 61; - "I thee worship," 62; - wife's relations, 73; - filial obedience, 94-97; - destroying friendship, 115; - affecting personal wealth, 119; - social treatment, 120; - of children, 123; - effect of royal religion, 166; - and of lower-class, 171; - civil and religious, 184, 185; - clerical, 196, 198-201; - of absent friends, 338; - French customs, 339; - Montaigne's sentiments, 351, 352; - slanderous attempts to prevent, 371-375; - household cares, 381; - breakfasts, 385, 386. - (See _Women_, etc.) - - Mask, a simile, 370. - - Mediocrity, dead level of, 236. - - Mediterranean Sea, allusion, 399. - - Meissonier, Jean Ernest Louis, his talent, 284. - - Melbourne, Bishop of, 221. - - Men, choose for themselves, 197. - (See _Marriage_, _Sons_, _Women_, etc.) - - Mephistopheles, allusion, 235. - - Merchants, connection with national peace, 149, 150. - - Merimee, Prosper, Correspondence, 321. - - Metallurgy, under fixed law, 228. - - Methodists, the: in England, 170; - hymns, 257. - - Michelet, Jules: on the Church, 189, 190; - on the confessional, 202, 203. - - Middle Classes: Dickens's descriptions, 20; - rank of some authors, 56; - domestic rudeness, 75; - table customs, 103; - religious freedom, 170; - clerical inferences, 183. - (See _Classes_, _Lower Class_, etc.) - - Mignet, Francois Auguste Marie: friendship with Thiers, 120; - condition, 121. - - Military Life: illustration, 21; - filial obedience, 80; - religion, 123; - religious conformity, 169; - antagonistic to toleration, 173, 174; - French, 272; - allusion, 300, 307. - - Mill, John Stuart: social affinities, 20; - aversion to unintellectual society, 27, 28; - relations to women, 53-55; - social rank, 56; - education by his father, 81-84; - on friendship, 112, 113; - on sneering depreciation, 237; - on English conduct towards strangers, 245; - on social stupidity, 263. - - Milnes, Richard Monckton. (See _Lord Houghton_.) - - Milton, John, Palmer's constant interest, 313. - - Mind, weakened by concession, 147. - - Misanthropy, appearance of, 27. - - Montaigne, Michel: marriage, 59; - letter to wife, 351, 352. - - Montesquieu, Baron, allusion, 147. - - Months, trade terms for, 365. - - Morris, Lewis, A Cynic's Day-dream, 393. - - Mothers, "loud-tongued," 75. - (See _Children_, _Women_, etc.) - - Mountains: climbing affected by railways, 14; - quotation from Byron, 30; - in pictures, 43; - glory in England and France, 270, 271; - Mont Blanc, where situated, 271. - - Mozart, Johann Chrysostom Wolfgang Amadeus, allusion, 289. - - Muloch, Dinah Maria, confounded with George Eliot, 290. - - Music: detached from religion, xii, xiii; - voice of love, 42; - affecting fraternity, 64; - connection with religion, 191; - illustration of harmony, 389. - - - Nagging, by parents, 76. - - Napoleon I.: and the Universe, 273, 274; - privations, 308; - _mot_ of the Pope, 341; - Remusat letters, 350. - - Napoleon III.: death, son, 225; - ignorance of German power, 278; - losing Sedan, 308. - - Nationality: prejudices, 7; - to be respected at table, 106, 107; - different languages an obstacle to intercourse (Essay XI.), 148-160; - mutual ignorance (Essay XIX.), 264-279 _passim_. - - National Gallery, London, 291. - - Nature: compensations, iv; - causes, xii; - laws not deducible from single cases, 4; - inestimable gifts, 26; - beauty an alleviation of solitude, loyalty, 30, 31; - opposed to civilization in love-matters, 41; - universality of love, 42, 43; - promises fulfilled, 60-62; - revival of study, 212; - laws fixed (Essay XV.), 215-231 _passim_; - De Saussure's study, 230, 231; - expressed in painting, 232, 233; - nearness, 303-314 _passim_; - her destroyers, 393. - - Navarre, King Henry of, 224. - - Navy, a young officer's acquaintance, 25, 26. - - Neglect, destroys friendship, 116. - - Nelson, Lord: the navy in his time, 279; - letter in battle, 327, 328. - - Nerves, affected by rudeness, 128, 129. - - New England, a blond native, 240. - - Newspapers: on nature and the supernatural, xii; - adultery reports in English, 41; - personal interest, 124; - regard for titles, 137; - quarrels between English and American, 150; - reading, 156; - on royalty, 166, 167; - deaths in, 225; - English and French subservience to rank, 248; - a bourgeois complaint, 286; - crossing the seas, 337, 338. - - New Year's, French customs, 339. - - Niagara Rapids, 290. - - Night, Palmer's watches, 312. - - Nikias, a military leader, his superstition, 215-217, 229. - - Nineteenth Century, earlier half, 205, 206. - - Nobility: the English have two churches to choose from, 169-171, 173; - opposition to Dissent, 256, 257. - - Nonconformity, English, 256, 257. - (See _Dissent_, etc.) - - Normans, influence of the Conquest, 251, 252. - - - Oaths, no obstacle to hypocrisy, 162. - - Obedience, filial (Essay VI.), 78-98. - - Observation, cultivated, 290, 291. - - Obstacles: of Language, between nations (Essay XI.), 148-160; - of Religion (Essay XII.), 161-174. - - Occupations, easily confused, 288, 289. - - Oil, mineral, 288. - - Old Maids, defence, 379-382. - - Olympus, unbelief in its gods, 162. - - Oman, sea of, 226. - - Opinions: not the result of volition, xiii; - of guests to be respected, 105, 106; - changes affecting friendship, 112, 113. - - Orange, William of, correspondence, 344, 345. - - Oratory, connection with religion, xii, 191-195. - - Order of the Universe, to be trusted, iii. - - Originality: seen in authorship, 12; - how hindered and helped, 13, 14; - French estimate, 15. - - Orthodoxy, placed on a level with hypocrisy, 162, 163. - - Ostentation, to be shunned in amusements, 401. - - Oxford: opinion of a learned doctor about Christ's divinity, 6; - Shelley's expulsion, 96; - its antiquity, 275, 276. - - - Paganism: hypocrisy, and preferment, 162; - gods and wars, 224. - - Paget, Lady Florence, curt letter, 321. - - Pain, feminine indifference to, 180. - - Painters: taste in travel, 14; - deterioration of a, 28; - discovering new beauties, 60; - Corot, 310, 311; - Palmer, 312; - one in adversity, 314; - gayety not in pictures, 341; - sketches in letters, 345; - of boats, 359; - lack of business in French painter, 367, 368; - idle sketches, 400; - Leloir, 401. - - Painter's Camp in the Highlands, 379. - - Painting: fondness for it a cause of discord, 6; - French excellence, 8; - interdependence, 13; - high aims, 28; - palpitating with love, 43; - affecting fraternity, 64; - none in heaven, 191; - not necessarily religious, 198; - copies, 203; - two methods, 232, 233; - convenient building, 261; - ignorance about English, 265-267; - not merely an amusement, 400. - (See _Art_, etc.) - - Paleontology, allusion, 206. - - Palgrave, Gifford, saved from shipwreck, 226-228. - - Palmer, George, a speech, 223. - - Palmer, Samuel, his Bohemianism, 312, 313. - - Palmer, William, in Russia, 257, 258. - - Paper, used in correspondence, 328. - - Paradise: the arts in, 191; - affecting pulpit oratory, 193. - (See _Priests_.) - - Paris: an artistic centre, 8; - incivility at a dinner, 107; - effect of wealth, 121; - elegant house, 142; - English residents, 150; - a lady's reply about English knowledge of French language, 152; - Notre Dame, 190; - Jardin des Plantes, 209; - hotel incident, 240-242; - not a desert, 242; - light of the world, 266, 267, 274; - resting after _dejeuner_, 273; - confusion about buildings, 291; - an illiterate tradesman, 360, 361; - the _Salon_, 367. - - Parliament: illustration of heredity, 93; - indebtedness of members to trade, 135; - infidelity in, 162; - superiority of pulpit, 191; - George Palmer, 223; - questions in, 241; - Houses, 291. - - Parsimony: affecting family ties, 70; - in hospitality, 104, 105. - - Patriotism: obligations, 12; - Littre's, 210; - Patriotic Ignorance (Essay XIX.), 264-279; - places people in a dilemma, 264; - anecdotes of French and English errors, about art, literature, - mountains, landscapes, fuel, ore, schools, language, 265-277; - ignorance leading to war, 277-279; - suspected of lacking, 287-288. - - Peace, affected by knowledge of, languages, 148-150, 160. - - Peculiarity, of English people towards each other (Essay XVII.), 239-252. - - Pedagogues, their narrowness, 154. - - Pedestrianism: as affected by railways, 14; - in France, 272, 273; - not enjoyed, 302. - - Peel, Arthur, his indebtedness to trade, 135. - - Pencil, use, when permissible, 333. - - Periodicals, akin to correspondence, 30. - - Persecution, feminine sympathy with, 80, 181. - - Perseverance, Buffon's and Littre's, 209, 210. - - Personality: its "abysmal deeps," 11; - repressed by conventionality, 15; - accompanies independence, 17; - affecting family ties, 63-77 _passim_; - paternal and filial differences, 78-98 _passim_; - its frank recognition, 98; - confused, anecdotes, 289, 290. - - Persuasion, feminine trust in, 175. - - Pestilence, God's anger in, 222. - - Peter the Great, sad relations to his son, 95, 96. - - Philistinism: illustrative stories, 285, 286; - defined, 297; - passion for comfort, 298; - asceticism and indulgence, 299, 300; - a life-portrait, 300-303; - estimate of life, 303; - an English lady's parlor, 304, 305; - contrast, 306; - avoidance of needless exposure, 313. - - Philology: a rival of literature, 154; - favorable to progress in language, 155. - - Philosophy: detached from religion, xii; - rational tone, 193. - - Photography: a French experience, 24; - under fixed law, 228. - - Physicians: compared with priests, 186; - rational, 193; - Littre's service, 210. - - Picturesque, regard for the, 7. - - Piety: and law (Essay XV.), 215-231 _passim_; - shipwreck, 226, 227. - - Pitt, William, foreign disturbances in his day, 150. - - Pius VII., on Napoleon, 341. - - Play, boyish friendship in, 111. - - Pleasures, three in amusements, 399, 400. - - Plebeians, in England, 251, 252. - - Plumpton Correspondence, 318-323, 331. - - Poetry: detached from religion, xii; - of love, 42; - dulness to, 47; - Shelley's, 47; - Byron's, 50, 345-349; - Goethe's, 51; - and science, 57; - Tennyson on Brotherhood, 67; - lament, 73; - art, 154; - music in heaven, 191; - Keble, 198; - Battle of Ivry, 224; - French, 268, 269; - Latin, loyalty of Tennyson, 289; - French couplet, 304; - in a library, 305; - "If I be dear," 325; - Horace, 361; - Palace of Art, 386; - quotation from Morris, 393; - line about anticipation, 399. - - Poets: ideas about the harmlessness of love, 36; - avoidance of practical difficulties, 39; - love in natural scenery, 43. - - Politics: conventional, 15; - French narrowness, 18, 19; - coffee-house, 28; - inherited opinions, 93; - opinions of guests to be respected, 105, 106; - affecting friendship, 113-115; - affected by ignorance of language, 148, 150, 160; - adaptation of Greek language, 158; - disabilities arising from religion, 161-174; - divine government, 229; - genteel ignorance, 254-256; - votes sought, 257; - affected by national ignorance, 277-279; - distinctions confounded, 280-284; - verses on letter-writing, 335. - - Ponsard, Francois, quotations, 304, 335. - - Popes: their infidelity, 162; - temporal power, 255, 256. - (See _Roman Catholicism_, etc.) - - Popular Notions, often wrong, 292. - - Postage, cheap, 336. - - Postal Union, a forerunner, 159. - - Post-cards, affecting correspondence, 329, 330, 335. - - Poverty: allied with shrewdness, 22; - affecting friendship (Essay IX.), 116, 119-129; - priestly visits, 183; - Littre's service, 210; - ignorance about, 258-260; - French rhyme, 304; - not always the concomitant of Bohemianism, 309; - not despised, 314; - in epistolary forms, 317. - - Prayers: reading in French, 158; - averting calamities, 220-231 _passim_. - - Prejudices: about great men, 4; - national, 7; - of English gentlewomen, 382. - - Pride: of a wife, 59; - in family wealth, 66; - refusal of gifts, 68; - in shooting, 390. - - Priesthood: Priests and Women (Essay XIII.), 175-204; - meeting feminine dependence, 178; - affectionate interest, 179; - representing God, 182; - sympathy, 183; - marriages and burials, 184; - baptism and confirmation, 185; - death, 186; - Queen Victoria's reflections, 186, 187; - aesthetic interest, 188; - vestments, 189; - architecture, 190; - music, 191; - oratory and dignity, 192; - heaven and hell, 193; - partisanship, 194; - association in benevolence, 195; - influence of leisure, 196; - custom and ceremony, 197; - holy seasons, 198; - celibacy, 199; - marriage in former times, 200; - sceptical sons, 201; - confessional, 202; - assumption of superiority, 203; - perfunctory goodness, 204. - - Primogeniture, affecting family ties, 66. - - Privacy: of a host, to be respected, 109; - in letters, 350, 357. - - Procrastination: in correspondence, 318, 319, 356; - anecdotes, 366-369. - - Profanity, definition, 208. - - Professions, contrasted with trades, 132, 133. - - Progress, five stages in the study of language, 153-157. - - Promptness: in correspondence, 316, 317, 329; - in business, 368. - - Propriety, cloak for vice, 297. - - Prose: an art, 154; - eschewed by Tennyson, 289. - - Prosody, rival of literature, 154. - - Protestantism: in France, 19, 165, 256; - Prussian tyranny, 173; - exclusion of music, 191; - clerical marriages, 200, 201; - auricular confession, 201-203; - liberty infringed, 281. - - Providence and Law (Essay XV.), 215-231 _passim_. - - Prussia: Protestant tyranny, 173; - a soldier's cloak, 189; - military strength, 278. - - Public Men, wrong judgment about, 4. - - Punch's Almanack, quoted, 133. - - Pursuits, similarity in, 10. - - Puseyism, despised, 284, 285. - - Puzzle, language regarded as a, 153, 154. - - - Rabelais, quotation, 165. - - Racehorses, illustration, 65. - - Radicalism, definition, 282, 283. - - Railways: affecting independence, 13-15; - meditations in a French, 17; - story in illustration of rudeness, 108, 109; - distance from, 116; - French accident, 218-220; - moving huts, 261, 262; - Stephenson's locomotive, 293; - allusion, 309; - journeys saved, 360; - compared to sailing, 395. - - Rain: cause of accident, 219; - prayers for, 221. - - Rank: a power for good, 5; - conversation of French people of, 16; - pursuit of, 27; - discrimination in hospitality, 104; - affecting friendship, 116; - Differences (Essay X.), 130-147; - social precedence, 130; - land and money, 131; - trades and professions, 132-135; - unreal distinctions, 135; - to be ignored, 136; - English and Continental views, 136, 137; - family without title, 138; - affecting hospitality, 139-145; - price, deference, 145-147; - English admiration, 241, 242, 248, 249-252; - connection with amusement, 383-401 _passim_. - - Rapidity, in letter-writing, 324, 325. - - Reading, in a foreign language, 154-158. - - Reading, Eng., speech, 223, 224. - - Reasoning, in letters, 384, 385. - - Rebels, contrasted with reformers, 280. - - Recreation, the purpose of amusement, 389. - - Reeve, Henry, knowledge of French, 152. - - Reformers, and rebels, 280, 281. - - Refinement: affecting family harmony, 64; - companionship, 71; - enhanced by wealth, 125, 126. - - Religion: affecting human intercourse, xi-xiii; - detached from the arts, xii; - affecting friendship, 5, 6; - conventional, 15; - Cheltenham prejudice, 19; - formal in England, 63; - affecting fraternity, 64; - affecting family regard, 74; - clergyman's son, 90, 91; - family differences, 93, 94; - to be respected in guests, 105, 106; - destroying friendship, 113; - Evangelical, 123; - personal deterioration, 124; - mercenary motives, 132, 133; - title-worship, 137; - an Obstacle (Essay XII.), 161-174; - the dominant, 161; - a hindrance to honest people, 162; - dissimulation, 163; - apparent liberty, 164; - social penalties, 165; - no liberty for princes, 166; - French illustration, 167; - royal liberty in morals, 168; - official conformity, 169; - greater freedom in the lower ranks, 170; - less in small communities, 171; - liberty of rejection and dissent, 172; - false position, 173; - enforced conformity, 174; - Priests and Women (Essay XIII.), 175-204; - of love, 178, 179; - Why we are Apparently becoming Less Religious (Essay XIV.), 205-214; - meditations of ladies of former generation, 205; - trust in Bible, 206; - idealization, 207; - Nineteenth Century inquiries, 208; - Buffon as an illustration, 209; - Littre, 210; - compared with Bible characters, 211; - the Renaissance, 212; - boundaries outgrown, 213; - less theology, 214; - How we are Really becoming Less Religious (Essay XV.), 215-231; - superstition, 215; - supernatural interference, 216, 217; - idea of law diminishes emotion, 218; - railway accident, 219; - prayers and accidents, 220; - future definition, 221; - penitence and punishment, 222; - war and God, 223; - natural order, 224; - Providence, 225; - salvation from shipwreck, 226; - _un hazard providentiel_, 227; - _irreligion_, 228; - less piety, 229; - devotion and science, 230; - wise expenditure of time, 231; - feuds, 240; - genteel ignorance of established churches, 255-258; - French ignorance of English Church, 275; - distinctions confounded, 281, 282; - intolerance mixed with social contempt, 284, 285; - activity limited to religion and riches, 301; - in old letters, 320, 321, 323; - female interest in the author's welfare, 377, 378; - in theology, 379, 380. - (See _Church of England_, _Methodism_, _Protestantism_, etc.) - - Remusat, Mme. de, letters, 350. - - Renaissance, expansion of study in the, 212. - - Renan, Ernest, one objection to trade, 132. - - Republic, French, 254, 283, 284. - - Residence, affecting friendship, 116. - - Respect: the road to filial love, 98; - why liked, 122; - in correspondence, 316. - - Restraints, of marriage and love, 36, 37. - - Retrospection, pleasures of, 400. - - Revolution, French, 209, 246, 283. - (See _France_.) - - Riding, Lever's difficulties, 260. - - Rifles: in hunting, 391-393; - names, 392. - - Rights. (See different heads, such as _Hospitality_, _Sons_, etc.) - - Robinson Crusoe, illustration, 21. - - Rock, simile, 251. - - Roland, his sword Durindal, 391. - - Roman Camp, site, 14. - - Roman Catholicism: its effect on companionship, 6; - seen in rural France, 19; - illustration of the Pope, 87; - infidel sons, 93; - wisdom of celibacy, 120; - infidel dignitaries, 162; - liberty in Spain, 164; - royalty hearing Mass, 167; - military salute to the Host, 169; - recognition in England, 169, 170, 173; - Continental intolerance, 172, 173; - a conscientious traveller, 173; - oppression in Prussia, 173; - tradesmen compelled to hear Mass, 174; - Madonna's influence, 176; - priestly consolation, 183; - use of art, 188-190; - Dominican dress, 189; - cathedrals, the Host, 190; - astuteness, celibacy, 199; - female allies, 200; - confessional, 201, 202; - feudal tenacity, 255; - Protestantism ignored, 256; - Romanism ignored by the Greek Church, 258; - compulsory attendance, 282. - (See _Priesthood_, _Religion_, etc.) - - Romance: like or dislike for, 7; - glamour of love, 42. - - Rome: people not subjected to the papacy, 255, 256; - Byron's letter, 347. - - Rossetti, on Mrs. Harriett Shelley, 46. - - Rouen Cathedral, 190. - - Royal Academy, London, 266, 276. - - Royal Society, London, 274. - - Royalty, its religious bondage, 166-169, 171. - - Rugby, residence of a father, 84. - - Ruolz, the inventor, his bituminous paper, 358, 359. - - Russell, Lord Arthur, his knowledge of French, 152. - - Russia: religious position of the Czar, 168; - orthodoxy, 257, 258; - war with Turkey, 278. - (See _Greek Church_.) - - - Sabbath, its observance, 123. - - Sacredness, definition of, 208. - - Sacrifices: demanded by courtesy, 315, 316; - in letter-writing, 329-331; - to indolence, 368. - - Sahara, love-simile, 60. - - Saint Bernard, qualities, 230, 231. - - Saint Hubert's Day, carousal, 345. - - Saints, in every occupation, 209. - - Salon, French, 266, 276, 367. - - Sarcasm: lasting effects, 66; - brutal and paternal, 97. - - Satire. (See _Sarcasm_.) - - Savagery, return to, 298. - (See _Barbarism_, _Civilization_.) - - Saxons, influence in England, 251, 252. - - Scepticism: and religious rites, 184, 185; - in clergymen's sons, 201. - (See _Heresy_.) - - Schools, prejudice against French, 106. - - Schuyler's Life of Peter the Great, 96. - - Science: study affected by isolation, 29; - and poetry, 57; - superiority to mercenary motives, 132; - in language, 154; - adaptation of Greek language to, 158; - illustration, 166; - cold, 176, 178, 190; - disconnected with religion, 198; - affecting Bible study, 206; - connection with religion (Essay XV.), 215-231 _passim_. - - Scolding, 75, 76. - - Scotland: a chance acquaintance, 25, 26; - gentleman's sacrifice for his son, 84; - incident in a country-house, 131; - religious incident in travel, 173; - a painter's hint, 232; - the Highlands, 271; - scenery, 379; - cricket impossible, 398. - - Scott, Sir Walter: indebtedness to the poor, 22; - Lucy of Lammermoor, 39, 143, 144; - Jeanie Deans, 175; - supposed American ignorance of, 277; - quotation from Waverley, 327; - Provost's letter, 365. - - Sculpture: warmed by love, 42, 43; - none in heaven, 191; - ignorance about English, 265. - (See _Art_, etc.) - - Seals on letters, 326-328. - - Secularists: in England, 171; - tame oratory, 193. - - Sedan, cause of lost battle, 308. - - Seduction, how restrained, 38. - - Self-control, grim, 397. - - Self-esteem, effect of benevolence in developing, 196. - - Self-examination, induced by letters, 380. - - Self-indulgence, of opposite kinds, 299, 300. - - Self-interest: affecting friendship, 116; - at the confessional, 202. - - Selfishness: affected by marriage, 26; - desire for comfort, 27; - affecting passion, 38; - in hosts, 101, 102; - in a letter, 334; - in amusements, 397. - - Sensuality, connection with Bohemianism, 296. - - Sentences, reading, 156. - - Sentiment, none in business, 353, 364. - - Separations: between friends, 111-118; - letter-writing during, 338; - Tasso family, 350, 351. - - Sepulchre, whited, 297. - - Sermons: one-sided, 29; - in library, 302. - - Servants: marriage to priests, 200; - often needful, 259; - concomitants of wealth, 297, 298; - none, 307; - in letters, 324; - anonymous letter, 376; - hired to wait, 397. - - Severn River, 270. - - Sexes: pleasure in association, 3; - passionate love, 34; - relations socially limited, 36, 37; - antagonism of nature and civilization, 41; - in natural scenery, 43; - inharmony in marriages, 44-62 _passim_; - sisters and brothers, 65; - connection with confession, 201-204; - lack of analysis, 280; - Bohemian relations, 296, 297. - - Shakspeare: indebtedness to the poor, 22; - Juliet, 39; - portraiture of youthful nonsense, 88; - allusion by Grant White, 277; - Macbeth and Hamlet confused, 290; - Polonius's advice applied to Goldsmith, 310. - - Shelley, Percy Bysshe: his study of past literature, 13; - passionate love, 34; - marriages, 35, 46-48, 55, 56; - quotation, 43; - disagreement with his father, 96, 97. - - Ships: passing the Suez canal, xii; - interest of Peter the Great, and dislike of his son, 85; - at siege of Syracuse, 215; - of war, 277, 278; - as affecting correspondence, 337; - drifting, 378; - fondness for details, 394. - - Shoeblack, illustration, 335. - - Shyness, English, 245. - - Siamese Twins, allusion, 290. - - Silence, golden, 85. - - Sin, affecting pulpit oratory, 193. - - Sir, the title, 137. - - Sisters: affection, 63-77 _passim_; - jealousy of admiration, 65; - pecuniary obligations, how regarded, 69. - - Slander: by rich people, 146, 147; - in anonymous letters, 370-377. - - Slang, commercial, 365. - - Slovenliness, part of Bohemianism, 296. - - Smith, an imaginary gentleman, 130. - - Smith, Jane, an imaginary character, 178. - - Smoking: affecting friendship, 115; - Bohemian practice, 305. - - Snobbery, among English travellers, 240-242. - - Sociability: affecting the appetite, 102; - English want of (Essay XVII.), 239-252; - in amusements, 383, 384. - - Society: good, in France, 15, 16; - eccentricity no barrier in London, 16-18; - exclusion, 21, 22; - unexpectedly found, 23-26; - alienation from common pursuits, 27, 28; - aid to study, 29-31; - restraints upon love, 36, 37; - laws set aside by George Eliot, 45, 46, 55; - Goethe's defiance, 52, 56, 57; - rights of hospitality, illustrated (Essay VII.), 99-109; - aristocratic, 124; - affected by rank and wealth (Essay X.), 130-147 _passim_; - and by religion (Essay XII.), 161-174 _passim_; - ruled by women, 176; - tyranny, 181; - clerical leisure, 196, 197; - inimical to Littre, 210; - absent air in, 237; - affected by Gentility (Essay XVIII.), 253-263; - secession of thinkers, 262, 263; - intellectual, 303; - usages, 304; - outside of, 307. - - Socrates, allusion, 204. - - Solicitors, their industry, 196. - - Solitude: social, 19; - dread, 21; - pleasant reliefs, 22-26; - serious evil, 27; - sometimes demoralizing, 28; - affecting study, 29; - mitigations, 29-31; - preferred, 31; - forgotten in labor, 31, 32; - picture of, 43; - Shelley's fondness, 47; - free space necessary, 77; - dislike prompting to hospitality (_q. v._), 143. - - Sons: separated from fathers by incompatibility, 10; - escape from paternal brutality, 76; - Fathers and (Essay VI.), 78-98; - change of circumstances, 78; - former obedience, 79; - orders out of fashion, 80; - outside education, 81; - education by the father, 82-85; - rapidity of youth, 86, 87; - lack of paternal resemblance, 88; - differing tastes, 89; - fathers outgrown, 90; - changes in culture, 91; - reservations, 92; - differing opinions, 93; - oldtime divisions, 94; - an imperial son, 95; - other painful instances, 96; - wounded by satire, 97; - right basis of sonship, 98. - (See _Family_, _Fathers_, etc.) - - Sorbonne, the, professorship of English, 152. - - Southey, Robert, Life of Nelson, 327. - - Spain: religious freedom, 164; - heretics burned, 180. - - Speculation, compared with experience, 30. - - Speech, silvern, 85. - - Spelling, inaccurate, 360. - (See _Languages_, etc.) - - Spencer, Herbert: made the cover for an assault upon a guest's opinions, - 106; - on display of wealth, 145; - confidence in nature's laws, 227. - - Spenser, Edmund, his poetic stanza, 384. - - Sports: often comparatively unrestrained, 36; - affecting fraternity, 64; - youth fitted for, 86; - roughening influence, 100; - affecting friendship, 115; - aristocratic, 124; - among the rich, 143; - ignorance about English, 267, 268; - concomitant of wealth, 297; - not enjoyed, 302; - William of Orange's, 345; - connection with amusement, 385-401 _passim_. - - Springtime of love, 34. - - Stanford's London Atlas, 274. - - Stars, illustration of crowds, 77. - - Steam, no help to friendship, 337. - - Stein, Baroness von, relations to Goethe, 51-53. - - Stephenson, George, his locomotive not a failure, 293. - - Stowe, Harriet Beecher, her works confounded with George Eliot's, 290. - - Strangers, treatment of by the English and others (Essay XVII.), 239-252 - _passim_. - - Stream, illustration from the impossibility of upward flow, 98. - - Strength, accompanied with exercise, 302. - - Studies: affecting friendship, 111; - literary and artistic, 400, 401. - - Subjugation, the motive of display of wealth, 145. - - Suez Canal, and superstition, xii. - - Sunbeam, yacht, 138, 139. - - Sunday: French incident, 128, 129; - allusion, 198; - supposed law, 281. - (See _Sabbath_.) - - Sunset, allusion, 31. - - Supernaturalism (Essay XV.), 215-231 _passim_; - doubts about, 377, 378. - - Superstition and religion (Essay XV.), 215-231 _passim_. - - Surgeon, an artistic, 289. - - Sweden, king of, 308. - - Swedenborgianism, commended to the author, 378. - - Swift, Jonathan, Gulliver's box, 261. - - Swimming: affected by railways, 14; - in France, 272. - - Switzerland: epithets applied to, 235; - tourists, 240; - Alps, 271; - Goldsmith's travels, 309; - Dore's travels, 345. - - Sympathy: with an author, 9; - one of two great powers deciding human intercourse, 11; - of a married man with a single, 25, 26; - between parents and children (Essay VI.), 78-98 _passim_; - between Priests and Women (Essay XIII. part I.), 175-186 _passim_. - - Symposium, antique, allusion, 29. - - Syracuse, siege, 215-217, 229. - - - Table: its pleasures comparatively unrestrained, 36; - former tyranny of hospitality, 101, 102; - modern customs, appetite affected by sociability, 102; - excess not required by hospitality, 103; - French fashion, 105; - instances of bad manners, 106, 107, 126-128; - rules of precedence, 130, 131; - matrons occupied with cares, 140, 141; - among the rich, 143; - tyranny, 172; - English manners towards strangers contrasted with those of other - nations (Essay XVII.), 239-252; - _dejeuner_, 273; - among the rich, 297; - talk about hunting, 398, 399. - - Talking, contrasted with writing, 354-357. - - Tasso, Bernardo, father of the poet, his letters, 350, 351. - - Taylor, Mrs., relations to Mill, 53-55. - - Telegraphy: under fixed law, 228; - affecting letters, 324, 325, 331, 361; - anecdote, 326. - - Telephone, illustration, 336. - - Temper, destroys friendship, 112, 118. - - Temperance, sometimes at war with hospitality, 102-104. - - Tenderness, in letters, 320, 322. - - Tennyson: study of past literature, 13; - line about brotherhood, 67; - religious sentiment of In Memoriam, 198; - loyalty to verse, 289; - Palace of Art, 386, 400. - - Thackeray, William Makepeace: Rev. Honeyman in The Newcomes, 203; - Book of Snobs, 242. - - Thames River, 270, 335. - - Theatre: avoidance, 123; - English travellers like actors, 242; - gifts of a painter, 341. - - Theleme, Abbaye de, its motto, 165. - - Thierry, Augustin, History of Norman Conquest, 251, 252. - - Thiers, Louis Adolphe, friendship with Mignet, 120, 121. - - Time, forgotten in labor, 31, 32. - - Timidity, taking refuge in correspondence, 356, 357. - - Titles: table precedence, 130; - estimate in England and on the Continent, 136, 137; - British regard, 241, 242, 248-252 _passim_; - French disregard, 248. - - Tolerance: induced by hospitality, 99; - of amusements, 389. - - Towneley Hall, library, 318. - - Trade: English and social exclusion, 19; - foolish distinctions, 132-135; - connection with national peace, 150; - adaptation of Greek language, 158; - interference of religion, 171, 174; - ignorance about English, 265, 266, 268; - Lancashire, 288; - careless tradesmen, 360, 361; - slang, 365. - - Translations: disliked, 154; - of Hamerton into French, 267. - - Transubstantiation: private opinion and outward form, 169; - poetic, 190. - (See _Roman Catholicism_, etc.) - - Trappist, freedom of an earnest, 164, 165. - - Travel: railway illustration, 13-15; - marriage simile, 44; - affecting fraternity, 64; - affecting friendship, 111; - facilitated, 160; - in Arabia, 226; - unsociability (Essay XVII.), 239-252; - in vans, 261, 262; - confusion of places, 291; - dispensing with luxury, 300; - an untravelled man, 301; - not cared for, 302; - cheap conveyances, 304; - books of, 305; - Goldsmith's, 309. - - Trees, and Radicals, 282, 283. - - Trinity, denial of, 257. - - Truth, violations (Essay XVI.), 232-238. - - Tudor Family: Mary's reign, 164; - criminality, 168; - Mary's persecution, 180. - - Turkey, war with Russia, 278. - - Turner, Joseph Mallord William, aided by Claude, 13. - - Type-writers, effect on correspondence, 333. - - Tyranny: of religion (Essay XII.), 161-174; - meanest form, 172, 174; - of majorities, 398. - - - Ulysses: literary simile, 29; - Bow of, 392. - - Understatement. (See _Untruth_.) - - Union of languages and peoples, 148-150. - - Unitarianism: no European sovereign dare profess, 167, 168; - difficulty with creeds, 172; - ignorance about, 257. - - United States, advantage of having the same language as England, 150. - - Universe, _univers_, 273-275. - - Universities: degrees, 91; - French and English, 275, 276; - Radical members, 284. - - Untruth: an Unrecognized Form of (Essay XVI.), 232-238; - two methods in painting, 232; - exaggeration and diminution, 233; - self-misrepresentation, 234; - overstatement and understatement illustrated in travelling epithets, - 235; - dead mediocrity in conversation, 236; - inadequacy, 237; - illustration, 238. - - - Vanity: national (Essay XIX.), 264-279 _passim_; - taking offence, 279; - absence, 301. - - Vice: of classes, 124, 125; - devilish, 195; - part of Bohemianism, 295, 296; - of best society, 297. - - Victoria, Queen: quotation from her diary, 186, 187; - her oldest son, 385. - - Violin, illustration, 389. - - Viollet-le-Duc, anecdote, 364. - - Virgil, Palmer's constant companion, 313. - (See _Latin_.) - - Virgin Mary, her influence, 176. - (See _Eugenie_, etc.) - - Virtue: of classes, 124, 125; - priestly adherence, 195; - definition, 208; - Buffon's and Littre's, 211. - - Visiting, with rich and poor, 139-144. - - Vitriol, in letters, 371. - - Vituperation, priestly, 194. - - Vivisection, feminine dislike, 180. - - Voltaire: quotation about Columbus, 274; - Goldsmith's interview, 309. - - Vulpius, Christiane, relations to Goethe, 52, 53. - - - Wagner, Richard, his Tannhaueser, 388. - - Wales, Prince of, laborious amusements, 385-387. - - Warcopp, Robert, in Plumpton letters, 323, 331. - - Wars: affected by study of languages, 148-150, 151, 160; - Eugenie's influence, 176; - divine connection, 215-224; - caused by national ignorance, 277, 278. - - Waterloo, battle, 153. - - Wave, simile, 251. - - Wealth: affecting fraternity, 66; - affecting domestic harmony, 77; - destroying friendship, 114, 116; - Flux of (Essay IX.), 119-129; - property variable, influence of changes, 119; - access of bachelors and the married to society, 120; - instances of friendship affected by poverty, 121; - false friends, 122; - imprudent marriages, 123; - middle-class instances of contentment, 124; - aid to refinement, 125; - dress, 126; - cards, and other forms of courtesy, superfluities, 127; - discipline of courtesy, 128; - rural manners in France, 129; - Differences (Essay X.), 130-147; - social precedence, 130; - land-ownership, 131; - trade, 132-134; - _nouveau riche_ and ancestry, 135; - titles, 136, 137; - varied enjoyments, 138, 139; - hospitality, 140-144; - English appreciation, 144-146; - undue deference, 146, 147; - overstatement and understatement, 234; - assumption, 242; - plutocracy, 246, 247; - American inequalities, 248; - genteel ignorance, 258-260; - two great advantages, 297, 298; - small measure, 298; - connection with Philistinism and Bohemianism, 299-314; - employs better agents, 359, 360; - connection with amusements, 383-401. - (See _Poverty_, etc.) - - Webb, Captain, lost at Niagara, 290. - - Weeds, illustration of Radicalism, 282. - - Weimar: Goethe's home, 52, 57; - Duke of, 57. - - Wenderholme, Hamerton's story, 378. - - Wesley, John, choice in religion, 173. - (See _Methodism_.) - - Westbrook, Harriett, relation to Shelley, 46, 47, 97. - - Westminster Abbey, mistaken for another building, 291. - - White, Richard Grant, story, 277. - - Whist, selfishness in, 397. - - William, emperor of Germany, table customs, 103. - - Wine: connection with hospitality, 101-103, 121; - traders in considered superior, 133; - ignorance about English use, 268, 269, 270; - port, 273; - concomitant of wealth, 297, 298; - simile, 367. - (See _Table_, etc.) - - Wives: a pitiful confession, 41; - George Eliot's position, 45, 46; - relations to noted husbands, 47-62; - dread of a wife's kindred, 73; - unions made by parents, 94-98; - destroying friendship, 115, 116; - tired, 144; - regard of Napoleon III., 225; - old letters, 322; - gain from post-cards, 329, 330; - privacy of letters, 350; - Montaigne's letter, 251, 252. - (See _Marriage_, _Women_, etc.) - - Wolf, priestly, 203. - - Wolseley, Sir Garnet, victory, 222, 223, 229. - - Wood, French use of, 272. - - Women: friendship between two, viii, ix; - absorption in one, 33; - beauty's attraction, 33, 38, 39; - passion long preserved, 40; - relations to certain noted men, 44-62 _passim_; - sisterly jealousy, 65; - governed by sentiment, 69; - adding to home discomfort, 75, 76; - English incivility, 106; - French incivility to English, and defence, 106; - social acuteness, 130; - Priests and Women (Essay XIII.), 175-204; - dislike of fixed rules, 175; - persuasive powers, ruling society, 176; - dependence, advisers, 177; - _love_, 178; - gentleness, 179; - sympathy with persecution, 180; - harm of both frivolity and seriousness, 181; - injustice of female sex, anxiety for sympathy, 182; - sensitiveness, 183; - services desired at special times, 184; - motherhood, 185; - consolation, 186; - aesthetic nature, 187; - fondness for show, 188; - dress, 189; - churches, 190; - worship in music, 191; - eloquence, 192; - eager for the right, 194; - obstinacy, 195; - association in benevolence, 196; - love of ceremony, 197; - festivals, 198; - confidence in a clergyman, 199; - marriage formerly disapproved, _clergywomen_, 200; - relief in confession, 201, 202; - gentlewomen's letters, 205, 206; - French, among strangers, 242, 243; - want of analysis, 280; - strong theological interest, 377-380; - old maids, 379-382; - gentlewomen, 381, 382; - not interested in sporting talk, 399. - (See _Marriage_, _Wives_, etc.) - - Word, power of a, 118. - - Wordsworth: indebtedness to the poor, 22; - on Nature's loyalty, 30; - instance of his uncleanness, 311. - - Work, softens solitude, 31, 32. - - Working-men. (See _Lower Classes_.) - - World, possible enjoyment of, 303. - - Worship: word in wedding-service, 62; - limited by locality, 171-174; - musical, 191; - expressions in letters, 321. - - Writing, a new discovery supposed, 336. - - Wryghame, message by, 320. - - Wycherley, William, his ribaldry, 181. - - - Yachting, 258, 259, 292, 358. - (See _Boating_.) - - York: Minster, 190; - archbishop, 222; - diocese, 275. - - Yorkshire, letter to, 320. - - Youth: contrasted with age, 87-89; - nonsense reproduced by Shakspeare, 89; - insult, 107; - in friendship, 111, 112; - acceptance of kindness, 117; - semblance caused by ignorance of a language, 151. - - - Zeus, a hunter compared to, 391. - - -THE END. - -University Press: John Wilson & Son, Cambridge. - - - - -FOOTNOTES: - -[1] An expression used to me by a learned Doctor of Oxford. - -[2] The causes of this curious repulsion are inquired into elsewhere in -this volume. - -[3] The exact degree of blame due to Shelley is very difficult to -determine. He had nothing to do with the suicide, though the separation -was the first in a train of circumstances that led to it. It seems clear -that Harriett did not desire the separation, and clear also that she did -nothing to assert her rights. Shelley ought not to have left her, but he -had not the patience to accept as permanent the consequences of a mistaken -marriage. - -[4] Lewes's "Life of Goethe." - -[5] Only a poet can write of his private sorrows. In prose one cannot -sing,-- - - "A dirge for her, the doubly dead, in that she died so young." - -[6] Schuyler's "Peter the Great." - -[7] That valiant enemy of false pretensions, Mr. Punch, has often done -good service in throwing ridicule on unreal distinctions. In "Punch's -Almanack" for 1882 I find the following exquisite conversation beneath one -of George Du Maurier's inimitable drawings: - - _Grigsby._ Do you know the Joneses? - - _Mrs. Brown._ No, we--er--don't care to know _Business_ people, as a - rule, although my husband's in business; but then he's in the _Coffee_ - business,--and they're all GENTLEMEN in the _Coffee_ business, you - know! - - _Grigsby_ (who always suits himself to his company). _Really_, now! - Why, that's more than can be said of the Army, the Navy, the Church, - the Bar, or even the _House of Lords_! I don't _wonder_ at your being - rather _exclusive_! - -[8] I am often amused by the indignant feelings of English journalists on -this matter. Some French newspaper calls an Englishman a lord when he is -not a lord, and our journalists are amazed at the incorrigible ignorance -of the French. If Englishmen cared as little about titles they would be -equally ignorant, and two or three other things are to be said in defence -of the French journalist that English critics _never_ take into account. -They suppose that because Gladstone is commonly called Mr. a Frenchman -ought to know that he cannot be a lord. That does not follow. In France a -man may be called Monsieur and be a baron at the same time. A Frenchman -may answer, "If Gladstone is not a lord, why do you call him one? English -almanacs not only say that Gladstone is a lord, but that he is the very -First Lord of the Treasury. Again, why am I not to speak of Sir -Chamberlain? I have seen a printed letter to him beginning with 'Sir,' -which is plain evidence that your 'Sir' is the equivalent of our -_Monsieur_." A Frenchman is surely not to be severely blamed if he is not -aware that the First Lord of the Treasury is not a lord at all, and that a -man who is called a "Sir" inside every letter addressed to him has no -right to that title on the envelope. - -[9] That of M. Leopold Double. - -[10] I need hardly say that this is not intended as a description of poor -men's hospitality generally, but only of the effects of poverty on -hospitality in certain cases. The point of the contrast lies in the -difference between this uncomfortable hospitality, which a lover of -pleasant human intercourse avoids, with the easy and agreeable hospitality -that the very same people would probably have offered if they had -possessed the conveniences of wealth. - -[11] Italian, to me, seems Latin made natural. - -[12] So far as the State and society generally are concerned; but there -are private situations in which even a member of the State Church does not -enjoy perfect religious liberty. Suppose the case (I am describing a real -case) of a lady left a widow and in poverty. Her relations are wealthy -Dissenters. They offer to provide for her handsomely if she will renounce -the Church of England and join their own sect. Does she enjoy religious -liberty? The answer depends upon the question whether she is able to earn -her own living or not. If she is, she can secure religious freedom by -incessant labor; if she is unable to earn her living she will have no -religious freedom, although she belongs, in conscience, to the most -powerful religion in the State. In the case I am thinking of, the lady had -the honorable courage to open a little shop, and so remained a member of -the Church of England; but her freedom was bought by labor and was -therefore not the same thing as the best freedom, which is unembittered by -sacrifice. - -[13] The phrase adopted by Court journalists in speaking of such a -conversion is, "The Princess has received instruction in the religion -which she will adopt on her marriage," or words to that effect, just as if -different and mutually hostile religions were not more contradictory of -each other than sciences, and as if a person could pass from one religion -to another with no more twisting and wrenching of previous beliefs than he -would incur in passing from botany to geology. - -[14] The word "generally" is inserted here because women do apparently -sometimes enjoy the infliction of undeserved pain on other creatures. They -grace bull-fights with their presence, and will see horses disembowelled -with apparent satisfaction. It may be doubted, too, whether the Empress of -Austria has any compassion for the sufferings of a fox. - -[15] I have purposely omitted from the text another cause for feminine -indifference to the work of persecutors, but it may be mentioned -incidentally. At certain times those women whose influence on persons in -authority might have been effectively employed in favor of the oppressed -were too frivolous or even too licentious for their thoughts to turn -themselves to any such serious matter. This was the case in England under -Charles II. The contrast between the occupations of such women as these -and the sufferings of an earnest man has been aptly presented by -Macaulay:-- - - "The ribaldry of Etherege and Wycherley was, in the presence and under - the special sanction of the head of the Church, publicly recited by - female lips in female ears, while the author of the 'Pilgrim's - Progress' languished in a dungeon, for the crime of proclaiming the - gospel to the poor." - -This is deplorable enough; but on the whole I do not think that the -frivolity of light-minded women has been so harmful to noble causes as the -readiness with which serious women place their immense influence at the -service of constituted authorities, however wrongfully those authorities -may act. Ecclesiastical authorities especially may quietly count upon this -kind of support, and they always do so. - -[16] Since this Essay was written I have met with the following passage in -Her Majesty's diary, which so accurately describes the consolatory -influence of clergymen, and the natural desire of women for the -consolation given by them, that I cannot refrain from quoting it. The -Queen is speaking of her last interview with Dr. Norman Macleod:-- - - "He dwelt then, as always, on the love and goodness of God, and on his - conviction that God would give us, in another life, the means to - perfect ourselves and to improve gradually. No one ever felt so - convinced, and so anxious as he to convince others, that God was a - loving Father who wished all to come to Him, and to preach of a living - personal Saviour, One who loved us as a brother and a friend, to whom - all could and should come with trust and confidence. No one ever - raised and strengthened one's faith more than Dr. Macleod. His own - faith was so strong, his heart so large, that all--high and low, weak - and strong, the erring and the good--_could alike find sympathy, help, - and consolation from him_." - - "_How I loved to talk to him, to ask his advice, to speak to him of my - sorrows and anxieties._" - -A little farther on in the same diary Her Majesty speaks of Dr. Macleod's -beneficial influence upon another lady:-- - - "He had likewise a marvellous power of winning people of all kinds, - and of sympathizing with the highest and with the humblest, and of - soothing and comforting the sick, the dying, the afflicted, the - erring, and the doubting. _A friend of mine told me that if she were - in great trouble, or sorrow, or anxiety, Dr. Norman Macleod was the - person she would wish to go to._" - -The two points to be noted in these extracts are: first, the faith in a -loving God who cares for each of His creatures individually (not acting -only by general laws); and, secondly, the way in which the woman goes to -the clergyman (whether in formal confession or confidential conversation) -to hear consolatory doctrine from his lips in application to her own -personal needs. The faith and the tendency are both so natural in women -that they could only cease in consequence of the general and most -improbable acceptance by women of the scientific doctrine that the Eternal -Energy is invariably regular in its operations and inexorable, and that -the priest has no clearer knowledge of its inscrutable nature than the -layman. - -[17] These quotations (I need hardly say) are from Macaulay's History, -Chapter III. - -[18] The difference of interest as regards people of rank may be seen by a -comparison of French and English newspapers. In an English paper, even on -the Liberal side, you constantly meet with little paragraphs informing you -that one titled person has gone to stay with another titled person; that -some old titled lady is in poor health, or some young one going to be -married; or that some gentleman of title has gone out in his yacht, or -entertained friends to shoot grouse,--the reason being that English people -like to hear about persons of title, however insignificant the news may be -in itself. If paragraphs of the same kind were inserted in any serious -French newspaper the subscribers would wonder how they got there, and what -possible interest for the public there could be in the movements of -mediocrities, who had nothing but titles to distinguish them. - -[19] Since this Essay was written I have come upon a passage quoted from -Henry Knyghton by Augustin Thierry in his "History of the Norman -Conquest:"-- - - "It is not to be wondered at if the difference of nationality (between - the Norman and Saxon races) produces a difference of conditions, or - that there should result from it an excessive distrust of natural - love; and that the separateness of blood should produce a broken - confidence in mutual trust and affection." - -Now, the question suggests itself, whether the reason why Englishman shuns -Englishman to-day may not be traceable, ultimately, to the state of -feeling described by Knyghton as a result of the Norman Conquest. We must -remember that the avoidance of English by English is quite peculiar to us; -no other race exhibits the same peculiarity. It is therefore probably due -to some very exceptional fact in English history. The Norman Conquest was -exactly the exceptional fact we are in search of. The results of it may be -traceable as follows:-- - -1. Norman and Saxon shun each other. - -2. Norman has become aristocrat. - -3. Would-be aristocrat (present representative of Norman) shuns possible -plebeian (present representative of Saxon). - -[20] It so happens that I am writing this Essay in a rough wooden hut of -my own, which is in reality a most comfortable little building, though -"stuffy luxury" is rigorously excluded. - -[21] At present it is most inadequately represented by a few unimportant -gifts. The donors have desired to break the rule of exclusion, and have -succeeded so far, but that is all. - -[22] These, of course, are only examples of vulgar patriotic ignorance. A -few Frenchmen who have really _seen_ what is best in English landscape are -delighted with it; but the common impression about England is that it is -an ugly country covered with _usines_, and on which the sun never shines. - -[23] The French word _univers_ has three or four distinct senses. It may -mean all that exists, or it may mean the solar system, or it may mean the -earth's surface, in whole or in part. Voltaire said that Columbus, by -simply looking at a map of our _univers_, had guessed that there must be -another, that is, the western hemisphere. "Paris est la plus belle ville -de l'univers" means simply that Paris is the most beautiful city in the -world. - -[24] A French critic recently observed that his countrymen knew little of -the tragedy of "Macbeth" except the familiar line "To be or not to be, -that is the question!" - -[25] I never make a statement of this kind without remembering instances, -even when it does not seem worth while to mention them particularly. It is -not of much use to quote what one has heard in conversation, but here are -two instances in print. Reclus, the French geographer, in "La Terre a Vol -d'Oiseau," gives a woodcut of the Houses of Parliament and calls it -"L'Abbaye de Westminster." The same error has even occurred in a French -art periodical. - -[26] Rodolphe, in "L'Honneur et l'Argent." - -[27] In the library at Towneley Hall in Lancashire. - -[28] In Prosper Merimee's "Correspondence" he gives the following as the -authentic text of the letter in which Lady Florence Paget announced her -elopement with the last Marquis of Hastings to her father:-- - - "Dear Pa, as I knew you would never consent to my marriage with Lord - Hastings, I was wedded to him to-day. I remain yours, etc." - -[29] For those who take an interest in such matters I may say that the -last representative of the Plumptons died in France unmarried in 1749, and -Plumpton Hall was barbarously pulled down by its purchaser, an ancestor of -the present Earls of Harewood. The history of the family is very -interesting, and the more so to me that it twice intermarried with my own. -Dorothy Plumpton was a niece of the first Sir Stephen Hamerton. - -[30] Sir Walter Scott had sympathy enough with the courtesy of old time to -note its minutiae very closely:-- - - "After inspecting the cavalry, Sir Everard again conducted his nephew - to the library, where he produced a letter, _carefully folded, - surrounded by a little stripe of flox-silk, according to ancient - form_, and sealed with _an accurate impression_ of the Waverley - coat-of-arms. It was addressed, _with great formality_, 'To Cosmo - Comyne Bradwardine, Esq., of Bradwardine, at his principal mansion of - Tully-Veolan, in Perthshire, North Britain. These--by the hands of - Captain Edward Waverley, nephew of Sir Everard Waverley, of - Waverley-Honour, Bart.'"--_Waverley_, chap. vi. - -I had not this passage in mind when writing the text of this Essay, but -the reader will notice how closely it confirms what I have said about -deliberation and care to secure a fair impression of the seal. - -[31] A very odd but very real objection to the employment of these -missives is that the receiver does not always know how to open them, and -may burn them unread. I remember sending a short letter in this shape from -France to an English lady. She destroyed my letter without opening it; and -I got for answer that "if it was a French custom to send blank post-cards -she did not know what could be the signification of it." Such was the -result of a well-meant attempt to avoid the non-courteous post-card! - -[32] Besides which, in the case of a French friend, you are sure to have -notice of such events by printed _lettres de faire part_. - -[33] I need hardly say that there has been immense improvement in this -respect, and that such descriptions have no application to the Lancashire -of to-day; indeed, they were never true, in that extreme degree, of -Lancashire generally, but only of certain small localities which were at -one time like spots of local disease on a generally vigorous body. - -[34] Littre derives _corvee_ from the Low-Latin _corrogata_, from the -Latin _cum_ and _rogare_. - - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's Human Intercourse, by Philip Gilbert Hamerton - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HUMAN INTERCOURSE *** - -***** This file should be named 43359.txt or 43359.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/4/3/3/5/43359/ - -Produced by The Online Distributed Proofreading Team at -http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images -generously made available by The Internet Archive.) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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