{"collection":"philosophy-ethics","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_43359/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_43359","id":"gutenberg_43359","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/43359","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Essays, Letters & Speeches","Category: Philosophy & Ethics","Conduct of life","Manners and customs"],"text":"Produced by The Online Distributed Proofreading Team at\nhttp://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images\ngenerously made available by The Internet Archive.)\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n  HUMAN INTERCOURSE.\n\n\n  BY PHILIP GILBERT HAMERTON,\n  AUTHOR OF \"THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE,\" \"A PAINTER'S CAMP,\"\n  \"THOUGHTS ABOUT ART,\" \"CHAPTERS ON ANIMALS,\" \"ROUND MY\n  HOUSE,\" \"THE SYLVAN YEAR\" AND \"THE UNKNOWN RIVER,\"\n  \"WENDERHOLME,\" \"MODERN FRENCHMEN,\" \"LIFE OF J. M. W.\n  TURNER,\" \"THE GRAPHIC ARTS,\" \"ETCHING AND ETCHERS,\"\n  \"PARIS IN OLD AND PRESENT TIMES,\" \"HARRY BLOUNT.\"\n\n\n  \"I love tranquil solitude,\n      And such society\n  As is quiet, wise, and good.\"\n                    SHELLEY.\n\n\n  BOSTON:\n  LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY.\n  1898.\n\n\n\n\n  AUTHOR'S EDITION.\n\n  University Press:\n  JOHN WILSON AND SON, CAMBRIDGE.\n\n\n\n\nTo the Memory of Emerson.\n\n\n_If I dedicate this book on Human Intercourse to the memory of one whose\nvoice I never heard, and to whom I never addressed a letter, the seeming\ninappropriateness will disappear when the reader knows what a great and\npersistent influence he had on the whole course of my thinking, and\ntherefore on all my work. He was told of this before his death, and the\nacknowledgment gave him pleasure. Perhaps this public repetition of it may\nnot be without utility at a time when, although it is clear to us that he\nhas left an immortal name, the exact nature of the rank he will occupy\namongst great men does not seem to be evident as yet. The embarrassment of\npremature criticism is a testimony to his originality. But although it may\nbe too soon for us to know what his name will mean to posterity, we may\ntell posterity what service he rendered to ourselves. To me he taught two\ngreat lessons. The first was to rely confidently on that order of the\nuniverse which makes it always really worth while to do our best, even\nthough the reward may not be visible; and the second was to have\nself-reliance enough to trust our own convictions and our own gifts, such\nas they are, or such as they may become, without either echoing the\nopinions or desiring the more brilliant gifts of others. Emerson taught\nmuch besides; but it is these two doctrines of reliance on the\ncompensations of Nature, and of a self-respectful reliance on our own\nindividuality, that have the most invigorating influence on workers like\nmyself. Emerson knew that each of us can only receive that for which he\nhas an affinity, and can only give forth effectually what is by\nbirthright, or has become, his own. To have accepted this doctrine with\nperfect contentment is to possess one's soul in peace._\n\n_Emerson combined high intellect with pure honesty, and remained faithful\nto the double law of the intellectual life--high thinking and fearless\nutterance--to the end of his days, with a beautiful persistence and\nserenity. So now I go, in spirit, a pilgrim to that tall pine-tree that\ngrows upon \"the hill-top to the east of Sleepy Hollow,\" and lay one more\nwreath upon an honored grave._\n\n_June 24, 1884._\n\n\n\n\nPREFACE.\n\n\nWhen this book was begun, some years ago, I made a formal plan, according\nto which it was to have been one long Essay or Treatise, divided into\nsections and chapters, and presenting that apparently perfect _ordonnance_\nwhich gives such an imposing air to a work of art. I say \"apparently\nperfect _ordonnance_,\" because in such cases the perfection of the\narrangement is often only apparent, and the work is like those formal\npseudo-classical buildings that seem, with their regular columns, spaces,\nand windows, the very highest examples of method; but you find on entering\nthat the internal distribution of space is defective and inconvenient,\nthat one room has a window in a corner and another half a window, that one\nis needlessly large for its employment and another far too small. In\nliterature the ostentation of order may compel an author to extreme\ncondensation in one part of his book and to excessive amplification in\nanother, since, in reality, the parts of his subject do not fall more\nnaturally into equal divisions than words beginning with different letters\nin the dictionary. I therefore soon abandoned external rigidity of order,\nand made my divisions more elastic; but I went still further after some\nexperiments, and abandoned the idea of a Treatise. This was not done\nwithout some regret, as I know that a Treatise has a better chance of\npermanence than a collection of Essays; but, in this case, I met with an\ninvisible obstacle that threatened to prevent good literary execution.\nAfter making some progress I felt that the work was not very readable, and\nthat the writing of it was not a satisfactory occupation. Whenever this\nhappens there is sure to be an error of method somewhere. What the error\nwas in this case I did not discover for a long time, but at last I\nsuddenly perceived it. A formal Treatise, to be satisfactory, can only be\nwritten about ascertained or ascertainable laws; and human intercourse as\nit is carried on between individuals, though it looks so accessible to\nevery observer, is in reality a subject of infinite mystery and obscurity,\nabout which hardly anything is known, about which certainly nothing is\nknown absolutely and completely. I found that every attempt to ascertain\nand proclaim a law only ended, when the supposed law was brought face to\nface with nature, by discovering so many exceptions that the best\npractical rules were suspension of judgment and a reliance upon nothing\nbut special observation in each particular case. I found that in real\nhuman intercourse the theoretically improbable, or even the theoretically\nimpossible, was constantly happening. I remember a case in real life which\nillustrates this very forcibly. A certain English lady, influenced by the\nreceived ideas about human intercourse which define the conditions of it\nin a hard and sharp manner, was strongly convinced that it would be\nimpossible for her to have friendly relations with another lady whom she\nhad never seen, but was likely to see frequently. All her reasons would be\nconsidered excellent reasons by those who believe in maxims and rules. It\nwas plain that there could be nothing in common. The other lady was\nneither of the same country, nor of the same religious and political\nparties, nor exactly of the same class, nor of the same generation. These\nfacts were known, and the inference deduced from them was that intercourse\nwould be impossible. After some time the English lady began to perceive\nthat the case did not bear out the supposed rules; she discovered that the\nyounger lady might be an acceptable friend. At last the full strange truth\nbecame apparent,--that she was singularly well adapted, better adapted\nthan any other human being, to take a filial relation to the elder,\nespecially in times of sickness, when her presence was a wonderful\nsupport. Then the warmest affection sprang up between the two, lasting\ntill separation by death and still cherished by the survivor. What becomes\nof rules and maxims and wise old saws in the face of nature and reality?\nWhat can we do better than to observe nature with an open, unprejudiced\nmind, and gather some of the results of observation?\n\nI am conscious of several omissions that may possibly be rectified in\nanother volume if this is favorably accepted. The most important of these\nare the influence of age on intercourse, and the effects of living in the\nsame house, which are not invariably favorable. Both these subjects are\nvery important, and I have not time to treat them now with the care they\nwould require. There ought also to have been a careful study of the\nnatural antagonisms, which are of terrible importance when people,\nnaturally antagonistic, are compelled by circumstances to live together.\nThese are, however, generally of less importance than the affinities,\nbecause we contrive to make our intercourse with antagonistic people as\nshort and rare as possible, and that with sympathetic people as frequent\nand long as circumstances will permit.\n\nI will not close this preface without saying that the happiness of\nsympathetic human intercourse seems to me incomparably greater than any\nother pleasure. I may be supposed to have passed the age of enthusiastic\nillusions, yet I would at any time rather pass a week with a real friend\nin any place that afforded simple shelter than with an indifferent person\nin a palace. In saying this I am thinking of real experiences. One of my\nfriends who is devoted to arch\u00e6ological excavations has often invited me\nto share his life in a hut or a cottage, and I have invariably found that\nthe pleasure of his society far overbalanced the absence of luxury. On the\nother hand, I have sometimes endured extreme _ennui_ at sumptuous feasts\nin richly appointed houses. The result of experience, in my case, has been\nto confirm a youthful conviction that the value of certain persons is not\nto be estimated by comparison with anything else. I was always a believer,\nand am so at this day more than ever, in the happiness of genuine human\nintercourse, but I prefer solitude to the false imitation of it. It is in\nthis as in other pleasures, the better we appreciate the real thing, the\nless we are disposed to accept the spurious copy as a substitute. By far\nthe greater part of what passes for human intercourse is not intercourse\nat all, but only acting, of which the highest object and most considerable\nmerit is to conceal the weariness that accompanies its hollow observances.\n\nOne sad aspect of my subject has not been touched upon in this volume. It\nwas often present in my thoughts, but I timidly shrank from dealing with\nit. I might have attempted to show in what manner intercourse is cut short\nby death. All reciprocity of intercourse is, or appears to be, entirety\ncut short by that catastrophe; but those who have talked with us much in\nformer years retain an influence that may be even more constant than our\nrecollection of them. My own recollection of the dead is extremely vivid\nand clear, and I cultivate it by willingly thinking about them, being\nespecially happy when by some accidental flash of brighter memory a more\nthan usual degree of lucidity is obtained. I accept with resignation the\nnatural law, on the whole so beneficent, that when an organism is no\nlonger able to exist without suffering, or senile decrepitude, it should\nbe dissolved and made insensible of suffering; but I by no means accept\nthe idea that the dead are to be forgotten in order that we may spare\nourselves distress. Let us give them their due place, their great place,\nin our hearts and in our thoughts; and if the sweet reciprocity of human\nintercourse is no longer possible with those who are silent and asleep,\nlet the memory of past intercourse be still a part of our lives. There are\nhours when we live with the dead more than with the living, so that\nwithout any trace of superstition we feel their old sweet influence acting\nupon us yet, and it seems as if only a little more were needed to give us\n\"the touch of a vanished hand, and the sound of a voice that is still.\"\n\nClosely connected with this subject of death is the subject of religious\nbeliefs. In the present state of confusion and change, some causes of\nwhich are indicated in this volume, the only plain course for honorable\nmen is to act always in favor of truthfulness, and therefore against\nhypocrisy, and against those encouragers of hypocrisy who offer social\nadvantages as rewards for it. What may come in the future we cannot tell,\nbut we may be sure that the best way to prepare for the future is to be\nhonest and candid in the present. There are two causes which are gradually\neffecting a great change, and as they are natural causes they are\nirresistibly powerful. One is the process of analytic detachment, by which\nsentiments and feelings once believed to be religious are now found to be\nseparable from religion. If a French peasant has a feeling for\narchitecture, poetry, or music, or an appreciation of eloquence, or a\ndesire to hear a kind of moral philosophy, he goes to the village church\nto satisfy these dim incipient desires. In his case these feelings and\nwants are all confusedly connected with religion; in ours they are\ndetached from it, and only reconnected with it by accident, we being still\naware that there is no essential identity. That is the first dissolving\ncause. It seems only to affect the externals of religion, but it goes\ndeeper by making the consciously religious state of mind less habitual.\nThe second cause is even more serious in its effects. We are acquiring the\nhabit of explaining everything by natural causes, and of trying to remedy\neverything by the employment of natural means. Journals dependent on\npopular approval for the enormous circulation that is necessary to their\nexistence do not hesitate, in clear terms, to express their preference of\nnatural means to the invocation of supernatural agencies. For example, the\ncorrespondent of the \"Daily News\" at Port Said, after describing the\nannual blessing of the Suez Canal at the Epiphany, observes: \"Thus the\ncanal was solemnly blessed. The opinion of the captains of the ships that\nthrong the harbor, waiting until the block adjusts itself, is that it\nwould be better to widen it.\" Such an opinion is perfectly modern,\nperfectly characteristic of our age. We think that steam excavators and\ndredgers would be more likely to prevent blocks in the Suez Canal than a\npriest reading prayers out of a book and throwing a golden cross into the\nsea, to be fished up again by divers. We cannot help thinking as we do:\nour opinion has not been chosen by us voluntarily, it has been forced upon\nus by facts that we cannot help seeing, but it deprives us of an\nopportunity for a religious emotion, and it separates us, on that point,\nfrom all those who are still capable of feeling it. I have given\nconsiderable space to the consideration of these changes, but not a\ndisproportionate space. They have a deplorable effect on human intercourse\nby dividing friends and families into different groups, and by separating\nthose who might otherwise have enjoyed friendship unreservedly. It is\nprobable, too, that we are only at the beginning of the conflict, and that\nin years not immeasurably distant there will be fierce struggles on the\nmost irritating of practical issues. To name but one of these it is\nprobable that there will be a sharp struggle when a strong and determined\nnaturalist party shall claim the instruction of the young, especially with\nregard to the origin of the race, the beginnings of animal life, and the\nevidences of intention in nature. Loving, as I do, the amenities of a\npeaceful and polished civilization much better than angry controversy, I\nlong for the time when these great questions will be considered as settled\none way or the other, or else, if they are beyond our intelligence, for\nthe time when they may be classed as insoluble, so that men may work out\ntheir destiny without bitter quarrels about their origin. The present at\nleast is ours, and it depends upon ourselves whether it is to be wasted in\nvain disputes or brightened by charity and kindness.\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS.\n\n\n  ESSAY                                                     PAGE\n\n      I. ON THE DIFFICULTY OF DISCOVERING FIXED LAWS           3\n\n     II. INDEPENDENCE                                         12\n\n    III. OF PASSIONATE LOVE                                   33\n\n     IV. COMPANIONSHIP IN MARRIAGE                            44\n\n      V. FAMILY TIES                                          63\n\n     VI. FATHERS AND SONS                                     78\n\n    VII. THE RIGHTS OF THE GUEST                              99\n\n   VIII. THE DEATH OF FRIENDSHIP                             110\n\n     IX. THE FLUX OF WEALTH                                  119\n\n      X. DIFFERENCES OF RANK AND WEALTH                      130\n\n     XI. THE OBSTACLE OF LANGUAGE                            148\n\n    XII. THE OBSTACLE OF RELIGION                            161\n\n   XIII. PRIESTS AND WOMEN                                   175\n\n    XIV. WHY WE ARE APPARENTLY BECOMING LESS RELIGIOUS       205\n\n     XV. HOW WE ARE REALLY BECOMING LESS RELIGIOUS           215\n\n    XVI. ON AN UNRECOGNIZED FORM OF UNTRUTH                  232\n\n   XVII. ON A REMARKABLE ENGLISH PECULIARITY                 239\n\n  XVIII. OF GENTEEL IGNORANCE                                253\n\n    XIX. PATRIOTIC IGNORANCE                                 264\n\n     XX. CONFUSIONS                                          280\n\n    XXI. THE NOBLE BOHEMIANISM                               295\n\n   XXII. OF COURTESY IN EPISTOLARY COMMUNICATION             315\n\n  XXIII. LETTERS OF FRIENDSHIP                               336\n\n   XXIV. LETTERS OF BUSINESS                                 354\n\n    XXV. ANONYMOUS LETTERS                                   370\n\n   XXVI. AMUSEMENTS                                          383\n\n  INDEX                                                      403\n\n\n\n\nHUMAN INTERCOURSE.\n\n\n\n\nHUMAN INTERCOURSE.\n\n\n\n\nESSAY I.\n\nON THE DIFFICULTY OF DISCOVERING FIXED LAWS.\n\n\nA book on Human Intercourse might be written in a variety of ways, and\namongst them might be an attempt to treat the subject in a scientific\nmanner so as to elucidate those natural laws by which intercourse between\nhuman beings must be regulated. If we knew quite perfectly what those laws\nare we should enjoy the great convenience of being able to predict with\ncertainty which men and women would be able to associate with pleasure,\nand which would be constrained or repressed in each other's society. Human\nintercourse would then be as much a positive science as chemistry, in\nwhich the effects of bringing substances together can be foretold with the\nutmost accuracy. Some very distant approach to this scientific state may\nin certain instances actually be made. When we know the characters of two\npeople with a certain degree of precision we may sometimes predict that\nthey are sure to quarrel, and have the satisfaction of witnessing the\nexplosion that our own acumen has foretold. To detect in people we know\nthose incompatibilities that are the fatal seeds of future dissension is\none of our malicious pleasures. An acute observer really has considerable\npowers of prediction and calculation with reference to individual human\nbeings, but there his wisdom ends. He cannot deduce from these separate\ncases any general rules or laws that can be firmly relied upon as every\nreal law of nature can be relied upon, and therefore it may be concluded\nthat such rules are not laws of nature at all, but only poor and\nuntrustworthy substitutes for them.\n\nThe reason for this difficulty I take to be the extreme complexity of\nhuman nature and its boundless variety, which make it always probable that\nin every mind which we have not long and closely studied there will be\nelements wholly unknown to us. How often, with regard to some public man,\nwho is known to us only in part through his acts or his writings, are we\nsurprised by the sudden revelation of characteristics that we never\nimagined for him and that seem almost incompatible with the better known\nside of his nature! How much the more, then, are we likely to go wrong in\nour estimates of people we know nothing about, and how impossible it must\nbe for us to determine how they are likely to select their friends and\ncompanions!\n\nCertain popular ideas appear to represent a sort of rude philosophy of\nhuman intercourse. There is the common belief, for example, that, in order\nto associate pleasantly together, people should be of the same class and\nnearly in the same condition of fortune, but when we turn to real life we\nfind very numerous instances in which this fancied law is broken with the\nhappiest results. The late Duke of Albany may be mentioned as an example.\nNo doubt his own natural refinement would have prevented him from\nassociating with vulgar people; but he readily associated with refined and\ncultivated people who had no pretension to rank. His own rank was a power\nin his hands that he used for good, and he was conscious of it, but it did\nnot isolate him; he desired to know people as they are, and was capable of\nfeeling the most sincere respect for anybody who deserved it. So it is,\ngenerally, with all who have the gifts of sympathy and intelligence.\nMerely to avoid what is disagreeable has nothing to do with pride of\nstation. Vulgar society is disagreeable, which is a sufficient reason for\nkeeping aloof from it. Amongst people of refinement, association or even\nfriendship is possible in spite of differences of rank and fortune.\n\nAnother popular belief is that \"men associate together when they are\ninterested in the same things.\" It would, however, be easy to adduce very\nnumerous instances in which an interest in similar things has been a cause\nof quarrel, when if one of the two parties had regarded those things with\nindifference, harmonious intercourse might have been preserved. The\nlivelier our interest in anything the more does acquiescence in matters of\ndetail appear essential to us. Two people are both of them extremely\nreligious, but one of them is a Mahometan, and the other a Christian; here\nthe interest in religion causes a divergence, enough in most cases to make\nintercourse impossible, when it would have been quite possible if both\nparties had regarded religion with indifference. Bring the two nearer\ntogether, suppose them to be both Christians, they acknowledge one law,\none doctrine, one Head of the church in heaven. Yes, but they do not\nacknowledge the same head of it on earth, for one accepts the Papal\nsupremacy, which the other denies; and their common Christianity is a\nfeeble bond of union in comparison with the forces of repulsion contained\nin a multitude of details. Two nominal, indifferent Christians who take no\ninterest in theology would have a better chance of agreeing. Lastly,\nsuppose them to be both members of the Church of England, one of the old\nschool, with firm and settled beliefs on every point and a horror of the\nmost distant approaches to heresy, the other of the new school, vague,\nindeterminate, desiring to preserve his Christianity as a sentiment when\nit has vanished as a faith, thinking that the Bible is not true in the old\nsense but only \"contains\" truth, that the divinity of Christ is \"a past\nissue,\"[1] and that evolution is, on the whole, more probable than direct\nand intentional creation,--what possible agreement can exist between these\ntwo? If they both care about religious topics, and talk about them, will\nnot their disagreement be in exact proportion to the liveliness of their\ninterest in the subject? So in a realm with which I have some\nacquaintance, that of the fine arts, discord is always probable between\nthose who have a passionate delight in art. Innocent, well-intentioned\nfriends think that because two men \"like painting,\" they ought to be\nintroduced, as they are sure to amuse each other. In reality, their\ntastes may be more opposed than the taste of either of them is to perfect\nindifference. One has a severe taste for beautiful form and an active\ncontempt for picturesque accidents and romantic associations, the other\nfeels chilled by severe beauty and delights in the picturesque and\nromantic. If each is convinced of the superiority of his own principles he\nwill deduce from them an endless series of judgments that can only\nirritate the other.\n\nSeeing that nations are always hostile to each other, always watchfully\njealous and inclined to rejoice in every evil that happens to a neighbor,\nit would appear safe to predict that little intercourse could exist\nbetween persons of different nationality. When, however, we observe the\nfacts as they are in real life, we perceive that very strong and durable\nfriendships often exist between men who are not of the same nation, and\nthat the chief obstacle to the formation of these is not so much\nnationality as difference of language. There is, no doubt, a prejudice\nthat one is not likely to get on well with a foreigner, and the prejudice\nhas often the effect of keeping people of different nationality apart, but\nwhen once it is overcome it is often found that very powerful feelings of\nmutual respect and sympathy draw the strangers together. On the other\nhand, there is not the least assurance that the mere fact of being born in\nthe same country will make two men regard each other with kindness. An\nEnglishman repels another Englishman when he meets him on the\nContinent.[2] The only just conclusion is that nationality affords no\ncertain rule either in favor of intercourse or against it. A man may\npossibly be drawn towards a foreign nationality by his appreciation of its\nexcellence in some art that he loves, but this is the case only when the\nexcellence is of the peculiar kind that supplies the needs of his own\nintelligence. The French excel in painting; that is to say, that many\nFrenchmen have attained a certain kind of excellence in certain\ndepartments of the art of painting. Englishmen and Americans who value\nthat particular kind of excellence are often strongly drawn towards Paris\nas an artistic centre or capital; and this opening of their minds to\nFrench influence in art may admit other French influences at the same\ntime, so that the ultimate effect of a love of art may be a breaking down\nof the barrier of nationality. It seldom happens that Frenchmen are drawn\ntowards England and America by their love of painting, but it frequently\nhappens that they become in a measure Anglicized or Americanized either by\nthe serious study of nautical science, or by the love of yachting as an\namusement, in which they look to England and America both for the most\nadvanced theories and the newest examples.\n\nThe nearest approach ever made to a general rule may be the affirmation\nthat likeness is the secret of companionship. This has a great look of\nprobability, and may really be the reason for many associations, but after\nobserving others we might come to the conclusion that an opposite law\nwould be at least equally applicable. We might say that a companion, to be\ninteresting, ought to bring new elements, and not be a repetition of our\nown too familiar personality. We have enough of ourselves in ourselves; we\ndesire a companion who will relieve us from the bounds of our thoughts, as\na neighbor opens his garden to us, and delivers us from our own hedges.\nBut if the unlikeness is so great that mutual understanding is impossible,\nthen it is too great. We fancy that we should like to know this or that\nauthor, because we feel a certain sympathy with him though he is very\ndifferent from us, but there are other writers whom we do not desire to\nknow because we are aware of a difference too excessive for companionship.\n\nThe only approximation to a general law that I would venture to affirm is\nthat the strongest reason why men are drawn together is not identity of\nclass, not identity of race, not a common interest in any particular art\nor science, but because there is something in their idiosyncrasies that\ngives a charm to intercourse between the two. What it is I cannot tell,\nand I have never met with the wise man who was able to enlighten me.\n\nIt is not respect for character, seeing that we often respect people\nheartily without being able to enjoy their society. It is a mysterious\nsuitableness or adaptability, and _how_ mysterious it is may be in some\ndegree realized when we reflect that we cannot account for our own\npreferences. I try to explain to myself, for my own intellectual\nsatisfaction, how and why it is that I take pleasure in the society of one\nvery dear friend. He is a most able, honorable, and high-minded man, but\nothers are all that, and they give me no pleasure. My friend and I have\nreally not very much in common, far less than I have with some perfectly\nindifferent people. I only know that we are always glad to be together,\nthat each of us likes to listen to the other, and that we have talked for\ninnumerable hours. Neither does my affection blind me to his faults. I see\nthem as clearly as if I were his enemy, and doubt not that he sees mine.\nThere is no illusion, and there has been no change in our sentiments for\ntwenty years.\n\nAs a contrast to this instance I think of others in which everything seems\nto have been prepared on purpose for facility of intercourse, in which\nthere is similarity of pursuits, of language, of education, of every thing\nthat is likely to permit men to talk easily together, and yet there is\nsome obstacle that makes any real intercourse impossible. What the\nobstacle is I am unable to explain even to myself. It need not be any\nunkind feeling, nor any feeling of disapprobation; there may be good-will\non both sides and a mutual desire for a greater degree of intimacy, yet\nwith all this the intimacy does not come, and such intercourse as we have\nis that of simple politeness. In these cases each party is apt to think\nthat the other is reserved, when there is no wish to be reserved but\nrather a desire to be as open as the unseen obstacle will allow. The\nexistence of the obstacle does not prevent respect and esteem or even a\nconsiderable degree of affection. It divides people who seem to be on the\nmost friendly terms; it divides even the nearest relations, brother from\nbrother, and the son from the father. Nobody knows exactly what it is, but\nwe have a word for it,--we call it incompatibility. The difficulty of\ngoing farther and explaining the real nature of incompatibility is that\nit takes as many shapes as there are varieties in the characters of\nmankind.\n\nSympathy and incompatibility,--these are the two great powers that decide\nfor us whether intercourse is to be possible or not, but the causes of\nthem are dark mysteries that lie undiscovered far down in the \"abysmal\ndeeps of personality.\"\n\n\n\n\nESSAY II.\n\nINDEPENDENCE.\n\n\nThere is an illusory and unattainable independence which is a mere dream,\nbut there is also a reasonable and attainable independence not really\ninconsistent with our obligations to humanity and our country.\n\nThe dependence of the individual upon the race has never been so fully\nrecognized as now, so that there is little fear of its being overlooked.\nThe danger of our age, and of the future, is rather that a reasonable and\npossible independence should be made needlessly difficult to attain and to\npreserve.\n\nThe distinction between the two may be conveniently illustrated by a\nreference to literary production. Every educated man is dependent upon his\nown country for the language that he uses; and again, that language is\nitself dependent on other languages from which it is derived; and,\nfarther, the modern author is indebted for a continual stimulus and many a\nsuggestion to the writings of his predecessors, not in his own country\nonly but in far distant lands. He cannot, therefore, say in any absolute\nway, \"My books are my own,\" but he may preserve a certain mental\nindependence which will allow him to say that with truth in a relative\nsense. If he expresses himself such as he is, an idiosyncrasy affected\nbut not annihilated by education, he may say that his books are his own.\n\nFew English authors have studied past literature more willingly than\nShelley and Tennyson, and none are more original. In these cases\nidiosyncrasy has been affected by education, but instead of being\nannihilated thereby it has gained from education the means of expressing\nits own inmost self more clearly. We have the true Shelley, the born\nTennyson, far more perfectly than we should ever have possessed them if\ntheir own minds had not been opened by the action of other minds. Culture\nis like wealth, it makes us more ourselves, it enables us to express\nourselves. The real nature of the poor and the ignorant is an obscure and\ndoubtful problem, for we can never know the inborn powers that remain in\nthem undeveloped till they die. In this way the help of the race, so far\nfrom being unfavorable to individuality, is necessary to it. Claude helped\nTurner to become Turner. In complete isolation from art, however\nmagnificently surrounded by the beauties of the natural world, a man does\nnot express his originality as a landscape-painter, he is simply incapable\nof expressing _anything_ in paint.\n\nBut now let us inquire whether there may not be cases in which the labors\nof others, instead of helping originality to express itself, act as a\ncheck to it by making originality superfluous.\n\nAs an illustration of this possibility I may take the modern railway\nsystem. Here we have the labor and ingenuity of the race applied to\ntravelling, greatly to the convenience of the individual, but in a manner\nwhich is totally repressive of originality and indifferent to personal\ntastes. People of the most different idiosyncrasies travel exactly in the\nsame way. The landscape-painter is hurried at speed past beautiful spots\nthat he would like to contemplate at leisure; the arch\u00e6ologist is whirled\nby the site of a Roman camp that he would willingly pause to examine; the\nmountaineer is not permitted to climb the tunnelled hill, nor the swimmer\nto cross in his own refreshing, natural way the breadth of the\niron-spanned river. And as individual tastes are disregarded, so\nindividual powers are left uncultivated and unimproved. The only talent\nrequired is that of sitting passively on a seat and of enduring, for hours\ntogether, an unpleasant though mitigated vibration. The skill and courage\nof the horseman, the endurance of the pedestrian, the art of the paddler\nor the oarsman, are all made superfluous by this system of travelling by\nmachines, in which previous labors of engineers and mechanics have\ndetermined everything beforehand. Happily, the love of exercise and\nenterprise has produced a reaction of individualism against this levelling\nrailway system, a reaction that shows itself in many kinds of slower but\nmore adventurous locomotion and restores to the individual creature his\nlost independence by allowing him to pause and stop when he pleases; a\nreaction delightful to him especially in this, that it gives him some\npride and pleasure in the use of his own muscles and his own wits. There\nare still, happily, Englishmen who would rather steer a cutter across the\nChannel in rough weather than be shot through a long hole in the chalk.\n\nWhat the railway is to physical motion, settled conventions are to the\nmovements of the mind. Convention is a contrivance for facilitating what\nwe write or speak by which we are relieved from personal effort and almost\nabsolved from personal responsibility. There are men whose whole art of\nliving consists in passing from one conventionalism to another as a\ntraveller changes his train. Such men may be envied for the skill with\nwhich they avoid the difficulties of life. They take their religion, their\npolitics, their education, their social and literary opinions, all as\nprovided by the brains of others, and they glide through existence with a\nminimum of personal exertion. For those who are satisfied with easy,\nconventional ways the desire for intellectual independence is\nunintelligible. What is the need of it? Why go, mentally, on a bicycle or\nin a canoe by your own toilsome exertions when you may sit so very\ncomfortably in the train, a rug round your lazy legs and your softly\ncapped head in a corner?\n\nThe French ideal of \"good form\" is to be undistinguishable from others; by\nwhich it is not understood that you are to be undistinguishable from the\nmultitude of poor people, but one of the smaller crowd of rich and\nfashionable people. Independence and originality are so little esteemed in\nwhat is called \"good society\" in France that the adjectives\n\"_ind\u00e9pendant_\" and \"_original_\" are constantly used in a bad sense. \"_Il\nest tr\u00e8s ind\u00e9pendant_\" often means that the man is of a rude,\ninsubordinate, rebellious temper, unfitting him for social life. \"_Il est\noriginal_,\" or more contemptuously, \"_C'est un original_,\" means that the\nsubject of the criticism has views of his own which are not the\nfashionable views, and which therefore (whatever may be their accuracy)\nare proper objects of well-bred ridicule.\n\nI cannot imagine any state of feeling more destructive of all interest in\nhuman intercourse than this, for if on going into society I am only to\nhear the fashionable opinions and sentiments, what is the gain to me who\nknow them too well already? I could even repeat them quite accurately with\nthe proper conventional tone, so why put myself to inconvenience to hear\nthat dull and wearisome play acted over again? The only possible\nexplanation of the pleasure that French people of some rank appear to take\nin hearing things, which are as stale as they are inaccurate, repeated by\nevery one they know, is that the repetition of them appears to be one of\nthe signs of gentility, and to give alike to those who utter them and to\nthose who hear, the profound satisfaction of feeling that they are present\nat the mysterious rites of Caste.\n\nThere is probably no place in the whole world where the feeling of mental\nindependence is so complete as it is in London. There is no place where\ndifferences of opinion are more marked in character or more frank and open\nin expression; but what strikes one as particularly admirable in London is\nthat in the present day (it has not always been so) men of the most\nopposite opinions and the most various tastes can profess their opinions\nand indulge their tastes without inconvenient consequences to themselves,\nand there is hardly any opinion, or any eccentricity, that excludes a man\nfrom pleasant social intercourse if he does not make himself impossible\nand intolerable by bad manners. This independence gives a savor to social\nintercourse in London that is lamentably wanting to it elsewhere. There is\na strange and novel pleasure (to one who lives habitually in the country)\nin hearing men and women say what they think without deference to any\nlocal public opinion.\n\nIn many small places this local public opinion is so despotic that there\nis no individual independence in society, and it then becomes necessary\nthat a man who values his independence, and desires to keep it, should\nlearn the art of living contentedly outside of society.\n\nIt has often occurred to me to reflect that there are many men in London\nwho enjoy a pleasant and even a high social position, who live with\nintelligent people, and even with people of great wealth and exalted rank,\nand yet who, if their lot had been cast in certain small provincial towns,\nwould have found themselves rigorously excluded from the upper local\ncircles, if not from all circles whatsoever.\n\nI have sometimes asked myself, when travelling on the railway through\nFrance, and visiting for a few hours one of those sleepy little old\ncities, to me so delightful, in which the student of architecture and the\nlover of the picturesque find so much to interest them, what would have\nbeen the career of a man having, for example, the capacity and the\nconvictions of Mr. Gladstone, if he had passed all the years of his\nmanhood in such a place.\n\nIt commonly happens that when Nature endows a man with a vigorous\npersonality and its usual accompaniment, an independent way of seeing\nthings, she gives him at the same time powerful talents with which to\ndefend his own originality; but in a small and ancient city, where\neverything is traditional, intellectual force is of no avail, and learning\nis of no use. In such a city, where the upper class is an exclusive caste\nimpenetrable by ideas, the eloquence of Mr. Gladstone would be\nineffectual, and if exercised at all would be considered in bad taste. His\nlearning, even, would tend to separate him from the unlearned local\naristocracy. The simple fact that he is in favor of parliamentary\ngovernment, without any more detailed information concerning his political\nopinions, would put him beyond the pale, for parliamentary government is\nexecrated by the French rural aristocracy, who tolerate nothing short of a\ndetermined monarchical absolutism. His religious views would be looked\nupon as those of a low Dissenter, and it would be remembered against him\nthat his father was in trade. Such is the difference, as a field for\ntalent and originality, between London and an aristocratic little French\ncity, that those very qualities which have raised our Prime Minister to a\nnot undeserved pre-eminence in the great place would have kept him out of\nsociety in the small one. He might, perhaps, have talked politics in some\ncaf\u00e9 with a few shop-keepers and attorneys.\n\nIt may be objected that Mr. Gladstone, as an English Liberal, would\nnaturally be out of place in France and little appreciated there, so I\nwill take the cases of a Frenchman in France and an Englishman in England.\nA brave French officer, who was at the same time a gentleman of ancient\nlineage and good estate, chose (for reasons of his own which had no\nconnection with social intercourse) to live upon a property that happened\nto be situated in a part of France where the aristocracy was strongly\nCatholic and reactionary. He then found himself excluded from \"good\nsociety,\" because he was a Protestant and a friend to parliamentary\ngovernment. Reasons of this kind, or the counter-reasons of Catholicism\nand disapprobation of parliaments, would not exclude a polished and\namiable gentleman from society in London. I have read in a biographical\nnotice of Sidney Dobell that when he lived at Cheltenham he was excluded\nfrom the society of the place because his parents were Dissenters and he\nhad been in trade.\n\nIn cases of this kind, where exclusion is due to hard prejudices of caste\nor of religion, a man who has all the social gifts of good manners,\nkind-heartedness, culture, and even wealth, may find himself outside the\npale if he lives in or near a small place where society is a strong little\nclique well organized on definitely understood principles. There are\nsituations in which exclusion of that kind means perfect solitude. It may\nbe argued that to escape solitude the victim has nothing to do but\nassociate with a lower class, but this is not easy or natural, especially\nwhen, as in Dobell's case, there is intellectual culture. Those who have\nrefined manners and tastes and a love for intellectual pursuits, usually\nfind themselves disqualified for entering with any real heartiness and\nenjoyment into the social life of classes where these tastes are\nundeveloped, and where the thoughts flow in two channels,--the serious\nchannel, studded with anxieties about the means of existence, and the\nhumorous channel, which is a diversion from the other. Far be it from me\nto say anything that might imply any shade of contempt or disapprobation\nof the humorous spirit that is Nature's own remedy for the evils of an\nanxious life. It does more for the mental health of the middle classes\nthan could be done by the most sublimated culture; and if anything\nconcerning it is a subject for regret it is that culture makes us\nincapable of enjoying poor jokes. It is, however, a simple matter of fact\nthat although men of great culture may be humorists (Mr. Lowell is a\nbrilliant example), their humor is both more profound in the serious\nintention that lies under it, and vastly more extensive in the field of\nits operations than the trivial humor of the uneducated; whence it follows\nthat although humor is the faculty by which different classes are brought\nmost easily into cordial relations, the humorist who has culture will\nprobably find himself _\u00e0 l'\u00e9troit_ with humorists who have none, whilst\nthe cultured man who has no humor, or whose humorous tendencies have been\noverpowered by serious thought, is so terribly isolated in uneducated\nsociety that he feels less alone in solitude. To realize this truth in its\nfull force, the reader has only to imagine John Stuart Mill trying to\nassociate with one of those middle-class families that Dickens loved to\ndescribe, such as the Wardle family in Pickwick.\n\nIt follows from these considerations that unless a man lives in London, or\nin some other great capital city, he may easily find himself so situated\nthat he must learn the art of being happy without society.\n\nAs there is no pleasure in military life for a soldier who fears death, so\nthere is no independence in civil existence for the man who has an\noverpowering dread of solitude.\n\nThere are two good reasons against the excessive dread of solitude. The\nfirst is that solitude is very rarely so absolute as it appears from a\ndistance; and the second is that when the evil is real, and almost\ncomplete, there are palliatives that may lessen it to such a degree as to\nmake it, at the worst, supportable, and at the best for some natures even\nenjoyable in a rather sad and melancholy way.\n\nLet us not deceive ourselves with conventional notions on the subject. The\nworld calls \"solitude\" that condition in which a man lives outside of\n\"society,\" or, in other words, the condition in which he does not pay\nformal calls and is not invited to state dinners and dances. Such a\ncondition may be very lamentable, and deserving of polite contempt, but it\nneed not be absolute solitude.\n\nAbsolute solitude would be the state of Crusoe on the desert island,\nsevered from human kind and never hearing a human voice; but this is not\nthe condition of any one in a civilized country who is out of a prison\ncell. Suppose that I am travelling in a country where I am a perfect\nstranger, and that I stay for some days in a village where I do not know a\nsoul. In a surprisingly short time I shall have made acquaintances and\nbegun to acquire rather a home-like feeling in the place. My new\nacquaintances may possibly not be rich and fashionable: they may be the\nrural postman, the innkeeper, the stone-breaker on the roadside, the\nradical cobbler, and perhaps a mason or a joiner and a few more or less\nuntidy little children; but every morning their greeting becomes more\nfriendly, and so I feel myself connected still with that great human race\nto which, whatever may be my sins against the narrow laws of caste and\nclass, I still unquestionably belong. It is a positive advantage that our\nmeetings should be accidental and not so long as to involve any of the\nembarrassments of formal social intercourse, as I could not promise myself\nthat the attempt to spend a whole evening with these humble friends might\nnot cause difficulties for me and for them. All I maintain is that these\nlittle chance talks and greetings have a tendency to keep me cheerful and\npreserve me from that moody state of mind to which the quite lonely man\nexposes himself. As to the substance and quality of our conversations, I\namuse myself by comparing them with conversations between more genteel\npeople, and do not always perceive that the disparity is very wide. Poor\nmen often observe external facts with the greatest shrewdness and\naccuracy, and have interesting things to tell when they see that you set\nup no barrier of pride against them. Perhaps they do not know much about\narchitecture and the graphic arts, but on these subjects they are devoid\nof the false pretensions of the upper classes, which is an unspeakable\ncomfort and relief. They teach us many things that are worth knowing.\nHumble and poor people were amongst the best educators of Shakspeare,\nScott, Dickens, Wordsworth, George Eliot. Even old Homer learned from\nthem touches of nature which have done as much for his immortality as the\nfire of his wrathful kings.\n\nLet me give the reader an example of this chance intercourse just as it\nreally occurred. I was drawing architectural details in and about a\ncertain foreign cathedral, and had the usual accompaniment of youthful\nspectators who liked to watch me working, as greater folks watch\nfashionable artists in their studios. Sometimes they rather incommoded me,\nbut on my complaining of the inconvenience, two of the bigger boys acted\nas policemen to defend me, which they did with stern authority and\npromptness. After that one highly intelligent little boy brought paper and\npencil from his father's house and set himself to draw what I was drawing.\nThe subject was far too difficult for him, but I gave him a simpler one,\nand in a very short time he was a regular pupil. Inspired by his example,\nthree other little boys asked if they might do likewise, so I had a class\nof four. Their manner towards me was perfect,--not a trace of rudeness nor\nof timidity either, but absolute confidence at once friendly and\nrespectful. Every day when I went to the cathedral at the same hour my\nfour little friends greeted me with such frank and visible gladness that\nit could neither have been feigned nor mistaken. During our lessons they\nsurprised and interested me greatly by the keen observation they\ndisplayed; and this was true more particularly of the bright little leader\nand originator of the class. The house he lived in was exactly opposite\nthe rich west front of the cathedral; and I found that, young as he was (a\nmere child), he had observed for himself almost all the details of its\nsculpture. The statues, groups, bas-reliefs, and other ornaments were all,\nfor him, so many separate subjects, and not a confused enrichment of\nlabored stone-work as they so easily might have been. He had notions, too,\nabout chronology, telling me the dates of some parts of the cathedral and\nasking me about others. His mother treated me with the utmost kindness and\ninvited me to sketch quietly from her windows. I took a photographer up\nthere, and set his big camera, and we got such a photograph as had been\ndeemed impossible before. Now in all this does not the reader perceive\nthat I was enjoying human intercourse in a very delicate and exquisite\nway? What could be more charming and refreshing to a solitary student than\nthis frank and hearty friendship of children who caused no perceptible\nhindrance to his work, whilst they effectually dispelled sad thoughts?\n\nTwo other examples may be given from the experience of a man who has often\nbeen alone and seldom felt himself in solitude.\n\nI remember arriving, long ago, in the evening at the head of a salt-water\nloch in Scotland, where in those days there existed an exceedingly small\nbeginning of a watering-place. Soon after landing I walked on the beach\nwith no companion but the beauty of nature and the \"long, long thoughts\"\nof youth. In a short time I became aware that a middle-aged Scotch\ngentleman was taking exercise in the same solitary way. He spoke to me,\nand we were soon deep in a conversation that began to be interesting to\nboth of us. He was a resident in the place and invited me to his house,\nwhere our talk continued far into the night. I was obliged to leave the\nlittle haven the next day, but my recollection of it now is like the\nmemorandum of a conversation. I remember the wild romantic scenery and the\nmoon upon the water, and the steamer from Glasgow at the pier; but the\nreal satisfaction of that day consisted in hours of talk with a man who\nhad seen much, observed much, thought much, and was most kindly and\npleasantly communicative,--a man whom I had never spoken to before, and\nhave never seen or heard of since that now distant but well-remembered\nevening.\n\nThe other instance is a conversation in the cabin of a steamer. I was\nalone, in the depth of winter, making a voyage by an unpopular route, and\nduring a long, dark night. It was a dead calm. We were only three\npassengers, and we sat together by the bright cabin-fire. One of us was a\nyoung officer in the British navy, just of age; another was an\nanxious-looking man of thirty. Somehow the conversation turned to the\nsubject of inevitable expenses; and the sailor told us that he had a\ncertain private income, the amount of which he mentioned. \"I have exactly\nthe same income,\" said the man of thirty, \"but I married very early and\nhave a wife and family to maintain;\" and then--as we did not know even his\nname, and he was not likely to see us again--he seized the opportunity\n(under the belief that he was kindly warning the young sailor) of telling\nthe whole story of his anxieties in detail. The point of his discourse was\nthat he did not pretend to be poor, or to claim sympathy, but he\npowerfully described the exact nature of his position. What had been his\nprivate income had now become the public revenue of a household. It all\nwent in housekeeping, almost independently of his will and outside of his\ncontrol. He had his share in the food of the family, and he was just\ndecently clothed, but there was an end to personal enterprises. The\neconomy and the expenditure of a free and intelligent bachelor had been\nalike replaced by a dull, methodical, uncontrollable outgo; and the man\nhimself, though now called the head of a family, had discovered that a new\nimpersonal necessity was the real master, and that he lived like a child\nin his own house. \"This,\" he said, \"is the fate of a gentleman who marries\non narrow means, unless he is cruelly selfish.\"\n\nFrank and honest conversations of this kind often come in the way of a man\nwho travels by himself, and they remain with him afterwards as a part of\nhis knowledge of life. This informal intercourse that comes by chance is\ngreatly undervalued, especially by Englishmen, who are seldom very much\ndisposed to it except in the humbler classes; but it is one of the broadly\nscattered, inestimable gifts of Nature, like the refreshment of air and\nwater. Many a healthy and happy mind has enjoyed little other human\nintercourse than this. There are millions who never get a formal\ninvitation, and yet in this accidental way they hear many a bit of\nentertaining or instructive talk. The greatest charm of it is its\nconsistency with the most absolute independence. No abandonment of\nprinciple is required, nor any false assumption. You stand simply on your\nelementary right to consideration as a decent human being within the great\npale of civilization.\n\nThere is, however, another sense in which every superior person is greatly\nexposed to the evil of solitude if he lives outside of a great capital\ncity.\n\nWithout misanthropy, and without any unjust or unkind contempt for our\nfellow-creatures, we still must perceive that mankind in general have no\nother purpose than to live in comfort with little mental exertion. The\ndesire for comfort is not wholly selfish, because people want it for their\nfamilies as much as for themselves, but it is a low motive in this sense,\nthat it is scarcely compatible with the higher kinds of mental exertion,\nwhilst it is entirely incompatible with devotion to great causes. The\nobject of common men is not to do noble work by their own personal\nefforts, but so to plot and contrive that others may be industrious for\ntheir benefit, and not for their highest benefit, but in order that they\nmay have curtains and carpets.\n\nThose for whom accumulated riches have already provided these objects of\ndesire seldom care greatly for anything except amusements. If they have\nambition, it is for a higher social rank.\n\nThese three common pursuits, comfort, amusements, rank, lie so much\noutside of the disciplinary studies that a man of studious habits is\nlikely to find himself alone in a peculiar sense. As a human being he is\nnot alone, but as a serious thinker and worker he may find himself in\ncomplete solitude.\n\nMany readers will remember the well-known passage in Stuart Mill's\nautobiography, in which he dealt with this subject. It has often been\nquoted against him, because he went so far as to say that \"a person of\nhigh intellect should never go into unintellectual society, unless he can\nenter it as an apostle,\" a passage not likely to make its author beloved\nby society of that kind; yet Mill was not a misanthropist, he was only\nanxious to preserve what there is of high feeling and high principle from\ndeterioration by too much contact with the common world. It was not so\nmuch that he despised the common world, as that he knew the infinite\npreciousness, even to the common people themselves, of the few better and\nhigher minds. He knew how difficult it is for such minds to \"retain their\nhigher principles unimpaired,\" and how at least \"with respect to the\npersons and affairs of their own day they insensibly adopt the modes of\nfeeling and judgment in which they can hope for sympathy from the company\nthey keep.\"\n\nPerhaps I may do well to offer an illustration of this, though from a\ndepartment of culture that may not have been in Mill's view when he wrote\nthe passage.\n\nI myself have known a certain painter (not belonging to the English\nschool) who had a severe and elevated ideal of his art. As his earnings\nwere small he went to live in the country for economy. He then began to\nassociate intimately with people to whom all high aims in painting were\nunintelligible. Gradually he himself lost his interest in them and his\nnobler purposes were abandoned. Finally, art itself was abandoned and he\nbecame a coffee-house politician.\n\nSo it is with all rare and exceptional pursuits if once we allow ourselves\nto take, in all respects, the color of the common world. It is impossible\nto keep up a foreign language, an art, a science, if we are living away\nfrom other followers of our pursuit and cannot endure solitude.\n\nIt follows from this that there are many situations in which men have to\nlearn that particular kind of independence which consists in bearing\nisolation patiently for the preservation of their better selves. In a\nworld of common-sense they have to keep a little place apart for a kind of\nsense that is sound and rational but not common.\n\nThis isolation would indeed be difficult to bear if it were not mitigated\nby certain palliatives that enable a superior mind to be healthy and\nactive in its loneliness. The first of these is reading, which is seldom\nvalued at its almost inestimable worth. By the variety of its records and\ninventions, literature continually affords the refreshment of change, not\nto speak of that variety which may be had so easily by a change of\nlanguage when the reader knows several different tongues, and the other\nmarvellous variety due to difference in the date of books. In fact,\nliterature affords a far wider variety than conversation itself, for we\ncan talk only with the living, but literature enables us to descend, like\nUlysses, into the shadowy kingdom of the dead. There is but one defect in\nliterature,--that the talk is all on one side, so that we are listeners,\nas at a sermon or a lecture, and not sharers in some antique symposium,\nour own brows crowned with flowers, and our own tongues loosened with\nwine. The exercise of the tongue is wanting, and to some it is an\nimperious need, so that they will talk to the most uncongenial human\nbeings, or even to parrots and dogs. If we value books as the great\npalliative of solitude and help to mental independence, let us not\nundervalue those intelligent periodicals that keep our minds modern and\nprevent us from living altogether in some other century than our own.\nPeriodicals are a kind of correspondence more easily read than manuscript\nand involving no obligation to answer. There is also the great palliative\nof occasional direct correspondence with those who understand our\npursuits; and here we have the advantage of using our own tongues, not\nphysically, but at least in an imaginative way.\n\nA powerful support to some minds is the constantly changing beauty of the\nnatural world, which becomes like a great and ever-present companion. I am\nanxious to avoid any exaggeration of this benefit, because I know that to\nmany it counts for nothing; and an author ought not to think only of those\nwho have his own mental constitution; but although natural beauty is of\nlittle use to one solitary mind, it may be like a living friend to\nanother. As a paragraph of real experience is worth pages of speculation,\nI may say that I have always found it possible to live happily in\nsolitude, provided that the place was surrounded by varied, beautiful, and\nchangeful scenery, but that in ugly or even monotonous places I have felt\nsociety to be as necessary as it was welcome. Byron's expression,--\n\n  \"I made me friends of mountains,\"\n\nand Wordsworth's,\n\n      \"Nature never did betray\n  The heart that loved her,\"\n\nare not more than plain statements of the companionship that _some_ minds\nfind in the beauty of landscape. They are often accused of affectation,\nbut in truth I believe that we who have that passion, instead of\nexpressing more than we feel, have generally rather a tendency to be\nreserved upon the subject, as we seldom expect sympathy. Many of us would\nrather live in solitude and on small means at Como than on a great income\nin Manchester. This may be a foolish preference; but let the reader\nremember the profound utterance of Blake, that if the fool would but\npersevere in his folly he would become wise.\n\nHowever powerful may be the aid of books and natural scenery in enabling\nus to bear solitude, the best help of all must be found in our occupations\nthemselves. Steady workers do not need much company. To be occupied with a\ntask that is difficult and arduous, but that we know to be within our\npowers, and to awake early every morning with the delightful feeling that\nthe whole day can be given to it without fear of interruption, is the\nperfection of happiness for one who has the gift of throwing himself\nheartily into his work. When night comes he will be a little weary, and\nmore disposed for tranquil sleep than to \"danser jusqu' au jour chez\nl'ambassadeur de France.\"\n\nThis is the best independence,--to have something to do and something that\ncan be done, and done most perfectly, in solitude. Then the lonely hours\nflow on like smoothly gliding water, bearing one insensibly to the\nevening. The workman says, \"Is my sight failing?\" and lo the sun has set!\n\nThere is but one objection to this absorption in worthy toil. It is that\nas the day passes so passes life itself, that succession of many days. The\nworkman thinks of nothing but his work, and finds the time all too short.\nAt length he suddenly perceives that he is old, and wonders if life might\nnot have been made to seem a little longer, and if, after all, it has been\nquite the best policy always to avoid _ennui_.\n\n\n\n\nESSAY III.\n\nOF PASSIONATE LOVE.\n\n\nThe wonder of love is that, for the time being, it makes us ardently\ndesire the presence of one person and feel indifferent to all others of\nher sex. It is commonly spoken of as a delusion, but I do not see any\ndelusion here, for if the presence of the beloved person satisfies his\ncraving, the lover gets what he desires and is not more the victim of a\ndeception than one who succeeds in satisfying any other want.\n\nAgain, it is often said that men are blinded by love, but the fact that\none sees certain qualities in a beloved person need not imply blindness.\nIf you are in love with a little woman it is not a reason for supposing\nher to be tall. I will even venture to affirm that you may love a woman\npassionately and still be quite clearly aware that her beauty is far\ninferior to that of another whose coming thrills you with no emotion,\nwhose departure leaves with you no regret.\n\nThe true nature of a profound passion is not to attribute every physical\nand mental quality to its object, but rather to think, \"Such as she is,\nwith the endowments that are really her own, I love her above all women,\nthough I know that she is not so beautiful as some are, nor so learned as\nsome others.\" The only real deception to which a lover is exposed is that\nhe may overestimate the strength of his own passion. If he has not made\nthis mistake he is not likely to make any other, since, whatever the\nindifferent may see, or fail to see, in the woman of his choice, he surely\nfinds in her the adequate reason for her attraction.\n\nLove is commonly treated as if it belonged only to the flowering of the\nspring-time of life, but strong and healthy natures remain capable of\nfeeling the passion in great force long after they are supposed to have\nleft it far behind them. It is, indeed, one of the signs of a healthy\nnature to retain for many years the freshness of the heart which makes one\nliable to fall in love, as a healthy palate retains the natural early\ntaste for delicious fruits.\n\nThis freshness of the heart is lost far more surely by debauchery than by\nyears; and for this reason worldly parents are not altogether dissatisfied\nthat their sons should \"sow their wild oats\" in youth, as they believe\nthat this kind of sowing is a preservative against the dangers of pure\nlove and an imprudent or unequal marriage. The calculation is well\nfounded. After a few years of indiscriminate debauchery a young man is\nlikely to be deadened to the sweet influences of love and therefore able\nto conduct himself with steady worldliness, either remaining in celibacy\nor marrying for position, exactly as his interests may dictate.\n\nThe case of Shelley is an apt illustration of this danger. He had at the\nsame time a horror of debauchery and an irresistible natural tendency to\nthe passion of love.\n\nFrom the worldly point of view both his connections were degrading for a\nyoung gentleman of rank. Had he followed the very common course of a\n_real_ degradation and married a lady of rank after ten years of\nindiscriminate immorality, is it an unjust or an unlikely supposition that\nhe would have given less dissatisfaction to his friends?\n\nAs to the permanence of love, or its transitoriness, the plain and candid\nanswer is that there is no real assurance either way. To predict that it\nwill certainly die after fruition is to shut one's eyes against the\nevident fact that men often remain in love with mistresses or wives. On\nthe other hand, to assume that love is fixed and made permanent in a\nmagical way by marriage is to assume what would be desirable rather than\nwhat really is. There are no magical incantations by which Love may be\nretained, yet sometimes he will rest and dwell with astonishing tenacity\nwhen there seem to be the strongest reasons for his departure. If there\nwere any ceremony, if any sacrifice could be made at an altar, by which\nthe capricious little deity might be conciliated and won, the wisest might\nhasten to perform that ceremony and offer that acceptable sacrifice; but\nhe cares not for any of our rites. Sometimes he stays, in spite of\ncruelty, misery, and wrong; sometimes he takes flight from the hearth\nwhere a woman sits and grieves alone, with all the attractions of health,\nbeauty, gentleness, and refinement.\n\nBoys and girls imagine that love in a poor cottage or a bare garret would\nbe more blissful than indifference in a palace, and the notion is thought\nfoolish and romantic by the wise people of the world; but the boys and\ngirls are right in their estimate of Love's great power of cheering and\nbrightening existence even in the very humblest situations. The possible\nerror against which they ought to be clearly warned is that of supposing\nthat Love would always remain contentedly in the cottage or the garret.\nNot that he is any more certain to remain in a mansion in Belgrave Square,\nnot that a garret with him is not better than the vast Vatican without\nhim; but when he has taken his flight, and is simply absent, one would\nrather be left in comfortable than in beggarly desolation.\n\nThe poets speak habitually of love as if it were a passion that could be\nsafely indulged, whereas the whole experience of modern existence goes to\nshow that it is of all passions the most perilous to happiness except in\nthose rare cases where it can be followed by marriage; and even then the\nperil is not ended, for marriage gives no certainty of the duration of\nlove, but constitutes of itself a new danger, as the natures most disposed\nto passion are at the same time the most impatient of restraint.\n\nThere is this peculiarity about love in a well-regulated social state. It\nis the only passion that is quite strictly limited in its indulgence. Of\nthe intellectual passions a man may indulge several different ones either\nsuccessively or together; in the ordinary physical enjoyments, such as the\nlove of active sports or the pleasures of the table, he may carry his\nindulgence very far and vary it without blame; but the master passion of\nall has to be continually quelled, the satisfactions that it asks for have\nto be continually refused to it, unless some opportunity occurs when they\nmay be granted without disturbing any one of many different threads in the\nweb of social existence; and these threads, to a lover's eye, seem\nentirely unconnected with his hope.\n\nIn stating the fact of these restraints I do not dispute their necessity.\nOn the contrary, it is evident that infinite practical evil would result\nfrom liberty. Those who have broken through the social restraints and\nallowed the passion of love to set up its stormy and variable tyranny in\ntheir hearts have led unsettled and unhappy lives. Even of love itself\nthey have not enjoyed the best except in those rare cases in which the\nlovers have taken bonds upon themselves not less durable than those of\nmarriage; and even these unions, which give no more liberty than marriage\nitself gives, are accompanied by the unsettled feeling that belongs to all\nirregular situations.\n\nIt is easy to distinguish in the conventional manner between the lower and\nthe higher kinds of love, but it is not so easy to establish the real\ndistinction. The conventional difference is simply between the passion in\nmarriage and out of it; the real distinction would be between different\nfeelings; but as these feelings are not ascertainable by one person in the\nmind or nerves of another, and as in most cases they are probably much\nblended, the distinction can seldom be accurately made in the cases of\nreal persons, though it is marked trenchantly enough in works of pure\nimagination.\n\nThe passion exists in an infinite variety, and it is so strongly\ninfluenced by elements of character which have apparently nothing to do\nwith it, that its effects on conduct are to a great extent controlled by\nthem. For example, suppose the case of a man with strong passions combined\nwith a selfish nature, and that of another with passions equally strong,\nbut a rooted aversion to all personal satisfactions that might end in\nmisery for others. The first would ruin a girl with little hesitation; the\nsecond would rather suffer the entire privation of her society by quitting\nthe neighborhood where she lived.\n\nThe interference of qualities that lie outside of passion is shown very\ncuriously and remarkably in intellectual persons in this way. They may\nhave a strong temporary passion for somebody without intellect or culture,\nbut they are not likely to be held permanently by such a person; and even\nwhen under the influence of the temporary desire they may be clearly aware\nof the danger there would be in converting it into a permanent relation,\nand so they may take counsel with themselves and subdue the passion or fly\nfrom the temptation, knowing that it would be sweet to yield, but that a\ntransient delight would be paid for by years of weariness in the future.\n\nThose men of superior abilities who have bound themselves for life to some\nwoman who could not possibly understand them, have generally either broken\ntheir bonds afterwards or else avoided as much as possible the\ntiresomeness of a _t\u00eate-\u00e0-t\u00eate_, and found in general society the means of\noccasionally enduring the dulness of their home. For short and transient\nrelations the principal charm in a woman is either beauty or a certain\nsweetness, but for any permanent relation the first necessity of all is\nthat she be companionable.\n\nPassionate love is the principal subject of poets and novelists, who\nusually avoid its greatest difficulties by well-known means of escape.\nEither the passion finishes tragically by the death of one of the parties,\nor else it comes to a natural culmination in their union, whether\naccording to social order or through a breach of it. In real life the\nstory is not always rounded off so conveniently. It may happen, it\nprobably often does happen, that a passion establishes itself where it has\nno possible chance of satisfaction, and where, instead of being cut short\nby death, it persists through a considerable part of life and embitters\nit. These cases are the more unfortunate that hopeless desire gives an\nimaginary glory to its own object, and that, from the circumstances of the\ncase, this halo is not dissipated.\n\nIt is common amongst hard and narrow people, who judge the feelings of\nothers by their own want of them, to treat all the painful side of passion\nwith contemptuous levity. They say that people never die for love, and\nthat such fancies may easily be chased away by the exercise of a little\nresolution. The profounder students of human nature take the subject more\nseriously. Each of the great poets (including, of course, the author of\nthe \"Bride of Lammermoor,\" in which the poetical elements are so abundant)\nhas treated the aching pain of love and the tragedy to which it may lead,\nas in the deaths of Haid\u00e9e, of Lucy Ashton, of Juliet, of Margaret. In\nreal life the powers of evil do not perceive any necessity for an\nartistic conclusion of their work. A wrinkled old maid may still preserve\nin the depths of her own heart, quite unsuspected by the young and lively\npeople about her, the unextinguished embers of a passion that first made\nher wretched fifty years before; and in the long, solitary hours of a dull\nold age she may live over and over again in memory the brief delirium of\nthat wild and foolish hope which was followed by years of self-repression.\n\nOf all the painful situations occasioned by passionate love, I know of\nnone more lamentable than that of an innocent and honorable woman who has\nbeen married to an unsuitable husband and who afterwards makes the\ndiscovery that she involuntarily loves another. In well-regulated, moral\nsocieties such passions are repressed, but they cannot be repressed\nwithout suffering which has to be endured in silence. The victim is\npunished for no fault when none is committed; but she may suffer from the\nforces of nature like one who hungers and thirsts and sees a fair banquet\nprovided, yet is forbidden to eat or drink. It is difficult to suppress\nthe heart's regret, \"Ah, if we had known each other earlier, in the days\nwhen I was free, and it was not wrong to love!\" Then there is the haunting\nfear that the woful secret may one day reveal itself to others. Might it\nnot be suddenly and unexpectedly betrayed by a momentary absence of\nself-control? This has sometimes happened, and then there is no safety but\nin separation, immediate and decided. Suppose a case like the following,\nwhich is said to have really occurred. A perfectly honorable man goes to\nvisit an intimate friend, walks quietly in the garden one afternoon with\nhis friend's wife, and suddenly discovers that he is the object of a\npassion which, until that moment, she has steadily controlled. One\noutburst of shameful tears, one pitiful confession of a life's\nunhappiness, and they part forever! This is what happens when the friend\nrespects his friend and the wife her husband. What happens when both are\ncapable of treachery is known to the readers of English newspaper reports\nand French fictions.\n\nIt seems as if, with regard to this passion, civilized man were placed in\na false position between Nature on the one hand and civilization on the\nother. Nature makes us capable of feeling it in very great strength and\nintensity, at an age when marriage is not to be thought of, and when there\nis not much self-control. The tendency of high civilization is to retard\nthe time of marriage for men, but there is not any corresponding\npostponement in the awakening of the passions. The least civilized classes\nmarry early, the more civilized later and later, and not often from\npassionate love, but from a cool and prudent calculation about general\nchances of happiness, a calculation embracing very various elements, and\nin itself as remote from passion as the Proverbs of Solomon from the Song\nof Songs. It consequently happens that the great majority of young\ngentlemen discover early in life that passionate love is a danger to be\navoided, and so indeed it is; but it seems a peculiar misfortune for\ncivilized man that so natural an excitement, which is capable of giving\nsuch a glow to all his faculties as nothing else can give, an excitement\nwhich exalts the imagination to poetry and increases courage till it\nbecomes heroic devotion, whilst it gives a glamour of romance to the\npoorest and most prosaic existence,--it seems, I say, a misfortune that a\npassion with such unequalled powers as these should have to be eliminated\nfrom wise and prudent life. The explanation of its early and inconvenient\nappearance may be that before the human race had attained a position of\nany tranquillity or comfort, the average life was very short, and it was\nof the utmost importance that the flame of existence should be passed on\nto another generation without delay. We inherit the rapid development\nwhich saved the race in its perilous past, but we are embarrassed by it,\nand instead of elevating us to a more exalted life it often avenges itself\nfor the refusal of natural activity by its own corruption, the corruption\nof the best into the worst, of the fire from heaven into the filth of\nimmorality. The more this great passion is repressed and expelled, the\nmore frequent does immorality become.\n\nAnother very remarkable result of the exclusion of passionate love from\nordinary existence is that the idea of it takes possession of the\nimagination. The most melodious poetry, the most absorbing fiction, are\nalike celebrations of its mysteries. Even the wordless voice of music\nwails or languishes for love, and the audience that seems only to hear\nflutes and violins is in reality listening to that endless song of love\nwhich thrills through the passionate universe. Well may the rebels against\nNature revolt against the influence of Art! It is everywhere permeated by\npassion. The cold marble warms with it, the opaque pigments palpitate\nwith it, the dull actor has the tones of genius when he wins access to its\nperennial inspiration. Even those forms of art which seem remote from it\ndo yet confess its presence. You see a picture of solitude, and think that\npassion cannot enter there, but everything suggests it. The tree bends\ndown to the calm water, the gentle breeze caresses every leaf, the\nwhite-pated old mountain is visited by the short-lived summer clouds. If,\nin the opening glade, the artist has sketched a pair of lovers, you think\nthey naturally complete the scene; if he has omitted them, it is still a\nplace for lovers, or has been, or will be on some sweet eve like this.\nWhat have stars and winds and odors to do with love? The poets know all\nabout it, and so let Shelley tell us:--\n\n  \"I arise from dreams of Thee\n   In the first sweet sleep of night,\n   When the winds are breathing low\n   And the stars are shining bright:\n   I arise from dreams of thee,\n   And a spirit in my feet\n   Has led me--who knows how?--\n   To thy chamber-window, Sweet!\n   The wandering airs they faint\n   On the dark, the silent stream;\n   The champak odors fail\n   Like sweet thoughts in a dream;\n   The nightingale's complaint\n   It dies upon her heart,\n   As I must die on thine\n   O belov\u00e8d as thou art!\"\n\n\n\n\nESSAY IV.\n\nCOMPANIONSHIP IN MARRIAGE.\n\n\nIf the reader has ever had for a travelling-companion some person totally\nunsuited to his nature and quite unable to enter into the ideas that\nchiefly interest him, unable, even, to _see_ the things that he sees and\nalways disposed to treat negligently or contemptuously the thoughts and\npreferences that are most his own, he may have some faint conception of\nwhat it must be to find one's self tied to an unsuitable companion for the\ntedious journey of this mortal life; and if, on the other hand, he has\never enjoyed the pleasure of wandering through a country that interested\nhim along with a friend who could understand his interest, and share it,\nand whose society enhanced the charm of every prospect and banished\ndulness from the dreariest inns, he may in some poor and imperfect degree\nrealize the happiness of those who have chosen the life-companion wisely.\n\nWhen, after an experiment of months or years, the truth becomes plainly\nevident that a great mistake has been committed, that there is really no\ncompanionship, that there never will be, never can be, any mental\ncommunion between the two, but that life in common is to be like a stiff\nmorning call when the giver and the receiver of the visit are beating\ntheir brains to find something to say, and dread the gaps of silence, then\nin the blank and dreary outlook comes the idea of separation, and\nsometimes, in the loneliness that follows, a wild rebellion against social\norder, and a reckless attempt to find in some more suitable union a\ncompensation for the first sad failure.\n\nThe world looks with more indulgence on these attempts when it sees reason\nto believe that the desire was for intellectual companionship than when\ninconstant passions are presumed to have been the motives; and it has so\nhappened that a few persons of great eminence have set an example in this\nrespect which has had the unfortunate effect of weakening in a perceptible\ndegree the ancient social order. It is not possible, of course, that there\ncan be many cases like that of George Eliot and Lewes, for the simple\nreason that persons of their eminence are so rare; but if there were only\na few more cases of that kind it is evident that the laws of society would\neither be confessedly powerless, or else it would be necessary to modify\nthem and bring them into harmony with new conditions. The importance of\nthe case alluded to lies in the fact that the lady, though she was\nexcluded (or willingly excluded herself) from general society, was still\nrespected and visited not only by men but by ladies of blameless life. Nor\nwas she generally regarded as an immoral person even by the outer world.\nThe feeling about her was one of regret that the faithful companionship\nshe gave to Lewes could not be legally called a marriage, as it was\napparently a model of what the legal relation ought to be. The object of\nhis existence was to give her every kind of help and to spare her every\nshadow of annoyance. He read to her, wrote letters for her, advised her on\neverything, and whilst full of admiration for her talents was able to do\nsomething for their most effectual employment. She, on her part, rewarded\nhim with that which he prized above riches, the frank and affectionate\ncompanionship of an intellect that it is needless to describe and of a\nheart full of the most lively sympathy and ready for the most romantic\nsacrifices.\n\nIn the preceding generation we have the well-known instances of Shelley,\nByron, and Goethe, all of whom sought companionship outside of social\nrule, and enjoyed a sort of happiness probably not unembittered by the\nfalse position in which it placed them. The sad story of Shelley's first\nmarriage, that with Harriett Westbrook, is one of the best instances of a\ndeplorable but most natural mistake. She is said to have been a charming\nperson in many ways. \"Harriett,\" says Mr. Rossetti, \"was not only\ndelightful to look at but altogether most agreeable. She dressed with\nexquisite neatness and propriety; her voice was pleasant and her speech\ncordial; her spirits were cheerful and her manners good. She was well\neducated, a constant and agreeable reader; adequately accomplished in\nmusic.\" But in spite of these qualities and talents, and even of\nHarriett's willingness to learn, Shelley did not find her to be\ncompanionable for him; and he unfortunately did discover that another\nyoung lady, Mary Godwin, was companionable in the supreme degree. That\nthis latter idea was not illusory is proved by his happy life afterwards\nwith Mary so far as a life could be happy that was poisoned by a tragic\nrecollection.[3] Before that miserable ending, before the waters of the\nSerpentine had closed over the wretched existence of Harriett, Shelley\nsaid, \"Every one who knows me must know that the partner of my life should\nbe one who can feel poetry and understand philosophy. Harriett is a noble\nanimal, but she can do neither.\" Here we have a plain statement of that\ngreat need for companionship which was a part of Shelley's nature. It is\noften connected with its apparent opposite, the love of solitude. Shelley\nwas a lover of solitude, which means that he liked full and adequate human\nintercourse so much that the insufficient imitation of it was intolerable\nto him. Even that sweetest solitude of all, when he wrote the \"Revolt of\nIslam\" in summer shades, to the sound of rippling waters, was willingly\nexchanged for the society of the one dearest and best companion:--\n\n  \"So now my summer-task is ended, Mary,\n       And I return to thee, mine own heart's home;\n   As to his Queen some victor Knight of Fa\u00ebry,\n       Earning bright spoils for her enchanted dome.\n       Nor thou disdain that, ere my fame become\n   A star among the stars of mortal night\n       (If it indeed may cleave its native gloom),\n     Its doubtful promise thus I would unite\n   With thy beloved name, thou child of love and light.\n\n  \"The toil which stole from thee so many an hour\n       Is ended, and the fruit is at thy feet.\n   No longer where the woods to frame a bower\n       With interlaced branches mix and meet,\n       Or where, with sound like many voices sweet,\n   Waterfalls leap among wild islands green\n       Which framed for my lone boat a lone retreat\n     Of moss-grown trees and weeds, shall I be seen:\n   But beside thee, where still my heart has ever been.\"\n\nIt is not surprising that the companionship of conjugal life should be\nlike other friendships in this, that a first experiment may be a failure\nand a later experiment a success. We are all so fallible that in matters\nof which we have no experience we generally commit great blunders.\nMarriage unites all the conditions that make a blunder probable. Two young\npeople, with very little conception of what an unsurmountable barrier a\ndifference of idiosyncrasy may be, are pleased with each other's youth,\nhealth, natural gayety, and good looks, and fancy that it would be\ndelightful to live together. They marry, and in many cases discover that\nsomehow, in spite of the most meritorious efforts, they are not\ncompanions. There is no fault on either side; they try their best, but the\ninvisible demon, incompatibility, is too strong for them.\n\nFrom all that we know of the characters of Lord and Lady Byron it seems\nevident that they never were likely to enjoy life together. He committed\nthe mistake of marrying a lady on the strength of her excellent\nreputation. \"She has talents and excellent qualities,\" he said before\nmarriage; as if all the arts and sciences and all the virtues put together\ncould avail without the one quality that is _never_ admired, _never_\nunderstood by others,--that of simple suitableness. She was \"a kind of\npattern in the North,\" and he \"heard of nothing but her merits and her\nwonders.\" He did not see that all these excellencies were dangers, that\nthe consciousness of them and the reputation for them would set the lady\nup on a judgment seat of her own, from which she would be continually\nobserving the errors, serious or trivial, of that faulty specimen of the\nmale sex that it was her lofty mission to correct or to condemn. All this\nhe found out in due time and expressed in the bitter lines,--\n\n  \"Oh! she was perfect past all parallel\n     Of any modern female saint's comparison\n\n      *       *       *       *       *\n\n   Perfect she was.\"\n\nThe story of his subsequent life is too well known to need repetition\nhere. All that concerns our present subject is that ultimately, in the\nCountess Guiccioli, he found the woman who had, for him, that one quality,\nsuitableness, which outweighs all the perfections. She did not read\nEnglish, but, though ignorant alike of the splendor and the tenderness of\nhis verse, she knew the nature of the man; and he enjoyed in her society,\nprobably for the first time in his life, the most exquisite pleasure the\nmasculine mind can ever know, that of being looked upon by a feminine\nintelligence with clear sight and devoted affection at the same time. The\nrelation that existed between Byron and the Countess Guiccioli is one\noutside of our morality, a revenge of Nature against a marriage system\nthat could take a girl not yet sixteen and make her the third wife of a\nman more than old enough to be her grandfather. In Italy this revenge of\nNature against a bad social system is accepted, within limits, and is an\nall but inevitable consequence of marriages like that of Count Guiccioli,\nwhich, however they may be approved by custom and consecrated by religious\nceremonies, remain, nevertheless, amongst the worst (because the most\nunnatural) immoralities. All that need be said in his young wife's defence\nis that she followed the only rule habitually acted upon by mankind, the\ncustom of her country and her class, and that she acted, from beginning to\nend, with the most absolute personal abnegation. On Byron her influence\nwas wholly beneficial. She raised him from a mode of life that was\ndeplored by all his true friends, to the nearest imitation of a happy\nmarriage that was accessible to him; but the irregularity of their\nposition brought upon them the usual Nemesis, and after a broken\nintercourse, during which he never could feel her to be really his own, he\nwent to Missolonghi and wrote, under the shadow of Death,--\n\n  \"The hope, the fear, the jealous care,\n     The exalted portion of the pain\n   And power of love, I cannot share,\n     But wear the chain.\"\n\nThe difference between Byron and Goethe in regard to feminine\ncompanionship lies chiefly in this,--that whilst Byron does not seem to\nhave been very susceptible of romantic love (though he was often entangled\nin _liaisons_ more or less degrading), Goethe was constantly in love and\nimaginative in his passions, as might be expected from a poet. He appears\nto have encouraged himself in amorous fancies till they became almost or\nquite realities, as if to give himself that experience of various feeling\nout of which he afterwards created poems. He was himself clearly conscious\nthat his poetry was a transformation of real experiences into artistic\nforms. The knowledge that he came by his poetry in this way would\nnaturally lead him to encourage rather than stifle the sentiments which\ngave him his best materials. It is quite within the comprehensive powers\nof a complex nature that a poet might lead a dual life; being at the same\ntime a man, ardent, very susceptible of all passionate emotions, and a\npoet, observing this passionate life and accumulating its results. In all\nthis there is very little of what occupies us just now, the search for a\nsatisfactory companionship. The woman with whom he most enjoyed that was\nthe Baroness von Stein, but even this friendship was not ultimately\nsatisfying and had not a permanent character. It lasted ten or eleven\nyears, till his return from the Italian journey, when \"she thought him\ncold, and her resource was--reproaches. The resource was more feminine\nthan felicitous. Instead of sympathizing with him in his sorrow at leaving\nItaly, she felt the regret as an offence; and perhaps it was; but a truer,\nnobler nature would surely have known how to merge its own pain in\nsympathy with the pain of one beloved. He regretted Italy; she was not a\ncompensation to him; she saw this, and her self-love suffered.\"[4] And so\nit ended. \"He offered friendship in vain; he had wounded the self-love of\na vain woman.\" Goethe's longest connection was with Christiane Vulpius, a\nwoman quite unequal to him in station and culture, and in that respect\nimmeasurably inferior to the Baroness von Stein, but superior to her in\nthe power of affection, and able to charm and retain the poet by her\nlively, pleasant disposition and her perfect constancy. Gradually she rose\nin his esteem, and every year increased her influence over him. From the\nprecarious position of a mistress out of his house she first attained that\nof a wife in all but the legal title, as he received her under his roof in\ndefiance of all the good society of Weimar; and lastly she became his\nlawful wife, to the still greater scandal of the polite world. It may even\nbe said that her promotion did not end here, for the final test of love is\ndeath; and when Christiane died she left behind her the deep and lasting\nsorrow that is happiness still to those who feel it, though happiness in\nits saddest form.\n\nThe misfortune of Goethe appears to have been that he dreaded and avoided\nmarriage in early life, perhaps because he was instinctively aware of his\nown tendency to form many attachments of limited duration; but his\ntreatment of Christiane Vulpius, so much beyond any obligations which,\naccording to the world's code, he had incurred, is sufficient proof that\nthere was a power of constancy in his nature; and if he had married early\nand suitably it is possible that this constancy might have stayed and\nsteadied him from the beginning. It is easy to imagine that a marriage\nwith a cultivated woman of his own class would have given him, in course\nof time, by mutual adaptation, a much more complete companionship than\neither of those semi-associations with the Frau von Stein and Christiane,\neach of which only included a part of his great nature. Christiane,\nhowever, had the better part, his heartfelt affection.\n\nThe case of John Stuart Mill and the remarkable woman by whose side he\nlies buried at Avignon, is the most perfect instance of thorough\ncompanionship on record; and it is remarkable especially because men of\ngreat intellectual power, whose ways of thinking are quite independent of\ncustom, and whose knowledge is so far outside the average as to carry\ntheir thoughts continually beyond the common horizon, have an extreme\ndifficulty in associating themselves with women, who are naturally\nattached to custom, and great lovers of what is settled, fixed, limited,\nand clear. The ordinary disposition of women is to respect what is\nauthorized much more than what is original, and they willingly, in the\nthings of the mind, bow before anything that is repeated with\ncircumstances of authority. An isolated philosopher has no costume or\nsurroundings to entitle him to this kind of respect. He wears no vestment,\nhe is not magnified by any architecture, he is not supported by superiors\nor deferred to by subordinates. He stands simply on his abilities, his\nlearning, and his honesty. There is, however, this one chance in his\nfavor, that a certain natural sympathy may possibly exist between him and\nsome woman on the earth,--if he could only find her,--and this woman would\nmake him independent of all the rest. It was Stuart Mill's rare\ngood-fortune to find this one woman, early in life, in the person of Mrs.\nTaylor; and as his nature was intellectual and affectionate rather than\npassionate, he was able to rest contented with simple friendship for a\nperiod of twenty years. Indeed this friendship itself, considered only as\nsuch, was of very gradual growth. \"To be admitted,\" he wrote, \"into any\ndegree of mental intercourse with a being of these qualities, could not\nbut have a most beneficial influence on my development; though the effect\nwas only gradual, and many years elapsed before her mental progress and\nmine went forward in the complete companionship they at last attained. The\nbenefit I received was far greater than any I could hope to give.... What\nI owe, even intellectually, to her, is in its detail almost infinite.\"\n\nMill speaks of his marriage, in 1851 (I use his words), to the lady whose\nincomparable worth had made her friendship the greatest source to him both\nof happiness and of improvement during many years in which they never\nexpected to be in any closer relation to one another. \"For seven and a\nhalf years,\" he goes on to say, \"that blessing was mine; for seven and a\nhalf only! I can say nothing which could describe, even in the faintest\nmanner, what that loss was and is. But because I know that she would have\nwished it, I endeavor to make the best of what life I have left and to\nwork on for her purposes with such diminished strength as can be derived\nfrom thoughts of her and communion with her memory.... Since then I have\nsought for such alleviation as my state admitted of, by the mode of life\nwhich most enabled me to feel her still near me. I bought a cottage as\nclose as possible to the place where she is buried, and there her daughter\n(my fellow-sufferer and now my chief comfort) and I live constantly during\na great portion of the year. My objects in life are solely those which\nwere hers; my pursuits and occupations those in which she shared, or\nsympathized, and which are indissolubly associated with her. Her memory is\nto me a religion, and her approbation the standard by which, summing up as\nit does all worthiness, I endeavor to regulate my life.\"\n\nThe examples that I have selected (all purposely from the real life of\nwell-known persons) are not altogether encouraging. They show the\ndifficulty that there is in finding the true companion. George Eliot found\nhers at the cost of a rebellion against social order to which, with her\nregulated mind and conservative instincts, she must have been by nature\nlittle disposed. Shelley succeeded only after a failure and whilst the\nfailure still had rights over his entire existence. His life was like one\nof those pictures in which there is a second work over a first, and the\npainter supposes the first to be entirely concealed, which indeed it is\nfor a little time, but it reappears afterwards and spoils the whole.\nNothing could be more unsatisfactory than the domestic arrangements of\nByron. He married a lady from a belief in her learning and virtue, only to\nfind that learning and virtue were hard stones in comparison with the\ndaily bread of sympathy. Then, after a vain waste of years in error, he\nfound true love at last, but on terms which involved too heavy sacrifices\nfrom her who gave it, and procured him no comfort, no peace, if indeed\nhis nature was capable of any restfulness in love. Goethe, after a number\nof attachments that ended in nothing, gave himself to one woman by his\nintelligence and to another by his affections, not belonging with his\nwhole nature to either, and never in his long life knowing what it is to\nhave equal companionship in one's own house. Stuart Mill is contented, for\ntwenty years, to be the esteemed friend of a lady married to another,\nwithout hope of any closer relation; and when his death permits them to\nthink of marriage, they have only seven years and a half before them, and\nhe is forty-five years old.\n\nCases of this kind would be discouraging in the extreme degree, were it\nnot that the difficulty is exceptional. High intellect is in itself a\npeculiarity, in a certain sense it is really an eccentricity, even when so\nthoroughly sane and rational as in the cases of George Eliot, Goethe, and\nMill. It is an eccentricity in this sense, that its mental centre does not\ncoincide with that of ordinary people. The mental centre of ordinary\npeople is simply the public opinion, the common sense, of the class and\nlocality in which they live, so that, to them, the common sense of people\nin another class, another locality, appears irrational or absurd. The\nmental centre of a superior person is not that of class and locality.\nShelley did not belong to the English aristocracy, though he was born in\nit; his mind did not centre itself in aristocratic ideas. George Eliot did\nnot belong to the middle class of the English midlands, nor Stuart Mill to\nthe London middle classes. So far as Byron belonged to the aristocracy it\nwas a mark of inferiority in him, owing to a touch of vulgarity in his\nnature, the same vulgarity which made him believe that he could not be a\nproper sort of lord without a prodigal waste of money. Yet even Byron was\nnot centred in local ideas; that which was best in him, his enthusiasm for\nGreece, was not an essential part of Nottinghamshire common sense. Goethe\nlived much more in one locality, and even in a small place; but if\nanything is remarkable in him it is his complete independence of Weimar\nideas. It was the Duke, his friend and master, not the public opinion of\nWeimar, that allowed Goethe to be himself. He refused even to be classed\nintellectually, and did not recognize the vulgar opinion that a poet\ncannot be scientific. In all these cases the mental centre was not in any\nlocal common sense. It was a result of personal studies and observations\nacting upon an individual idiosyncrasy.\n\nWe may now perceive how infinitely easier it is for ordinary people to\nmeet and be companionable than for these rare and superior minds. Ordinary\npeople, if bred in the same neighborhood and class, are sure to have a\ngreat fund of ideas in common, all those ideas that constitute the local\ncommon sense. If you listen attentively to their conversations you will\nfind that they hardly ever go outside of that. They mention incidents and\nactions, and test them one after another by a tacit reference to the\npublic opinion of the place. Therefore they have a good chance of\nagreeing, of considering each other reasonable; and this is why it is a\ngenerally received opinion that marriages between people of the same\nlocality and the same class offer the greatest probability of happiness.\nSo they do, in ordinary cases, but if there is the least touch of any\noriginal talent or genius in one of the parties, it is sure to result in\nmany ideas that will be outside of any local common sense, and then the\nother party, living in that sense, will consider those ideas peculiar, and\nperhaps deplorable. Here, then, are elements of dissension lying quite\nready like explosive materials, and the merest accident may shatter in a\nmoment the whole fabric of affection. To prevent such an accident an\nartificial kind of intercourse is adopted which is not real companionship,\nor anything resembling it.\n\nThe reader may imagine, and has probably observed in real life, a marriage\nin which the husband is a man of original power, able to think forcibly\nand profoundly, and the wife a gentle being quite unable to enter into any\nthought of that quality. In cases of that kind the husband may be\naffectionate and even tender, but he is careful to utter nothing beyond\nthe safest commonplaces. In the presence of his wife he keeps his mind\nquite within the circle of custom. He has, indeed, no other resource.\nCustom and commonplace are the protection of the intelligent against\nmisapprehension and disapproval.\n\nMarriages of this unequal kind are an imitation of those equal marriages\nin which both parties live in the local common sense; but there is this\nvast difference between them, that in the imitation the more intelligent\nof the two parties has to stifle half his nature. An intelligent man has\nto make up his mind in early life whether he has courage enough for such\na sacrifice or not. Let him try the experiment of associating for a short\ntime with people who cannot understand him, and if he likes the feeling of\nrepression that results from it, if he is able to stop short always at the\nright moment, if he can put his knowledge on the shelf as one puts a book\nin a library, then perhaps he may safely undertake the long labor of\ncompanionship with an unsuitable wife.\n\nThis is sometimes done in pure hopelessness of ever finding a true mate. A\nman has no belief in any real companionship, and therefore simply conforms\nto custom in his marriage, as Montaigne did, allying himself with some\nyoung lady who is considered in the neighborhood to be a suitable match\nfor him. This is the _mariage de convenance_. Its purposes are\nintelligible and attainable. It may add considerably to the dignity and\nconvenience of life and to that particular kind of happiness which results\nfrom satisfaction with our own worldly prudence. There is also the\nprobability that by perfect courtesy, by a scrupulous observance of the\nrules of intercourse between highly civilized persons who are not\nextremely intimate, the parties who contract a marriage of this kind may\ngive each other the mild satisfactions that are the reward of the\nwell-bred. There is a certain pleasure in watching every movement of an\naccomplished lady, and if she is your wife there may also be a certain\npride. She receives your guests well; she holds her place with perfect\nself-possession at your table and in her drawing-room; she never commits a\nsocial solecism; and you feel that you can trust her absolutely. Her\nprivate income is a help in the maintenance of your establishment and so\nincreases your credit in the world. She gives you in this way a series of\nsatisfactions that may even, in course of time, produce rather\naffectionate feelings. If she died you would certainly regret her loss,\nand think that life was, on the whole, decidedly less agreeable without\nher.\n\nBut alas for the dreams of youth if this is all that is to be gained by\nmarriage! Where is the sweet friend and companion who was to have\naccompanied us through prosperous or adverse years, who was to have\ncharmed and consoled us, who was to have given us the infinite happiness\nof being understood and loved at the same time? Were all those dreams\ndelusions? Is the best companionship a mere fiction of the fancy, not\nexisting anywhere upon the earth?\n\nI believe in the promises of Nature. I believe that in every want there is\nthe promise of a possible satisfaction. If we are hungry there is food\nsomewhere, if we are thirsty there is drink. But in the things of the\nworld there is often an indication of order rather than a realization of\nit, so that in the confusion of accidents the hungry man may be starving\nin a beleaguered city and the thirsty man parched in the Sahara. All that\nthe wants indicate is that their satisfaction is possible in nature. Let\nus believe that, for every one, the true mate exists somewhere in the\nworld. She is worth seeking for at any cost of trouble or expense, worth\ntravelling round the globe to find, worth the endurance of labor and pain\nand privation. Men suffer all this for objects of far inferior\nimportance; they risk life for the chance of a ribbon, and sacrifice\nleisure and peace for the smallest increase of social position. What are\nthese vanities in comparison with the priceless benefit, the continual\nblessing, of having with you always the one person whose presence can\ndeliver you from all the evils of solitude without imposing the\nconstraints and hypocrisies of society? With her you are free to be as\nmuch yourself as when alone; you say what you think and she understands\nyou. Your silence does not offend her; she only thinks that there will be\ntime enough to talk together afterwards. You know that you can trust her\nlove, which is as unfailing as a law of nature. The differences of\nidiosyncrasy that exist between you only add interest to your intercourse\nby preventing her from becoming a mere echo of yourself. She has her own\nways, her own thoughts that are not yours and yet are all open to you, so\nthat you no longer dwell in one intellect only but have constant access to\na second intellect, probably more refined and elegant, richer in what is\ndelicate and beautiful. There you make unexpected discoveries; you find\nthat the first instinctive preference is more than justified by merits\nthat you had not divined. You had hoped and trusted vaguely that there\nwere certain qualities; but as a painter who looks long at a natural scene\nis constantly discovering new beauties whilst he is painting it, so the\nlong and loving observation of a beautiful human mind reveals a thousand\nunexpected excellences. Then come the trials of life, the sudden\ncalamities, the long and wearing anxieties. Each of these will only reveal\nmore clearly the wonderful endurance, fidelity, and fortitude that there\nis in every noble feminine nature, and so build up on the foundation of\nyour early love an unshakable edifice of esteem and respect and love\ncommingled, for which in our modern tongue we have no single term, but\nwhich our forefathers called \"worship.\"\n\n\n\n\nESSAY V.\n\nFAMILY TIES.\n\n\nOne of the most remarkable differences between the English and some of the\nContinental nations is the comparative looseness of family ties in\nEngland. The apparent difference is certainly very great; the real\ndifference is possibly not so great. It may be that a good deal of that\nwarm family affection which we are constantly hearing of in France is only\nmake-believe, but the keeping-up of a make-believe is often favorable to\nthe reality. In England a great deal of religion is mere outward form; but\nto be surrounded by the constant observance of outward form is a great\npractical convenience to the genuine religious sentiment where it exists.\n\nIn boyhood we suppose that all gentlemen of mature age who happen to be\nbrothers must naturally have fraternal feelings; in mature life we know\nthe truth, having discovered that there are many brothers between whom no\nsentiment of fraternity exists. A foreigner who knows England well, and\nhas observed it more carefully than we ourselves do, remarked to me that\nthe fraternal relationship is not generally a cause of attachment in\nEngland, though there may be cases of exceptional affection. It certainly\noften happens that brothers live contentedly apart and do not seem to feel\nthe need of intercourse, or that such intercourse as they have has no\nappearance of cordiality. A very common cause of estrangement is a natural\ndifference of class. One man is so constituted as to feel more at ease in\na higher class, and he rises; his brother feels more at ease in a lower\nclass, adopts its manners, and sinks. After a few years have passed the\ntwo will have acquired such different habits, both of thinking and living,\nthat they will be disqualified for equal intercourse. If one brother is a\ngentleman in tastes and manners and the other not a gentleman, the\nvulgarity of the coarser nature will be all the more offensive to the\nrefined one that there is the troublesome consciousness of a very near\nrelationship and of a sort of indefinite responsibility.\n\nThe frequency of coolness between brothers surprises us less when we\nobserve how widely they may differ from each other in mental and physical\nconstitution. One may be a sportsman, traveller, man of the world; another\na religious recluse. One may have a sensitive, imaginative nature and be\nkeenly alive to the influences of literature, painting, and music; his\nbrother may be a hard, practical man of business, with a conviction that\nan interest in literary and artistic pursuits is only a sign of weakness.\n\nThe extreme uncertainty that always exists about what really constitutes\nsuitableness is seen as much between brothers as between other men; for we\nsometimes see a beautiful fraternal affection between brothers who seem to\nhave nothing whatever in common, and sometimes an equal affection appears\nto be founded upon likeness.\n\nJealousy in its various forms is especially likely to arise between\nbrothers, and between sisters also for the same reason, which is that\ncomparisons are constantly suggested and even made with injudicious\nopenness by parents and teachers, and by talkative friends. The\ndevelopment of the faculties in youth is always extremely interesting, and\nis a constant subject of observation and speculation. If it is interesting\nto on-lookers, it is still more likely to be so to the young persons most\nconcerned. They feel as young race-horses might be expected to feel\ntowards each other if they could understand the conversations of trainers,\nstud-owners, and grooms.\n\nIf a full account of family life could be generally accessible, if we\ncould read autobiographies written by the several members of the same\nfamily, giving a sincere and independent account of their own youth, it\nwould probably be found in most cases that jealousies were easily\ndiscoverable. They need not be very intense to create a slight fissure of\nseparation that may be slowly widened afterwards.\n\nIf you listen attentively to the conversation of brothers about brothers,\nof sisters about sisters, you will probably detect such little jealousies\nwithout difficulty. \"My sister,\" said a lady in my hearing, \"was very much\nadmired when she was young, _but she aged prematurely_.\" Behind this it\nwas easy to read the comparison with self, with a constitution less\nattractive to others but more robust and durable, and there was a faint\nreverberation of girlish jealousy about attentions paid forty years\nbefore.\n\nThe jealousies of youth are too natural to deserve any serious blame, but\nthey may be a beginning of future coolness. A boy will seem to praise the\ntalents of his brother with the purpose of implying that the facilities\ngiven by such talents make industry almost superfluous, whilst his own\nmore strenuous efforts are not appreciated as they deserve. Instead of\nsoothing and calming these natural jealousies some parents irritate and\ninflame them. They make wounding remarks that produce evil in after years.\nI have seen a sensitive boy wince under cutting sarcasms that he will\nremember till his hair is gray.\n\nIf there are fraternal jealousies in boyhood, when the material comforts\nand the outward show of existence are the same for brothers, much more are\nthese jealousies likely to be accentuated in after-life, when differences\nof worldly success, or of inherited fortune, establish distinctions so\nobvious as to be visible to all. The operation of the aristocratic custom\nby which eldest sons are made very much richer than their brethren can\nscarcely be in favor of fraternal intimacy. No general rule can be\nestablished, because characters differ so widely. An eldest brother _may_\nbe so amiable, so truly fraternal, that the cadets instead of feeling envy\nof his wealth may take a positive pride in it; still, the natural effect\nof creating such a vast inequality is to separate the favored heir from\nthe less-favored younger sons. I leave the reader to think over instances\nthat may be known to him. Amongst those known to me I find several cases\nof complete or partial suspension of intercourse and others of manifest\nindifference and coolness. One incident recurs to my memory after a lapse\nof thirty years. I was present at the departure of a young friend for\nIndia when his eldest brother was too indifferent to get up a little\nearlier to see him off, and said, \"Oh, you're going, are you? Well,\ngood-by, John!\" through his bedroom door. The lad carried a wound in his\nheart to the distant East.\n\nThere is nothing in the mere fact of fraternity to establish friendship.\nThe line of \"In Memoriam,\"--\n\n  \"More than my brothers are to me,\"\n\nis simply true of every real friend, unless friendship adds itself to\nbrotherhood, in which case the intimacy arising from a thousand details of\nearly life in common, from the thorough knowledge of the same persons and\nplaces, and from the memories of parental affection, must give a rare\ncompleteness to friendship itself and make it in these respects even\nsuperior to marriage, which has the great defect that the associations of\nearly life are not the same. I remember a case of wonderfully strong\naffection between two brothers who were daily companions till death\nseparated them; but they were younger sons and their incomes were exactly\nalike; their tastes, too, and all their habits were the same. The only\nother case that occurs to me as comparable to this one was also of two\nyounger sons, one of whom had an extraordinary talent for business. They\nwere partners in trade, and no dissension ever arose between them, because\nthe superiority of the specially able man was affectionately recognized\nand deferred to by the other. If, however, they had not been partners it\nis possible that the brilliant success of one brother might have created\na contrast and made intercourse more constrained.\n\nThe case of John Bright and his brother may be mentioned, as he has made\nit public in one of his most charming and interesting speeches. His\npolitical work has prevented him from laboring in his business, but his\nbrother and partner has affectionately considered him an active member of\nthe firm, so that Mr. Bright has enjoyed an income sufficient for his\npolitical independence. In this instance the comparatively obscure brother\nhas shown real nobility of nature. Free from the jealousy and envy which\nwould have vexed a small mind in such a position he has taken pleasure in\nthe fame of the statesman. It is easy to imagine the view that a mean mind\nwould have taken of a similar situation. Let us add that the statesman\nhimself has shown true fraternal generosity of another kind, and perhaps\nof a more difficult kind, for it is often easier to confer an obligation\nthan to accept it heartily.\n\nIt has often been a subject of astonishment to me that between very near\nrelations a sensitive feeling about pecuniary matters should be so lively\nas it is. I remember an instance in the last generation of a rich man in\nCheshire who made a present of ten thousand pounds to a lady nearly\nrelated to him. He was very wealthy, she was not; the sum would never be\nmissed by him, whilst to her it made a great difference. What could be\nmore reasonable than such a correction of the inequalities of fortune?\nMany people would have refused the present, out of pride, but it was much\nkinder to accept it in the same good spirit that dictated the offer. On\nthe other hand, there are poor gentlefolks whose only fault is a sense of\nindependence, so _farouche_ that nobody can get them to accept anything of\nimportance, and any good that is done to them has to be plotted with\nconsummate art.\n\nA wonderful light is thrown upon family relations when we become\nacquainted with the real state of those family pecuniary transactions that\nare not revealed to the public. The strangest discovery is the widely\ndifferent ways in which pecuniary obligations are estimated by different\npersons, especially by different women. Men, I believe, take them rather\nmore equally; but as women go by sentiment they have a tendency to\nextremes, either exaggerating the importance of an obligation when they\nlike to feel very much obliged, or else adopting the convenient theory\nthat the generous person is fulfilling a simple duty, and that there is no\nobligation whatever. One woman will go into ecstasies of gratitude because\na brother makes her a present of a few pounds; and another will never\nthank a benefactor who allows her, year by year, an annuity far larger\nthan is justified by his precarious professional income. In one real case\na lady lived for many years on her brother's generosity and was openly\nhostile to him all the time. After her death it was found that she had\ninsulted him in her will. In another case a sister dependent on her\nbrother's bounty never thanked him or even acknowledged the receipt of a\nsum of money, but if the money was not sent to the day she would at once\nwrite a sharp letter full of bitter reproaches for his neglect. The marvel\nis the incredible patience with which toiling men will go on sending the\nfruits of their industry to relations who do not even make a pretence of\naffection.\n\nA frequent cause of hostility between very near relations is the\n_restriction_ of generosity. So long as you set no limit to your giving it\nis well, you are doing your duty; but the moment you fix a limit the case\nis altered; then all past sacrifices go for nothing, your glory has set in\ngloom, and you will be considered as more niggardly than if you had not\nbegun to be generous. Here is a real case, out of many. A man makes bad\nspeculations, but conceals the full extent of his losses, and by the\ninfluence of his wife obtains important sums from a near relation of hers\nwho half ruins himself to save her. When the full disaster is known the\nrelation stops short and declines to ruin himself entirely; she then\nbitterly reproaches him for his selfishness. A very short time before\nwriting the present Essay I was travelling, and met an old friend, a\nbachelor of limited means but of a most generous disposition, the kindest\nand most affectionate nature I ever knew in the male sex. I asked for news\nabout his brother. \"I never see him now; a coldness has sprung up between\nus.\"--\"It must be his fault, then, for I am sure it did not originate with\nyou.\"--\"The truth is, he got into money difficulties, so I gave him a\nthousand pounds. He thought that under the circumstances I ought to have\ndone more and broke off all intercourse. I really believe that if I had\ngiven him nothing we should have been more friendly at this day.\"\n\nThe question how far we are bound to allow family ties to regulate our\nintercourse is not easily treated in general terms, though it seems\nplainer in particular cases. Here is one for the reader's consideration.\n\nOwing to natural refinement, and to certain circumstances of which he\nintelligently availed himself, one member of a family is a cultivated\ngentleman, whose habitual ways of thinking are of rather an elevated kind,\nand whose manners and language are invariably faultless. He is blessed\nwith very near relations whose principal characteristic is loud,\nconfident, overwhelming vulgarity. He is always uncomfortable with these\nrelations. He knows that the ways of thinking and speaking which are\nnatural to him will seem cold and uncongenial to them; that not one of his\nthoughts can be exactly understood by them; that his deficiency in what\nthey consider heartiness is a defect he cannot get over. On the other\nhand, he takes no interest in what they say, because their opinions on all\nthe subjects he cares about are too crude, and their information too\nscanty or erroneous. If he said what he felt impelled to say, all his talk\nwould be a perpetual correction of their clumsy blunders. He has,\ntherefore, no resource but to repress himself and try to act a part, the\npart of a pleased companion; but this is wearisome, especially if\nprolonged. The end is that he keeps out of their way, and is set down as a\nproud, conceited person, and an unkind relative. In reality he is simply\nrefined and has a difficulty in accommodating himself to the ways of all\nvulgar society whatever, whether composed of his own relations or of\nstrangers. Does he deserve to be blamed for this? Certainly not. He has\nnot the flexibility, the dramatic power, to adapt himself to a lower\nstate of civilization; that is his only fault. His relations are persons\nwith whom, if they were not relations, nobody would expect him to\nassociate; but because he and they happen to be descended from a common\nancestor he is to maintain an impossible intimacy. He wishes them no harm;\nhe is ready to make sacrifices to help them; his misfortune is that he\ndoes not possess the humor of a Dickens that would have enabled him to\nfind amusement in their vulgarity, and he prefers solitude to that\ninfliction.\n\nThere is a French proverb, \"Les cousins ne sont pas parents.\" The exact\ntruth would appear to be rather that cousins are relations or not just as\nit pleases them to acknowledge the relationship, and according to the\nnatural possibilities of companionship between the parties. If they are of\nthe same class in society (which does not always happen), and if they have\npursuits in common or can understand each other's interests, and if there\nis that mysterious suitableness which makes people like to be together,\nthen the fact of cousinship is seized upon as a convenient pretext for\nmaking intercourse more frequent, more intimate, and more affectionate;\nbut if there is nothing to attract one cousin to another the relationship\nis scarcely acknowledged. Cousins are, or are not, relations just as they\nfind it agreeable to themselves. It need hardly be added that it is a\ngeneral though not an invariable rule that the relationship is better\nremembered on the humbler side. The cousinly degree may be felt to be very\nclose under peculiar circumstances. An only child looks to his cousins\nfor the brotherly and sisterly affection that fate has denied him at home,\nand he is not always disappointed. Even distant cousins may be truly\nfraternal, just as first cousins may happen to be very distant, the\nrelationship is so variable and elastic in its nature.\n\nUnmarried people have often a great vague dread of their future wife's\nrelations, even when the lady has not yet been fixed upon, and married\npeople have sometimes found the reality more terrible even than their\ngloomy anticipation. And yet it may happen that some of these dreaded new\nrelations will be unexpectedly valuable and supply elements that were\ngrievously wanting. They may bring new life into a dull house, they may\nenliven the sluggish talk with wit and information, they may take a too\nthoughtful and studious man out of the weary round of his own ideas. They\nmay even in course of time win such a place in one's affection that if\nthey are taken away by death they will leave a great void and an enduring\nsorrow. I write these lines from a sweet and sad experience.[5]\n\nIntellectual men are, more than others, liable to a feeling of\ndissatisfaction with their relations because they want intellectual\nsympathy and interest, which relations hardly ever give. The reason is\nextremely simple. Any special intellectual pursuit is understood only by a\nsmall select class of its own, and our relations are given us out of the\ngeneral body of society without any selection, and they are not very\nnumerous, so that the chances against our finding intellectual sympathy\namongst them are calculably very great. As we grow older we get accustomed\nto this absence of sympathy with our pursuits, and take it as a matter of\ncourse; but in youth it seems strange that what we feel and know to be so\ninteresting should have no interest for those nearest to us. Authors\nsometimes feel a little hurt that their nearest relations will not read\ntheir books, and are but dimly aware that they have written any books at\nall; but do they read books of the same class by other writers? As an\nauthor you are in the same position that other authors occupy, but with\nthis difference, which is against you, that familiarity has made you a\ncommonplace person in your own circle, and that is a bad opening for the\nreception of your higher thoughts. This want of intellectual sympathy does\nnot prevent affection, and we ought to appreciate affection at its full\nvalue in spite of it. Your brother or your cousin may be strongly attached\nto you personally, with an old love dating from your boyhood, but he may\nseparate _you_ (the human creature that he knows) from the author of your\nbooks, and not feel the slightest curiosity about the books, believing\nthat he knows you perfectly without them, and that they are only a sort of\ncostume in which you perform before the public. A female relative who has\ngiven up her mind to the keeping of some clergyman, may scrupulously avoid\nyour literature in order that it may not contaminate her soul, and yet she\nmay love you still in a painful way and be sincerely sorry that you have\nno other prospect but that of eternal punishment.\n\nI have sometimes heard the question proposed whether relations or friends\nwere the more valuable as a support and consolation. Fate gives us our\nrelations, whilst we select our friends; and therefore it would seem at\nfirst sight that the friends must be better adapted for us; but it may\nhappen that we have not selected with great wisdom, or that we have not\nhad good opportunities for making a choice really answering to our deepest\nneeds. Still, there must have been mutual affinity of some kind to make a\nfriendship, whilst relations are all like tickets in a lottery. It may\ntherefore be argued that the more relations we have, the better, because\nwe are more likely to meet with two or three to love us amongst fifty than\namongst five.\n\nThe peculiar peril of blood-relationship is that those who are closely\nconnected by it often permit themselves an amount of mutual rudeness\n(especially in the middle and lower classes) which they never would think\nof inflicting upon a stranger. In some families people really seem to\nsuppose that it does not matter how roughly they treat each other. They\nutter unmeasured reproaches about trifles not worth a moment's anger; they\nmagnify small differences that only require to be let alone and forgotten,\nor they relieve the monotony of quarrels with an occasional fit of the\nsulks. Sometimes it is an irascible father who is always scolding,\nsometimes a loud-tongued matron shrieks \"in her fierce volubility.\" Some\nchildren take up the note and fire back broadside for broadside; others\nwait for a cessation in contemptuous silence and calmly disregard the\nthunder. Family life indeed! domestic peace and bliss! Give me, rather,\nthe bachelor's lonely hearth with a noiseless lamp and a book! The manners\nof the ill-mannered are never so odious, unbearable, exasperating, as they\nare to their own nearest kindred. How is a lad to enjoy the society of his\nmother if she is perpetually \"nagging\" and \"nattering\" at him? How is he\nto believe that his coarse father has a tender anxiety for his welfare\nwhen everything that he does is judged with unfatherly harshness? Those\nwho are condemned to live with people for whom scolding and quarrelling\nare a necessary of existence must either be rude in self-defence or take\nrefuge in a sullen and stubborn taciturnity. Young people who have to live\nin these little domestic hells look forward to any change as a desirable\nemancipation. They are ready to go to sea, to emigrate. I have heard of\none who went into domestic service under a feigned name that he might be\nout of the range of his brutal father's tongue.\n\nThe misery of uncongenial relations is caused mainly by the irksome\nconsciousness that they are obliged to live together. \"To think that there\nis so much space upon the earth, that there are so many houses, so many\nrooms, and yet that I am so unfortunate as to be compelled to live in the\nsame lodging with this uncivilized, ill-conditioned fellow! To think that\nthere are such vast areas of tranquil silence, and yet that I am compelled\nto hear the voice of that scolding woman!\" This is the feeling, and the\nrelief would be temporary separation. In this, as in almost everything\nthat concerns human intercourse, the rich have an immense advantage, as\nthey can take only just so much of each other's society as they find by\nexperience to be agreeable. They can quietly, and without rudeness, avoid\neach other by living in different houses, and even in the same house they\ncan have different apartments and be very little together. Imagine the\ndifference between two rich brothers, each with his suite of rooms in a\nseparate tower of the paternal castle, and two very poor ones,\ninconveniently occupying the same narrow, uncomfortable bed, and unable to\nremain in the wretched paternal tenement without being constantly in each\nother's way. Between these extremes are a thousand degrees of more or less\ninconvenient nearness. Solitude is bad for us, but we need a margin of\nfree space. If we are to be crowded let it be as the stars are crowded.\nThey look as if they were huddled together, but every one of them has his\nown clear space in the illimitable ether.\n\n\n\n\nESSAY VI.\n\nFATHERS AND SONS.\n\n\nThere is a certain unsatisfactoriness in this relation in our time which\nis felt by fathers and often avowed by them when they meet, though it does\nnot occupy any conspicuous place in the literature of life and manners. It\nhas been fully treated by M. Legouv\u00e9, the French Academician, in his own\nlively and elegant way; but he gave it a volume, and I must here confine\nmyself to the few points which can be dealt with in the limits of a short\nEssay.\n\nWe are in an interregnum between two systems. The old system, founded on\nthe stern authority of the father, is felt to be out of harmony with the\namenity of general social intercourse in modern times and also with the\nincreasing gentleness of political governors and the freedom of the\ngoverned. It is therefore, by common consent, abandoned. Some new system\nthat may be founded upon a clear intelligence of both the paternal and the\nfilial relations has yet to come into force. Meanwhile, we are trying\nvarious experiments, suggested by the different characters and\ncircumstances of fathers and sons, each father trying his own experiments,\nand we communicate to each other such results as we arrive at.\n\nIt is obvious that the defect here is the absence of a settled public\nopinion to which both parties would feel bound to defer. Under the old\nsystem the authority of the father was efficiently maintained, not only by\nthe laws, but by that general consensus of opinion which is far more\npowerful than law. The new system, whatever it may be, will be founded on\ngeneral opinion again, but our present experimental condition is one of\nanarchy.\n\nThis is the real cause of whatever may be felt as unsatisfactory in the\nmodern paternal and filial relations. It is not that fathers have become\nmore unjust or sons more rebellious.\n\nThe position of the father was in old times perfectly defined. He was the\ncommander, not only armed by the law but by religion and custom.\nDisobedience to his dictates was felt to be out of the question, unless\nthe insurgent was prepared to meet the consequences of open mutiny. The\nmaintenance of the father's authority depended only on himself. If he\nabdicated it through indolence or weakness he incurred moral reprobation\nnot unmingled with contempt, whilst in the present day reprobation would\nrather follow a new attempt to vindicate the antique authority.\n\nBesides this change in public opinion there is a new condition of paternal\nfeeling. The modern father, in the most civilized nations and classes, has\nacquired a sentiment that appears to have been absolutely unknown to his\npredecessors: he has acquired a dislike for command which increases with\nthe age of the son; so that there is an unfortunate coincidence of\nincreasing strength of will on the son's part with decreasing disposition\nto restrain it on the father's part. What a modern father really desires\nis that a son should go right of his own accord, and if not quite of his\nown accord, then in consequence of a little affectionate persuasion. This\nfeeling would make command unsatisfactory to us, even if it were followed\nby a military promptitude of obedience. We do not wish to be like\ncaptains, and our sons like privates in a company; we care only to\nexercise a certain beneficent influence over them, and we feel that if we\ngave military orders we should destroy that peculiar influence which is of\nthe most fragile and delicate nature.\n\nBut now see the unexpected consequences of our modern dislike to command!\nIt might be argued that there is a certain advantage on our side from the\nvery rarity of the commands we give, which endows them with extraordinary\nforce. Would it not be more accurate to say that as we give orders less\nand less our sons become unaccustomed to receive orders from us, and if\never the occasion arises when we _must_ give them a downright order it\ncomes upon their feelings with a harshness so excessive that they are\nlikely to think us tyrannical, whereas if we had kept up the old habits of\ncommand such orders would have seemed natural and right, and would not\nhave been less scrupulously obeyed?\n\nThe paternal dislike to give orders personally has had a peculiar effect\nupon education. We are not yet quite imbecile enough to suppose that\ndiscipline can be entirely dispensed with; and as there is very little of\nit in modern houses it has to be sought elsewhere, so boys are placed\nmore and more completely under the authority of schoolmasters, often\nliving at such a distance from the father of the family that for several\nmonths at a time he can exercise no direct influence or authority over his\nown children. This leads to the establishment of a peculiar boyish code of\njustice. Boys come to think it not unjust that the schoolmaster should\nexercise authority, when if the father attempted to exercise authority of\nequal rigor, or anything approaching it, they would look upon him as an\nodious domestic tyrant, entirely forgetting that any power to enforce\nobedience which is possessed by the schoolmaster is held by him\nvicariously as the father's representative and delegate. From this we\narrive at the curious and unforeseen conclusion that the modern father\nonly exercises _strong_ authority through another person who is often a\nperfect stranger and whose interest in the boy's present and future\nwell-being is as nothing in comparison with the father's anxious and\ncontinual solicitude.\n\nThe custom of placing the education of sons entirely in the hands of\nstrangers is so deadly a blow to parental influence that some fathers have\nresolutely rebelled against it and tried to become themselves the\neducators of their children. James Mill is the most conspicuous instance\nof this, both for persistence and success. His way of educating his\nillustrious son has often been coarsely misrepresented as a merciless\nsystem of cram. The best answer to this is preserved for us in the words\nof the pupil himself. He said expressly: \"Mine was not an education of\ncram,\" and that the one cardinal point in it, the cause of the good it\neffected, was that his father never permitted anything he learnt to\ndegenerate into a mere exercise of memory. He greatly valued the training\nhe had received, and fully appreciated its utility to him in after-life.\n\"If I have accomplished anything,\" he says, \"I owe it, amongst other\nfortunate circumstances, to the fact that through the early training\nbestowed on me by my father I started, I may fairly say, with an advantage\nof a quarter of a century over my contemporaries.\"\n\nBut though in this case the pupil's feeling in after-life was one of\ngratitude, it may be asked what were his filial sentiments whilst this\npaternal education was going forward. This question also is clearly and\nfrankly answered by Stuart Mill himself. He says that his father was\nsevere; that his authority was deficient in the demonstration of\ntenderness, though probably not in the reality of it; that \"he resembled\nmost Englishmen in being ashamed of the signs of feeling, and by the\nabsence of demonstration starving the feelings themselves.\" Then the son\ngoes on to say that it was \"impossible not to feel true pity for a father\nwho did, and strove to do, so much for his children, who would have so\nvalued their affection, yet who must have been constantly feeling that\nfear of him was drying it up at its source.\" And we probably have the\nexact truth about Stuart Mill's own sentiments when he says that the\nyounger children loved his father tenderly, \"and if I cannot say so much\nof myself I was always loyally devoted to him.\"\n\nThis contains the central difficulty about paternal education. If the\nchoice were left to boys they would learn nothing, and you cannot make\nthem work vigorously \"by the sole force of persuasion and soft words.\"\nTherefore a severe discipline has to be established, and this severity is\nincompatible with tenderness; so that in order to preserve the affection\nof his children the father intrusts discipline to a delegate.\n\nBut if the objection to parental education is clear in Mill's case, so are\nits advantages, and especially the one inestimable advantage that the\nfather was able to impress himself on his son's mind and to live\nafterwards in his son's intellectual life. James Mill did not _abdicate_,\nas fathers generally do. He did not confine paternal duties to the simple\none of signing checks. And if it is not in our power to imitate him\nentirely, if we have not his profound and accurate knowledge, if we have\nnot his marvellous patience, if it is not desirable that we should take\nupon ourselves alone that immense responsibility which he accepted, may we\nnot imitate him to such a degree as to secure _some_ intellectual and\nmoral influence over our own offspring and not leave them entirely to the\nteaching of the schoolfellow (that most influential and most dangerous of\nall teachers), the pedagogue, and the priest?\n\nThe only practical way in which this can be done is for the father to act\nwithin fixed limits. May he not reserve to himself some speciality? He can\ndo this if he is himself master of some language or science that enters\ninto the training of his son; but here again certain difficulties present\nthemselves.\n\nBy the one vigorous resolution to take the entire burden upon his own\nshoulders James Mill escaped minor embarrassments. It is the _partial_\neducation by the father that is difficult to carry out with steadiness and\nconsistency. First, as to place of residence. If your son is far away\nduring his months of work, and at home only for vacation pleasures, what,\npray, is your hold upon him? He escapes from you in two directions, by\nwork and by play. I have seen a Highland gentleman who, to avoid this and\ndo his duty to his sons, quitted a beautiful residence in magnificent\nscenery to go and live in the dull and ugly neighborhood of Rugby. It is\nnot convenient or possible for every father to make the same sacrifice,\nbut if you are able to do it other difficulties remain. Any speciality\nthat you may choose will be regarded by your son as a trifling and\nunimportant accomplishment in comparison with Greek and Latin, because\nthat is the school estimate; and if you choose either Greek or Latin your\nscholarship will be immediately pitted against the scholarship of\nprofessional teachers whose more recent and more perfect methods will\nplace you in a position of inferiority, instantly perceived by your pupil,\nwho will estimate you accordingly. The only two cases I have ever\npersonally known in which a father taught the classical languages failed\nin the object of increasing the son's affection and respect, because,\nalthough the father had been quite a first-rate scholar in his time, his\nways of teaching were not so economical of effort as are the professional\nways; and the boys perceived that they were not taking the shortest cut to\na degree.\n\nIf, to avoid this comparison, you choose something outside the school\ncurriculum, the boy will probably consider it an unfair addition to the\nburden of his work. His view of education is not your view. _You_ think it\na valuable training or acquirement; _he_ considers it all task-work, like\nthe making of bricks in Egypt; and his notion of justice is that he ought\nnot to be compelled to make more bricks than his class-fellows, who are\nhappy in having fathers too indolent or too ignorant to trouble them. If,\ntherefore, you teach him something outside of what his school-fellows do,\nhe does not think, \"I get the advantage of a wider education than theirs;\"\nbut he thinks, \"My father lays an imposition upon me, and my\nschool-fellows are lucky to escape it.\"\n\nIn some instances the father chooses a modern language as the thing that\nhe will teach; but he finds that as he cannot apply the school discipline\n(too harsh and unpaternal for use at home), there is a quiet, passive\nresistance that will ultimately defeat him unless he has inexhaustible\npatience. He decrees, let us suppose, that French shall be spoken at\ntable; but the chief effect of his decree is to reveal great and\nunsuspected powers of taciturnity. Who could be such a tyrant as to find\nfault with a boy because he so modestly chooses to be silent? Speech may\nbe of silver, but silence is of gold, and it is especially beautiful and\nbecoming in the young.\n\nSeeing that everything in the way of intellectual training is looked upon\nby boys as an unfair addition to school-work, some fathers abandon that\naltogether, and try to win influence over their sons by initiating them\ninto sports and pastimes. Just at first these happy projects appear to\nunite the useful with the agreeable; but as the youthful nature is much\nbetter fitted for sports and pastimes than middle-age can pretend to be,\nit follows that the pupil very soon excels the master in these things, and\nquite gets the upper hand of him and offers him advice, or else dutifully\n(but with visible constraint) condescends to accommodate himself to the\nelder man's inferiority; so that perhaps upon the whole it may be that\nsports and pastimes are not the field of exertion in which paternal\nauthority is most likely to preserve a dignified preponderance.\n\nIt is complacently assumed by men of fifty that over-ripe maturity is the\nsuperior of adolescence; but an impartial balance of advantages shows that\nsome very brilliant ones are on the side of youth. At fifty we may be\nwiser, richer, more famous than a clever boy; but he does not care much\nfor our wisdom, he thinks that expenses are a matter of course, and our\nlittle rushlights of reputations are as nothing to the future electric\nillumination of his own. In bodily activity we are to boyhood what a\ndomestic cow is to a wild antelope; and as boys rightly attach an immense\nvalue to such activity they generally look upon us, in their secret\nthoughts, as miserable old \"muffs.\" I distinctly remember, when a boy,\naccompanying a middle-aged gentleman to a country railway station. We were\na little late, and the distance was long, but my companion could not be\ninduced to go beyond his regular pace. At last we were within half a mile,\nand the steam of the locomotive became visible. \"Now let us run for it,\" I\ncried, \"and we shall catch the train!\" Run?--_he_ run, indeed! I might as\nwell have asked the Pope to run in the streets of Rome! My friend kept in\nsilent solemnity to his own dignified method of motion, and we were left\nbehind. To this day I well remember the feelings of contemptuous pity and\ndisgust that filled me as I looked upon that most respectable gentleman. I\nsaid not a word; my demeanor was outwardly decorous; but in my secret\nheart I despised my unequal companion with the unmitigated contempt of\nyouth.\n\nEven those physical exertions that elderly men are equal to--the ten\nmiles' walk, the ride on a docile hunter, the quiet drive or sail--are so\nmuch below the achievements of fiery youth that they bring us no more\ncredit than sitting in a chair. Though our efforts seem so respectable to\nourselves that we take a modest pride therein, a young man can only look\nupon them with indulgence.\n\nIn the mental powers elderly men are inferior on the very point that a\nyoung man looks to first. His notion of cleverness, by which he estimates\nall his comrades, is not depth of thought, nor wisdom, nor sagacity; it is\nsimply rapidity in learning, and there his elders are hopelessly behind\nhim. They may extend or deepen an old study, but they cannot attack a new\none with the conquering spirit of youth. _Too late! too late! too late!_\nis inscribed, for them, on a hundred gates of knowledge. The young man,\nwith his powers of acquisition urging him like unsatisfied appetites, sees\nthe gates all open and believes they are open for him. He believes all\nknowledge to be his possible province, knowing not yet the chilling,\ndisheartening truth that life is too short for success in any but a very\nfew directions. Confident in his powers, the young man prepares himself\nfor difficult examinations, and he knows that we should be incapable of\nthe same efforts.\n\nNot having succeeded very well with attempts to create intercourse through\nstudies and amusements, the father next consoles himself with the idea\nthat he will convert his son into an intimate friend; but shortly\ndiscovers that there are certain difficulties, of which a few may be\nmentioned here.\n\nAlthough the relationship between father and son is a very near\nrelationship, it may happen that there is but little likeness of inherited\nidiosyncrasy, and therefore that the two may have different and even\nopposite tastes. By the law or accident of atavism a boy may resemble one\nof his grandfathers or some remoter ancestor, or he may puzzle theorists\nabout heredity by characteristics for which there is no known precedent in\nhis family. Both his mental instincts and processes, and the conclusions\nto which they lead him, may be entirely different from the habits and\nconclusions of his father; and if the father is so utterly unphilosophical\nas to suppose (what vulgar fathers constantly _do_ suppose) that his own\nmental habits and conclusions are the right ones, and all others wrong,\nthen he will adopt a tone of authority towards his son, on certain\noccasions, which the young man will excusably consider unbearable and\nwhich he will avoid by shunning the paternal society. Even a very mild\nattempt on the father's part to impose his own tastes and opinions will be\nquietly resented and felt as a reason for avoiding him, because the son is\nwell aware that he cannot argue on equal terms with a man who, however\namiable he chooses to be for the moment, can at any time arm himself with\nthe formidable paternal dignity by simply taking the trouble to assume it.\n\nThe mere difference of age is almost an insuperable barrier to\ncomradeship; for though a middle-aged man may be cheerful, his\ncheerfulness is \"as water unto wine\" in comparison with the merriment of\njoyous youth. So exuberant is that youthful gayety that it often needs to\nutter downright nonsense for the relief of its own high spirits, and feels\noppressed in sober society where nonsense is not permitted. Any elderly\ngentleman who reads this has only to consult his own recollections, and\nask himself whether in youth he did not often say and do utterly\nirrational things. If he never did, he never was really young. I hardly\nknow any author, except Shakspeare, who has ventured to reproduce, in its\nperfect absurdity, the full flow of youthful nonsense. The criticism of\nour own age would scarcely tolerate it in books, and might accuse the\nauthor himself of being silly; but the thing still exists abundantly in\nreal life, and the wonder is that it is sometimes the most intelligent\nyoung men who enjoy the most witless nonsense of all. When we have lost\nthe high spirits that gave it a relish, it becomes very wearisome if\nprolonged. Young men instinctively know that we are past the appreciation\nof it.\n\nAnother very important reason why fathers and sons have a difficulty in\nmaintaining close friendships is the steady divergence of their\nexperience.\n\nIn childhood, the father's knowledge of places, people, and things\nincludes the child's knowledge, as a large circle includes a little one\ndrawn within it. Afterwards the boy goes to school, and has comrades and\nmasters whom his father does not personally know. Later on, he visits many\nplaces where his father has never been.\n\nThe son's life may socially diverge so completely from that of the father\nthat he may really come to belong to a different class in society. His\neducation, habits, and associates may be different from those of his\nfather. If the family is growing richer they are likely to be (in the\nworldly sense) of a higher class; if it is becoming poorer they will\nprobably be of a lower class than the father was accustomed to in his\nyouth. The son may feel more at ease than his father does in very refined\nsociety, or, on the other hand, he may feel refined society to be a\nrestraint, whilst he only enjoys himself thoroughly and heartily amongst\nvulgar people that his father would carefully avoid.\n\nDivergence is carried to its utmost by difference of professional\ntraining, and by the professional habit of seeing things that follows from\nit. If a clergyman puts his son into a solicitor's office, he need not\nexpect that the son will long retain those views of the world that prevail\nin the country parsonage where he was born. He will acquire other views,\nother mental habits, and he will very soon believe himself to possess a\nfar greater and more accurate knowledge of mankind, and of affairs, than\nhis father ever possessed.\n\nEven if the son is in the father's own profession he will have new views\nof it derived from the time at which he learns it, and he is likely to\nconsider his father's ideas as not brought down to the latest date. He\nwill also have a tendency to look to strangers as greater authorities than\nhis father, even when they are really on the same level, because they are\nnot lowered in his estimate by domestic intimacy and familiarity. Their\nopinion will be especially valued by the young man if it has to be paid\nfor, it being an immense depreciation of the paternal counsel that it is\nalways given gratuitously.\n\nIf the father has bestowed upon his son what is considered a \"complete\"\neducation, and if he himself has not received the same \"complete\"\neducation in his youth, the son is likely to accept the conventional\nestimate of education because it is in his own favor, and to estimate his\nfather as an \"uneducated\" or a \"half-educated\" man, without taking into\nmuch account the possibility that his father may have developed his\nfaculties by mental labor in other ways. The conventional division between\n\"educated\" and \"uneducated\" men is so definite that it is easily seen. The\neducated are those who have taken a degree at one of the Universities; the\nrest are uneducated, whatever may be their attainments in the sciences, in\nmodern languages, or in the fine arts.\n\nThere are differences of education even more serious than this, because\nmore real. A man may be not only conventionally uneducated, but he may be\nreally and truly uneducated, by which I mean that his faculties may never\nhave been drawn out by intellectual discipline of any kind whatever. It is\nhard indeed for a well-educated young man to live under the authority of\na father of that kind, because he has constantly to suppress reasons and\nmotives for opinions and decisions that such a father could not possibly\nenter into or understand. The relationship is equally hard for the father,\nwho must be aware, with the lively suspicion of the ignorant, that his son\nis not telling him all his thought but only the portion of it which he\nthinks fit to reveal, and that much more is kept in reserve. He will ask,\n\"Why this reserve towards _me_?\" and then he will either be profoundly\nhurt and grieved by it at times, or else, if of another temper, he will be\nirritated, and his irritation may find harsh utterance in words.\n\nAn educated man can never rid himself of his education. His views of the\nmost ordinary things are different from the views of the uneducated. If he\nwere to express them in his own language they would say, \"Why, how he\ntalks!\" and consider him \"a queer chap;\" and if he keeps them to himself\nthey say he is very \"close\" and \"shut up.\" There is no way out of the\ndilemma except this, that kind and tender feelings may exist between\npeople who have nothing in common intellectually, but these are only\npossible when all pretence to paternal authority is abandoned.\n\nOur forefathers had an idea with regard to the opinions of their children\nthat in these days we must be content to give up. They thought that all\nopinions were by nature hereditary, and it was considered an act of\ndisloyalty to ancestors if a descendant ventured to differ from them. The\nprofession of any but the family opinions was so rare as to be almost\ninconceivable; and if in some great crisis the head of a family took a\nnew departure in religion or politics the new faith substituted itself for\nthe old one as the hereditary faith of the family. I remember hearing an\nold gentleman (who represented old English feeling in great perfection)\nsay that it was totally unintelligible to him that a certain Member of\nParliament could sit on the Liberal side of the House of Commons. \"I\ncannot understand it,\" he said; \"I knew his father intimately, and he was\nalways a good Tory.\" The idea that the son might have opinions of his own\nwas unthinkable.\n\nIn our time we are beginning to perceive that opinions cannot be imposed,\nand that the utmost that can be obtained by brow-beating a son who differs\nfrom ourselves is that he shall make false professions to satisfy us.\nPaternal influence may be better employed than in encouraging habits of\ndissimulation.\n\nM. Legouv\u00e9 attaches great importance to the religious question as a cause\nof division between fathers and sons because in the present day young men\nso frequently imbibe opinions which are not those of their parents. It is\nnot uncommon, in France, for Catholic parents to have unbelieving sons;\nand the converse is also seen, but more frequently in the case of\ndaughters. As opinions are very freely expressed in France (except where\nexternal conformity is an affair of caste), we find many families in which\nCatholicism and Agnosticism have each their open and convinced adherents;\nyet family affection does not appear to suffer from the difference, or is,\nat least, powerful enough to overcome it. In old times this would have\nbeen impossible. The father would have resented a difference of opinion\nin the son as an offence against himself.\n\nA very common cause of division between father and son, in old times, was\nthe following.\n\nThe father expressed a desire of some kind, mildly and kindly perhaps, yet\nwith the full expectation that it should be attended to; but the desire\nwas of an exorbitant nature, in this sense, that it involved something\nthat would affect the whole course of the young man's future life in a\nmanner contrary to his natural instincts. The father was then grievously\nhurt and offended because the son did not see his way to the fulfilment of\nthe paternal desire.\n\nThe strongest cases of this kind were in relation to profession and\nmarriage. The father wished his son to enter into some trade or profession\nfor which he was completely unsuited, or he desired him to marry some\nyoung lady for whom he had not the slightest natural affinity. The son\nfelt the inherent difficulties and refused. Then the father thought, \"I\nonly ask of my son _this one simple thing_, and he denies me.\"\n\nIn these cases the father was _not_ asking for one thing, but for\nthousands of things. He was asking his son to undertake many thousands of\nseparate obligations, succeeding each other till the far-distant date of\nhis retirement from the distasteful profession, or his release, by his own\ndeath or hers, from the tedious companionship of the unloved wife.\nSometimes the concession would have involved a long series of hypocrisies,\nas for example when a son was asked to take holy orders, though with\nlittle faith and no vocation.\n\nPeter the Great is the most conspicuous example in history of a father\nwhose idiosyncrasy was not continued in his son, and who could not\nunderstand or tolerate the separateness of his son's personality. They\nwere not only of independent, but even of opposite natures. \"Peter was\nactive, curious, and energetic. Alexis was contemplative and reflective.\nHe was not without intellectual ability, but he liked a quiet life. He\npreferred reading and thinking. At the age when Peter was making\nfireworks, building boats, and exercising his comrades in mimic war,\nAlexis was pondering over the 'Divine Manna,' reading the 'Wonders of\nGod,' reflecting on Thomas \u00e0 Kempis's 'Imitation of Christ,' and making\nexcerpts from Baronius. While it sometimes seemed as if Peter was born too\nsoon for the age, Alexis was born too late. He belonged to the past\ngeneration. Not only did he take no interest in the work and plans of his\nfather, but he gradually came to dislike and hate them.... He would\nsometimes even take medicine to make himself ill, so that he might not be\ncalled upon to perform duties or to attend to business. Once, when he was\nobliged to go to the launch of a ship, he said to a friend, 'I would\nrather be a galley-slave, or have a burning fever, than be obliged to go\nthere.'\"[6]\n\nIn this case one is sorry for both father and son. Peter was a great\nintelligent barbarian of immense muscular strength and rude cerebral\nenergy. Alexis was of the material from which civilization makes priests\nand students, or quiet conventional kings, but he was even more unlike\nPeter than gentle Richard Cromwell was unlike authoritative Oliver. The\ndisappointment to Peter, firmly convinced, as all rude natures are, of the\nperfection of his own personality, and probably quite unable to appreciate\na personality of another type, must have been the more bitter that his\ngreat plans for the future required a vigorous, practically minded\ninnovator like himself. At length the difference of nature so exasperated\nthe Autocrat that he had his son three times tortured, the third time in\nhis own presence and with a fatal result. This terrible incident is the\nstrongest expression known to us of a father's vexation because his son\nwas not of his own kind.\n\nAnother painful case that will be long remembered, though the character of\nthe father is less known to us, is that of the poet Shelley and Sir\nTimothy. The little that we do know amounts to this, that there was a\ntotal absence of sympathy. Sir Timothy committed the very greatest of\npaternal mistakes in depriving himself of the means of direct influence\nover his son by excluding him from his own home. Considering that the\nsupreme grief of unhappy fathers is the feebleness of their influence over\ntheir sons, they can but confirm and complete their sorrow by annihilating\nthat influence utterly and depriving themselves of all chance of\nrecovering and increasing it in the future. This Sir Timothy did after the\nexpulsion from Oxford. In his position, a father possessing some skill and\ntact in the management of young men at the most difficult and wayward\nperiod of their lives would have determined above all things to keep his\nson as much as possible within the range of his own control. Although\nShelley afterwards returned to Field Place for a short time, the scission\nhad been made; there was an end of real intercourse between father and\nson; the poet went his own way, married Harriett Westbrook, and lived\nthrough the rest of his short, unsatisfactory existence as a homeless,\nwandering _d\u00e9class\u00e9_.\n\nThis Essay has hitherto run upon the discouraging side of the subject, so\nthat it ought not to end without the happier and more hopeful\nconsiderations.\n\nEvery personality is separate from others, and expects its separateness to\nbe acknowledged. When a son avoids his father it is because he fears that\nthe rights of his own personality will be disregarded. There are fathers\nwho habitually treat their sons with sneering contempt. I have myself seen\na young man of fair common abilities treated with constant and undisguised\ncontempt by a clever, sardonic father who went so far as to make brutal\nallusions to the shape of the young man's skull! He bore this treatment\nwith admirable patience and unfailing gentleness, but suffered from it\nsilently. Another used to laugh at his son, and called him \"Don Quixote\"\nwhenever the lad gave expression to some sentiment above the low\nPhilistine level. A third, whom I knew well, had a disagreeable way of\nputting down his son because he was young, telling him that up to the age\nof forty a man \"might have impressions, but could not possibly have\nopinions.\" \"My father,\" said a kind-hearted English gentleman to me, \"was\nthe most thoroughly unbearable person I ever met with in my life.\"\n\nThe frank recognition of separate personality, with all its rights, would\nstop this brutality at once. There still remains the legitimate power of\nthe father, which he ought not to abdicate, and which is of itself enough\nto prevent the freedom and equality necessary to perfect friendship. This\nreason, and the difference of age and habits, make it impossible that\nyoung men and their fathers should be comrades; but a relation may be\nestablished between them which, if rightly understood, is one of the most\nagreeable in human existence.\n\nTo be satisfactory it must be founded, on the father's side, on the idea\nthat he is repaying to posterity what he has received from his own\nparents, and not on any selfish hope that the descending stream of benefit\nwill flow upwards again to him. Then he must not count upon affection, nor\nlay himself out to win it, nor be timidly afraid of losing it, but found\nhis influence upon the firmer ground of respect, and be determined to\ndeserve and have _that_, along with as much unforced affection as the son\nis able naturally and easily to give. It is not desirable that the\naffection between father and son should be so tender, on either side, as\nto make separation a constant pain, for such is human destiny that the two\nare generally fated to see but little of each other.\n\nThe best satisfaction for a father is to deserve and receive loyal and\nunfailing respect from his son.\n\nNo, this is not quite the best, not quite the supreme satisfaction of\npaternity. Shall I reveal the secret that lies in silence at the very\nbottom of the hearts of all worthy and honorable fathers? Their\nprofoundest happiness is to be able themselves to respect their sons.\n\n\n\n\nESSAY VII.\n\nTHE RIGHTS OF THE GUEST.\n\n\nIf hospitality were always perfectly practised it would be the strongest\nof all influences in favor of rational liberty, because the host would\nlearn to respect it in the persons of his guests, and thence, by extension\nof habit, amongst others who could never be his guests.\n\nHospitality educates us in respect for the rights of others. This is the\nsubstantial benefit that the host ought to derive from his trouble and his\noutlay, but the instincts of uncivilized human nature are so powerful that\nthis education has usually been partial and incomplete. The best part of\nit has been systematically evaded, in this way. People were aware that\ntolerance and forbearance ought to be exercised towards guests, and so, to\navoid the hard necessity of exercising these qualities when they were\nreally difficult virtues, they practised what is called exclusiveness. In\nother words, they accepted as guests only those who agreed with their own\nopinions and belonged to their own class. By this arrangement they could\nbe both hospitable and intolerant at the same time.\n\nIf, in our day, the barrier of exclusiveness has been in many places\nbroken down, there is all the greater need for us to remember the true\nprinciple of hospitality. It might be forgotten with little inconvenience\nin a very exclusive society, but if it were forgotten in a society that is\nnot exclusive the consequences would be exactly the opposite of what every\nfriend of civilization most earnestly desires. Social intercourse, in that\ncase, so far from being an education in respect for the rights of others,\nwould be an opportunity for violating them. The violation might become\nhabitual; and if it were so this strange result would follow, that society\nwould not be a softening and civilizing influence, but the contrary. It\nwould accustom people to treat each other with disregard, so that men\nwould be hardened and brutalized by it as schoolboys are made ruder by the\nrough habits of the playground, and urbanity would not be cultivated in\ncities, but preserved, if at all, in solitude.\n\nThe two views concerning the rights of the guest may be stated briefly as\nfollows:--\n\n1. The guest is bound to conform in all things to the tastes and customs\nof his host. He ought to find or feign enjoyment in everything that his\nhost imposes upon him; and if he is unwilling to do this in every\nparticular it is a breach of good manners on his part, and he must be made\nto suffer for it.\n\n2. The guest should be left to be happy in his own way, and the business\nof the host is to arrange things in such a manner that each guest may\nenjoy as much as possible his own peculiar kind of happiness.\n\nWhen the first principle was applied in all its rigor, as it often used to\nbe applied, and as I have myself seen it applied, the sensation\nexperienced by the guest on going to stay in certain houses was that of\nentirely losing the direction of himself. He was not even allowed, in the\nmiddle classes, to have any control over his own inside, but had to eat\nwhat his host ordered him to eat, and to drink the quantity of wine and\nspirits that his host had decided to be good for him. Resistance to these\ndictates was taken as an offence, as a crime against good fellowship, or\nas a reflection on the quality of the good things provided; and\nconversation paused whilst the attention of the whole company was\nattracted to the recalcitrant guest, who was intentionally placed in a\nsituation of extreme annoyance and discomfort in order to compel him to\nobedience. The victim was perhaps half an invalid, or at least a man who\ncould only keep well and happy on condition of observing a certain\nstrictness of regimen. He was then laughed at for idle fears about his\nhealth, told that he was a hypochondriac, and recommended to drink a\nbottle of port every day to get rid of such idle nonsense. If he declined\nto eat twice or three times as much as he desired, the hostess expressed\nher bitter regret that she had not been able to provide food and cookery\nto his taste, thus placing him in such a position that he must either eat\nmore or seem to condemn her arrangements. It was very common amongst\nold-fashioned French _bourgeois_ in the last generation for the hostess\nherself to heap things on the guest's plate, and to prevent this her poor\npersecuted neighbor had to remove the plate or turn it upside down. The\nwhole habit of pressing was dictated by selfish feeling in the hosts. They\ndesired to see their guests devour voraciously, in order that their own\nvanity might be gratified by the seeming appreciation of their things.\nTemperate men were disliked by a generation of topers because their\ntemperance had the appearance of a silent protest or censure. The\ndiscomfort inflicted by these odious usages was so great that many people\neither injured their health in society or kept out of it in self-defence,\nthough they were not sulky and unsociable by nature, but would have been\nhearty lovers of human intercourse if they could have enjoyed it on less\nunacceptable terms.\n\nThe wholesome modern reaction against these dreadful old customs has led\nsome hosts into another error. They sometimes fail to understand the great\nprinciple that it is the guest alone who ought to be the judge of the\nquantity that he shall eat and drink. The old pressing hospitality assumed\nthat the guest was a child, too shame-faced to take what it longed for\nunless it was vigorously encouraged; but the new hospitality, if indeed it\nstill in every case deserves that honored name, does really sometimes\nappear to assume (I do not say always, or often, but in extreme cases)\nthat the guest is a fool, who would eat and drink more than is good for\nhim if he were not carefully rationed. Such hosts forget that excess is\nquite a relative term, that each constitution has its own needs. Beyond\nthis, it is well known that the exhilaration of social intercourse enables\npeople who meet convivially to digest and assimilate, without fatigue, a\nlarger amount of nutriment than they could in dull and perhaps dejected\nsolitude. Hence it is a natural and long-established habit to eat and\ndrink more when in company than alone, and the guest should have the\npossibility of conforming to this not irrational old custom until, in\nHomer's phrase, he has \"put from him the desire of meat and drink.\"\n\nGuests have no right whatever to require that the host should himself eat\nand drink to keep them in countenance. There used to be a belief (it\nlingers still in the middle classes and in country places) that the laws\nof hospitality required the host to set what was considered \"a good\nexample,\" or, in other words, to commit excesses himself that his friends\nmight not be too much ashamed of theirs. It is said that the Emperor\nWilliam of Germany never eats in public at all, but sits out every banquet\nbefore an empty plate. This, though quite excusable in an old gentleman,\nobliged to live by rule, must have rather a chilling effect; and yet I\nlike it as a declaration of the one great principle that no person at\ntable, be he host or guest, ought to be compelled to inflict the very\nslightest injury upon his own health, or even comfort. The rational and\ncivilized idea is that food and wines are simply placed at the disposal of\nthe people present to be used, or abstained from, as they please.\n\nIt is clear that every invited guest has a right to expect some slight\nappearance of festivity in his honor. In coarse and barbarous times the\nidea of festivity is invariably expressed by abundance, especially by vast\nquantities of butcher's meat and wine, as we always find it in Homer,\nwhere princes and gentlemen stuff themselves like savages; but in refined\ntimes the notion of quantity has lost its attraction, and that of\nelegance takes its place. In a highly civilized society nothing conveys so\nmuch the idea of festivity as plenty of light and flowers, with beautiful\ntable-linen and plate and glass. These, with some extra delicacy in\ncookery and wines, are our modern way of expressing welcome.\n\nThere is a certain kind of hospitality in which the host visibly declines\nto make any effort either of trouble or expense, but plainly shows by his\nnegligence that he only tolerates the guest. All that can be said of such\nhospitality as this is that a guest who respects himself may endure it\nsilently for once, but would not be likely to expose himself to it a\nsecond time.\n\nThere is even a kind of hospitality which seems to find a satisfaction in\nletting the guest perceive that the best in the house is not offered to\nhim. He is lodged in a poor little room, when there are noble bedchambers,\nunused, in the same house; or he is allowed to hire a vehicle in the\nvillage, to make some excursion, when there are horses in the stables\nplethoric from want of exercise. In cases of this kind it is not the\nprivation of luxury that is hard to bear, but the indisposition to give\nhonor. The guest feels and knows that if a person of very high rank came\nto the house everything would be put at his disposal, and he resents the\nslight put upon his own condition. A rich English lady, long since dead,\nhad a large mansion in the country with fine bedrooms; so she found a\npleasure in keeping those rooms empty and sending guests to sleep at the\ntop of the house in little bare and comfortless chambers that the\narchitect had intended for servants. I have heard of a French house where\nthere are fine state apartments, and where all ordinary guests are poorly\nlodged, and fed in a miserable _salle \u00e0 manger_. An aggravation is when\nthe host treats himself better than his guest. Lady B. invited some\nfriends to a country-house; and they drove to another country-house in the\nneighborhood in two carriages, one containing Lady B. and one friend, the\nother the remaining guests. Her ladyship was timid and rather selfish, as\ntimid people often are; so when they reached the avenue she began to fancy\nthat both carriages could not safely turn in the garden, and she\ndespatched her footman to the second carriage, with orders that her guests\n(amongst whom was a lady very near her confinement) were to get out and\nwalk to the house, whilst she drove up to the door in state.\n\nA guest has an absolute right to have his religious and political opinions\nrespected in his presence, and this is not invariably done. The rule more\ngenerally followed seems to be that class opinions only deserve respect\nand not individual opinions. The question is too large to be treated in a\nparagraph, but I should say that it is a clear breach of hospitality to\nutter anything in disparagement of any opinion whatever that is known to\nbe held by any one guest present, however humble may be his rank. I have\nsometimes seen the known opinions of a guest attacked rudely and directly,\nbut the more civilized method is to do it more artfully through some other\nperson who is not present. For example, a guest is known to think, on\nimportant subjects, very much as Mr. Herbert Spencer does; then the host\nwill contrive to talk at him in talking about Spencer. A guest ought not\nto bear this ungenerous kind of attack. If such an occasion arises he\nshould declare his opinions plainly and with firmness, and show his\ndetermination to have them respected whilst he is there, whatever may be\nsaid against them in his absence. If he cannot obtain this degree of\ncourtesy, which is his right, let him quit the house and satisfy his\nhunger at some inn. The innkeeper will ask for a little money, but he\ndemands no mental submission.\n\nIt sometimes happens that the nationality of a foreign guest is not\nrespected as it ought to be. I remember an example of this which is\nmoderate enough to serve as a kind of type, some attacks upon nationality\nbeing much more direct and outrageous. An English lady said at her own\ntable that she would not allow her daughter to be partially educated in a\nFrench school, \"because she would have to associate with French girls,\nwhich, you know, is undesirable.\" Amongst the guests was a French lady,\nand the observation was loud enough for everybody to hear it. I say\nnothing of the injustice of the imputation. It was, indeed, most unjust,\nbut that is not the point. The point is that a foreigner ought not to hear\nattacks upon his native land even when they are perfectly well founded.\n\nThe host has a sort of judicial function in this way. The guest has a\nright to look to him for protection on certain occasions, and he is likely\nto be profoundly grateful when it is given with tact and skill, because\nthe host can say things for him that he cannot even hint at for himself.\nSuppose the case of a young man who is treated with easy and rather\ncontemptuous familiarity by another guest, simply on account of his youth.\nHe is nettled by the offence, but as it is more in manner than in words he\ncannot fix upon anything to answer. The host perceives his annoyance, and\nkindly gives him some degree of importance by alluding to some superiority\nof his, and by treating him in a manner very different from that which had\nvexed him.\n\nA witty host is the most powerful ally against an aggressor. I remember\ndining in a very well-known house in Paris where a celebrated Frenchman\nrepeated the absurd old French calumny against English ladies,--that they\nall drink. I was going to resent this seriously when a clever Frenchwoman\n(who knew England well) perceived the danger, and answered the man herself\nwith great decision and ability. I then watched for the first opportunity\nof making him ridiculous, and seized upon a very delightful one that he\nunwittingly offered. Our host at once understood that my attack was in\nrevenge for an aggression that had been in bad taste, and he supported me\nwith a wit and pertinacity that produced general merriment at the enemy's\nexpense. Now in that case I should say that the host was filling one of\nthe most important and most difficult functions of a host.\n\nThis Essay has hitherto been written almost entirely on the guest's side\nof the question, so that we have still briefly to consider the limitations\nto his rights.\n\nHe has no right to impose any serious inconvenience upon his host. He has\nno right to disturb the ordinary arrangements of the house, or to inflict\nany serious pecuniary cost, or to occupy the host's time to the prejudice\nof his usual pursuits. He has no right to intrude upon the privacy of his\nhost.\n\nA guest has no right to place the host in such a dilemma that he must\neither commit a rudeness or put up with an imposition. The very courtesy\nof an entertainer places him at the mercy of a pushing and unscrupulous\nguest, and it is only when the provocation has reached such a point as to\nhave become perfectly intolerable that a host will do anything so painful\nto himself as to abandon his hospitable character and make the guest\nunderstand that he must go.\n\nIt may be said that difficulties of this kind never occur in civilized\nsociety. No doubt they are rare, but they happen just sufficiently often\nto make it necessary to be prepared for them. Suppose the case of a guest\nwho exceeds his invitation. He has been invited for two nights, plainly\nand definitely; but he stays a third, fourth, fifth, and seems as if he\nwould stay forever. There are men of that kind in the world, and it is one\nof their arts to disarm their victims by pleasantness, so that it is not\neasy to be firm with them. The lady of the house gives a gentle hint, the\nmaster follows with broader hints, but the intruder is quite impervious to\nany but the very plainest language. At last the host has to say, \"Your\ntrain leaves at such an hour, and the carriage will be ready to take you\nto the station half an hour earlier.\" This, at any rate, is intelligible;\nand yet I have known one of those clinging limpets whom even this\nproceeding failed to dislodge. At the approach of the appointed hour he\nwas nowhere to be found! He had gone to hide himself in a wood with no\ncompanion but his watch, and by its help he took care to return when it\nwas too late. That is sometimes one of the great uses of a watch.\n\n\n\n\nESSAY VIII.\n\nTHE DEATH OF FRIENDSHIP.\n\n\nA sad subject, but worth analysis; for if friendship is of any value to us\nwhilst it is alive, is it not worth while to inquire if there are any\nmeans of keeping it alive?\n\nThe word \"death\" is correctly employed here, for nobody has discovered the\nmeans by which a dead friendship can be resuscitated. To hope for that\nwould be vain indeed, and idle the waste of thought in such a bootless\nquest.\n\nShall we mourn over this death without hope, this blank annihilation, this\nfinis of intercourse once so sweet, this dreary and ultimate conclusion?\n\nThe death of a friendship is not the death of a person; we do not mourn\nfor the absence of some beloved person from the world. It is simply the\ntermination of a certain degree and kind of intercourse, not of necessity\nthe termination of all intercourse. We may be grieved that the change has\ncome; we may be remorseful if it has come through a fault of our own; but\nif it is due simply to natural causes there is small place for any\nreasonable sorrow.\n\nFriendship is a certain _rapport_ between two minds during one or more\nphases of their existence, and the perfection of it is quite as dependent\nupon what is not in the two minds as upon their positive acquirements and\npossessions. Hence the extreme facility with which schoolboys form\nfriendships which, for the time, are real, true, and delightful. School\nfriendships are formed so easily because boys in the same class know the\nsame things; and it rarely happens that in addition to what they have in\ncommon either one party or the other has any knowledge of importance that\nis not in common.\n\nLater in life the pair of friends who were once comrades go into different\nprofessions that fill the mind with special professional ideas and induce\ndifferent habits of thought. Each will be conscious, when they meet, that\nthere is a great range of ideas in the other's mind from which he is\nexcluded, and each will have a difficulty in keeping within the smaller\nrange of ideas that they have now in common; so that they will no longer\nbe able to let their _whole_ minds play together as they used to do, and\nthey will probably feel more at ease with mere acquaintances who have what\nis _now_ their knowledge, what are now their mental habits, than with the\nfriend of their boyhood who is without them.\n\nThis is strongly felt by men who go through a large experience at a\ndistance from their early home and then return for a while to the old\nplace and old associates, and find that it is only a part of themselves\nthat is acceptable. New growths of self have taken place in distant\nregions, by travel, by study, by intercourse with mankind; and these new\ngrowths, though they may be more valuable than any others, are of no\npractical use, of no social availableness, in the little circle that has\nremained in the old ways.\n\nThen there are changes of temper that result from the fixing of the\ncharacter by time. We think we remain the same, but that is one of our\nmany illusions. We change, and we do not always change in the same way.\nOne man becomes mellowed by advancing years, but another is hardened by\nthem; one man's temper gains in sweetness and serenity as his intellect\ngains in light, another becomes dogmatic, peremptory, and bitter. Even\nwhen the change is the same for both, it may be unfavorable to their\nintercourse. Two merry young hearts may enjoy each other's company, when\nthey would find each other dull and flat if the sparkle of the early\neffervescence were all spent.\n\nI have not yet touched upon change of opinion as a cause of the death of\nfriendship, but it is one of the most common causes. It would be a calumny\non the intelligence of the better part of mankind to say that they always\ndesire to hear repeated exactly what they say themselves, though that is\nreally the desire of the unintelligent; but the cleverest people like to\nhear new and additional reasons in support of the opinions they hold\nalready; and they do not like to hear reasons, hitherto unsuspected, that\ngo to the support of opinions different from their own. Therefore a slow\ndivergence of opinion may carry two friends farther and farther apart by\nnarrowing the subjects of their intercourse, or a sudden intellectual\nrevolution in one of them may effect an immediate and irreparable breach.\n\n\"If the character is formed,\" says Stuart Mill, \"and the mind made up on\nthe few cardinal points of human opinion, agreement of conviction and\nfeeling on these has been felt at all times to be an essential requisite\nof anything worthy the name of friendship in a really earnest mind.\" I do\nnot quote this in the belief that it is absolutely true, but it expresses\na general sentiment. We can only be guided by our own experience in these\nmatters. Mine has been that friendship is possible with those whom I\nrespect, however widely they differ from me, and not possible with those\nwhom I am unable to respect, even when on the great matters of opinion\ntheir views are identical with my own.\n\nIt is certain, however, that the change of opinion itself has a tendency\nto separate men, even though the difference would not have made friendship\nimpossible if it had existed from the first. Instances of this are often\nfound in biographies, especially in religious biographies, because\nreligious people are more \"pained\" and \"wounded\" by difference of opinion\nthan others. We read in such books of the profound distress with which the\nhero found himself separated from his early friends by his new conviction\non this or that point of theology. Political divergence produces the same\neffect in a minor degree, and with more of irritation than distress. Even\ndivergence of opinion on artistic subjects is enough to produce coolness.\nArtists and men of letters become estranged from each other by\nmodifications of their critical doctrines.\n\nDifferences of prosperity do not prevent the formation of friendship if\nthey have existed previously, and can be taken as established facts; but\nif they widen afterwards they have a tendency to diminish it. They do so\nby altering the views of one of the parties about ways of living and about\nthe multitude of things involving questions of expense. If the enriched\nman lives on a scale corresponding to his newly acquired wealth, he may be\nregarded by the other as pretentious beyond his station, whilst if he\nkeeps to his old style he may be thought parsimonious. From delicacy he\nwill cease to talk to the other about his money matters, which he spoke of\nwith frankness when he was not so rich. If he has social ambition he will\nform new alliances with richer men, and the old friend may regard these\nwith a little unconscious jealousy.\n\nIt has been observed that young artists often have a great esteem for the\nwork of one of their number so long as its qualities are not recognized\nand rewarded by the public, but that so soon as the clever young man wins\nthe natural meed of industry and ability his early friendships die. They\nwere often the result of a generous indignation against public injustice,\nso when that injustice came to an end the kindness that was a protest\nagainst it ceased at the same time. In jealous natures it would no doubt\nbe replaced by the conviction that public favor had rewarded merit far\nbeyond its deserts.\n\nIn the political life of democracies we see men enthusiastically supported\nand really admired with sincerity so long as they remain in opposition,\nand their friends indulge the most favorable anticipations about what they\nwould do if they came to power; but when they accept office they soon lose\nmany of these friends, who are quite sure to be disappointed with the\nsmall degree in which their excessive hopes have been realized. There is\nno country where this is seen more frequently than in France, where\nMinisters are often criticised with the most unrelenting and uncharitable\nacerbity by the men and newspapers that helped to raise them.\n\nChanges of physical constitution may be the death of friendship in this\nway. A friendship may be founded upon some sport that one of the parties\nbecomes unable to follow. After that the two men cease to meet on the\nparticularly pleasant occasions that every sport affords for its real\nvotaries, and they only meet on common occasions, which are not the same\nbecause there is not the same jovial and hearty temper. In like manner a\nfriendship may be weakened if one of the parties gives up some indulgence\nthat both used to enjoy together. Many a friendship has been cemented by\nthe habit of smoking, and weakened afterwards when one friend gave up the\nhabit, declined the cigars that the other offered, and either did not\naccompany him to the smoking-room or sat there in open and vexatious\nnonconformity.\n\nIt is well known, so well known indeed as scarcely to require mention\nhere, that one of the most frequent and powerful causes of the death of\nbachelor friendships is marriage. One of the two friends takes a wife, and\nthe friendship is at once in peril. The maintenance of it depends upon the\nlady's taste and temper. If not quite approved by her, it will languish\nfor a little while and then die, in spite of all painful and visible\nefforts on the husband's part to compensate, by extra attention, for the\ncoolness of his wife. I have visited a Continental city where it is always\nunderstood that all bachelor friendships are broken off by marriage. This\nrule has at least the advantage of settling the question unequivocally.\n\nSimple neglect is probably the most common of all causes deadly to\nfriendship,--neglect arising either from real indifference, from\nconstitutional indolence, or from excessive devotion to business. Friendly\nfeelings must be either of extraordinary sincerity, or else strengthened\nby some extraneous motive of self-interest, to surmount petty\ninconveniences. The very slightest difficulty in maintaining intercourse\nis sufficient in most cases to insure its total cessation in a short time.\nYour house is somewhat difficult of access,--it is on a hill-side or at a\nlittle distance from a railway station: only the most sincere friends will\nbe at the trouble to find you unless your rank is so high that it is a\nglory to visit you.\n\nPoor friends often keep up intercourse with rich ones by sheer force of\ndetermination long after it ought to have been allowed to die its own\nnatural death. When they do this without having the courage to require\nsome approach to reciprocity they sink into the condition of mere clients,\nwhom the patron may indeed treat with apparent kindness, but whom he\nregards with real indifference, taking no trouble whatever to maintain the\nold connection between them.\n\nEquality of rank and fortune is not at all necessary to friendship, but a\ncertain other kind of equality is. A real friendship can never be\nmaintained unless there is an equal readiness on both sides to be at some\npains and trouble for its maintenance; so if you perceive that a person\nwhom you once supposed to be your friend will not put himself to any\ntrouble on your account, the only course consistent with your dignity is\nto take exactly the same amount of pains to make yourself agreeable to\nhim. After you have done this for a little time you will soon know if the\nfriendship is really dead; for he is sure to perceive your neglect if he\ndoes not perceive his own, and he will either renew the intercourse with\nsome _empressement_ or else cease from it altogether.\n\nIn early life the right rule is to accept kindness gratefully from one's\nelders and not to be sensitive about omissions, because such omissions are\nthen often consistent with the most real and affectionate regard; but as a\nman advances towards middle-age it is right for him to be somewhat careful\nof his dignity and to require from friends, whatever may be their station,\na certain general reciprocity. This should always be understood in rather\na large sense, and not exacted in trifles. If he perceives that there is\nno reciprocity he cannot do better than drop an acquaintance that is but\nthe phantom and simulacrum of Friendship's living reality.\n\nIt is as natural that many friendships should die and be replaced by\nothers as that our old selves should be replaced by our present selves.\nThe fact seems melancholy when first perceived, but is afterwards accepted\nas inevitable. There is, however, a death of friendship which is so truly\nsad and sorrowful as to cast its gloomy shadow on all the years that\nremain to us. It is when we ourselves, by some unhappy fault of temper\nthat might have been easily avoided, have wounded the kind breast of our\nfriend, and killed the gentle sentiment that was dwelling happily within.\nThe only way to be quite sure of avoiding this great and irretrievable\ncalamity is to remember how very delicate friendly sentiments are and how\neasy it is to destroy them by an inconsiderate or an ungentle word.\n\n\n\n\nESSAY IX.\n\nTHE FLUX OF WEALTH.\n\n\nWe become richer or poorer; we seldom remain exactly as we were. If we\nhave property, it increases or diminishes in value; if our income is\nfixed, the value of money alters; and if it increased proportionally to\nthe depreciation of money, our position would still be relatively altered\nby changes in the fortunes of others. We marry and have children; then our\nwealth becomes less our own after every birth. We win some honor or\nprofessional advancement that seems a gain; but increased expenditure is\nthe consequence, and we are poorer than we were before. Amidst all these\nfluctuations of wealth human intercourse either continues under altered\nconditions or else it is broken off because they are no longer favorable\nto its maintenance. I propose to consider, very briefly, how these altered\nconditions operate.\n\nWe have to separate, in the first place, intercourse between individuals\nfrom intercourse between families. The distinction is of the utmost\nimportance, because the two are not under the same law.\n\nTwo men, of whom one is extremely rich and the other almost penniless,\nhave no difficulty in associating together on terms agreeable to both when\nthey possess intellectual interests in common, or even when there is\nnothing more than an attraction of idiosyncrasy; but these conditions only\nsubsist between one individual and another; they are not likely to subsist\nbetween two families. Intercourse between individuals depends on something\nin intellect and culture that enables them to understand each other, and\nupon something in character that makes them love or respect each other.\nIntercourse between families depends chiefly on neighborhood and\nsimilarity in style of living.\n\nThis is the reason why bachelors have so much easier access to society\nthan men with wives and families. The bachelor is received for himself,\nfor his genius, information, manners; but if he is married the question\nis, \"What sort of people are _they_?\" This, being interpreted, means,\n\"What style do they live in?\" \"How many servants do they keep?\"\n\nWhatever may be the variety of opinions concerning the doctrines of the\nChurch of Rome, there is but one concerning her astuteness. There can be\nno doubt that she is the most influential association of men that has ever\nexisted; and she has decided for celibacy, that the priest might stand on\nhis merits and on the power of the Church, and be respected and admitted\neverywhere in spite of notorious poverty.\n\nMignet, the historian, was a most intimate and constant friend of Thiers.\nMignet, though rich in reality, as he knew how to live contentedly on\nmoderate means, was poor in comparison with his friend. This inequality\ndid not affect their friendship in the least; for both were great workers,\nwell qualified to understand each other, though Thiers lived in a grand\nhouse, and Mignet in a barely furnished lodging high up in a house that\ndid not belong to him.\n\nMignet was a bachelor, and they were both childless men; but imagine them\nwith large families. One family would have been bred in the greatest\nluxury, the other in austere simplicity. Children are keenly alive to\nthese distinctions; and even if there had been neither pride in the rich\nhouse nor envy in the poorer one the contrast would have been constantly\nfelt. The historical studies that the fathers had in common would probably\nnot have interested their descendants, and unless there had been some\nother powerful bond of sympathy the two families would have lived in\ndifferent worlds. The rich family would have had rich friends, the poorer\nfamily would have attached itself to other families with whom it could\nhave exchanged hospitality on more equal terms. This would have happened\neven in Paris, a city where there is a remarkable absence of contempt for\npoverty; a city where the slightest reason for distinction will admit any\nwell-bred man into society in spite of narrow means and insure him\nimmunity from disdain. All the more certainly would it happen in places\nwhere money is the only regulator of rank, the only acknowledged claim to\nconsideration.\n\nI once knew an English merchant who was reputed to be wealthy, and who,\nlike a true Englishman as he was, inhabited one of those great houses that\nare so elaborately contrived for the exercise of hospitality. He had a\nkind and friendly heart, and lived surrounded by people who often did him\nthe favor to drink his excellent wines and sleep in his roomy\nbedchambers. On his death it turned out that he had never been quite so\nrich as he appeared and that during his last decade his fortune had\nrapidly dwindled. Being much interested in everything that may confirm or\ninvalidate those views of human nature that are current in ancient and\nmodern literature, I asked his son how those who were formerly such\nfrequent guests at the great house had behaved to the impoverished family.\n\"They simply avoided us,\" he said; \"and some of them, when they met me,\nwould cut me openly in the street.\"\n\nIt may be said with perfect truth that this was a good riddance. It is\ncertain that it was so; it is undeniable that the deliverance from a horde\nof false friends is worth a considerable sum per head of them; and that in\nitself was only a subject of congratulation, but their behavior was hard\nto bear because it was the evidence of a fall. We like deference as a\nproof that we have what others respect, quite independently of any real\naffection on their part; nay, we even enjoy the forced deference of those\nwho hate us, well knowing that they would behave very differently if they\ndared. Besides this, it is not certain that an impoverished family will\nfind truer friends amongst the poor than it did formerly amongst the rich.\nThe relation may be the same as it was before, and only the incomes of the\nparties altered.\n\nWhat concerns our present subject is simply that changes of pecuniary\nsituation have always a strong tendency to throw people amongst other\nassociates; and as these changes are continually occurring, the result is\nthat families very rarely preserve the same acquaintances for more than a\nsingle generation. And now comes the momentous issue. The influence of our\nassociates is so difficult to resist, in fact so completely irresistible\nin the long run, that people belong far less to the class they are\ndescended from than to the class in which they live. The younger son of\nsome perfectly aristocratic family marries rather imprudently and is\nimpoverished by family expenses. His son marries imprudently again and\ngoes into another class. The children of that second marriage will\nprobably not have a trace of the peculiarly aristocratic civilization.\nThey will have neither the manners, nor the ideas, nor the unexpressed\ninstincts of the real aristocracy from which they sprang. In place of them\nthey will have the ideas of the lower middle class, and be in habits and\nmanners just as completely of that class as if their forefathers had\nalways belonged to it.\n\nI have in view two instances of this which are especially interesting to\nme because they exemplify it in opposite ways. In one of these cases the\nman was virtuous and religious, but though his ancestry was aristocratic\nhis virtues and his religion were exactly those of the English middle\nclass. He was a good Bible-reading, Sabbath-observing, theatre-avoiding\nEvangelical, inclined to think that dancing was rather sinful, and in all\nthose subtle points of difference that distinguish the middle-class\nEnglishman from the aristocratic Englishman he followed the middle class,\nnot seeming to have any unconscious reminiscence in his blood of an\nancestry with a freer and lordlier life. He cared neither for the sports,\nnor the studies, nor the social intercourse of the aristocracy. His time\nwas divided, as that of the typical good middle-class Englishman generally\nis, between business and religion, except when he read his newspaper. By a\ncombination of industry and good-fortune he recovered wealth, and might\nhave rejoined the aristocracy to which he belonged by right of descent;\nbut middle-class habits were too strong, and he remained contentedly to\nthe close of life both in that class and of it.\n\nThe other example I am thinking of is that of a man still better\ndescended, who followed a profession which, though it offers a good field\nfor energy and talent, is seldom pursued by gentlemen. He acquired the\nhabits and ideas of an intelligent but dissipated working-man, his vices\nwere exactly those of such a man, and so was his particular kind of\nreligious scepticism. I need not go further into detail. Suppose the\ncharacter of a very clever but vicious and irreligious workman, such as\nmay be found in great numbers in the large English towns, and you have the\naccurate portrait of this particular _d\u00e9class\u00e9_.\n\nIn mentioning these two cases I am anxious to avoid misinterpretation. I\nhave no particular respect for one class more than another, and am\nespecially disposed to indulgence for the faults of those who bear the\nstress of the labor of the world; but I see that there _are_ classes, and\nthat the fluctuations of fortune, more than any other cause, bring people\nwithin the range of influence exercised by the habits of classes, and form\nthem in the mould, so that their virtues and vices afterwards, besides\ntheir smaller qualities and defects, belong to the class they live in and\nnot to the class they may be descended from. In other words, men are more\nstrongly influenced by human intercourse than by heredity.\n\nThe most remarkable effect of the fluctuation of wealth is the extreme\nrapidity with which the prosperous family gains refinement of manners,\nwhilst the impoverished family loses it. This change seems to be more\nrapid in our own age and country than it has ever been before. Nothing is\nmore interesting than to watch this double process; and nothing in social\nstudies is more curious than the multiplicity of the minute causes that\nbring it about. Every abridgment of ceremony has a tendency to lower\nrefinement by introducing that _sans-g\u00eane_ which is fatal to good manners.\nCeremony is only compatible with leisure. It is abridged by haste; haste\nis the result of poverty; and so it comes to pass that the loss of fortune\ninduces people to give up one little observance after another, for economy\nof time, till at last there are none remaining. There is the excellent\nhabit of dressing for the evening meal. The mere cost of it is almost\nimperceptible, except that it causes a small additional expenditure in\nclean linen; but, although the pecuniary tax is slight, there is a tax on\ntime which is not compatible with hurry and irregularity, so it is only\npeople of some leisure who maintain it. Now consider the subtle influence,\non manners, of the maintenance or abandonment of this custom. Where it is\nkept up, gentlemen and ladies meet in a drawing-room before dinner\nprepared by their toilet for the disciplined intercourse of\nwell-regulated social life. They are like officers in uniform, or\nclergymen in canonicals: they wear a dress that is not without its\nobligations. It is not the luxury of it that does this, for the dress is\nalways plain for men and often simple for ladies, but the mere fact of\ntaking the trouble to dress is an act of deference to civilization and\ndisposes the mind to other observances. It has the further advantage of\nseparating us from the occupations of the day and marking a new point of\ndeparture for the gentler life of the evening. As people become poorer\nthey give up dressing except when they have a party, and then they feel\nill at ease from the consciousness of a white tie. You have only to go a\nlittle further in this direction to arrive at the people who do not feel\nany inclination to wash their hands before dinner, even when they visibly\nneed it. Finally there are houses where the master will sit down to table\nin his shirt-sleeves and without anything round his neck. People who live\nin this way have no social intercourse whatever of a slightly ceremonious\nkind, and therefore miss all the discipline in manners that rich people go\nthrough every day. The higher society is a school of manners that the poor\nhave not leisure to attend.\n\nThe downward course of an impoverished family is strongly aided by an\nelement in many natures that the discipline of high life either subdues or\neliminates. There are always people, especially in the male sex, who feel\nill at ease under ceremonial restraints of any kind, and who find the\nrelease from them an ineffably delightful emancipation. Such people hate\ndressing for dinner, hate the forms of politeness, hate gloves and\nvisiting-cards, and all that such things remind them of. To be rid of\nthese things once for all, to be able to sit and smoke a pipe in an old\ngray coat, seems to them far greater and more substantial happiness than\nto drink claret in a dining-room, napkin on knee. Once out of society,\nsuch men have no desire to enter it again, and after a very short\nexclusion from it they belong to a lower class from taste quite as much as\nfrom circumstances. All those who have a tendency towards the philosophy\nof Diogenes (and they are more numerous than we suppose) are of this\nmanner of thinking. Sometimes they have a taste for serious intellectual\npursuits which makes the nothings of society seem frivolous, and also\nconsoles their pride for an apparent _d\u00e9ch\u00e9ance_.\n\nIf it were possible to get rid of the burdensome superfluities of high\nlife, most of which are useless encumbrances, and live simply without any\nloss of refinement, I should say that these philosophers would have reason\non their side. The complicated apparatus of wealthy life is not in itself\ndesirable. To convert the simple act of satisfying hunger into the tedious\nceremonial of a state dinner may be a satisfaction of pride, but it is\nassuredly not an increase of pleasure. To receive as guests people whom we\ndo not care for in the least (which is constantly done by rich people to\nmaintain their position) offers less of what is agreeable in human\nintercourse than a chat with a real friend under a shed of thatch.\nNevertheless, to be totally excluded from the life of the wealthy is to\nmiss a discipline in manners that nothing ever replaces, and this is the\nreal loss. The cultivation of taste which results from leisure forms, in\ncourse of time, amongst rich people a public opinion that disciplines\nevery member of an aristocratic society far more severely than the more\ncareless opinion of the hurried classes ever disciplines _them_. To know\nthe value of such discipline we have only to observe societies from which\nit is absent. We have many opportunities for this in travelling, and one\noccurred to me last year that I will describe as an example. I was boating\nwith two young friends on a French river, and we spent a Sunday in a\ndecent riverside inn, where we had _d\u00e9je\u00fbner_ in a corner of the public\nroom. Several men of the neighborhood, probably farmers and small\nproprietors, sat in another corner playing cards. They had a very decent\nappearance, they were fine healthy-looking men, quite the contrary of a\ndegraded class, and they were only amusing themselves temperately on a\nSunday morning. Well, from the beginning of their game to the end of it\n(that is, during the whole time of our meal), they did nothing but shout,\nyell, shriek, and swear at each other loudly enough to be heard across the\nbroad river. They were not angry in the least, but it was their habit to\nmake a noise and to use oaths and foul language continually. We, at our\ntable, could not hear each other's voices; but this did not occur to them.\nThey had no notion that their noisy kind of intercourse could be\nunpleasant to anybody, because delicacy of sense, fineness of nerve, had\nnot been developed in their class of society. Afterwards I asked them for\nsome information, which they gave with a real anxiety to make themselves\nof use. Some rich people came to the inn with a pretty carriage, and I\namused myself by noting the difference. _Their_ manners were perfectly\nquiet. Why are rich people quiet and poorer ones noisy? Because the\nrefinements of wealthy life, its peace and tranquillity, its leisure, its\nfacilities for separation in different rooms, produce delicacy of nerve,\nwith the perception that noise is disagreeable; and out of this delicacy,\nwhen it is general amongst a whole class, springs a strong determination\nso to discipline the members of the class that they shall not make\nthemselves disagreeable to the majority. Hence lovers of good manners have\na preference for the richer classes quite apart from a love of physical\nluxury or a snobbish desire to be associated with people of rank. For the\nsame reason a lover of good manners dreads poverty or semi-poverty for his\nchildren, because even a moderate degree of poverty (not to speak of the\nacute forms of it) may compel them to associate with the undisciplined.\nWhat gentleman would like his son to live habitually with the card-players\nI have described?\n\n\n\n\nESSAY X.\n\nDIFFERENCES OF RANK AND WEALTH.\n\n\nThe most remarkable peculiarity about the desire to establish distinctions\nof rank is not that there should be definite gradations amongst people who\nhave titles, but that, when the desire is strong in a nation, public\nopinion should go far beyond heralds and parchments and gazettes, and\nestablish the most minute gradations amongst people who have nothing\nhonorific about them.\n\nWhen once the rule is settled by a table of precedence that an earl is\ngreater than a baron, we simply acquiesce in the arrangement, as we are\nready to believe that a mandarin with a yellow jacket is a\nmuch-to-be-honored sort of mandarin; but what is the power that strikes\nthe nice balance of social advantages in favor of Mr. Smith as compared\nwith Mr. Jones, when neither one nor the other has any title, or ancestry,\nor anything whatever to boast of? Amongst the many gifts that are to be\nadmired in the fair sex this seems one of the most mysterious, that ladies\ncan so decidedly fix the exact social position of every human being. Men\nsoon find themselves bewildered by conflicting considerations, but a woman\ngoes to the point at once, and settles in the most definite manner that\nSmith is certainly the superior of Jones.\n\nThis may bring upon me the imputation of being a democrat and a leveller.\nNo, I rather like a well-defined social distinction when it has reality.\nReal distinctions keep society picturesque and interesting; what I fail to\nappreciate so completely are the fictitious little distinctions that have\nno basis in reality, and appear to be instituted merely for the sake of\nestablishing differences that do not naturally exist. It seems to be an\nunfortunate tendency that seeks unapparent differences, and it may have a\nbad effect on character by forcing each man back upon the consideration of\nhis own claims that it would be better for him to forget.\n\nI once dined at a country-house in Scotland when the host asked one of the\nguests this question, \"Are you a land-owner?\" in order to determine his\nprecedence. It did so happen that the guest owned a few small farms, so he\nanswered \"Yes;\" but it struck me that the distinction between a man who\nhad a moderate sum invested in land and one who had twice as much in other\ninvestments was not clearly in favor of the first. Could not the other buy\nland any day if he liked? He who hath gold hath land, potentially. If\nprecedence is to be regulated by so material a consideration as wealth,\nlet it be done fairly and plainly. The best and simplest plan would be to\nembroider the amount of each gentleman's capital in gold thread on the\nbreast of his dress-coat. The metal would be appropriate, the embroidery\nwould be decorative, and the practice would offer unequalled encouragement\nto thrift.\n\nAgain, I have always understood in the most confused manner the\ndistinction, so clear to many, between those who are in trade and those\nwho are not. I think I see the only real objection to trade with the help\nof M. Renan, who has stated it very clearly, but my difficulty is to\ndiscover who are tradesmen, and, still more, who are not tradesmen. Here\nis M. Renan's account of the matter:--\n\n    \"Our ideal can only be realized with a Government that gives some\n    _\u00e9clat_ to those who are connected with it and which creates\n    distinctions outside of wealth. We feel an antipathy to a society in\n    which the merit of a man and his superiority to another can only be\n    revealed under the form of industry and commerce; not that trade and\n    industry are not honest in our eyes, but because we see clearly that\n    the best things (such as the functions of the priest, the magistrate,\n    the _savant_, the artist, and the serious man of letters) are the\n    inverse of the industrial and commercial spirit, the first duty of\n    those who follow them being not to try to enrich themselves, and never\n    to take into consideration the venal value of what they do.\"\n\nThis I understand, provided that the priest, magistrate, _savant_, artist,\nand serious man of letters are faithful to this \"first duty;\" provided\nthat they \"never take into consideration the venal value of what they do;\"\nbut there are tradesmen in the highest professions. All that can be said\nagainst trade is that its object is profit. Then it follows that every\nprofession followed for profit has in it what is objectionable in trade,\nand that the professions are not noble in themselves but only if they are\nfollowed in a disinterested spirit. I should say, then, that any attempt\nto fix the degree of nobleness of persons by the supposed nobleness of\ntheir occupations must be founded upon an unreal distinction. A venal\nclergyman who does not believe the dogmas that he defends for his\nendowment, a venal barrister, ready to prostitute his talents and his\ntongue for a large income, seem to me to have in them far more of what is\nobjectionable in trade than a country bookseller who keeps a little shop\nand sells note-paper and sealing-wax over the counter; yet it is assumed\nthat their occupations are noble occupations and that his business is not\nnoble, though I can see nothing whatever in it of which any gentleman need\nbe in the slightest degree ashamed.\n\nAgain, there seem to be most unreal distinctions of respectability in the\ntrades themselves. The wine trade has always been considered a gentlemanly\nbusiness; but why is it more respectable to sell wine and spirits than to\nsell bread, or cheese, or beef? Are not articles of food more useful to\nthe community than alcoholic drinks, and less likely to contribute to the\ngeneral sum of evil? As for the honesty of the dealers, no doubt there are\nhonest wine-merchants; but what thing that is sold for money has been more\nfrequently adulterated, or more mendaciously labelled, or more\nunscrupulously charged for, than the produce of European vintages?[7]\n\nAnother wonderful unreality is the following. People desire the profits of\ntrade, but are unwilling to lose caste by engaging in it openly. In order\nto fill their pockets and preserve their rank at the same time they engage\nin business anonymously, either as members of some firm in which their\nnames do not appear, or else as share-holders in great trading\nenterprises. In both these cases the investor of capital becomes just as\nreally and truly a tradesman as if he kept a shop, but if you were to tell\nhim that he was a tradesman he would probably resent the imputation.\n\nIt is remarkable that the people who most despise commerce are the very\npeople who bow down most readily before the accomplished results of\ncommerce; for as they have an exaggerated sense of social distinctions,\nthey are great adorers of wealth for the distinction that it confers. By\ntheir worship of wealth they acknowledge it to be most desirable; but then\nthey worship rank also, and this other cultus goes with the sentiment of\ncontempt for humble and plodding industry in all its forms.\n\nThe contempt for trade is inconsistent in another way. A man may be\nexcluded from \"good society\" because he is in trade, and his grandson may\nbe admitted because the grandfather was in trade, that is, through a\nfortune of commercial origin. The present Prime Minister (Gladstone) and\nthe Speaker of the House of Commons (Mr. Arthur Peel) and many other men\nof high position in both Houses may owe their fame to their own\ndistinguished abilities; but they owe the leisure and opportunity for\ncultivating and displaying those abilities to the wits and industry of\ntradesmen removed from them only by one or two generations.\n\nIs there not a strange inconsistency in adoring wealth as it is adored,\nand despising the particular kind of skill and ability by which it is\nusually acquired? For if there be anything honorable about wealth it must\nsurely be as evidence of the intelligence and industry that are necessary\nfor the conquest of poverty. On the contrary, a narrowly exclusive society\ndespises the virtue that is most creditable to the _nouveau riche_, his\nindustry, whilst it worships his wealth as soon as the preservation of it\nis compatible with idleness.\n\nThere is a great deal of unreal distinction in the matter of ancestry.\nThose who observe closely are well aware that many undoubted and lineal\ndescendants of the oldest families are in humble social positions, simply\nfor want of money to make a display, whilst others usurp their\ncoats-of-arms and claim a descent that they cannot really prove. The whole\nsubject is therefore one of the most unsatisfactory that can be, and all\nthat remains to the real members of old families who have not wealth\nenough to hold a place in the expensive modern aristocracy, is to remember\nsecretly the history of their ancestors if they are romantic and poetical\nenough to retain the old-fashioned sentiment of birth, and to forget it\nif they look only to the present and the practical. There is, indeed, so\nlittle of the romantic sentiment left in the country, that even amongst\nthe descendants of old families themselves very few are able to blazon\ntheir own armorial bearings, or even know what the verb \"to blazon\" means.\n\nAmidst so great a confusion the simplest way would be not to think about\nrank at all, and to take human nature as it comes without reference to it;\nbut however the ancient barriers of rank may be broken down, it is only to\nerect new ones. English feeling has a deep satisfaction in contemplating\nrank and wealth combined. It is that which it likes,--the combination.\nWhen wealth is gone it thinks that a man should lock up his pedigree in\nhis desk and forget that he has ancestors; so it has been said that an\nEnglish gentleman in losing wealth loses his caste with it, whilst a\nFrench or Italian gentleman may keep his caste, except in the most abject\npoverty. On the other hand, when an Englishman has a vast fortune it is\nthought right to give him a title also, that the desirable combination may\nbe created afresh. Nothing is so striking in England, considering that it\nis an old country, as the newness of most of the great families. The\naristocracy is like London, that has the reputation of being a very\nancient city, yet the houses are of recent date. An aristocracy may be\nstronger and in better repair because of its newness; it may also be more\nlikely to make a display of aristocratic superiorities, and expect\ndeference to be paid to them, than an easy-going old aristocracy would\nbe.\n\nWhat are the superiorities, and what is the nature of the deference?\n\nThe superiority given by title depends on the intensity of title-worship\namongst the public. In England that religion is in a very healthy and\nflourishing state, so that titles are very valuable there; in France the\nsense of a social hierarchy is so much weakened that titles are of\ninfinitely less value. False ones are assumed and borne with impunity on\naccount of the general indifference, whilst true and authentic titles are\noften dropped as an encumbrance. The blundering ignorance of the French\nabout our titles, which so astonishes Englishmen, is due to a carelessness\nabout the whole subject that no inhabitant of the British Islands can\nimagine.[8] In those islands title is of very great importance because\nthe people have such a strong consciousness of its existence. In England,\nif there is a lord in the room every body is aware of it.\n\nSuperiority of family, without title, is merely local; it is not\nunderstood far from the ancestral home. Superiority of title is national;\nit is imperfectly appreciated in foreign countries. But superiority of\nwealth has the immense advantage over these that it is respected\neverywhere and can display itself everywhere with the utmost ostentation\nunder pretext of custom and pleasure. It commands the homage of foolish\nand frivolous people by possibilities of vain display, and at the same\ntime it appears desirable to the wise because it makes the gathering of\nexperience easy and human intercourse convenient.\n\nThe rich man has access to an immense range of varied situations; and if\nhe has energy to profit by this facility and put himself in those\nsituations where he may learn the most, he may become far more experienced\nat thirty-five than a poor man can be at seventy. A poor man has a taste\nfor boating, so he builds a little boat with his own hands, and paints it\ngreen and white, with its name, the \"Cock-Robin,\" in yellow. Meanwhile his\ngood wife, in spite of all the work she has to do, has a kindly indulgence\nfor her poor Tom's hobby, thinks he deserves a little amusement, and\nstitches the sail for him in the evenings. He sails five or six miles up\nand down the river. Sir Thomas Brassey has exactly the same tastes: he\nbuilds the \"Sunbeam;\" and whilst the \"Cock-Robin\" has been doing its\nlittle trips, the \"Sunbeam\" has gone round the world; and instead of\nstitching the sails, the kind wife has accompanied the mariner, and\nwritten the story of his voyage. If after that you talk with the owners of\nthe two vessels you may be interested for a few minutes--deeply interested\nand touched if you have the divine gift of sympathy--with the poor man's\naccount of his doings; but his experience is small and soon told, whilst\nthe owner of the \"Sunbeam\" has traversed all the oceans and could tell you\na thousand things. So it naturally follows in most cases, though the rule\nhas exceptions, that rich men are more interesting people to know than\npoor men of equal ability.\n\nI remember being forcibly reminded of the narrow experience of the poor on\none of those occasions that often happen to those who live in the country\nand know their poorer neighbors. A friend of mine, with his children, had\ncome to stay with me; and there was a poor woman, living in a very\nout-of-the-way hamlet on a hill, who had made me promise that I would take\nmy friend and his children to see her, because she had known their mother,\nwho was dead, and had felt for her one of those strong and constant\naffections that often dwell in humble and faithful hearts. We have a great\nrespect for this poor woman, who is in all ways a thoroughly dutiful\nperson, and she has borne severe trials with great patience. Well, she was\ndelighted to see my friend and his children, delighted to see how well\nthey looked, how much they had grown, and so on; and then she spoke of her\nown little ones, and showed us the books they were learning in, and\ndescribed their dispositions, and said that her husband was in full work\nand went every day to the schist mine, and was much steadier than he used\nto be, and made her much happier. After that she began again, saying\nexactly the same things all over again, and she said them a third time,\nand a fourth time. When we had left, we noticed this repetition, and we\nagreed that the poor woman, instead of being deficient in intelligence,\nwas naturally above the average, but that the extreme narrowness of her\nexperience, the total want of variety in her life, made it impossible for\nher mind to get out of that little domestic groove. She had about\nhalf-a-dozen ideas, and she lived in them, as a person in a small house\nlives in a very few rooms.\n\nNow, however much esteem, respect, and affection you may have for a person\nof that kind, you will find it impossible to enjoy such society because\nconversation has no aliment. This is the one great reason why cultivated\npeople seem to avoid the poor, even when they do not despise them in the\nleast.\n\nThe greater experience of the rich is united to an incomparably greater\npower of pleasant reception, because in their homes conversation is not\ninterfered with by the multitude of petty domestic difficulties and\ninconveniences. I go to spend the day with a very poor friend, and this is\nwhat is likely to happen. He and I can only talk without interruption when\nwe are out of the house. Inside it his children break in upon us\nconstantly. His wife finds me in the way, and wishes I had not come,\nbecause she has not been able to provide things exactly as she desired. At\ndinner her mind is not in the conversation; she is really occupied with\npetty household cares. I, on my part, have the uncomfortable feeling that\nI am creating inconvenience; and it requires incessant attention to soothe\nthe watchful sensitiveness of a hostess who is so painfully alive to the\ndeficiencies of her small establishment. If I have a robust appetite, it\nis well; but woe to me if my appetite is small, and I must overeat to\nprove that the cookery is good! If I accept a bed the sacrifice of a room\nwill cause crowding elsewhere, besides which I shall be a nuisance in the\nearly morning hours when nothing in the _m\u00e9nage_ is fit for the public\neye. Whilst creating all this inconvenience to others, I suffer the great\none of being stopped in my usual pursuits. If I want a few quiet hours for\nreading and writing there is only one way: I must go privately to some\nhotel and hire a sitting-room for myself.\n\nNow consider the difference when I go to visit a rich friend! The first\ndelightful feeling is that I do not occasion the very slightest\ninconvenience. His arrangements for the reception of guests are permanent\nand perfect. My arrival will scarcely cost his wife a thought; she has\nsimply given orders in the morning for a room to be got ready and a cover\nto be laid at table. Her mind is free to think about any subject that\nsuggests itself. Her conversation, from long practice, is as easy as the\nstyle of a good writer. All causes of interruption are carefully kept in\nthe background. The household details are attended to by a regiment of\ndomestics under their own officers. The children are in rooms of their own\nwith their governesses and servants, and we see just enough of them to be\nagreeable. If I desire privacy, nothing is more easily obtained. On the\nslightest hint a room is placed at my disposal. I remember one house where\nthat room used to be a splendid library, full of the books which at that\ntime I most wanted to consult; and the only interruption in the mornings\nwas the noiseless entrance of the dear lady of the house, always at eleven\no'clock precisely, with a glass of wine and a biscuit on a little silver\ntray. It is not the material luxury of rich men's houses that a wise man\nwould desire; but he must thoroughly appreciate their convenience and the\nvaried food for the mind that they afford,--the books, the pictures, the\ncuriosities. In one there is a museum of antiquities that a large town\nmight envy, in another a collection of drawings, in a third a magnificent\narmory. In one private house in Paris[9] there used to be fourteen noble\nsaloons containing the arts of two hundred years. You go to stay in ten\nrich houses and find them all different; you enjoy the difference, and in\na certain sense you possess the different things. The houses of the poor\nare all alike, or if they differ it is not by variety of artistic or\nintellectual interest. By the habit of staying in each other's houses the\nrich multiply their riches to infinity. In a certain way of their own (it\nis not exactly the way of the early Christians) they have their goods in\ncommon.\n\nThere are, no doubt, many guests in the houses of the rich who care little\nfor the people they visit, but much for the variety and\naccommodation,--guests who visit the place rather than the owner; guests\nwho enjoy the cookery, the wines, the shooting, and who would go to the\nhouse if the owner were changed, exactly as they continue to patronize\nsome pleasantly situated and well-managed hotel, after a change of\nmasters. I hardly know how to describe these people in a word, but it is\neasy to characterize their entertainers. They are unpaid innkeepers.\n\nThere are also people, apparently hospitable, who care little for the\npersons they invite,--so very little, indeed, that we do not easily\ndiscover what motive they have for inviting them. The answer may be that\nthey dislike solitude so much that any guest is acceptable, or else that\nthey want admirers for the beautiful arrangements and furniture of their\nhouses; for what is the use of having beautiful things if there is nobody\nto appreciate them? Hosts of this class are amateur exhibitors, or they\nare like amateur actors who want an audience, and who will invite people\nto come and listen, not because they care for the people, but because it\nis discouraging to play to empty benches.\n\nThese two classes of guests and hosts cannot exist without riches. The\ndesire to be entertained ceases at once when it is known that the\nentertainment will be of a poor quality; and the desire to exhibit the\ninternal arrangements of our houses ceases when we are too poor to do\njustice to the refinement of our taste.\n\nThe story of the rich man who had many friends and saw them fall away from\nhim when he became poor, which, under various forms, reappears in every\nage and is common to all literatures, is explained by these\nconsiderations. Bucklaw does not find Lord Ravenswood a valuable\ngratuitous innkeeper; and Ravenswood is not anxious to exhibit to Bucklaw\nthe housekeeping at Wolf's Crag.\n\nBut quite outside of parasite guests and exhibiting entertainers, there\nstill remains the undeniable fact that if you like a rich man and a poor\none equally well, you will prefer the rich man's hospitality for its\ngreater convenience. Nay, more, you will rightly and excusably prefer the\nrich man's hospitality even if you like the poor man better, but find his\nhousehold arrangements disagreeable, his wife fagged, worn, irritable, and\nungracious, his children ill-bred, obtrusive, and dirty, himself unable to\ntalk about anything rational on account of family interruptions, and\nscarcely his own better and higher self at all in the midst of his\ndomestic plagues.[10]\n\nThere is no nation in the world that has so acute a sense of the value,\nalmost the necessity, of wealth for human intercourse as the English\nnation. Whilst in other countries people think \"Wealth is peace of mind,\nwealth is convenience, wealth is _la vie \u00e9l\u00e9gante_,\" in England they\nsilently accept the maxim, \"A large income is a necessary of life;\" and\nthey class each other according to the scale of their establishments,\nlooking up with unfeigned reverence to those who have many servants, many\nhorses, and gigantic houses where a great hospitality is dispensed. An\nordinary Englishman thinks he has failed in life, and his friends are of\nthe same opinion, if he does not arrive at the ability to imitate this\nstyle and state, at least in a minor degree. I have given the best reasons\nwhy it is desired; I understand and appreciate them; but at the same time\nI think it deeply to be deplored that an expenditure far beyond what can\nbe met by the physical or intellectual labor of ordinary workers should be\nthought necessary in order that people may meet and talk in comfort. The\nbig English house is a machine that runs with unrivalled smoothness; but\nit masters its master, it possesses its nominal possessor. George Borrow\nhad the deepest sense of the Englishman's slavery to his big, well-ordered\ndwelling, and saw in it the cause of unnumbered anxieties, often ending in\nheart-disease, paralysis, bankruptcy, and in minor cases sacrificing all\nchance of leisure and quiet happiness. Many a land-owner has crippled\nhimself by erecting a great house on his estate,--one of those huge,\ntasteless buildings that express nothing but pompous pride. What wisdom\nthere is in the excellent old French adage, \"A petite terre, petite\nmaison\"!\n\nThe reader may remember Herbert Spencer's idea that the display of wealth\nis intended to subjugate. Royal palaces are made very vast and magnificent\nto subjugate those who approach the sovereign; and all rich and powerful\npeople use the same means, for the same purpose, though in minor degrees.\nThis leads us to the price that has to be paid for intercourse with\npersons of great rank and wealth. May we not suspect that there is a heavy\nprice of some kind, since many of the best and noblest minds in the world\neither avoid it altogether or else accept it cautiously and only with a\nvery few rich men whom they esteem independently of their riches?\n\nThe answer is that wealth and rank expect deference, not so much humble\nand slavish manners as that intellectual deference which a thinker can\nnever willingly give. The higher the rank of the personage the more it is\nconsidered ill-bred to contradict him, or even to have an opinion of your\nown in his presence. This, to a thinker, is unendurable. He does not see\nthat because a person is rich and noble his views on everything must be\nthe best and soundest views.\n\nYou, my dear Aristophilus, who by your pleasing manners are so well fitted\nfor the very best society, could give interesting answers to the following\nquestions: Have you never found it advisable to keep silence when your\nwealthy host was saying things against which you inwardly protested? Have\nyou not sometimes gone a step further, and given a kind of assent to some\nopinion that was not your own? Have you not, by practice, attained the\npower of giving a still stronger and heartier assent to what seemed\ndoubtful propositions?\n\nThere is one form of this assent which is deeply damaging to character.\nSome great person, a great lady perhaps, unjustly condemns, in your\npresence, a public man for whom you have a sincere respect. Instead of\nboldly defending him, you remain silent and acquiescent. You are afraid\nto offend, afraid to lose favor, afraid that if you spoke openly you would\nnot be invited to the great house any more.\n\nSometimes not a single individual but a class is attacked at once. A great\nlady is reported to have said that she \"had a deep objection to French\nliterature in all its branches.\" Observe that this expression of opinion\ncontains a severe censure on _all_ French authors and on all readers of\nFrench literature. Would you have ventured to say a word in their defence?\nWould you have dared to hint, for example, that a serious mind might be\nnone the worse for some acquaintance with Montesquieu and De Tocqueville?\nNo, sir, you would have bowed your head and put on a shocked expression of\ncountenance.\n\nIn this way, little by little, by successive abandonments of what we\nthink, and abdications of what we know, we may arrive at a state of\nhabitual and inane concession that softens every fibre of the mind.\n\n\n\n\nESSAY XI.\n\nTHE OBSTACLE OF LANGUAGE.\n\n\nThe greatest impediment to free intercourse between nations is neither\ndistance nor the differences of mental habits, nor the opposition of\nnational interests; it is simply the imperfect manner in which languages\nare usually acquired, and the lazy contentment of mankind with a low\ndegree of attainment in a foreign tongue when a much higher degree of\nattainment would be necessary to any efficient interchange of ideas.\n\nIt seems probable that much of the future happiness of humanity will\ndepend upon a determination to learn foreign languages more thoroughly.\nInternational ill-will is the parent of innumerable evils. From the\nintellectual point of view it is a great evil, because it narrows our\nrange of ideas and deprives us of light from foreign thinkers. From the\ncommercial point of view it is an evil, because it leads a nation to deny\nitself conveniences in order to avoid the dreaded result of doing good to\nanother country. From the political point of view it is an enormous evil,\nbecause it leads nations to make war upon each other and to inflict and\nendure all the horrors, the miseries, the impoverishment of war rather\nthan make some little concession on one side or on both sides that would\nhave been made with little difficulty if the spirit of the two countries\nhad been more friendly. May we not believe that a more general spirit of\nfriendliness would result from more personal intercourse, and that this\nwould be the consequence of more thorough linguistic acquirement?\n\nIt has always seemed to me an inexpressible misfortune to the French that\nthey should not be better acquainted with English literature; and this not\nsimply from the literary point of view, but because on so many questions\nthat interest active minds in France it would be such an advantage to\nthose minds to be able to see how those questions have appeared to men\nbred in a different and a calmer atmosphere. If the French read English\neasily they might often avoid (without ceasing to be national) many of\nthose errors that result from seeing things only from a single point of\nview. I know a few intelligent Frenchmen who do read our most thoughtful\nwriters in the original, and I can see what a gain this enlarged\nexperience has been to them. On the other hand, it is certain that good\nFrench literature may have an excellent effect on the literary training of\nan Englishman. The careful study of that clear, concise, and moderate\nFrench writing which is the most perfect flower of the cultivated national\nmind has been most beneficial to some English writers, by making them less\nclumsy, less tedious, less verbose.\n\nOf commercial affairs it would be presumptuous in me to say much, but no\none disputes that international commerce is a benefit, and that it would\nnot be possible without a class of men who are acquainted with foreign\nlanguages. On this class of men, be they merchants or corresponding\nclerks, the commercial intercourse between nations must depend. I find it\nstated by foreign tradesmen that if they were better acquainted with the\nEnglish language much trade that now escapes them might be made to pass\nthrough their hands. I have myself often observed, on a small scale, that\ntransactions of an international character have taken place because one of\nthe parties happened to know the language of the other, when they would\ncertainly not have taken place if it had been necessary to make them\nthrough an agent or an interpreter.\n\nWith regard to peace and war, can it be doubted that the main reason for\nour peaceful relations with the United States lies in the fact of our\ncommon language? We may have newspaper quarrels, but the newspapers\nthemselves help to make every question understood. It is far harder to\ngain acceptance for English ideas in France, yet even our relations with\nFrance are practically more peaceful than of old, and though there is\nintense jealousy between the two countries, they understand each other\nbetter, so that differences which would certainly have produced bloodshed\nin the days of Pitt, cause nothing worse than inkshed in the days of\nGladstone. This happy result may be attributed in great part to the\nEnglish habit of learning French and going to Paris or to the south of\nFrance. We need not expect any really cordial understanding between the\ntwo countries, though it would be an incalculable benefit to both. That is\ntoo much to be hoped for; their jealousy, on both sides, is too irritable\nand too often inflamed afresh by new incidents, for neither of them can\nstir a foot without putting the other out of temper; but we may hope that\nthrough the quietly and constantly exerted influence of those who know\nboth languages, war may be often, though perhaps not always, avoided.\n\nUnfortunately an imperfect knowledge of a foreign language is of little\nuse, as it does not give any real freedom of intercourse. Foreigners do\nnot open their minds to one who blunders about their meaning; they\nconsider him to be a sort of child, and address to him \"easy things to\nunderstand.\" Their confidence is only to be won by a demonstration of\nsomething like equality in intelligence, and nobody can give proof of this\nunless he has the means of making his thoughts intelligible, and even of\nassuming, when the occasion presents itself, a somewhat bold and\nauthoritative tone. People of mature and superior intellect, but imperfect\nlinguistic acquirements, are liable to be treated with a kind of\ncondescending indulgence when out of their own country, as if they were as\nyoung in years and as feeble in power of thought as they are in their\nknowledge of foreign languages.\n\nThe extreme rarity of that degree of attainment in a foreign language\nwhich deserves to be called _mastery_ is well known to the very few who\nare competent to judge. At a meeting of French professors Lord Houghton\nsaid that the wife of a French ambassador had told him that she knew only\nthree Englishmen who could speak French. One of these was Sir Alexander\nCockburn, another the Duke of Bedford, and we may presume the third to\nhave been Lord Houghton himself. Amongst men of letters Lord Houghton only\nknew one, Henry Reeve, the editor of the \"Edinburgh Review\" and\ntranslator of the works of De Tocqueville. He mentioned Lord Arthur\nRussell as an example of accomplishment, but he is \"quasi French by\n_l'esprit_, education, and marriage.\"\n\nOn reading the report of Lord Houghton's speech, I asked a cultivated\nParisian lady (who knows English remarkably well and has often been in\nEngland) what her own experience had been. After a little hesitation she\nsaid it had been exactly that of the French ambassadress. She, also, had\nmet with three Englishmen who spoke French, and she named them. I\nsuggested several others, and amongst them some very learned scholars,\nmerely to hear what she would say, but her answer was that their\ninadequate power of expression compelled them to talk far below the level\nof their abilities, so that when they spoke French nobody would suppose\nthem to be clever men. She also affirmed that they did not catch the\nshades of French expression, so that in speaking French to them one was\nnever sure of being quite accurately understood.\n\nI myself have known many French people who have studied English more or\nless, including several who read English authors with praiseworthy\nindustry, but I have only met with one or two who can be said to have\nmastered the language. I am told that M. Beljame, the learned Professor of\nEnglish Literature at the Sorbonne, has a wonderful mastery of our tongue.\nMany French professors of English have considerable historical and\ngrammatical knowledge of it, but that is not practical mastery. In\ngeneral, the knowledge of English attained by French people (not without\nmore labor than the result would show) is so poor and insufficient as to\nbe almost useless.\n\nI remember an accidental circumstance that put into my hands some curious\nmaterials for judging of the attainments of a former generation. A Belgian\nlady, for a reason that has no concern with our present subject, lent me\nfor perusal an important packet of letters in the French language written\nby English ladies of great social distinction about the date of Waterloo.\nThey showed a rough familiarity with French, but no knowledge of its finer\nshades, and they abounded in glaring errors. The effect of this\ncorrespondence on my mind was that the writers had certainly used (or\nabused) the language, but that they had never condescended to learn it.\n\nThese and other experiences have led me to divide progress in languages\ninto several stages, which I place at the reader's disposal in the belief\nthat they may be convenient to him as they have been convenient to me.\n\nThe first stage in learning a language is when every sentence is a puzzle\nand exercises the mind like a charade or a conundrum. There are people to\nwhom this kind of exercise is a sport. They enjoy the puzzle for its own\nsake and without any reference to the literary value of the sentence or\nits preciousness as an utterance of wisdom. Such people are much better\nadapted to the early stage of linguistic acquirement than those who like\nreading and dislike enigmas.\n\nThe excessive slowness with which one works in this early stage is a cause\nof irritation when the student interests himself in the thoughts or the\nnarrative, because what comes into his mind in a given time is so small a\nmatter that it seems not worth while to go on working for such a little\nintellectual income. Therefore in this early stage it is a positive\ndisadvantage to have eager literary desires.\n\nIn the second stage the student can push along with the help of a\ntranslation and a dictionary; but this is not _reading_, it is only aided\nconstruing. It is disagreeable to a reader, though it may be endured by\none who is indifferent to reading. This may be made clear by reference to\nother pursuits. A man who loves rowing, and who knows what rowing is, does\nnot like to pull a slow and heavy boat, such as an ordinary Scottish\nHighlander pulls with perfect contentment. So a man who loves reading, and\nknows what reading is, does not like the heavy work of laborious\ntranslation. This explains the fact which is often so unintelligible to\nparents, that boys who are extremely fond of reading often dislike their\nclassical studies. Grammar, prosody, philology, so far as they are the\nsubjects of _conscious attention_ (which they are with all pedagogues),\nare the rivals of literature, and so it happens that pedagogy is\nunfavorable to literary art. It is only when the sciences of dissection\nare forgotten that we can enjoy the arts of poetry and prose.\n\nIf, then, the first stage of language-learning requires rather a taste for\nsolving puzzles than a taste for literature, so I should say that the\nsecond stage requires rather a turn for grammatical and philological\nconsiderations than an interest in the ideas or an appreciation of the\nstyle of great authors. The most favorable state of mind for progress in\nthis stage is that of a philologist; and if a man has literary tastes in\ngreat strength, and philological tastes in a minor degree, he will do\nwell, in this stage, to encourage the philologist in himself and keep his\nlove of literature in abeyance.\n\nIn the third stage the vocabulary has become rich enough to make\nreferences to the dictionary less frequent, and the student can read with\nsome degree of literary enjoyment. There is, however, this remaining\nobstacle, that even when the reader knows the words and can construe well,\nthe foreign manner of saying things still appears _unnatural_. I have made\nmany inquiries concerning this stage of acquirement and find it to be very\ncommon. Men of fair scholarship in Latin tell me that the Roman way of\nwriting does not seem to be really a natural way. I find that even those\nLatin works which were most familiar to me in youth, such as the Odes of\nHorace, for example, seem unnatural still, though I may know the meaning\nof every word, and I do not believe that any amount of labor would ever\nrid me of this feeling. This is a great obstacle, and not the less that it\nis of such a subtle and intangible nature.[11]\n\nIn the fourth stage the mode of expression seems natural, and the words\nare perfectly known, but the sense of the paragraph is not apparent at a\nglance. There is the feeling of a slight obstacle, of something that has\nto be overcome; and there is a remarkable counter-feeling which always\ncomes after the paragraph is mastered. The reader then wonders that such\nan obviously intelligible page can have offered any opposition whatever.\nWhat surprises us is that this fourth stage can last so long as it does.\nIt seems as if it would be so easily passed, and yet, in fact, it is for\nmost persons impassable.\n\nThe fifth stage is that of perfection in reading. It is not reached by\neverybody even in the native language itself. The reader who has attained\nit sees the contents of a page and catches their meaning at a glance even\nbefore he has had time to read the sentences.\n\nThis condition of extreme lucidity in a language comes, when it comes at\nall, long after the mere acquisition of it. I have said that it does not\nalways come even in the native tongue. Some educated people take a much\nlonger time than others to make themselves acquainted with the contents of\na newspaper. A clever newspaper reader sees in one minute if there is\nanything of importance. He knows what articles and telegrams are worth\nreading before he separates the words.\n\nThese five stages refer only to reading, because educated people learn to\nread first and to speak afterwards. Uneducated people learn foreign\nlanguages by ear in a most confused and blundering way. I need not add\nthat they never master them, as only the educated ever master their native\ntongue. It is unnecessary to go through the stages of progress in\nconversation, as they are in a great degree dependent upon reading, though\nthey lag behind it; but I will say briefly that the greatest of all\ndifficulties in using foreign languages is to become really insensible to\nthe absurdities that they contain. All languages, I believe, abound in\nabsurd expressions; and a foreigner, with his inconveniently fresh\nperceptions, can hardly avoid being tickled by them. He cannot use the\nlanguage seriously without having first become unconscious of these\nthings, and it is inexpressibly difficult to become unconscious of\nsomething that has once provoked us to laughter. Again, it is most\ndifficult to arrive at that stage when foreign expressions of politeness\nstrike us no more and no less than they strike the native; or, in other\nwords, it is most difficult for us to attach to them the exact value which\nthey have in the country where they prevail. French forms seem absurdly\nceremonious to Englishmen; in reality, they are only convenient, but the\ndifficulty for an Englishman is to feel that they are convenient. There\nare in every foreign tongue two classes of absurdities,--the real inherent\nabsurdities to which the natives are blinded by habit, though they are\nseen at once to be comical when attention is directed to them, and the\nexpressions that are not absurd in themselves but only seem so to us\nbecause they are not like our own.\n\nThe difficulty of becoming insensible to these things must be especially\ngreat for humorous people, who are constantly on the look-out for subjects\nof odd remarks. I have a dear friend who is gifted with a delightful\ngenius for humor, and he knows a little French. All that he has acquired\nof that language is used by him habitually as material for fun, and as he\nis quite incapable of regarding the language as anything but a funny way\nof talking, he cannot make any progress in it. If he were asked to read\nprayers in French the idea would seem to him incongruous, a mingling of\nfrivolous with sacred things. Another friend is serious in French because\nhe knows it well, and therefore has become unconscious of its real or\napparent absurdities, but when he is in a merry mood he talks Italian,\nwith which he is much less intimately acquainted, so that it still seems\ndroll and amusing.\n\nMany readers will be already familiar with the idea of a universal\nlanguage, which has often been the subject of speculation in recent times,\nand has even been discussed in a sort of informal congress connected with\none of the universal exhibitions. Nobody now looks forward to anything so\nunlikely, or so undesirable, as the abandonment of all the languages in\nthe world except one. What is considered practicable is the selection of\none language as the recognized international medium, and the teaching of\nthat language everywhere in addition to the mother tongue, so that no two\neducated men could ever meet without possessing the means of\ncommunication. To a certain degree we have this already in French, but\nFrench is not known so generally, or so perfectly, as to make it answer\nthe purpose. It is proposed to adopt modern Greek, which has several great\nadvantages. The first is that the old education has familiarized us\nsufficiently with ancient Greek to take away the first sense of\nstrangeness in the same language under its modern form. The second is that\neverything about modern arts and sciences, and political life, and trade,\ncan be said easily in the Greek of the present day, whilst it has its own\npeculiar interest for scholars. The third reason is of great practical\nimportance. Greece is a small State, and therefore does not awaken those\nkeen international jealousies that would be inevitably aroused by\nproposing the language of a powerful State to be learned, without\nreciprocity, by the youth of the other powerful States. It may be some\ntime before the Governments of great nations agree to promote the study of\nmodern Greek, or any other living language, amongst their peoples; but if\nall who feel the immense desirableness of a common language for\ninternational intercourse would agree to prepare the way for its adoption,\nthe time might not be very far distant when statesmen would begin to\nconsider the question within the horizon of the practical. Let us try to\nimagine the difference between the present Babel-confusion of tongues,\nwhich makes it a mere chance whether we shall be able to communicate with\na foreigner or not, and the sudden facility that would result from the\npossession of a common medium of intercourse! If it were once agreed by a\nunion of nations (of which the present Postal Union may be the forerunner)\nthat the learning of the universal language should be encouraged, that\nlanguage would be learned with a zest and eagerness of which our present\nlanguid linguistic attempts give but a faint idea. There would be such\npowerful reasons for learning it! All those studies that interest men in\ndifferent nations would lead to intercommunication in the common tongue.\nMany books would be written in it, to be circulated everywhere, without\nbeing enfeebled and falsified by translation. International commerce would\nbe transacted by its means. Travelling would be enormously facilitated.\nThere would be such a gain to human intercourse by language that it might\nbe preferred, in many cases, to the old-fashioned international\nintercourse by means of bayonets and cannon-balls.\n\n\n\n\nESSAY XII.\n\nTHE OBSTACLE OF RELIGION.\n\n\nHuman intercourse, on equal terms, is difficult or impossible for those\nwho do not belong to that religion which is dominant in the country where\nthey live. The tendency has always been either to exclude such persons\nfrom human intercourse altogether (a fate so hard to bear during a whole\nlife-time that they have often compromised the matter by outward\nconformity), or else to maintain some degree of intercourse with them in\nplacing them at a social disadvantage. In barbarous times such persons,\nwhen obstinate, are removed by taking away their lives; or if somewhat\nless obstinate they are effectually deterred from the profession of\nheretical opinions by threats of the most pitiless punishments. In\nsemi-barbarous times they are paralyzed, so far as public action is\nconcerned, by political disabilities expressly created for their\ninconvenience. In times which pride themselves on having completely\nemerged from barbarism political disabilities are almost entirely removed,\nbut certain class-exclusions still persist, by which it is arranged\n(whilst avoiding all appearance of persecution) that although heretics are\nno longer banished from their native land they may be excluded from their\nnative class, and either deprived of human intercourse altogether, or\nleft to seek it in classes inferior to their own.\n\nThe religious obstacle differs from all other obstacles in one remarkable\ncharacteristic. It is maintained only against honest and truth-speaking\npersons. Exemption from its operation has always been, and is still,\nuniformly pronounced in favor of all heretics who will consent to lie. The\nhonorable unbeliever has always been treated harshly; the unbeliever who\nhad no sense of honor has been freely permitted, in every age, to make the\nbest use of his abilities for his own social advancement. For him the\nreligious obstacle is simply non-existent. He has exactly the same chances\nof preferment as the most orthodox Christian. In Pagan times, when public\nreligious functions were a part of the rank of great laymen, unbelief in\nthe gods of Olympus did not hinder them from seeking and exercising those\nfunctions. Since the establishment of Christianity as a State religion,\nthe most stringently framed oaths have never prevented an unscrupulous\ninfidel from attaining any position that lay within reach of his wits and\nhis opportunities. He has sat in the most orthodox Parliaments, he has\nbeen admitted to Cabinet councils, he has worn royal crowns, he has even\nreceived the mitre, the Cardinal's hat, and the Papal tiara. We can never\nsufficiently admire the beautiful order of society by which\nheretic-plus-liar is so graciously admitted everywhere, and\nheretic-plus-honest man is so cautiously and ingeniously kept out. It is,\nindeed, even more advantageous to the dishonest unbeliever than at first\nsight appears; for not only does it open to him all positions accessible\nto the orthodox, but it even gives him a noteworthy advantage over honest\northodoxy itself by training him daily and hourly in dissimulation. To be\nkept constantly in the habit of dissimulation on one subject is an\nexcellent discipline in the most serviceable of social arts. An atheist\nwho reads prayers with a pious intonation, and is exemplary in his\nattendance at church, and who never betrays his real opinions by an\nunguarded word or look, though always preserving the appearance of the\nsimplest candor, the most perfect openness, is, we may be sure, a much\nmore formidable person to contend with in the affairs of this world than\nan honest Christian who has never had occasion to train himself in\nhabitual imposture. Yet good Christians willingly admit these dangerous,\nunscrupulous rivals, and timidly exclude those truthful heretics who are\nonly honest, simple people like themselves.\n\nAfter religious liberty has been nominally established in a country by its\nlawgivers, its enemies do not consider themselves defeated, but try to\nrecover, through the unwritten law of social customs and observances, the\nground they have lost in formal legislation. Hence we are never sure that\nreligious liberty will exist within the confines of a class even when it\nis loudly proclaimed in a nation as one of the most glorious conquests of\nthe age. It is often enjoyed very imperfectly, or at a great cost of\nsocial and even pecuniary sacrifice. In its perfection it is the liberty\nto profess openly, and in their full force, those opinions on religious\nsubjects which a man holds in his own conscience, and without incurring\nany kind of punishment or privation on account of them, legal or social.\nFor example, a really sincere member of the Church of England enjoys\nperfect religious liberty in England.[12] He can openly say what he\nthinks, openly take part in religious services that his conscience\napproves, and without incurring the slightest legal or social penalty for\nso doing. He meets with no hindrance, no obstacle, placed in the path of\nhis worldly life on account of his religious views. True liberty is not\nthat which is attainable at some cost, some sacrifice, but that which we\ncan enjoy without being made to suffer for it in any way. It is always\nenjoyed, to the full, by every one whose sincere convictions are heartily\non the side of authority. Sincere Roman Catholics enjoyed perfect\nreligious liberty in Spain under Ferdinand and Isabella, and in England\nunder Mary Tudor. Even a Trappist who loves the rule of his order enjoys\nthe best kind of liberty within the walls of his monastery. He is not\nallowed to neglect the prescribed services and other obligations; but as\nhe feels no desire to neglect them he is a free agent, as free as if he\ndwelt in the Abbaye de Th\u00e9l\u00e8me of Rabelais, with its one rule, \"Fay ce que\nvouldras.\" We may go farther, and say that not only are people whose\nconvictions are on the side of authority perfectly free agents, but, like\nsuccessful artists, they are rewarded for doing what they themselves\nprefer. They are always rewarded by the approval of their superiors and\nvery frequently by opportunities for social advancement that are denied to\nthose who think differently from persons in authority.\n\nThere are cases in which liberty is less complete than this, yet is still\nspoken of as liberty. A man is free to be a Dissenter in England and a\nProtestant in France. By this we mean that he will incur no legal\ndisqualification for his opinions; but does he incur no social penalty?\nThe common answer to this question is that the penalty is so slight that\nthere is nothing to complain of. This depends upon the particular\nsituation of the Dissenter, because the penalty is applied very\ndifferently in different cases, and may vary between an unperceived\nhindrance to an undeveloped ambition and an insurmountable obstacle to an\neager and aspiring one. To understand this thoroughly, let us ask whether\nthere are any positions in which a member of the Church of England would\nincur a penalty for leaving it. Are there any positions that are socially\nconsidered to be incompatible with the religious profession of a\nDissenter?\n\nIt will be generally admitted that royal personages do not enjoy any\nreligious liberty at all. A royal personage _must_ profess the State\nreligion of his country, and it is so well understood that this is\nobligatory and has nothing to do with the convictions of the conscience\nthat such personages are hardly expected to have any conscience in the\nmatter. They take up a religion as part of their situation in the world. A\nprincess may abjure her faith for that of an imperial lover, and if he\ndies before marriage she may abjure her adopted faith; and if she is asked\nagain in marriage she may abjure the religion of her girlhood a second\ntime without exciting comment, because it is well understood that her\nprivate convictions may remain undisturbed by such changes, and that she\nsubmits to them as a necessity for which she has no personal\nresponsibility.[13] And whilst princes are compelled to take up the\nreligion which best suits their worldly interests, they are not allowed\nsimply to bear the name of the State Church but must also conform to its\nservices with diligent regularity. In many cases they probably have no\nobjection to this, as they may be really conscientious members of the\nState Church, or they may accept it in a general way as an expression of\nduty towards God (without going into dogmatic details), or they may be\nready and willing to conform to it for political reasons, as the best\nmeans of conciliating public opinion; but however this may be, all human\nfellowship, so far as religion is concerned, must, for them, be founded on\ndeference to the State religion and a conciliatory attitude towards its\nministers. The Court circulars of different countries register the\nsuccessive acts of outward conformity by which the prince acknowledges the\npower of the national priesthood, and it would be impossible for him to\nsuspend these acts of conformity for any reason except illness. The daily\naccount of the life of a French sovereign during the hunting season used\nto be, \"His Majesty heard mass; His Majesty went out to hunt.\" Louis\nXVIII. had to hear mass like his ancestors; but after the long High Mass\nwhich he was compelled to listen to on Sundays, and which he found\nextremely wearisome, he enjoyed a compensation and a consolation in\ntalking impiously to his courtiers, and was maliciously pleased in\nshocking pious people and in forcing them to laugh against their\nconscience, as by courtly duty bound, at the blasphemous royal jests. This\nis one of the great evils of a compulsory conformity. It drives the victim\ninto a reaction against the religion that tyrannizes over him, and makes\nhim _anti_-religious, when without pressure he would have been simply and\ninoffensively _non_-religious. To understand the pressure that weighs upon\nroyal personages in this respect, we have only to remember that there is\nnot a sovereign in the whole world who could venture to say openly that he\nwas a conscientious Unitarian, and would attend a Unitarian place of\nworship. If a King of England held Unitarian opinions, and was at the same\ntime scrupulously honest, he would have no resource but abdication, for\nnot only is the King a member of the Anglican Church, but he is its living\nhead. The sacerdotal position of the Emperor of Russia is still more\nmarked, and he can no more avoid taking part in the fatiguing ceremonies\nof the orthodox Greek religion than he can avoid sitting on horseback and\nreviewing troops.\n\nThe religious slavery of princes is, however, exclusively in ceremonial\nacts and verbal professions. With regard to the moral side of religion,\nwith regard to every religious doctrine that is practically favorable to\ngood conduct, exalted personages have always enjoyed an astonishing amount\nof liberty. They are not free to hold themselves aloof from public\nceremonies, but they are free to give themselves up to every kind of\nprivate self-indulgence, including flagrant sexual immoralities, which are\nreadily forgiven them by a loyal priesthood and an admiring populace, if\nonly they show an affable condescension in their manners. Surely morality\nis a part of Christianity; surely it is as unchristian an act to commit\nadultery as to walk out during service-time on Sunday morning; yet\nadultery is far more readily forgiven in a prince, and far easier for him,\nthan the merely negative religious sin of abstinence from church-going.\nAmongst the great criminal sovereigns of the world, the Tudors, Bourbons,\nBonapartes, there has never been any neglect of ceremonies, but they have\ntreated the entire moral code of Christianity as if it were not binding\non persons of their degree.\n\nEvery hardship is softened, at least in some measure, by a compensation;\nand when in modern times a man is so situated that he has no outward\nreligious liberty it is perfectly understood that his conformity is\nofficial, like that of a soldier who is ordered to give the Host a\nmilitary salute without regard for his private opinion about\ntransubstantiation. This being understood, the religious slavery of a\nroyal personage is far from being the hardest of such slaveries. The\nhardest cases are those in which there is every appearance of liberty,\nwhilst some subtle secret force compels the slave to acts that have the\nappearance of the most voluntary submission. There are many positions of\nthis kind in the world. They abound in countries where the right of\nprivate judgment is loudly proclaimed, where a man is told that he may act\nin religious matters quite freely according to the dictates of his\nconscience, whilst he well knows, at the same time, that unless his\nconscience happens to be in unison with the opinions of the majority, he\nwill incur some kind of disability, some social paralysis, for having\nobeyed it.\n\nThe rule concerning the ceremonial part of religion appears to be that a\nman's liberty is in inverse proportion to his rank. A royal personage has\nnone; he must conform to the State Church. An English nobleman has two\nchurches to choose from: he may belong to the Church of England or the\nChurch of Rome. A simple private gentleman, a man of good family and\nmoderate independent fortune, living in a country where the laws are so\nliberal as they are in England, and where on the whole there is so little\nbitterness of religious hatred, might be supposed to enjoy perfect\nreligious liberty, but he finds, in a practical way, that it is scarcely\npossible for him to do otherwise than the nobility. He has the choice\nbetween Anglicanism and Romanism, because, though untitled, he is still a\nmember of the aristocracy.\n\nAs we go down lower in the social scale, to the middle classes, and\nparticularly to the lower middle classes, we find a broader liberty,\nbecause in these classes the principle is admitted that a man may be a\ngood Christian beyond the pale of the State Churches. The liberty here is\nreal, so far as it goes, for although these persons are not obliged by\ntheir own class opinion to be members of a State Church, as the\naristocracy are, they are not compelled, on the other hand, to be\nDissenters. They may be good Churchmen, if they like, and still be\nmiddle-class Englishmen, or they may be good Methodists, Baptists,\nIndependents, and still be respectable middle-class Englishmen. This\npermits a considerable degree of freedom, yet it is still by no means\nunlimited freedom. The middle-class Englishman allows dissent, but he does\nnot encourage honesty in unbelief.\n\nThere is, however, a class in English society in which for some time past\nreligious liberty has been as nearly as possible absolute,--I mean the\nworking population in the large towns. A working-man may belong to the\nChurch of England, or to any one of the dissenting communities; or, if he\ndoes not believe in Christianity, he may say so and abstain from\nreligious hypocrisy of all kinds. Whatever his opinions, he will not be\nregarded very coldly on account of them by persons of his own class, nor\nprevented from marrying, nor hindered from pursuing his trade.\n\nWe find, therefore, that amongst the various classes of society, from the\nhighest to the humblest, religious liberty increases as we go lower. The\nroyal family is bound to conform to whatever may be the dominant religion\nfor the time being; the nobility and gentry have the choice between the\npresent dominant faith and its predecessor; the middle class has, in\naddition, the liberty of dissent; the lower class has the liberty, not\nonly of dissent, but also of abstinence and negation. And in each case the\nincrease of liberty is real; it is not that illusory kind of extension\nwhich loses in one direction the freedom that it wins in another. All the\nchurches are open to the plebeian secularist if he should ever wish to\nenter them.\n\nWe have said that religious liberty increases as we go lower in the social\nscale. Let us consider, now, how it is affected by locality. The rule may\nbe stated at once. _Religious liberty diminishes with the number of\ninhabitants in a place._\n\nHowever humble may be the position of the dweller in a small village at a\ndistance from a town, he must attend the dominant church because no other\nwill be represented in the place. He may be in heart a Dissenter, but his\ndissent has no opportunity of expressing itself by a different form of\nworship. The laws of his country may be as liberal as you please; their\nliberality is of no practical service in such a case as this because\nreligious profession requires public worship, and an isolated family\ncannot institute a cult.\n\nIf, indeed, there were the liberty of abstinence the evil would not be so\ngreat. The liberty of rejection is a great and valuable liberty. If a\nparticular kind of food is unsuited to my constitution, and only that kind\nof food is offered me, the permission to fast is the safeguard of my\nhealth and comfort. The loss of this negative liberty is terrible in\nconvivial customs, when the victim is compelled to drink against his will.\n\nThe Dissenter in the country can be forced to conform by his employer or\nby public opinion, acting indirectly. The master may avoid saying, \"I\nexpect you to go to Church,\" but he may say, \"I expect you to attend a\nplace of worship,\" which attains precisely the same end with an appearance\nof greater liberality. Public opinion may be really liberal enough to\ntolerate many different forms of religion, but if it does not tolerate\nabstinence from public services the Dissenter has to conform to the\ndominant worship in places where there is no other. In England it may seem\nthat there is not very much hardship in this, as the Church is not extreme\nin doctrine and is remarkably tolerant of variety, yet even in England a\nconscientious Unitarian might feel some difficulty about creeds and\nprayers which were never intended for him. There are, however, harder\ncases than those of a Dissenter forced to conform to the Church of\nEngland. The Church of Rome is far more extreme and authoritative, far\nmore sternly repressive of human reason; yet there are thousands of rural\nplaces on the Continent where religious toleration is supposed to exist,\nand where, nevertheless, the inhabitants are compelled to hear mass to\navoid the imputation of absolute irreligion. A man like Wesley or Bunyan\nwould, in such a position, have to choose between apparent Romanism and\napparent Atheism, if indeed the village opinion did not take good care\nthat he should have no choice in the matter.\n\nIt may be said that people should live in places where their own form of\nworship is publicly practised. No doubt many do so. I remember an\nEnglishman belonging to a Roman Catholic family who would not spend a\nSunday in an out-of-the-way place in Scotland because he could not hear\nmass. Such a person, having the means to choose his place of residence,\nand a faith so strong that religious considerations always came first with\nhim, would compel everything to give way to the necessity for having mass\nevery Sunday, but this is a very exceptional case. Ordinary people are the\nvictims of circumstances and not their masters.\n\nIf a villager has little religious freedom he does not greatly enlarge it\nwhen he becomes a soldier. He has the choice between the Church of England\nand the Church of Rome. In some countries even this very moderate degree\nof liberty is denied. Within the present century Roman Catholic soldiers\nwere compelled to attend Protestant services in Prussia. The truth is that\nthe genuine military spirit is strongly opposed to individual opinion in\nmatters of religion. Its ideal is that every detail in a soldier's\nexistence should be settled by the military authorities, his religious\nbelief amongst the rest.\n\nWhat may be truly said about military authority in religious matters is\nthat as the force employed is perfectly well known,--as it is perfectly\nwell known that soldiers take part in religious services under\ncompulsion,--there is no hypocrisy in their case, especially where the\nconscription exists, and therefore but slight moral hardship. Certainly\nthe greatest hardship of all is to be compelled to perform acts of\nconformity with all the appearance of free choice. The tradesman who must\ngo to mass to have customers is in a harder position than the soldier. For\nthis reason, it is better for the moral health of a nation, when there is\nto be compulsion of some kind, that it should be boldly and openly\ntyrannical; that its work should be done in the face of day; that it\nshould be outspoken, uncompromising, complete. To tyranny of that kind a\nman may give way without any loss of self-respect, he yields to _force\nmajeure_; but to that viler and meaner kind of tyranny which keeps a man\nin constant alarm about the means of earning his living, about the\nmaintenance of some wretched little peddling position in society, he\nyields with a sense of far deeper humiliation, with a feeling of contempt\nfor the social power that uses such miserable means, and of contempt for\nhimself also.\n\n\n\n\nESSAY XIII.\n\nPRIESTS AND WOMEN.\n\n\nPART I.--SYMPATHY.\n\nWomen hate the Inexorable. They like a condition of things in which\nnothing is so surely fixed but that the rule may be broken in their favor,\nor the hard decision reversed. They like concession for concession's sake,\neven when the matter is of slight importance. A woman will ask a favor\nfrom a person in authority when a man will shrink from the attempt; and if\nthe woman gains her point by entreaty she will have a keen and peculiar\nfeminine satisfaction in having successfully exercised what she feels to\nbe her own especial power, to which the strong, rough creature, man, may\noften be made to yield. A woman will go forth on the most hopeless errands\nof intercession and persuasion, and in spite of the most adverse\ncircumstances will not infrequently succeed. Scott made admirable use of\nthis feminine tendency in the \"Heart of Mid-Lothian.\" Jeanie Deans, with a\nwoman's feelings and perseverance, had a woman's reliance on her own\npersuasive powers, and the result proved that she was right. All things in\na woman combine to make her mighty in persuasion. Her very weakness aids\nher; she can assume a pitiful, childlike tenderness. Her ignorance aids\nher, as she seems never to know that a decision can be fixed and final;\nthen she has tears, and besides these pathetic influences she has\ngenerally some magnetism of sex, some charm or attraction, at least, in\nvoice or manner, and sometimes she has that marvellous--that all but\nirresistible--gift of beauty which has ruled and ruined the masters of the\nworld.\n\nHaving constantly used these powers of persuasion with the strongest being\non this planet, and used them with such wonderful success that it is even\nnow doubtful whether the occult feminine government is not mightier than\nthe open masculine government, whilst it is not a matter of doubt at all,\nbut of assured fact, that society is ruled by queens and ladies and not by\nkings and lords,--with all these evidences of their influence in this\nworld, it is intelligible that women should willingly listen to those who\ntell them that they have similar influence over supernatural powers, and,\nthrough them, on the destinies of the universe. Far less willingly would\nthey listen to some hard scientific teacher who should say, \"No, you have\nno influence beyond this planet, and that which you exercise upon its\nsurface is limited by the force that you are able to set in motion. The\nEmpress Eug\u00e9nie had no supernatural influence through the Virgin Mary, but\nshe had great and dangerous natural influence through her husband; and it\nmay be true, what is asserted, that she caused in this way a disastrous\nwar.\" An exclusively _originating_ Intelligence, acting at the beginning\nof Evolution,--a setter-in-motion of a prodigious self-acting machinery\nof cause producing effect, and effects in their turn becoming a new\ncomplexity of causes,--an Intelligence that we cannot persuade because we\nare born millions of years too late for the first impulse that started all\nthings,--this may be the God of the future, but it will be a distant\nfuture before the world of women will acknowledge him.\n\nThere is another element in the feminine nature that urges women in the\nsame direction. They have a constant sense of dependence in a degree\nhardly ever experienced by men except in debilitating illness; and as this\nsense of dependence is continual with them and only occasional with us, it\nbecomes, from habit, inseparable from their mental action, whereas even in\nsickness a man looks forward to the time when he will act again freely for\nhimself. Men choose a course of action; women choose an adviser. They feel\nthemselves unable to continue the long conflict without help, and in spite\nof their great patience and courage they are easily saddened by solitude,\nand in their distress of mind they feel an imperious need for support and\nconsolation. \"Our valors are our best gods,\" is a purely masculine\nsentiment, and to a woman such self-reliance seems scarcely\ndistinguishable from impiety. The feminine counterpart of that would be,\n\"In our weakness we seek refuge in Thy strength, O Lord!\"\n\nA woman is not satisfied with merely getting a small share in a vast\nbounty for the general good; she is kind and affectionate herself, she is\npersonally attentive to the wants of children and animals, and cares for\neach of them separately, and she desires to be cared for in the same way.\nThe philosopher does not give her any assurance of this whatever; but the\npriest, on the contrary, gives it in the most positive form. It is not\nmerely one of the doctrines of religion, but the central doctrine, the\nmotive for all religious exercises, that God cares for every one of us\nindividually; that he knows Jane Smith by name, and what she is earning a\nweek, and how much of it she devotes to keeping her poor paralyzed old\nmother. The philosopher says, \"If you are prudent and skilful in your\nconformity to the laws of life you will probably secure that amount of\nmental and physical satisfaction which is attainable by a person of your\norganization.\" There is nothing in this about personal interest or\naffection; it is a bare statement of natural cause and consequence. The\npriest holds a very different language; the use of the one word _love_\ngives warmth and color to his discourse. The priest says, \"If you love God\nwith all your soul and with all your strength He will love and cherish you\nin return, and be your own true and tender Father. He will watch over\nevery detail and every minute of your existence, guard you from all real\nevil, and at last, when this earthly pilgrimage shall be over, He will\nwelcome you in His eternal kingdom.\" But this is not all; God may still\nseem at too unapproachable a distance. The priest then says that means\nhave been divinely appointed to bridge over that vast abyss. \"The Father\nhas given us the Son, and Christ has instituted the Church, and the Church\nhas appointed _me_ as her representative in this place,--_me_, to whom you\nmay come always for guidance and consolation that will never be refused\nyou.\"\n\nThis is the language for which the ears of a woman thirst as parched\nflowers thirst for the summer rain. Instead of a great, blank universe\nwith fixed laws, interesting to _savans_ but not to her, she is told of\nlove and affection that she thoroughly understands. She is told of an\naffectionate Creator, of His beloved and loving Son, of the tender care of\nthe maternal Church that He instituted; and finally all this chain of\naffectionate interest ends close to her in a living link,--a man with\nsoft, engaging manners, with kind and gentle voice, who takes her hand,\ntalks to her about all that she really cares for, and overflows with the\nreadiest sympathy for all her anxieties. This man is so different from\ncommon men, so very much better and purer, and, above all, so much more\naccessible, communicative, and consolatory! He seems to have had so much\nspiritual experience, to know so well what trouble and sorrow are, to\nsympathize so completely with the troubles and sorrows of a woman! With\nhim, the burden of life is ten times easier to bear; without his precious\nfellowship, that burden would be heavy indeed!\n\nIt may be objected to this, that the clergy do not entirely teach a\nreligion of love; that, in fact, they curse as well as bless, and foretell\neternal punishment for the majority. All this, it may be thought, must be\nas painful to the feelings of women as Divine kindness and human felicity\nmust be agreeable to them. Whoever made this objection would show that he\nhad not quite understood the feminine nature. It is at the same time\nkinder and tenderer than the masculine nature, and more absolute in\nvindictiveness. Women do not generally like the infliction of pain that\nthey believe to be undeserved;[14] they are not generally advocates for\nvivisection; but as their feelings of indignation against evil-doers are\nvery easily aroused, and as they are very easily persuaded that severe\npunishments are just, they have often heartily assented to them even when\nmost horrible. In these cases their satisfaction, though it seems to us\nferocious, may arise from feeling themselves God's willing allies against\nthe wicked. When heretics were burnt in Spain the great ladies gazed\ncalmly from their windows and balconies on the grotesque procession of\nmiserable _morituri_ with flames daubed on their tabards, so soon to be\nexchanged for the fiery reality. With the influence that women possess\nthey could have stopped those horrors; but they countenanced them; and yet\nthere is no reason to believe that they were not gentle, tender,\naffectionate. The most relentless persecutor who ever sat on the throne of\nEngland was a woman. Nor is it only in ages of fierce and cruel\npersecution that women readily believe God to be on the side of the\noppressor. Other ages succeed in which human injustice is not so bold and\nbloodthirsty, not so candid and honest, but more stealthily pursues its\nend by hampering and paralyzing the victim that it dares not openly\ndestroy. It places a thousand little obstacles in his way, the\nwell-calculated effect of which is to keep him alive in impotent\ninsignificance. In those ages of weaker malevolence the heretic is quietly\nbut carefully excluded from the best educational and social advantages,\nfrom public office, from political power. Wherever he turns, whatever he\ndesires to do, he feels the presence of a mysterious invisible force that\nquietly pushes him aside or keeps him in shadow. Well, in this milder,\nmore coldly cruel form of wrong, vast numbers of the gentlest and most\namiable women have always been ready to acquiesce.[15]\n\nI willingly pass from this part of the subject, but it was impossible not\nto make one sad reference to it, for of all the sorrowful things in the\nhistory of the world I see none more sorrowful than this,--that the\nenormous influence of women should not have been more on the side of\njustice. It is perhaps too much to expect that they should have placed\nthemselves in advance of their age, but they have been innocent abettors\nand perpetuators of the worst abuses, and all from their proneness to\nsupport any authority, however corrupt, if only it can succeed in\nconfounding itself with goodness.\n\nAs the representatives of a Deity who tenderly cares for every one of His\ncreatures, the clergy themselves are bound to cultivate all their own\npowers and gifts of sympathy. The best of them do this with the important\nresult that after some years spent in the exercise of their profession\nthey become really and unaffectedly more sympathetic than laymen generally\nare. The power of sympathy is a great power everywhere, but it is so\nparticularly in those countries where the laity are not much in the habit\nof cultivating the sympathetic feelings, and timidly shrink from the\nexpression of them even when they exist. I remember going with a French\ngentleman to visit a lady who had very recently lost her father; and my\nfriend made her a little speech in which he said no more than what he\nfelt, but he said it so elegantly, so delicately, so appropriately, and in\nsuch feeling terms, that I envied him the talent of expressing condolence\nin that way. I never knew an English layman who could have got through\nsuch an expression of feeling, but I have known English clergymen who\ncould have done it. Here is a very great and real superiority over us,\nand especially with women, because women are exquisitely alive to\neverything in which the feelings are concerned, and we often seem to them\ndead in feeling when we are only awkward, and dumb by reason of our\nawkwardness.\n\nI think it probable that most readers of this page will find, on\nconsulting their own recollections, that they have received warmer and\nkinder expressions of sympathy from clerical friends than from laymen. It\nis certainly so in my own case. On looking back to the expressions of\nsympathy that have been addressed to me on mournful occasions, and of\nrejoicing on happy ones, I find that the clearest and most ample and\nhearty utterances of these feelings have generally come either from\nclergymen of the Church of England, or priests of the Church of Rome.\n\nThe power of sympathy in clergymen is greatly increased by their easy\naccess to all classes of society. They are received everywhere on terms\nwhich may be correctly defined as easily respectful; for their sacred\ncharacter gives them a status of their own, which is neither raised by\nassociation with rich people nor degraded by friendliness with the poor or\nwith that lower middle class which, of all classes, is the most perilous\nto the social position of a layman. They enter into the joys and sorrows\nof the most different orders of parishioners, and in this way, if there is\nany natural gift of sympathy in the mind of a clergyman, it is likely to\nbe developed and brought to perfection.\n\nPartly by arrangements consciously devised by ecclesiastical authorities,\nand partly by the natural force of circumstances, the work of the Church\nis so ordered that her representatives are sure to be present on the most\nimportant occasions in human life. This gives them some influence over\nmen, but that which they gain by it over women is immeasurably greater,\nbecause the minds of women are far more closely and exclusively bound up\nin domestic interests and events.\n\nOf these the most visibly important is marriage. Here the priest has his\nassured place and conspicuous function, and the wonderful thing is that\nthis function seems to survive the religious beliefs on which it was\noriginally founded. It seems to be not impossible that a Church might\nstill survive for an indefinite length of time in the midst of surrounding\nscepticism simply for the purpose of performing marriage and funeral\nrites. The strength of the clerical position with regard to marriage is so\ngreat, even on the Continent, that, although a woman may have scarcely a\nshred of faith in the doctrines of the Church, it is almost certain that\nshe will desire the services of a priest, and not feel herself to be\nreally married without them. Although the civil ceremony may be the only\none recognized by the law, the woman openly despises it, and reserves all\nher feelings and emotions for the pompous ceremony at the church. On such\noccasions women laugh at the law, and will even sometimes declare that the\nlaw itself is not legal. I once happened to say that civil marriage was\nobligatory in France, but only legal in England; on which an English lady\nattacked me vehemently, and stoutly denied that civil marriage was legal\nin England at all. I asked if she had never heard of marriages in a\nRegistrar's office. \"Yes, I have,\" she answered, with a shocked expression\nof countenance, \"but they are not legal. The Church of England does not\nrecognize them, and that is the legal church.\"\n\nAs soon as a child is born the mother begins to think about its baptism;\nand at a time of life when the infant is treated by laymen as a little\nbeing whose importance lies entirely in the future the clergyman gives it\nconsequence in the present by admitting it, with solemn ceremony, to\nmembership in the Church of Christ. It is not possible to imagine anything\nmore likely to gratify the feelings of a mother than this early admission\nof her unconscious offspring to the privileges of a great religious\ncommunity. Before this great initiation it was alone in the world, loved\nonly by her, and with all its prospects darkened by original sin; now it\nis purified, blessed, admitted into the fellowship of the holy and the\nwise. A certain relationship of a peculiar kind is henceforth established\nbetween priest and infant. In after years he prepares it for confirmation,\nanother ceremony touching to the heart of a mother when she sees her son\ngravely taking upon himself the responsibilities of a thinking being. The\nmarriage of a son or daughter renews in the mother all those feelings\ntowards the friendly, consecrating power of the Church which were excited\nat her own marriage.\n\nThen come those anxious occasions when the malady of one member of the\nfamily casts a shadow on the happiness of all. In these cases any\nclergyman who unites natural kindness of heart with the peculiar training\nand experience of his profession can offer consolation incomparably\nbetter than a layman; he is more accustomed to it, more _authorized_. A\nfriendly physician is a great help and a great stay so long as the disease\nis not alarming, but when he begins to look very grave (the reader knows\nthat look), and says that recovery is not probable, by which physicians\nmean that death is certain and imminent, the clergyman says there is hope\nstill, and speaks of a life beyond the grave in which human existence will\nbe delivered from the evils that afflict it here. When death has come, the\npriest treats the dead body with respect and the survivors with sympathy,\nand when it is laid in the ground he is there to the last moment with the\nmajesty of an ancient and touching form of words already pronounced over\nthe graves of millions who have gone to their everlasting rest.[16]\n\n\nPART II. ART.\n\nI have not yet by any means exhausted the advantages of the priestly\nposition in its influence upon women. If the reader will reflect upon the\nfeminine nature as he has known it, especially in women of the best kind,\nhe will at once admit that not only are women more readily moved by the\nexpression of sympathy than men, and more grateful for it, but they are\nalso more alive to poetical and artistic influences. In our sex the\n\u00e6sthetic instinct is occasionally present in great strength, but more\nfrequently it is altogether absent; in the female sex it seldom reaches\nmuch creative force, but it is almost invariably present in minor degrees.\nAlmost all women take an interest in furniture and dress; most of them in\nthe comfortable classes have some knowledge of music; drawing has been\nlearned as an accomplishment more frequently by girls than by boys. The\nclergy have a strong hold upon the feminine nature by its \u00e6sthetic side.\nAll the external details of public worship are profoundly interesting to\nwomen. When there is any splendor in ritual the details of vestments and\naltar decorations are a constant occupation for their thoughts, and they\nfrequently bestow infinite labor and pains to produce beautiful things\nwith their own hands to be used in the service of the Church. In cases\nwhere the service itself is too austere and plain to afford much scope for\nthis affectionate industry, the slightest pretext is seized upon with\navidity. See how eagerly ladies will decorate a church at Christmas, and\nhow they will work to get up an ecclesiastical bazaar! Even in that Church\nwhich most encourages or permits \u00e6sthetic industry, the zeal of ladies\nsometimes goes beyond the desires of the clergy, and has to be more or\nless decidedly repressed. We all can see from the outside how fond women\ngenerally are of flowers, though I believe it is impossible for us to\nrealize all that flowers are to them, as there are no inanimate objects\nthat men love with such affectionate and even tender solicitude. However,\nwe see that women surround themselves with flowers, in gardens, in\nconservatories, and in their rooms; we see that they wear artificial\nflowers in their dress, and that they paint flowers in water-color and on\nchina. Now observe how the Church of Rome and the Ritualists in England\nshow sympathy with this feminine taste! Innumerable millions of flowers\nare employed annually in the churches on the Continent; they are also\nused in England, though in less lavish profusion, and a sermon on flowers\nis preached annually in London, when every pew is full of them.\n\nIt is well known that women take an unfailing interest in dress. The\nattention they give to it is close, constant, and systematic, like an\norderly man's attention to order. Women are easily affected by official\ncostumes, and they read what great people have worn at levees and\ndrawing-rooms. The clergy possess, in ecclesiastical vestments, a very\npowerful help to their influence. That many of them are clearly aware of\nthis is proved by their boldness and perseverance in resuming ornamental\nvestments; and (as might be expected) that Church which has the most\ninfluence over women is at the same time the one whose vestments are most\ngorgeous and most elaborate. Splendor, however, is not required to make a\ncostume impressive. It is enough that it be strikingly peculiar, even in\nsimplicity, like the white robe of the Dominican friars.\n\nCostume naturally leads our minds to architecture. I am not the first to\nremark that a house is only a cloak of a larger size. The gradation is\ninsensible from a coat to a cathedral: first, the soldier's heavy cloak\nwhich enabled the Prussians to dispense with the little tent, then the\ntent, hut, cottage, house, church, cathedral, heavier and larger as we\nascend the scale. \"He has clothed himself with his church,\" says Michelet\nof the priest; \"he has wrapped himself in this glorious mantle, and in it\nhe stands in triumphant state. The crowd comes, sees, admires. Assuredly,\nif we judge the man by his covering, he who clothes himself with a _Notre\nDame de Paris_, or with a Cologne Cathedral, is, to all appearance, the\ngiant of the spiritual world. What a dwelling such an edifice is, and how\nvast the inhabitant must be! All proportions change; the eye is deceived\nand deceives itself again. Sublime lights, powerful shadows, all help the\nillusion. The man who in the street looked like a village schoolmaster is\na prophet in this place. He is transfigured by these magnificent\nsurroundings; his heaviness becomes power and majesty; his voice has\nformidable echoes. Women and children are overawed.\"\n\nTo a mind that does not analyze but simply receives impressions,\nmagnificent architecture is a convincing proof that the words of the\npreacher are true. It appears inconceivable that such substantial glories,\nso many thousands of tons of masonry, such forests of timber, such acres\nof lead and glass, all united in one harmonious work on which men lavished\nwealth and toil for generations,--it appears inconceivable that such a\nmonument can perpetuate an error or a dream. The echoing vaults bear\nwitness. Responses come from storied window and multitudinous imagery.\nWhen the old cosmogony is proclaimed to be true in York Minster, the\nscientists sink into insignificance in their modern ordinary rooms; when\nthe acolyte rings his bell in Rouen Cathedral, and the Host is lifted up,\nand the crowd kneels in silent adoration on the pavement, who is to deny\nthe Real Presence? Does not every massive pillar stand there to affirm\nsturdily that it is true; and do not the towers outside announce it to\nfield and river, and to the very winds of heaven?\n\nThe musical culture of women finds its own special interest in the vocal\nand instrumental parts of the church service. Women have a direct\ninfluence on this part of the ritual, and sometimes take an active share\nin it. Of all the arts music is the most closely connected with religion,\nand it is the only one that the blessed are believed to practise in a\nfuture state. A suggestion that angels might paint or carve is so\nunaccustomed that it seems incongruous; yet the objection to these arts\ncannot be that they employ matter, since both poets and painters give\nmusical instruments to the angels,--\n\n  \"And angels meeting us shall sing\n     To their citherns and citoles.\"\n\nWorship naturally becomes musical as it passes from the prayer that asks\nfor benefits to the expression of joyful praise; and though the austerity\nof extreme Protestantism has excluded instruments and encouraged reading\ninstead of chanting, I am not aware that it has ever gone so far as to\nforbid the singing of hymns.\n\nI have not yet touched upon pulpit eloquence as one of the means by which\nthe clergy gain a great ascendency over women. The truth is that the\npulpit is quite the most advantageous of all places for any one who has\nthe gift of public speaking. He is placed there far more favorably than a\nMember of Parliament in his place in the House, where he is subject to\nconstant and contemptuous interruptions from hearers lounging with their\nhats on. The chief advantage is that no one present is allowed either to\ninterrupt or to reply; and this is one reason why some men will not go to\nchurch, as they say, \"We may hear our principles misrepresented and not be\npermitted to defend them.\" A Bishop, in my hearing, touched upon this very\npoint. \"People say,\" he remarked, \"that a preacher is much at his ease\nbecause no one is allowed to answer him; but I invite discussion. If any\none here present has doubts about the soundness of my reasoning, I invite\nhim to come to me at the Episcopal Palace, and we will argue the question\ntogether in my study.\" This sounded unusually liberal, but how the\nadvantages were still on the side of the Bishop! His attack on heresy was\npublic. It was uttered with long-practised professional eloquence, it was\nbacked by a lofty social position, aided by a peculiar and dignified\ncostume, and mightily aided also by the architecture of a magnificent\ncathedral. The doubter was invited to answer, but not on equal terms. The\nattack was public, the answer was to be private, and the heretic was to\nmeet the Bishop in the Episcopal Palace, where, again, the power of rank\nand surroundings would be all in the prelate's favor.\n\nNot only are clergymen privileged speakers, in being as secure from\npresent contradiction as a sovereign on the throne, but they have the\ngrandest of all imaginable subjects. In a word, they have the subject of\nDante,--they speak to us _del Inferno_, _del Purgatorio_, _del Paradiso_.\nIf they have any gift of genius, any power of imagination, such a subject\nbecomes a tremendous engine in their hands. Imagine the difference between\na preacher solemnly warning his hearers that the consequences of\ninattention may be everlasting torment, and a politician warning the\nGovernment that inattention may lead to a deficit! The truth is, that\nhowever terrible may be the earthly consequences of imprudence and of sin,\nthey sink into complete insignificance before the menaces of the Church;\nnor is there, on the other hand, any worldly success that can be proposed\nas a motive comparable to the permanent happiness of Paradise. The good\nand the bad things of this world have alike the fatal defect, as subjects\nfor eloquence, that they equally end in death; and as death is near to all\nof us, we see the end to both. The secular preacher is like a man who\npredicts a more or less comfortable journey, which comes to the same end\nin any case. A philosophic hearer is not very greatly elated by the\npromise of comforts so soon to be taken away, nor is he overwhelmed by the\nthreat of evils that can but be temporary. Hence, in all matters belonging\nto this world only, the tone of quiet advice is the reasonable and\nappropriate tone, and it is that of the doctor and lawyer; but in matters\nof such tremendous import as eternal happiness and misery the utmost\nenergy of eloquence can never be too great for the occasion; so that if a\npreacher can threaten like peals of thunder, and appal like flashes of\nlightning, he may use such terrible gifts without any disproportionate\nexcess. On the other hand, if he has any charm of language, any brilliancy\nof imagination, there is nothing to prevent him from alluring his hearers\nto the paths of virtue by the most lavish and seductive promises. In\nshort, his opportunities in both directions are of such a nature that\nexaggeration is impossible; and all his power, all his charm, are as free\nto do their utmost as an ocean wave in a tempest or the nightingale in the\nsummer woods.\n\nI cannot quit the subject of clerical oratory without noticing one of its\nmarked characteristics. The priest is not in a position of disinterested\nimpartiality, like a man of science, who is ready to renounce any doctrine\nwhen he finds evidence against it. The priest is an advocate whose\nlife-long pleading must be in favor of the Church as he finds her, and in\nopposition to her adversaries. To attack adversaries is therefore one of\nthe recognized duties of his profession; and if he is not a man of\nuncommon fairness, if he has not an inborn love of justice which is rare\nin human nature, he will not only attack his adversaries but misrepresent\nthem. There is even a worse danger than simple misrepresentation. A priest\nmay possibly be a man of a coarse temper, and if he is so he will employ\nthe weapons of outrage and vituperation, knowing that he can do so with\nimpunity. One would imagine that these methods must inevitably repel and\ndisplease women, but there is a very peculiar reason why they seldom have\nthis effect. A highly principled woman is usually so extremely eager to be\non the side of what is right that suspension of judgment is most difficult\nfor her. Any condemnation uttered by a person she is accustomed to trust\nhas her approval on the instant. She cannot endure to wait until the crime\nis proved, but her feelings of indignation are at once aroused against the\nsupposed criminal on the ground that there must be clear distinctions\nbetween right and wrong. The priest, for her, is the good man,--the man on\nthe side of God and virtue; and those whom he condemns are the bad\nmen,--the men on the side of the Devil and vice. This being so, he may\ndeal with such men as roughly as he pleases. Nor have these men the\nfaintest chance of setting themselves right in her opinion. She quietly\ncloses the avenues of her mind against them; she declines to read their\nbooks; she will not listen to their arguments. Even if one of them is a\nnear relation whose opinions inflict upon her what she calls \"the deepest\ndistress of mind,\" she will positively prefer to go on suffering such\ndistress until she dies, rather than allow him to remove it by a candid\nexposition of his views. She prefers the hostile misrepresentation that\nmakes her miserable, to an authentic account of the matter that would\nrelieve her anguish.\n\n\nPART III.--ASSOCIATION.\n\nThe association of clergymen with ladies in works of charity affords\ncontinual opportunities for the exercise of clerical influence over women.\nA partnership in good works is set up which establishes interesting and\ncordial relations, and when the lady has accomplished some charitable\npurpose she remembers for long afterwards the clergyman without whose\nactive assistance her project might have fallen to the ground. She sees in\nthe clergyman a reflection of her own goodness, and she feels grateful to\nhim for lending his masculine sense and larger experience to the\nrealization of her ideas. There are other cases of a different nature in\nwhich the self-esteem of the lady is deeply gratified when she is selected\nby the clergyman as being more capable of devoted effort in a sacred cause\nthan women of inferior piety and strength of mind. This kind of clerical\nselection is believed to be very influential in furthering clerical\nmarriages. The lady is told that she will serve the highest of all causes\nby lending a willing ear to her admirer. Every reader will remember how\nthoroughly this idea is worked out in \"Jane Eyre,\" where St. John urges\nJane to marry him on the plain ground that she would be a valuable\nfellow-worker with a missionary. Charlotte Bront\u00eb was, indeed, so strongly\nimpressed with this aspect of clerical influence that she injured the best\nand strongest of her novels by an almost wearisome development of that\nepisode.\n\nClerical influence is immensely aided by the possession of leisure.\nWithout underrating the self-devotion of hard-working clergymen (which is\nall the more honorable to them that they might take life more easily if\nthey chose), we see a wide distinction, in point of industry, between the\naverage clergyman and the average solicitor, for example. The clergyman\nhas leisure to pay calls, to accept many invitations, and to talk in full\ndetail about the interests that he has in common with his female friends.\nThe solicitor is kept to his office by strictly professional work\nrequiring very close application and allowing no liberty of mind.\n\nMuch might be said about the effect of clerical leisure on clerical\nmanners. Without leisure it is difficult to have such quiet and pleasant\nmanners as the clergy generally have. Very busy men generally seem\npreoccupied with some idea of their own which is not what you are talking\nabout, but a leisurely man will give hospitality to your thought. A busy\nman wants to get away, and fidgets you; a man of leisure dwells with you,\nfor the time, completely. Ladies are exquisitely sensitive to these\ndifferences, and besides, they are generally themselves persons of\nleisure. Overworked people often confound leisure with indolence, which is\na great mistake. Leisure is highly favorable to intelligence and good\nmanners; indolence is stupid, from its dislike to mental effort, and\nill-bred, from the habit of inattention.\n\nThe feeling of women towards custom draws them strongly to the clergy,\nbecause a priesthood is the instinctive upholder of ancient customs and\nceremonies, and steadily maintains external decorum. Women are naturally\nmore attracted by custom than we are. A few men have an affectionate\nregard for the sanctities of usage, but most men only submit to them from\nan idea that they are generally helpful to the \"maintenance of order;\" and\nif women could be supposed absent from a nation for a time, it is probable\nthat external observances of all kinds would be greatly relaxed. Women do\nnot merely submit passively to custom; they uphold it actively and\nenergetically, with a degree of faith in the perfect reasonableness of it\nwhich gives them great decision in its defence. It seems to them the\nultimate reason from which there is no appeal. Now, in the life of every\norganized Church there is much to gratify this instinct, especially in\nthose which have been long established. The recurrence of holy seasons,\nthe customary repetition of certain forms of words, the observance at\nstated intervals of the same ceremonies, the adherence to certain\nprescribed decencies or splendors of dress, the reservation of sacred days\non which labor is suspended, give to the religious life a charm of\ncustomariness which is deeply gratifying to good, order-loving women. It\nis said that every poet has something feminine in his nature; and it is\ncertainly observable that poets, like women, are tenderly affected by the\nrecurrence of holy seasons, and the observance of fixed religious rites. I\nwill only allude to Keble's \"Christian Year,\" because in this instance it\nmight be objected that the poet was secondary to the Christian; but the\nreader will find instances of the same sentiment in Tennyson, as, for\nexample, in the profoundly affecting allusions to the return of Christmas\nin \"In Memoriam.\" I could not name another occupation so closely and\nvisibly bound up with custom as the clerical profession, but for the sake\nof contrast I may mention one or two others that are completely\ndisconnected from it. The profession of painting is an example, and so is\nthat of literature. An artist, a writer, has simply nothing whatever to do\nwith custom, except as a private man. He may be an excellent and a famous\nworkman without knowing Sunday from week-day or Easter from Lent. A man of\nscience is equally unconnected with traditional observances.\n\nIt may be a question whether a celibate or a married clergy has the\ngreater influence over women.\n\nThere are two sides to this question. The Church of Rome is, from the\nworldly point of view, the most astute body of men who have ever leagued\nthemselves together in a corporation; and that Church has decided for\ncelibacy, rejecting thereby all the advantages to be derived from rich\nmarriages and good connections. In a celibate church the priest has a\nposition of secure dignity and independence. It is known from the first\nthat he will not marry, so there is no idle and damaging gossip about his\nsupposed aspirations after fortune, or tender feelings towards beauty.\nWomen can treat him with greater confidence than if he were a possible\nsuitor, and then can confess to him, which is felt to be difficult with a\nmarried or a marriageable clergy. By being decidedly celibate the clergy\navoid the possible loss of dignity which might result from allying\nthemselves with families in a low social position. They are simply\npriests, and escape all other classification. A married man is, as it\nwere, made responsible for the decent appearance, the good manners, and\nthe proper conduct of three different sets of people. There is the family\nhe springs from, there is his wife's family, and, lastly, there is the\nfamily in his own house. Any one of these may drag a man down socially\nwith almost irresistible force. The celibate priest is only affected by\nthe family he springs from, and is generally at a distance from that. He\nescapes the invasion of his house by a wife's relations, who might\npossibly be vulgar, and, above all, he escapes the permanent degradation\nof a coarse and ill-dressed family of his own. No doubt, from the\nChristian point of view, poverty is as honorable as wealth; but from the\nworldly point of view its visible imperfections are mean, despicable, and\neven ridiculous. In the early days of English Protestants the liberty to\nmarry was ruinous to the social position of the clergy. They generally\nespoused servant-girls or \"a lady's maid whose character had been blown\nupon, and who was therefore forced to give up all hope of catching the\nsteward.\"[17] Queen Elizabeth issued \"special orders that no clergyman\nshould presume to marry a servant-girl without the consent of the master\nor mistress.\" \"One of the lessons most earnestly inculcated on every girl\nof honorable family was to give no encouragement to a lover in orders; and\nif any young lady forgot this precept she was almost as much disgraced as\nby an illicit amour.\" The cause of these low marriages was simply poverty,\nand it is needless to add that they increased the evil. \"As children\nmultiplied and grew, the household of the priest became more and more\nbeggarly. Holes appeared more and more plainly in the thatch of his\nparsonage and in his single cassock. His boys followed the plough, and his\ngirls went out to service.\"\n\nWhen clergymen can maintain appearances they gain one advantage from\nmarriage which increases their influence with women. The clergyman's wife\nis almost herself in holy orders, and his daughter often takes an equally\nkeen interest in ecclesiastical matters. These \"clergywomen,\" as they have\nbeen called, are valuable allies, through whom much may be done that\ncannot be effected directly. This is the only advantage on the side of\nmarriage, and it is but relative; for a celibate clergy has also its\nfemale allies who are scarcely less devoted; and in the Church of Rome\nthere are great organized associations of women entirely under the control\nof ecclesiastics. Again, there is a lay element in a clergyman's family\nwhich brings the world into his own house, to the detriment of its\nreligious character. The sons of the clergy are often anything but\nclerical in feeling. They are often strongly laic, and even sceptical, by\na natural reaction from ecclesiasticism. On the whole, therefore, it seems\ncertain that an unmarried clergy more easily maintains both its own\ndignity and the distinction between itself and the laity.\n\nAuricular confession is so well known as a means of influencing women that\nI need scarcely do more than mention it; but there is one characteristic\nof it which is little understood by Protestants. They fancy (judging from\nProtestant feelings of antagonism) that confession must be felt as a\ntyranny. A Roman Catholic woman does not feel it to be an infliction that\nthe Church imposes, but a relief that she affords. Women are not naturally\nsilent sufferers. They like to talk about their anxieties and interests,\nespecially to a patient and sympathetic listener of the other sex who will\ngive them valuable advice. There is reason to believe that a good deal of\ninformal confession is done by Protestant ladies; in the Church of Rome it\nis more systematic and leads to a formal absolution. The subject which the\nspeaker has to talk about is that most interesting of all subjects, self.\nIn any other place than a confessional to talk about self at any length is\nan error; in the confessional it is a virtue. The truth is that pious\nRoman Catholic women find happiness in the confessional and try the\npatience of the priests by minute accounts of trifling or imaginary sins.\nNo doubt confession places an immense power in the hands of the Church,\nbut at an incalculable cost of patience. It is not felt to weigh unfairly\non the laity, because the priest who to-day has forgiven your faults will\nto-morrow kneel in penitence and ask forgiveness for his own. I do not see\nin the confessional so much an oppressive institution as a convenience for\nboth parties. The woman gets what she wants,--an opportunity of talking\nconfidentially about herself; and the priest gets what he wants,--an\nopportunity of learning the secrets of the household.\n\nNothing has so powerfully awakened the jealousy of laymen as this\ninstitution of the confessional. The reasons have been so fully treated by\nMichelet and others, and are in fact so obvious, that I need not repeat\nthem.\n\nThe dislike for priests that is felt by many Continental laymen is\nincreased by a cause that helps to win the confidence of women. \"Observe,\"\nthe laymen say, \"with what art the priest dresses so as to make women feel\nthat he is without sex, in order that they may confess to him more\nwillingly. He removes every trace of hair from his face, his dress is half\nfeminine, he hides his legs in petticoats, his shoulders under a tippet,\nand in the higher ranks he wears jewelry and silk and lace. A woman would\nnever confess to a man dressed as we are, so the wolf puts on sheep's\nclothing.\"\n\nWhere confession is not the rule the layman's jealousy is less acrid and\npungent in its expression, but it often manifests itself in milder forms.\nThe pen that so clearly delineated the Rev. Charles Honeyman was impelled\nby a layman's natural and pardonable jealousy. A feeling of this kind is\noften strong in laymen of mature years. They will say to you in\nconfidence, \"Here is a man about the age of one of my sons, who knows no\nmore concerning the mysteries of life and death than I do, who gets what\nhe thinks he knows out of a book which is as accessible to me as it is to\nhim, and yet who assumes a superiority over me which would only be\njustifiable if I were ignorant and he enlightened. He calls me one of his\nsheep. I am not a sheep relatively to him. I am at least his equal in\nknowledge, and greatly his superior in experience. Nobody but a parson\nwould venture to compare me to an animal (such a stupid animal too!) and\nhimself to that animal's master. His one real and effective superiority is\nthat he has all the women on his side.\"\n\nYou poor, doubting, hesitating layman, not half so convinced as the ladies\nof your family, who and what are you in the presence of a man who comes\nclothed with the authority of the Church? If you simply repeat what he\nsays, you are a mere echo, a feeble repetition of a great original, like\nthe copy of a famous picture. If you try to take refuge in philosophic\nindifference, in silent patience, you will be blamed for moral and\nreligious inertia. If you venture to oppose and discuss, you will be the\nbad man against the good man, and as sure of condemnation as a murderer\nwhen the judge is putting on the black cap. There is no resource for you\nbut one, and that does not offer a very cheering or hopeful prospect. By\nthe exercise of angelic patience, and of all the other virtues that have\nbeen preached by good men from Socrates downwards, you may in twenty or\nthirty years acquire some credit for a sort of inferior goodness of your\nown,--a pinchbeck goodness, better than nothing, but not in any way\ncomparable to the pure golden goodness of the priest; and when you come to\ndie, the best that can be hoped for your disembodied soul will be mercy,\nclemency, indulgence; not approbation, welcome, or reward.\n\n\n\n\nESSAY XIV.\n\nWHY WE ARE APPARENTLY BECOMING LESS RELIGIOUS.\n\n\nIt has happened to me on more than one occasion to have to examine papers\nleft by ladies belonging to the last generation, who had lived in the\nmanner most esteemed and respected by the general opinion of their time,\nand who might, without much risk of error, be taken for almost perfect\nmodels of English gentlewomen as they existed before the present\nscientific age. The papers left by these ladies consisted either of\nmemoranda of their private thoughts, or of thoughts by others which seemed\nto have had an especial interest for them. I found that all these papers\narranged themselves naturally and inevitably under two heads: either they\nconcerned family interests and affections, or they were distinctly\nreligious in character, like the religious meditations we find in books of\ndevotion.\n\nThere may be nothing extraordinary in this. Thousands of other ladies may\nhave left religious memoranda; but consider what a preponderance of\nreligious ideas is implied when written thoughts are entirely confined to\nthem! The ladies in question lived in the first half of the nineteenth\ncentury, a period of great intellectual ferment, of the most important\npolitical and social changes, and of wonderful material progress; but\nthey did not seem to have taken any real interest in these movements. The\nBible and the commentaries of the clergy satisfied not only their\nspiritual but also their intellectual needs. They seem to have desired no\nknowledge of the universe, or of the probable origin and future of the\nhuman race, which the Bible did not supply. They seem to have cared for no\nexample of human character and conduct other than the scriptural examples.\n\nThis restfulness in Biblical history and philosophy, this substitution of\nthe Bible for the world as a subject of study and contemplation, this\nabsence of desire to penetrate the secrets of the world itself, this want\nof aspiration after any ideal more recent than the earlier ages of\nChristianity, permitted a much more constant and uninterrupted dwelling\nwith what are considered to be religious ideas than is possible to any\nactive and inquiring mind of the present day. Let it be supposed, for\nexample, that a person to whom the Bible was everything desired\ninformation about the origin of the globe, and of life upon it; he would\nrefer to the Book of Genesis as the only authority, and this reference\nwould have the character of a religious act, and he would get credit for\npiety on account of it; whilst a modern scientific student would refer to\nsome great modern paleontologist, and his reference would not have the\ncharacter of a religious act, nor bring him any credit for piety; yet the\nprompting curiosity, the desire to know about the remote past, would be\nexactly the same in both cases. And I think it may be easily shown that if\nthe modern scientific student appears to be less religious than others\nthink he ought to be, it is often because he possesses and uses more\nabundant sources of information than those which were accessible to the\nancient Jews. It is not his fault if knowledge has increased; he cannot be\nblamed if he goes where information is most copious and most exact; yet\nhis preference for such information gives an unsanctified aspect to his\nstudies. The study of the most ancient knowledge wears a religious aspect,\nbut the study of modern knowledge appears to be non-religious.\n\nAgain, when we come to the cultivation of the idealizing faculties, of the\nfaculties which do not seek information merely, but some kind of\nperfection, we find that the very complexity of modern life, and the\ndiversity of the ideal pleasures and perfections that we modern men\ndesire, have a constant tendency to take us outside of strictly religious\nideals. As long as the writings which are held to be sacred supply all\nthat our idealizing faculties need, so long will our imaginative powers\nexercise themselves in what is considered to be a religious manner, and we\nshall get credit for piety; but when our minds imagine what the sacred\nwriters could not or did not conceive, and when we seek help for our\nimaginative faculty in profane writers, we appear to be less religious. So\nit is with the desire to study and imitate high examples of conduct and\ncharacter. There is no nobler or more fruitful instinct in man than a\ndesire like this, which is possible only to those who are at once humble\nand aspiring. An ancient Jew who had this noble instinct could satisfy it\nby reading the sacred books of the Hebrews, and so his aspiration appeared\nto be wholly religious. It is not so with an active-minded young\nEnglishman of the present day. He cannot find the most inspiriting models\namongst the ancient Hebrews, for the reason that their life was altogether\nso much simpler and more primitive than ours. They had nothing that can\nseriously be called science; they had not any organized industry; they had\nlittle art, and hardly any secular literature, so that in these directions\nthey offer us no examples to follow. Our great inspiriting examples in\nthese directions are to be found either in the Renaissance or in recent\ntimes, and therefore in profane biography. From this it follows that an\nactive modern mind seems to study and follow non-religious examples, and\nso to differ widely, and for the worse, from the simpler minds of old\ntime, who were satisfied with the examples they found in their Bibles.\nThis appearance is misleading; it is merely on the surface; for if we go\ndeeper and do not let ourselves be deceived by the words \"sacred\" and\n\"profane,\" we shall find that when a simple mind chooses a model from a\nprimitive people, and a cultivated one chooses a model from an advanced\npeople, and from the most advanced class in it, they are both really doing\nthe same thing, namely, seeking ideal help of the kind which is best for\neach. Both of them are pursuing the same object,--a mental discipline and\nelevation which may be comprised under the general term _virtue_; the only\ndifference being that one is studying examples of virtue in the history of\nthe ancient Jews, whilst the other finds examples of virtue more to his\nown special purpose in the lives of energetic Englishmen, Frenchmen, or\nGermans.\n\nA hundred such examples might be mentioned, for every occupation worth\nfollowing has its own saints and heroes; but I will confine myself to two.\nThe first shall be a French gentleman of the eighteenth century, to whom\nlife offered in the richest profusion everything that can tempt a man to\nwhat is considered an excusable and even a respectable form of idleness.\nHe had an independent fortune, excellent health, a good social position,\nand easy access to the most lively, the most entertaining, the most\namiable society that ever was, namely, that of the intelligent French\nnobility before the Revolution. There is no merit in renouncing what we do\nnot enjoy; but he enjoyed all pleasant things, and yet renounced them for\na higher and a harder life. At the age of thirty-two he retired to the\ncountry, made a rule of early rising and kept it, sallied forth from his\nhouse every morning at five, went and shut himself up in an old tower with\na piece of bread and a glass of water for his breakfast, worked altogether\neleven or twelve hours a day in two sittings, and went to bed at nine.\nThis for eight months in the year, regularly, the remaining four being\nemployed in scientific and administrative work at the Jardin des Plantes.\nHe went on working in this way for forty years, and in the whole course of\nthat time never let pass an ill-considered page or an ill-constructed\nsentence, but always did his best, and tried to make himself able to do\nbetter.\n\nSuch was the great life of Buffon; and in our own time another great life\nhas come to its close, inferior to that of Buffon only in this, that as it\ndid not begin in luxury, the first renunciation was not so difficult to\nmake. Yet, however austere his beginnings, it is not a light or easy thing\nfor a man to become the greatest intellectual worker of his time, so that\none of his days (including eight hours of steady nocturnal labor) was\nequivalent to two or more of our days. No man of his time in Europe had so\nvast a knowledge of literature and science in combination; yet this\nknowledge was accompanied by perfect modesty and by a complete\nindifference to vulgar distinctions and vain successes. For many years he\nwas the butt of coarse and malignant misrepresentation on the part of\nenemies who easily made him odious to a shallow society; but he bore it\nwith perfect dignity, and retained unimpaired the tolerance and charity of\nhis nature. His way of living was plain and frugal; he even contented\nhimself with narrow dwellings, though the want of space must have\noccasioned frequent inconvenience to a man of his pursuits. He\nscrupulously fulfilled his domestic duties, and made use of his medical\neducation in ministering gratuitously to the poor. Such was his courage\nthat when already advanced in life he undertook a gigantic task, requiring\ntwenty years of incessant labor; and such were his industry and\nperseverance that he brought it to a splendidly successful issue. At\nlength, after a long life of duty and patience, after bearing calumny and\nridicule, he was called to endure another kind of suffering,--that of\nincessant physical pain. This he bore with perfect fortitude, retaining to\nthe last his mental serenity, his interest in learning, and a high-minded\npatriotic thoughtfulness for his country and its future, finding means in\nthe midst of suffering to dictate long letters to his fellow-citizens on\npolitical subjects, which, in their calm wisdom, stood in the strongest\npossible contrast to the violent party writing of the hour.\n\nSuch was the great life of Littr\u00e9; and now consider whether he who studies\nlives like these, and wins virtue from their austere example, does not\noccupy his thoughts with what would have been considered religious\naspirations, if these two men, instead of being Frenchmen of the\neighteenth and nineteenth centuries, had happened to be ancient Jews. If\nit had been possible for so primitive a nation as the Jewish to produce\nmen of such steady industry and so large a culture, we should have read\nthe story of their lives in the Jewish sacred books, and then it would\nhave been a part of the popular religion to study them, whereas now the\nstudy of such biography is held to be non-religious, if not (at least in\nthe case of Littr\u00e9) positively irreligious. Yet surely when we think of\nthe virtues which made these lives so fruitful, our minds are occupied in\na kind of religious thought; for are we not thinking of temperance,\nself-discipline, diligence, perseverance, patience, charity, courage,\nhope? Were not these men distinguished by their aspiration after higher\nperfection, by a constant desire to use their talents well, and by a\nvigilant care in the employment of their time? And are not these virtues\nand these aspirations held to be parts of a civilized man's religion, and\nthe best parts?\n\nThe necessity for an intellectual expansion beyond the limits of the Bible\nwas felt very strongly at the time of the Renaissance, and found ample\nsatisfaction in the study of the Greek and Latin classics. There are many\nreasons why women appear to be more religious than men; and one of them is\nbecause women study only one collection of ancient writings, whilst men\nhave been accustomed to study three; consequently that which women study\n(if such a word is applicable to devotional, uncritical reading) occupies\ntheir minds far more exclusively than it occupies the mind of a classical\nscholar. But, though the intellectual energies of men were for a time\nsatisfied with classical literature, they came at length to look outside\nof that as their fathers had looked outside of the Bible. Classical\nliterature was itself a kind of religion, having its own sacred books; and\nit had also its heretics,--the students of nature,--who found nature more\ninteresting than the opinions of the Greeks and Romans. Then came the\nsecond great expansion of the human mind, in the midst of which we\nourselves are living. The Renaissance opened for it a world of mental\nactivity which had the inappreciable intellectual advantage of lying well\noutside of the popular beliefs and ideas, so that cultivated men found in\nit an escape from the pressure of the uneducated; but the new scientific\nexpansion offers us a region governed by laws of a kind peculiar to\nitself, which protect those who conform to them against every assailant.\nIt is a region in which authority is unknown, for, however illustrious any\ngreat man may appear in it, every statement that he makes is subject to\nverification. Here the knowledge of ancient writers is continually\nsuperseded by the better and more accurate knowledge of their successors;\nso that whereas in religion and learning the most ancient writings are the\nmost esteemed, in science it is often the most recent, and even these have\nno authority which may not be called in question freely by any student.\nThe new scientific culture is thus encouraging a habit of mind different\nfrom old habits, and which in our time has caused such a degree of\nseparation that the most important and the most interesting of all topics\nare those upon which we scarcely dare to venture for fear of being\nmisunderstood.\n\nIf I had to condense in a short space the various reasons why we are\napparently becoming less religious, I should say that it is because\nknowledge and feeling, embodied or expressed in the sciences and arts, are\nnow too fully and too variously developed to remain within the limits of\nwhat is considered sacred knowledge or religious emotion. It was possible\nfor them to remain well within those limits in ancient times, and it is\nstill possible for a mind of very limited activity and range to dwell\nalmost entirely in what was known or felt at the time of Christ; but this\nis not possible for an energetic and inquiring mind, and the consequence\nis that the energetic mind will seem to the other, by contrast, to be\nnegligent of holy things, and too much occupied with purely secular\ninterests and concerns. A great misunderstanding arises from this, which\nhas often had a lamentable effect on intercourse between relations and\nfriends. Pious ladies, to whom theological writings appear to contain\nalmost everything that it is desirable to know, often look with secret\nmisgiving or suspicion on young men of vigorous intellect who cannot rest\nsatisfied with the old knowledge, and what such ladies vaguely hear of the\nspeculations of the famous scientific leaders inspires them with profound\nalarm. They think that we are becoming less religious because theological\nwritings do not occupy the same space in our time and thoughts as they do\nin theirs; whereas, if such a matter could be put to any kind of positive\ntest, it would probably be found that we know more, even of their own\ntheology, than they do, and that, instead of being indifferent to the\ngreat problems of the universe, we have given to such problems an amount\nof careful thought far surpassing, in mental effort, their own simple\nacquiescence. The opinions of a thoughtful and studious man in the present\nday have never been lightly come by; and if he is supposed to be less\nreligious than his father or his grandfather it may be that his religion\nis different from theirs, without being either less earnest or less\nenlightened. There is, however, one point of immense importance on which I\nbelieve that we really are becoming less religious, indeed on that point\nwe seem to be rapidly abandoning the religious principle altogether; but\nthe subject is of too much consequence to be treated at the end of an\nEssay.\n\n\n\n\nESSAY XV.\n\nHOW WE ARE REALLY BECOMING LESS RELIGIOUS.\n\n\nThe reader may remember how, after the long and unsuccessful siege of\nSyracuse, the Athenian general Nikias, seeing his discouraged troops ill\nwith the fever from the marshes, determined to raise the siege; and that,\nwhen his soldiers were preparing to retreat, and striking their tents for\nthe march, there occurred an eclipse of the moon. Nikias, in his anxiety\nto know what the gods meant by this with reference to him and his army, at\nonce consulted a soothsayer, who told him that he would incur the Divine\nanger if he did not remain where he was for three times nine days. He\nremained, doing nothing, allowing his troops to perish and his ships to be\nshut up by a line of the enemy's vessels chained together across the\nentrance of the port. At length the three times nine days came to an end,\nand what was left of the Athenian army had to get out of a situation that\nhad become infinitely more difficult during its inaction. The ships tried\nto get out in vain; the army was able to retreat by land, but only to be\nharassed by the enemy, and finally placed in such distress that it was\ncompelled to surrender. Most of the remnant died miserably in the old\nquarries of Syracuse.\n\nThe conduct of Nikias throughout these events was in the highest degree\nreligious. He was fully convinced that the gods concerned themselves about\nhim and his doings, that they were watching over him, and that the eclipse\nwas a communication from them not to be neglected without a breach of\nreligious duty. He, therefore, in the spirit of the most perfect religious\nfaith, which we are compelled to admire for its sincerity and\nthoroughness, shut his eyes resolutely to all the visible facts of a\nsituation more disastrous every day, and attended only to the invisible\naction of the invisible gods, of which nothing could be really known by\nhim. For twenty-seven days he went on quietly sacrificing his soldiers to\nhis faith, and only moved at last when he believed that the gods allowed\nit.\n\nIn contrast with this, let us ask what we think of an eclipse ourselves,\nand how far any religious emotion, determinant of action or of inaction,\nis connected with the phenomenon in our experience. We know, in the first\nplace, that eclipses belong to the natural order, and we do not feel\neither grateful to the supernatural powers, or ungrateful, with regard to\nthem. Even the idea that eclipses demonstrate the power of God is hardly\nlikely to occur to us, for we constantly see terrestrial objects eclipsed\nby cast shadows; and the mere falling of a shadow is to us only the\nnatural interruption of light by the intervention of any opaque object. In\nthe true theory of eclipses there is absolutely no ground whatever for\nreligious emotion, and accordingly the phenomenon is now entirely\ndisconnected from religious ideas. The consequence is that where the\nAthenian general had a strong motive for religious emotion, a motive so\nstrong that he sacrificed his army to the supposed will of Heaven, a\nmodern general in the same situation would feel no emotion and make no\nsacrifice.\n\nIf this process stopped at eclipses the result would be of little\nimportance, as eclipses of the celestial bodies are not frequently\nvisible, and to lose the opportunity of emotion which they present is not\na very sensible loss. But so far is the process from stopping at eclipses,\nthat exactly the same process is going on with regard to thousands of\nother phenomena which are one by one, yet with increasing rapidity,\nceasing to be regarded as special manifestations of Divine will, and\nbeginning to be regarded as a part of that order of nature with which, to\nquote Professor Huxley's significant language, \"nothing interferes.\" Every\none of these transferrences from supernatural government to natural order\ndeprives the religious sentiment of one special cause or motive for its\nown peculiar kind of emotion, so that we are becoming less and less\naccustomed to such emotion (as the opportunities for it become less\nfrequent), and more and more accustomed to accept events and phenomena of\nall kinds as in that order of nature \"with which nothing interferes.\"\n\nThis single mental conception of the unfailing regularity of nature is\ndoing more in our time to affect the religious condition of thoughtful\npeople than could be effected by many less comprehensive conceptions.\n\nIt has often been said, not untruly, that merely negative arguments have\nlittle permanent influence over the opinions of men, and that institutions\nwhich have been temporarily overthrown by negation will shortly be set up\nagain, and flourish in their old vigor, unless something positive can be\nfound to supply their place. But here is a doctrine of a most positive\nkind. \"The order of nature is invariably according to regular sequences.\"\nIt is a doctrine which cannot be proved, for we cannot follow all the\nchanges which have ever taken place in the universe; but, although\nincapable of demonstration, it may be accepted until something happens to\ndisprove it; and it _is_ accepted, with the most absolute faith, by a\nconstantly increasing number of adherents.\n\nTo show how this doctrine acts in diminishing religious emotion by taking\naway the opportunity for it, let me narrate an incident which really\noccurred on a French line of railway in the winter of 1882. The line, on\nwhich I had travelled a few days before, passes between a river and a\nhill. The river has a rocky bed and is torrential in winter; the hill is\ndensely covered with a pine forest coming down to the side of the line.\nThe year 1882 had been the rainiest known in France for two centuries, and\nthe roots of the trees on the edge of this pine forest had been much\nloosened by the rain. In consequence of this, two large pine-trees fell\nacross the railway early one morning, and soon afterwards a train\napproached the spot by the dim light of early dawn. There was a curve just\nbefore the engine reached the trees, and it had come rapidly for several\nmiles down a decline. The driver reversed his steam, the engine and tender\nleaped over the trees, and then went over the embankment to a place within\nsix feet of the rapid river. The carriages remained on the line, but were\nmuch broken. Nobody was killed; nobody was seriously injured. The\nremarkable escape of the passengers was accounted for as follows by the\nreligious people in the neighborhood. There happened to be a priest in the\ntrain, and at the time when the shock took place he made what is called \"a\npious ejaculation.\" This, it was said, had saved the lives of the\npassengers. In the ages of faith this explanation would have been received\nwithout question; but the notion of natural sequences--Professor Huxley's\n\"order with which nothing interferes\"--had obtained such firm hold on the\nminds of the townsmen generally that they said the priest was trying to\nmake ecclesiastical capital out of an occurrence easily explicable by\nnatural causes. They saw nothing supernatural either in the production of\nthe accident or its comparative harmlessness. The trickling of much water\nhad denuded the roots of the trees, which fell because they could not\nstand with insufficient roothold; the lives of the passengers were saved\nbecause they did not happen to be in the most shattered carriage; and the\nmen on the engine escaped because they fell on soft ground, made softer\nstill by the rain. It was probable, too, they said, that if any beneficent\nsupernatural interference had taken place it would have maintained the\ntrees in an erect position, by preventive miracle, and so spared the\nslight injuries which really were inflicted, and which, though treated\nvery lightly by others because there were neither deaths nor amputations,\nstill caused suffering to those who had to bear them.\n\nNow if we go a little farther into the effects of this accident on the\nminds of the people who shared in it, or whose friends had been imperilled\nby it, we shall see very plainly the effect of the modern belief in the\nregularity of natural sequences. Those who believed in supernatural\nintervention would offer thanksgivings when they got home, and probably go\nthrough some special religious thanksgiving services for many days\nafterwards; those who believed in the regularity of natural sequences\nwould simply feel glad to have escaped, without any especial sense of\ngratitude to supernatural powers. So much for the effect as far as\nthanksgiving is concerned; but there is another side of the matter at\nleast equally important from the religious point of view,--that of prayer.\nThe believers in supernatural interference would probably, in all their\nfuture railway journeys, pray to be supernaturally protected in case of\naccident, as they had been in 1882; but the believers in the regularity of\nnatural sequences would only hope that no trees had fallen across the\nline, and feel more than usually anxious after long seasons of rainy\nweather. Can there be a doubt that the priest's opinion, that he had won\nsafety by a pious ejaculation, was highly favorable to his religious\nactivity afterwards, whilst the opinion of the believers in \"the natural\norder with which nothing interferes\" was unfavorable both to prayer and\nthanksgiving in connection with railway travelling?\n\nExamples of this kind might easily be multiplied, for there is hardly any\nenterprise that men undertake, however apparently unimportant, which\ncannot be regarded both from the points of view of naturalism and\nsupernaturalism; and in every case the naturalist manner of regarding the\nenterprise leads men to study the probable influence of natural causes,\nwhilst the supernaturalist opinion leads them to propitiate supernatural\npowers. Now, although some new sense may come to be attached to the word\n\"religion\" in future ages, so that it may come to mean scientific\nthoroughness, intellectual ingenuousness, or some other virtue that may be\npossessed by a pure naturalist, the word has always been understood, down\nto the present time, to imply a constant dependence upon the supernatural;\nand when I say that we are becoming less religious, I mean that from our\nincreasing tendency to refer everything to natural causes the notion of\nthe supernatural is much less frequently present in our minds than it was\nin the minds of our forefathers. Even the clergy themselves seem to be\nfollowing the laity towards the belief in natural law, at least so far as\nmatter is concerned. The Bishop of Melbourne, in 1882, declined to order\nprayers for rain, and gave his reason honestly, which was that material\nphenomena were under the control of natural law, and would not be changed\nin answer to prayer. The Bishop added that prayer should be confined to\nspiritual blessings. Without disputing the soundness of this opinion, we\ncannot help perceiving that if it were generally received it would put an\nend to one half of the religious activity of the human race; for half the\nprayers and half the thanksgivings addressed to the supernatural powers\nare for material benefits only. It is possible that, in the future,\nreligious people will cease to pray for health, but take practical\nprecautions to preserve it; that they will cease to pray for prosperity,\nbut study the natural laws which govern the wealth of nations; that they\nwill no longer pray for the national fleets and armies, but see that they\nare well supplied and intelligently commanded. All this and much more is\npossible; but when it comes to pass the world will be less religious than\nit was when men believed that every pestilence, every famine, every\ndefeat, was a chastisement specially, directly, and intentionally\ninflicted by an angry Deity. Even now, what an immense step has been made\nin this direction! In the fearful description of the pestilence at\nFlorence, given with so much detail by Boccaccio, he speaks of \"l'ira di\nDio a punire la iniquit\u00e0 degli uomini con quella pestilenza;\" and he\nspecially implies that those who sought to avoid the plague by going to\nhealthier places in the country deceived themselves in supposing that the\nwrath of God would not follow them whithersoever they went. That is the\nold belief expressing itself in prayers and humiliations. It is still\nrecognized officially. If the plague could occur in a town on the whole so\nwell cared for as modern London, the language of Boccaccio would still be\nused in the official public prayers; but the active-minded practical\ncitizens would be thinking how to destroy the germs, how to purify air and\nwater. An instance of this divergence occurred after the Egyptian war of\n1882. The Archbishop of York, after the battle of Tel-el-Kebir, ordered\nthanksgivings to be offered in the churches, on the ground that God was in\nSir Garnet Wolseley's camp and fought with him against the Egyptians,\nwhich was a survival of the antique idea that national deities fought\nwith the national armies. On this a Member of Parliament, Mr. George\nPalmer, said to his constituents in a public meeting at Reading, \"At the\nsame time I cannot agree with the prayers that have been made in churches.\nThough I respect the consciences of other men, I must say that it was not\nby Divine interference, but from the stuff of which our army was made and\nour great ironclads, that victory was achieved.\" I do not quote this\nopinion for any originality in itself, as there have always been men who\nheld that victory was a necessary result of superior military efficiency,\nbut I quote it as a valuable test of the change in general opinion. It is\npossible that such views may have been expressed in private in all ages of\nthe world; but I doubt if in any age preceding ours a public man, at the\nvery time when he was cultivating the good graces of his electors, would\nhave refused to the national Deity a special share in a military triumph.\nTo an audience imbrued with the old conception of incessant supernatural\ninterferences, the doctrine that a victory was a natural result would have\nsounded impious; and such an audience, if any one had ventured to say what\nMr. Palmer said, would have received him with a burst of indignation. But\nMr. Palmer knew the tendencies of the present age, and was quite correct\nin thinking that he might safely express his views. His hearers were not\nindignant, they were not even grave and silent, as Englishmen are when\nthey simply disapprove, but they listened willingly, and marked their\napprobation by laughter and cheers. Even a clergyman may hold Mr.\nPalmer's opinion. Soon after his speech at Reading the Rev. H. R. Haweis\nsaid the same thing in the pulpit. \"Few people,\" he said, \"really doubt\nthat we have conquered the Egyptians, not because we were in the right and\nthey were in the wrong, but because we had the heaviest hand.\" The\npreacher went on to say that the idea of God fighting on one side more\nthan another in particular battles seemed to him to be a Pagan or at most\na Jewish one. How different was the old sentiment as expressed by Macaulay\nin the stirring ballad of Ivry! \"We of the religion\" had no doubt about\nthe Divine interference in the battle,\n\n  \"For our God hath crushed the tyrant, our God hath raised the slave,\n   And mocked the counsel of the wise, and the valor of the brave;\n   Then glory to his holy name from whom all glories are,\n   And glory to our Sovereign Lord, King Henry of Navarre!\"\n\nThe way in which the great mental movement of our age towards a more\ncomplete recognition of natural order is affecting human intercourse may\nbe defined in a few words. If the movement were at an equal rate of\nadvance for all civilized people they would be perfectly agreed amongst\nthemselves at any one point of time, as it would be settled which events\nwere natural in their origin and which were due to the interposition of\nDivine or diabolical agency. Living people would differ in opinion from\ntheir predecessors, but they would not differ from each other. The change,\nhowever, though visible and important, is not by any means uniform, so\nthat a guest sitting at dinner may have on his right hand a lady who sees\nsupernatural interferences in many things, and on his left a student of\nscience who is firmly convinced that there are no supernatural\ninterferences in the present, and that there never have been any in the\npast. Private opinion, out of which public opinion slowly and gradually\nforms itself, is in our time in a state of complete anarchy, because two\nopposite doctrines are held loosely, and one or the other is taken up as\nit happens to seem appropriate. The interpositions of Providence are\nrecognized or rejected according to political or personal bias. The French\nImperialists saw the Divine vengeance in the death of Gambetta, whilst in\ntheir view the death of Napoleon III. was the natural termination of his\ndisease, and that of the Prince Imperial a simple accident, due to the\ncarelessness of his English companions. Personal bias shows itself in the\nbelief, often held by men occupying positions of importance, that they are\nnecessary, at least for a time, to fulfil the intentions of Providence.\nNapoleon III. said in a moment of emotion, \"So long as I am needed I am\ninvulnerable; but when my hour comes I shall be broken like glass!\" Even\nin private life a man will sometimes think, \"I am so necessary to my wife\nand family that Providence will not remove me,\" though every newspaper\nreports the deaths of fathers who leave their families destitute.\nSometimes men believe that Providence takes the same view of their\nenterprises that they themselves take; and when a great enterprise is\ndrawing near to its termination they feel assured that supernatural power\nwill protect them till it is quite concluded, but they believe that the\nenterprises of other men are exposed to all the natural risks. When Mr.\nGifford Palgrave was wrecked in the sea of Oman, he was for some time in\nan open boat, and thus describes his situation: \"All depended on the\nsteerage, and on the balance and support afforded by the oars, and even\nmore still on the Providence of Him who made the deep; nor indeed could I\nget myself to think that He had brought me thus far to let me drown just\nat the end of my journey, and in so very unsatisfactory a way too; for had\nwe then gone down, what news of the event off Sowadah would ever have\nreached home, or when?--so that altogether I felt confident of getting\nsomehow or other on shore, though by what means I did not exactly know.\"\nHere the writer thinks of his own enterprise as deserving Divine\nsolicitude, but does not attach the same importance to the humbler\nenterprises of the six passengers who went down with the vessel. I cannot\nhelp thinking, too, of the poor passenger Ibraheem, who swam to the boat\nand begged so piteously to be taken in, when a sailor \"loosened his grasp\nby main force and flung him back into the sea, where he disappeared\nforever.\" Neither can I forget the four who imprudently plunged from the\nboat and perished. We may well believe that these lost ones would have\nbeen unable to write such a delightful and instructive book as Mr.\nPalgrave's \"Travels in Arabia,\" yet they must have had their own humble\ninterests in life, their own little objects and enterprises.\n\nThe calculation that Providence would spare a traveller towards the close\nof a long journey may be mistaken, but it is pious; it affords an\nopportunity for the exercise of devout emotion which the scientific\nthinker would miss. If Mr. Herbert Spencer had been placed in the same\nsituation he would, no doubt, have felt the most perfect confidence that\nthe order of nature would not be disturbed, that even in such a turmoil of\nwinds and waters the laws of buoyancy and stability would be observed in\nevery motion of the boat to the millionth of an inch; but he would not\nhave considered himself likely to escape death on account of the important\nnature of his undertakings. Mr. Spencer's way of judging the situation as\none of equal peril for himself and his humble companions would have been\nmore reasonable, but at the same time he would have lost that opportunity\nfor special and personal gratitude which Mr. Palgrave enjoyed when he\nbelieved himself to be supernaturally protected. The curious inconsistency\nof the common French expression, \"C'est un hasard providentiel\" is another\nexample of the present state of thought on the question. A Frenchman is\nupset from a carriage, breaks no bones, and stands up, exclaiming, as he\ndusts himself, \"It was un hasard vraiment providentiel that I was not\nlamed for life.\" It is plain that if his escape was providential it could\nnot be accidental at the same time, yet in spite of the obvious\ninconsistency of his expression there is piety in his choice of an\nadjective.\n\nThe distinction, as it has usually been understood hitherto, between\nreligious and non-religious explanations of what happens, is that the\nreligious person believes that events happen by supernatural direction,\nand he is only thinking religiously so long as he thinks in that manner;\nwhilst the non-religious theory is that events happen by natural sequence,\nand so long as a person thinks in this manner, his mind is acting\nnon-religiously, whatever may be his religious profession. \"To study the\nuniverse as it is manifested to us; to ascertain by patient inquiry the\norder of the manifestations; to discover that the manifestations are\nconnected with one another after regular ways in time and space; and,\nafter repeated failures, to give up as futile the attempt to understand\nthe power manifested, is condemned as irreligious. And meanwhile the\ncharacter of religious is claimed by those who figure to themselves a\nCreator moved by motives like their own; who conceive themselves as seeing\nthrough His designs, and who even speak of Him as though He laid plans to\noutwit the Devil!\"\n\nYes, this is a true account of the way in which the words irreligious and\nreligious have always been used and there does not appear to be any\nnecessity for altering their signification. Every event which is\ntransferred, in human opinion, from supernatural to natural action is\ntransferred from the domain of religion to that of science; and it is\nbecause such transferrences have been so frequent in our time that we are\nbecoming so much less religious than our forefathers were. In how many\nthings is the modern man perfectly irreligious! He is so in everything\nthat relates to applied science, to steam, telegraphy, photography,\nmetallurgy, agriculture, manufactures. He has not the slightest belief in\nspiritual intervention, either for or against him, in these material\nprocesses. He is beginning to be equally irreligious in government.\nModern politicians have been accused of thinking that God cannot govern,\nbut that is not a true account of their opinion. What they really think is\nthat government is an application of science to the direction of national\nlife, in which no invisible powers will either thwart a ruler in that\nwhich he does wisely, or shield him from the evil consequences of his\nerrors.\n\nBut though we are less religious than our ancestors because we believe\nless in the interferences of the supernatural, do we deserve censure for\nour way of understanding the world? Certainly not. Was Nikias a proper\nobject of praise because the eclipse seen by him at Syracuse seemed a\nwarning from the gods; and was Wolseley a proper object of blame because\nthe comet seen by him on the Egyptian plain was without a Divine message?\nBoth these opinions are quite outside of merit, although the older opinion\nwas in the highest degree religious, and the later one is not religious in\nthe least. Such changes simply indicate a gradual revolution in man's\nconception of the universe, which is the result of more accurate\nknowledge. So why not accept the fact, why not admit that we have really\nbecome less religious? Possibly we have a compensation, a gain equivalent\nto our loss. If the gods do not speak to us by signs in the heavens; if\nthe entrails of victims and the flight of birds no longer tell us when to\nmarch to battle and where to remain inactive in our tents; if the oracle\nis silent at Delos, and the ark lost to Jerusalem; if we are pilgrims to\nno shrine; if we drink of no sacred fountain and plunge into no holy\nstream; if all the special sanctities once reverenced by humanity are\nunable any longer to awaken our dead enthusiasm, have we gained nothing in\nexchange for the many religious excitements that we have lost? Yes, we\nhave gained a keener interest in the natural order, and a knowledge of it\nat once more accurate and more extensive, a gain that Greek and Jew might\nwell have envied us, and which a few of their keener spirits most ardently\ndesired. Our passion for natural knowledge is not a devout emotion, and\ntherefore it is not religious; but it is a noble and a fruitful passion\nnevertheless, and by it our eyes are opened. The good Saint Bernard had\nhis own saintly qualities; but for us the qualities of a De Saussure are\nnot without their worth. Saint Bernard, in the perfection of ancient\npiety, travelling a whole day by the lake of Geneva without seeing it, too\nmuch absorbed by devout meditation to perceive anything terrestrial, was\nblinded by his piety, and might with equal profit have stayed in his\nmonastic cell. De Saussure was a man of our own time. Never, in his\nwritings, do you meet with any allusion to supernatural interferences\n(except once or twice in pity for popular superstitions); but fancy De\nSaussure passing the lake of Geneva, or any other work of nature, without\nseeing it! His life was spent in the continual study of the natural world;\nand this study was to him so vigorous an exercise for the mind, and so\nstrict a discipline, that he found in it a means of moral and even of\nphysical improvement. There is no trace in his writings of what is called\ndevout emotion, but the bright light of intelligent admiration illumines\nevery page; and when he came to die, if he could not look back, like\nSaint Bernard, upon what is especially supposed to be a religious life, he\ncould look back upon many years wisely and well spent in the study of that\nnature of which Saint Bernard scarcely knew more than the mule that\ncarried him.\n\n\n\n\nESSAY XVI.\n\nON AN UNRECOGNIZED FORM OF UNTRUTH.\n\n\nIn the art of painting there are two opposite ways of dealing with natural\ncolor. It may be intensified, or it may be translated by tints of inferior\nchromatic force. In either case the picture may be perfectly harmonious,\nprovided only that the same principle of interpretation be consistently\nfollowed throughout.\n\nThe first time that I became acquainted with the first of these two\nmethods of interpretation was in my youth, when I met with a Scottish\npainter who has since become eminent in his art. He was painting studies\nfrom nature; and I noticed that whenever in the natural object there was a\ntrace of dull gold, as in some lichen, he made it a brighter gold, and\nwhenever there was a little rusty red he made it a more vivid red. So it\nwas with every other tint. His eye seemed to become excited by every hue,\nand he translated it by one of greater intensity and power.\n\nNow that is a kind of exaggeration which is very commonly recognized as a\ndeparture from the sober truth. People complain that the sky is too blue,\nthe fields too green, and so on.\n\nAfterwards I saw French painters at work, and I noticed that they (in\nthose days) interpreted natural color by an intentional lowering of the\nchromatic force. When they had to deal with the splendors of autumnal\nwoods against a blue sky they interpreted the azure by a blue-gray, and\nthe flaming gold by a dull russet. They even refused themselves the more\nquiet brightness of an ordinary wheat-field, and translated the yellow of\nthe wheat by an earthy brown.\n\nUnlike falsehood by exaggeration, this other kind of falsehood (by\ndiminution) is very seldom recognized as a departure from the truth. Such\ncoloring as this French coloring excited but few protests, and indeed was\noften praised for being \"modest\" and \"subdued.\"\n\nBoth systems are equally permissible in the fine arts, if consistently\nfollowed, because in art the unity and harmony of the work are of greater\nimportance than the exact imitation of nature. It is not as an art-critic\nthat I should have any fault to find with a well-understood and thoroughly\nconsistent conventionalism in the interpretation of nature; but the two\nkinds of falsity we have noticed are constantly found in action outside of\nthe fine arts, and yet only one of them is recognized in its true\ncharacter, the other being esteemed as a proof of modesty and moderation.\n\nThe general opinion, in our own country, condemns falsehood by\nexaggeration, but it does not blame falsehood by diminution. Overstatement\nis regarded as a vice, and understatement as a sort of modest virtue,\nwhilst in fact they are both untruthful, exactly in the degree of their\ndeparture from perfect accuracy.\n\nIf a man states his income as being larger than it really is, if he adopts\na degree of ostentation which (though he may be able to pay for it)\nconveys the idea of more ample means than he really possesses, and if we\nfind out afterwards what his income actually is, we condemn him as an\nuntruthful person; but lying by diminution with reference to money matters\nis looked upon simply as modesty.\n\nI remember a most respectable English family who had this modesty in\nperfection. It was their great pleasure to represent themselves as being\nmuch less rich than they really were. Whenever they heard of anybody with\nmoderate or even narrow means, they pretended to think that he had quite\nan ample income. If you mentioned a man with a family, struggling on a\npittance, they would say he was \"very comfortably provided for,\" and if\nyou spoke of another whose expenses were the ordinary expenses of\ngentlemen, they wondered by what inventions of extravagance he could get\nthrough so much money. They themselves pretended to spend much less than\nthey really spent, and they always affected astonishment when they heard\nhow much it cost other people to live exactly in their own way. They\nconsidered that this was modesty; but was it not just as untruthful as the\ncommoner vice of assuming a style more showy than the means warrant?\n\nIn France and Italy the departure from the truth is almost invariably in\nthe direction of overstatement, unless the speaker has some distinct\npurpose to serve by adopting the opposite method, as when he desires to\ndepreciate the importance of an enemy. In England people habitually\nunderstate, and the remarkable thing is that they believe themselves to be\nstrictly truthful in doing so. The word \"lying\" is too harsh a term to be\napplied either to the English or the Continental habit in this matter; but\nit is quite fair to say that both of them miss the truth, one in falling\nshort of it, the other in going beyond it.\n\nAn English family has seen the Alps for the first time. A young lady says\nSwitzerland is \"nice;\" a young gentleman has decided that it is \"jolly.\"\nThis is what the habit of understatement may bring us down to,--absolute\ninadequacy. The Alps are not \"nice,\" and they are not \"jolly;\" far more\npowerful adjectives are only the precise truth in this instance. The Alps\nare stupendous, overwhelming, magnificent, sublime. A Frenchman in similar\ncircumstances will be embarrassed, not by any timidity about using a\nsufficiently forcible expression, but because he is eager to exaggerate;\nand one scarcely knows how to exaggerate the tremendous grandeur of the\nfinest Alpine scenery. He will have recourse to eloquent phraseology, to\nloudness of voice, and finally, when he feels that these are still\ninadequate, he will employ energetic gesture. I met a Frenchman who tried\nto make me comprehend how many English people there were at Cannes in\nwinter. \"Il y en a--des Anglais--il y en a,\"--then he hesitated, whilst\nseeking for an adequate expression. At last, throwing out both his arms,\nhe cried, \"_Il y en a plus qu'en Angleterre!_\"\n\nThe English love of understatement is even more visible in moral than in\nmaterial things. If an Englishman has to describe any person or action\nthat is particularly admirable on moral grounds, he will generally\nrenounce the attempt to be true, and substitute for the high and\ninspiring truth some quiet little conventional expression that will\ndeliver him from what he most dreads,--the appearance of any noble\nenthusiasm. It does not occur to him that this inadequacy, this\ninsufficiency of expression, is one of the forms of untruth; that to\ndescribe noble and admirable conduct in commonplace and non-appreciative\nlanguage is to pay tribute of a kind especially acceptable to the Father\nof Lies. If we suppose the existence of a modern Mephistopheles watching\nthe people of our own time and pleased with every kind of moral evil, we\nmay readily imagine how gratified he must be to observe the moral\nindifference which uses exactly the same terms for ordinary and heroic\nvirtue, which never rises with the occasion, and which always seems to\ntake it for granted that there are neither noble natures nor high purposes\nin the world. The dead mediocrity of common talk, too timid and too\nindolent for any expression equivalent either to the glory of external\nnature or the intellectual and moral grandeur of great and excellent men,\nhas driven many of our best minds from conversation into literature,\nbecause in literature it is not thought extraordinary for a man to express\nhimself with a degree of force and clearness equivalent to the energy of\nhis feelings, the accuracy of his knowledge, and the importance of his\nsubject. The habit of using inadequate expression in conversation has led\nto the strange result that if an Englishman has any power of thought, any\nliving interest in the great problems of human destiny, you will know\nhardly anything of the real action of his mind unless he becomes an\nauthor. He dares not express any high feelings in conversation, because\nhe dreads what Stuart Mill called the \"sneering depreciation\" of them; and\nif such feelings are strong enough in him to make expression an imperative\nwant, he has to utter them on paper. By a strange result of\nconventionalism, a man is admired for using language of the utmost\nclearness and force in literature, whilst if he talked as vigorously as he\nwrote (except, perhaps, in extreme privacy and even secrecy with one or\ntwo confidential companions) he would be looked upon as scarcely\ncivilized. This may be one of the reasons why English literature,\nincluding the periodical, is so abundant in quantity and so full of\nenergy. It is a mental outlet, a _d\u00e9rivatif_.\n\nThe kind of untruthfulness which may be called _untruthfulness by\ninadequacy_ causes many strong and earnest minds to keep aloof from\ngeneral society, which seems to them insipid. They find frank and clear\nexpression in books, they find it even in newspapers and reviews, but they\ndo not find it in social intercourse. This deficiency drives many of the\nmore intelligent of our countrymen into the strange and perfectly\nunnatural position of receiving ideas almost exclusively through the\nmedium of print, and of communicating them only by writing. I remember an\nEnglishman of great learning and ability who lived almost entirely in that\nmanner. He received his ideas through books and the learned journals, and\nwhenever any thought occurred to him he wrote it immediately on a slip of\npaper. In society he was extremely absent, and when he spoke it was in an\napologetic and timidly suggestive manner, as if he were always afraid\nthat what he had to say might not be interesting to the hearer, or might\neven appear objectionable, and as if he were quite ready to withdraw it.\nHe was far too anxious to be well-behaved ever to venture on any forcible\nexpression of opinion or to utter any noble sentiment; and yet his\nconvictions on all important subjects were very serious, and had been\narrived at after deep thought, and he was capable of real elevation of\nmind. His writings are the strongest possible contrast to his oral\nexpression of himself. They are bold in opinion, very clear and decided in\nstatement, and full of well-ascertained knowledge.\n\n\n\n\nESSAY XVII.\n\nON A REMARKABLE ENGLISH PECULIARITY.\n\n\nIn De Tocqueville's admirable book on \"Democracy in America\" there is an\ninteresting chapter on the behavior of Englishmen to each other when they\nmeet in a foreign country:--\n\n    \"Two Englishmen meet by chance at the antipodes; they are surrounded\n    by foreigners whose language and mode of life are hardly known to\n    them.\n\n    \"These two men begin by studying each other very curiously and with a\n    kind of secret uneasiness; they then turn away, or, if they meet, they\n    are careful to speak only with a constrained and absent air, and to\n    say things of little importance.\n\n    \"And yet they know nothing of each other; they have never met, and\n    suppose each other to be perfectly honorable. Why, then, do they take\n    such pains to avoid intercourse?\"\n\nDe Tocqueville was a very close observer, and I hardly know a single\ninstance in which his faculty of observation shows itself in greater\nperfection. In his terse style of writing every word tells; and even in my\ntranslation, unavoidably inferior to the original, you actually see the\ntwo Englishmen and the minute details of their behavior.\n\nLet me now introduce the reader to a little scene at a foreign _table\nd'h\u00f4te_, as described with great skill and truth by a well-known English\nnovelist, Miss Betham-Edwards:--\n\n    \"The time, September; the scene, a _table d'h\u00f4te_ dinner in a\n    much-frequented French town. For the most part nothing can be more\n    prosaic than these daily assemblies of English tourists bound for\n    Switzerland and the South, and a slight sprinkling of foreigners, the\n    two elements seldom or never blending; a visitant from another planet\n    might, indeed, suppose that between English and French-speaking people\n    lay such a gulf as divides the blond New Englander from the swarth\n    African, so icy the distance, so unbroken the reserve. Nor is there\n    anything like cordiality between the English themselves. Our imaginary\n    visitant from Jupiter would here find matter for wonder also, and\n    would ask himself the reason of this freezing reticence among the\n    English fellowship. What deadly feud of blood, caste, or religion\n    could thus keep them apart? Whilst the little knot of Gallic\n    travellers at the farther end of the table straightway fall into\n    friendliest talk, the long rows of Britons of both sexes and all ages\n    speak only in subdued voices and to the members of their own family.\"\n\nNext, let me give an account of a personal experience in a Parisian hotel.\nIt was a little, unpretending establishment that I liked for its quiet and\nfor the honest cookery. There was a _table d'h\u00f4te_, frequented by a few\nFrench people, generally from the provinces, and once there came some\nEnglish visitors who had found out the merits of the little place. It\nhappened that I had been on the Continent a long time without revisiting\nEngland, so when my fellow-countrymen arrived I had foolish feelings of\npleasure on finding myself amongst them, and spoke to them in our common\nEnglish tongue. The effect of this bold experiment was extremely curious,\nand to me, at the time, almost inexplicable, as I had forgotten that\nchapter by De Tocqueville. The new-comers were two or three young men and\none in middle life. The young men seemed to be reserved more from timidity\nthan pride. They were quite startled and frightened when spoken to, and\nmade answer with grave brevity, as if apprehensive of committing\nthemselves to some compromising statement. With an audacity acquired by\nhabits of intercourse with foreigners, I spoke to the older Englishman.\nHis way of putting me down would have been a charming study for a\nnovelist. His manner resembled nothing so much as that of a dignified\nEnglish minister,--Mr. Gladstone for example, when he is questioned in the\nHouse by some young and presumptuous member of the Opposition. A few brief\nwords were vouchsafed to me, accompanied by an expression of countenance\nwhich, if not positively stern, was intentionally divested of everything\nlike interest or sympathy. It then began to dawn upon me that perhaps this\nEnglishman was conscious of some august social superiority; that he might\neven know a lord; and I thought, \"If he does really know a lord we are\nvery likely to hear his lordship's name.\" My expectation was not fulfilled\nto the letter, but it was quite fulfilled in spirit; for in talking to a\nFrenchman (for me to hear) our Englishman shortly boasted that he knew an\nEnglish duchess, giving her name and place of abode. \"One day when I was\nat ---- House I said to the Duchess of ----,\" and he repeated what he had\nsaid to Her Grace; but it would have no interest for the reader, as it\nprobably had none for the great lady herself. Shade of Thackeray! why\nwast thou not there to add a paragraph to the \"Book of Snobs\"?\n\nThe next day came another Englishman of about fifty, who distinguished\nhimself in another way. He did not know a duchess, or, if he did, we were\nnot informed of his good fortune; but he assumed a wonderful air of\nsuperiority to his temporary surroundings, that filled me, I must say,\nwith the deepest respect and awe. The impression he desired to produce was\nthat he had never before been in so poor a little place, and that our\nsociety was far beneath what he was accustomed to. He criticised things\ndisdainfully, and when I ventured to speak to him he condescended, it is\ntrue, to enter into conversation, but in a manner that seemed to say, \"Who\nand what are you that you dare to speak to a gentleman like me, who am, as\nyou must perceive, a person of wealth and consideration?\"\n\nThis account of our English visitors is certainly not exaggerated by any\nexcessive sensitiveness on my part. Paris is not the Desert; and one who\nhas known it for thirty years is not dependent for society on a chance\narrival from beyond the sea. For me these Englishmen were but actors in a\nplay, and perhaps they afforded me more amusement with their own peculiar\nmanners than if they had been pleasant and amiable. One result, however,\nwas inevitable. I had been full of kindly feeling towards my\nfellow-countrymen when they came, but this soon gave place to\nindifference; and their departure was rather a relief. When they had left\nParis, there arrived a rich French widow from the south with her son and\na priest, who seemed to be tutor and chaplain. The three lived at our\n_table d'h\u00f4te_; and we found them most agreeable, always ready to take\ntheir share in conversation, and, although far too well-bred to commit the\nslightest infraction of the best French social usages, either through\nignorance or carelessness, they were at the same time perfectly open and\neasy in their manners. They set up no pretensions, they gave themselves no\nairs, and when they returned to their own southern sunshine we felt their\ndeparture as a loss.\n\nThe foreign idea of social intercourse under such conditions (that is, of\nintercourse between strangers who are thrown together accidentally) is\nsimply that it is better to pass an hour agreeably than in dreary\nisolation. People may not have much to say that is of any profound\ninterest, but they enjoy the free play of the mind; and it sometimes\nhappens, in touching on all sorts of subjects, that unexpected lights are\nthrown upon them. Some of the most interesting conversations I have ever\nheard have taken place at foreign _tables d'h\u00f4te_, between people who had\nprobably never met before and who would separate forever in a week. If by\naccident they meet again, such acquaintances recognize each other by a\nbow, but there is none of that intrusiveness which the Englishman so\ngreatly dreads.\n\nBesides these transient acquaintanceships which, however brief, are by no\nmeans without their value to one's experience and culture, the foreign way\nof understanding a _table d'h\u00f4te_ includes the daily and habitual meeting\nof regular subscribers, a meeting looked forward to with pleasure as a\nbreak in the labors of the day, or a mental refreshment when they are\nover. Nothing affords such relief from the pressure of work as a free and\nanimated conversation on other subjects. Of this more permanent kind of\n_table d'h\u00f4te_, Mr. Lewes gave a lively description in his biography of\nGoethe:--\n\n    \"The English student, clerk, or bachelor, who dines at an\n    eating-house, chop-house, or hotel, goes there simply to get his\n    dinner, and perhaps look at the 'Times.' Of the other diners he knows\n    nothing, cares little. It is rare that a word is interchanged between\n    him and his neighbor. Quite otherwise in Germany. There the same\n    society is generally to be found at the same table. The _table d'h\u00f4te_\n    is composed of a circle of _habitu\u00e9s_, varied by occasional visitors\n    who in time become, perhaps, members of the circle. _Even with\n    strangers conversation is freely interchanged_; and in a little while\n    friendships are formed over these dinner-tables, according as natural\n    tastes and likings assimilate, which, extending beyond the mere hour\n    of dinner, are carried into the current of life. Germans do not rise\n    so hastily from the table as we, for time with them is not so\n    precious; life is not so crowded; time can be found for quiet\n    after-dinner talk. The cigars and coffee, which appear before the\n    cloth is removed, keep the company together; and in that state of\n    suffused comfort which quiet digestion creates, they hear without\n    anger the opinions of antagonists.\"\n\nIn this account of German habits we see the repast made use of as an\nopportunity for human intercourse, which the Englishman avoids except with\npersons already known to him or known to a private host. The reader has\nnoticed the line I have italicized,--\"Even with strangers conversation is\nfreely interchanged.\" The consequence is that the stranger does not feel\nhimself to be isolated, and if he is not an Englishman he does not take\noffence at being treated like an intelligent human being, but readily\naccepts the welcome that is offered to him.\n\nThe English peculiarity in this respect does not, however, consist so much\nin avoiding intercourse with foreigners as in shunning other English\npeople. It is true that in the description of a _table d'h\u00f4te_ by Miss\nBetham-Edwards, the English and foreign elements are represented as\nseparated by an icy distance, and the description is strikingly accurate;\nbut this shyness and timidity as regards foreigners may be sufficiently\naccounted for by want of skill and ease in speaking their language. Most\nEnglish people of education know a little French and German, but few speak\nthose languages freely, fluently, and correctly. When it does happen that\nan Englishman has mastered a foreign tongue, he will generally talk more\nreadily and unreservedly with a foreigner than with one of his own\ncountrymen. This is the notable thing, that if English people do not\nreally dislike and distrust one another, if there is not really \"a deadly\nfeud of blood, caste, or religion\" to separate them, they expose\nthemselves to the accusation of John Stuart Mill, that \"everybody acts as\nif everybody else was either an enemy or a bore.\"\n\nThis English avoidance of English people is so remarkable and exceptional\na characteristic that it could not but greatly interest and exercise so\nobservant a mind as that of De Tocqueville. We have seen how accurately he\nnoticed it; how exactly the conduct of shy Englishmen had fixed itself in\nhis memory. Let us now see how he accounted for it.\n\nIs it a mark of aristocracy? Is it because our race is more aristocratic\nthan other races?\n\nDe Tocqueville's theory was, that it is _not_ the mark of an aristocratic\nsociety, because, in a society classed by birth, although people of\ndifferent castes hold little communication with each other, they talk\neasily when they meet, without either fearing or desiring social fusion.\n\"Their intercourse is not founded on equality, but it is free from\nconstraint.\"\n\nThis view of the subject is confirmed by all that I know, through personal\ntradition, of the really aristocratic time in France that preceded the\nRevolution. The old-fashioned facility and directness of communication\nbetween ranks that were separated by wide social distances would surprise\nand almost scandalize a modern aspirant to false aristocracy, who has\nassumed the _de_, and makes up in _morgue_ what is wanting to him in\nantiquity of descent. I believe, too, that when England was a far more\naristocratic country than it is at present, manners were less distant and\nnot so cold and suspicious.\n\nIf the blame is not to be laid on the spirit of aristocracy, what is the\nreal cause of the indisputable fact that an Englishman avoids an\nEnglishman? De Tocqueville believed that the cause was to be found in the\nuncertainty of a transition state from aristocratic to plutocratic ideas;\nthat there is still the notion of a strict classification; and yet that\nthis classification is no longer determined by blood, but by money, which\nhas taken its place, so that although the ranks exist still, as if the\ncountry were really aristocratic, it is not easy to see clearly, and at\nthe first glance, who occupies them. Hence there is a _guerre sourde_\nbetween all the citizens. Some try by a thousand artifices to edge their\nway in reality or apparently amongst those above them; others fight\nwithout ceasing to repel the usurpers of their rights; or rather, the same\nperson does both; and whilst he struggles to introduce himself into the\nupper region he perpetually endeavors to put down aspirants who are still\nbeneath him.\n\n\"The pride of aristocracy,\" said De Tocqueville, \"being still very great\nwith the English, and the limits of aristocracy having become doubtful,\nevery one fears that he may be surprised at any moment into undesirable\nfamiliarity. Not being able to judge at first sight of the social position\nof those they meet, the English prudently avoid contact. They fear, in\nrendering little services, to form in spite of themselves an ill-assorted\nfriendship; they dread receiving attention from others; and they withdraw\nthemselves from the indiscreet gratitude of an unknown fellow-countryman\nas carefully as they would avoid his hatred.\"\n\nThis, no doubt, is the true explanation, but something may be added to it.\nAn Englishman dreads acquaintances from the apprehension that they may end\nby coming to his house; a Frenchman is perfectly at his ease on that point\nby reason of the greater discretion of French habits. It is perfectly\nunderstood, in France, that you may meet a man at a _caf\u00e9_ for years, and\ntalk to him with the utmost freedom, and yet he will not come near your\nprivate residence unless you ask him; and when he meets you in the street\nhe will not stop you, but will simply lift his hat,--a customary\nsalutation from all who know your name, which does not compromise you in\nany way. It might perhaps be an exaggeration to say that in France there\nis absolutely no struggling after a higher social position by means of\nacquaintances, but there is certainly very little of it. The great\nmajority of French people live in the most serene indifference as regards\nthose who are a little above them socially. They hardly even know their\ntitles; and when they do know them they do not care about them in the\nleast.[18]\n\nIt may not be surprising that the conduct of Americans should differ from\nthat of Englishmen, as Americans have no titles; but if they have not\ntitles they have vast inequalities of wealth, and Englishmen can be\nrepellent without titles. Yet, in spite of pecuniary differences between\nAmericans, and notwithstanding the English blood in their veins, they do\nnot avoid one another. \"If they meet by accident,\" says De Tocqueville,\n\"they neither seek nor avoid one another; their way of meeting is natural,\nfrank, and open; it is evident that they hope or fear scarcely anything\nfrom each other, and that they neither try to exhibit nor to conceal the\nstation they occupy. If their manner is often cold and serious, it is\nnever either haughty or stiff; and when they do not speak it is because\nthey are not in the humor for conversation, and not because they believe\nit their interest to be silent. In a foreign country two Americans are\nfriends at once, simply because they are Americans. They are separated by\nno prejudice, and their common country draws them together. In the case of\ntwo Englishmen the same blood is not enough; there must be also identity\nof rank.\"\n\nThe English habit strikes foreigners by contrast, and it strikes\nEnglishmen in the same way when they have lived much in foreign countries.\nCharles Lever had lived abroad, and was evidently as much struck by this\nas De Tocqueville himself. Many readers will remember his brilliant story,\n\"That Boy of Norcott's,\" and how the young hero, after finding himself\ndelightfully at ease with a society of noble Hungarians, at the Schloss\nHunyadi, is suddenly chilled and alarmed by the intelligence that an\nEnglish lord is expected. \"When they shall see,\" he says, \"how my titled\ncountryman will treat me,--the distance at which he will hold me, and the\nmeasured firmness with which he will repel, not my familiarities, for I\nshould not dare them, _but simply the ease of my manner_,--the foreigners\nwill be driven to regard me as some ignoble upstart who has no pretension\nwhatever to be amongst them.\"\n\nLever also noted that a foreigner would have had a better chance of civil\ntreatment than an Englishman. \"In my father's house I had often had\noccasion to remark that while Englishmen freely admitted the advances of a\nforeigner and accepted his acquaintance with a courteous readiness, with\neach other they maintained a cold and studied reserve, as though no\ndifference of place or circumstance was to obliterate that insular code\nwhich defines class, and limits each man to the exact rank he belongs to.\"\n\nThese readings and experiences, and many others too long to quote or\nnarrate, have led me to the conclusion that it is scarcely possible to\nattempt any other manner with English people than that which the very\npeculiar and exceptional state of national feeling appears to authorize.\nThe reason is that in the present state of feeling the innovator is almost\nsure to be misunderstood. He may be perfectly contented with his own\nsocial position; his mind may be utterly devoid of any desire to raise\nhimself in society; the extent of his present wishes may be to wile away\nthe tedium of a journey or a repast with a little intelligent\nconversation; yet if he breaks down the barrier of English reserve he is\nlikely to be taken for a pushing and intrusive person who is eager to lift\nhimself in the world. Every friendly expression on his part, even in a\nlook or the tone of his voice, \"simply the ease of his manner,\" may be\nrepelled as an impertinence. In the face of such a probable\nmisinterpretation one feels that it is hardly possible to be too distant\nor too cold. When two men meet it is the colder and more reserved man who\nalways has the advantage. He is the rock; the other is the wave that comes\nagainst the rock and falls shattered at its foot.\n\nIt would be wrong to conclude this Essay without a word of reference to\nthe exceptional Englishman who can pass an hour intelligently with a\nstranger, and is not constantly preoccupied with the idea that the\nstranger is plotting how to make some ulterior use of him. Such Englishmen\nare usually men of ripe experience, who have travelled much and seen much\nof the world, so that they have lost our insular distrust. I have met with\na few of them,--they are not very numerous,--and I wish that I could meet\nthe same fellow-countrymen by some happy accident again. There is nothing\nstranger in life than those very short friendships that are formed in an\nhour between two people born to understand each other, and cut short\nforever the next day, or the next week, by an inevitable separation.[19]\n\n\n\n\nESSAY XVIII.\n\nOF GENTEEL IGNORANCE.\n\n\nAll virtue has its negative as well as its positive side, and every ideal\nincludes not having as well as having. Gentility, for those who aspire to\nit and value it, is an ideal condition of humanity, a superior state which\nis maintained by selection amongst the things that life offers to a man\nwho has the power to choose. He is judged by his selection. The genteel\nperson selects in his own way, not only amongst things that can be seen\nand handled, such as the material adjuncts of a high state of\ncivilization, but also amongst the things of the mind, including all the\nvarieties of knowledge.\n\nThat a selection of this kind should be one of the marks of gentility is\nin itself no more than a natural consequence of the idealizing process as\nwe see it continually exercised in the fine arts. Every work of fine art\nis a result of selection. The artist does not give us the natural truth as\nit is, but he purposely omits very much of it, and alters that which he\nrecognizes. The genteel person is himself a work of art, and, as such,\ncontains only partial truth.\n\nThis is the central fact about gentility, that it is a narrow ideal,\nimpoverishing the mind by the rejection of truth as much as it adorns it\nby elegance; and it is for this reason that gentility is disliked and\nrefused by all powerful and inquiring intellects. They look upon it as a\nmental condition with which they have nothing to do, and they pursue their\nlabors without the slightest deference or condescension to it. They may,\nhowever, profitably study it as one of the states of human life, and a\nstate towards which a certain portion of humanity, aided by wealth,\nappears to tend inevitably.\n\nThe misfortune of the genteel mind is that it is carried by its own\nidealism so far away from the truth of nature that it becomes divorced\nfrom fact and unable to see the movement of the actual world; so that\ngenteel people, with their narrow and erroneous ideas, are sure to find\nthemselves thrust aside by men of robust intelligence, who are not\ngenteel, but who have a stronger grip upon reality. There is,\nconsequently, a pathetic element in gentility, with its fallacious hopes,\nits certain disappointments, so easily foreseen by all whom it has not\nblinded, and its immense, its amazing, its ever invincible ignorance.\n\nThere is not a country in Europe more favorable than France for the study\nof the genteel condition of mind. There you have it in its perfection in\nthe class _qui n'a rien appris et rien oubli\u00e9_, and in the numerous\naspirants to social position who desire to mix themselves and become\nconfounded with that class. It has been in the highest degree fashionable,\nsince the establishment of the Republic, to be ignorant of the real course\nof events. In spite of overwhelming evidence to the contrary, genteel\npeople either really believed or universally professed to believe during\nthe life-time of the Count de Chambord, that his restoration was not only\nprobable but imminent. No belief could have been more destitute of\nfoundation in fact; and if genteel people had not been compelled by\ngentility to shut their eyes against what was obvious to everybody else,\nthey might have ascertained the truth with the utmost facility. The truth\nwas simply this, that the country was going away further and further from\ndivine right every day, and from every sort of real monarchy, or one-man\ngovernment, and was becoming more and more attached to representative\ninstitutions and an elective system everywhere; and what made this truth\nglaringly evident was not only the steadily increasing number of\nrepublican elections, but the repeated return to power of the very\nministers whom the party of divine right most bitterly execrated. The same\nclass of genteel French people affected to believe that the end of the\ntemporal power of the Papacy by the foundation of the Italian kingdom was\nbut a temporary crisis, probably of short duration; though the process\nwhich had brought the Papacy to nothing as a temporal sovereignty had been\nslow, gradual, and natural,--the progressive enfeeblement of a theocracy\nunable to defend itself against its own subjects, and dependent on foreign\nsoldiers for every hour of its artificial survival. Such is genteel\nignorance in political matters. It is a polite shutting of the eyes\nagainst all facts and tendencies that are disagreeable to people of\nfashion. It is unpleasant to people of fashion to be told that the France\nof the future is more likely to be governed by men of business than by\nkings and cardinals; it is disagreeable to them to hear that the Pope is\nnot to do what he likes with the Roman people; and so, to please them, we\nare to pretend that we do not understand the course of recent history,\nwhich is obvious to everybody who thinks. The course of events has always\nproved the blindness of the genteel world, its incapacity to understand\nthe present and forecast the future; yet still it goes on in the old way,\nshutting its eyes resolutely against surrounding facts, and making\npredictions that are sure to be falsified by the event. Such a state of\nmind is unintelligent to the last degree, but then it is genteel; and\nthere is always, in every country, a large class of persons who would\nrather be gentlemanly than wise.\n\nIn religion, genteel ignorance is not less remarkable than in politics.\nHere the mark of gentility is to ignore the unfashionable churches, and\ngenerally to underestimate all those forces of opinion that are not on the\nside of the particular form of orthodoxy which is professed by the upper\nclass. In France it is one of the marks of high breeding not to know\nanything about Protestantism. The fact that there are such people as\nProtestants is admitted, and it is believed that some of them are decent\nand respectable people in their line of life, who may follow an erroneous\nreligion with an assiduity praiseworthy in itself, but the nature of their\nopinions is not known, and it is thought better not to inquire into them.\n\nIn England the gentry know hardly anything about Dissenters. As to the\norganization of dissenting communities, nobody ever hears of any of them\nhaving bishops, and so it is supposed that they must have some sort of\ndemocratic system. Genteel knowledge of dissenting faith and practice is\nconfined to a very few points,--that Unitarians do not believe in the\nTrinity, that Baptists have some unusual practice about baptism, and that\nMethodists are fond of singing hymns. This is all, and more than enough;\nas it is inconceivable that an aristocratic person can have anything to do\nwith Dissent, unless he wants the Nonconformist vote in politics. If\nDissenters are to be spoken of at all, it should be in a condescending\ntone, as good people in their way, who may be decent members of the middle\nand lower classes, of some use in withstanding the tide of infidelity.\n\nI remember a lady who condemned some eminent man as an atheist, on which I\nventured to object that he was a deist only. \"It is exactly the same\nthing,\" she replied. Being at that time young and argumentative, I\nmaintained that there existed a distinction: that a deist believed in God,\nand an atheist had not that belief. \"That is of no consequence,\" she\nrejoined; \"what concerns us is that we should know as little as possible\nabout such people.\" When this dialogue took place the lady seemed to me\nunreasonable and unjust, but now I perceive that she was genteel. She\ndesired to keep her soul pure from the knowledge which gentility did not\nrecognize; she wanted to know nothing about the shades and colors of\nheresy.\n\nThere is a delightful touch of determined ignorance in the answer of the\nRussian prelates to Mr. William Palmer, who went to Russia in 1840 with a\nview to bring about a recognition of Anglicanism by Oriental orthodoxy.\nIn substance, according to Cardinal Newman, it amounted to this: \"We know\nof no true Church besides our own. We are the only Church in the world.\nThe Latins are heretics, or all but heretics; you are worse; _we do not\neven know your name_.\" It would be difficult to excel this last touch; it\nis the perfection of uncontaminated orthodoxy, of the pure Russian\nreligious _comme il faut_. We, the holy, the undefiled, the separate from\nheretics and from those lost ones, worse than heretics, into whose\naberrations we never inquire, \"_we do not even know your name_.\"\n\nOf all examples of genteel ignorance, there are none more frequent than\nthe ignorance of those necessities which are occasioned by a limited\nincome. I am not, at present, alluding to downright poverty. It is genteel\nto be aware that the poor exist; it is genteel, even, to have poor people\nof one's own to pet and patronize; and it is pleasant to be kind to such\npoor people when they receive our kindness in a properly submissive\nspirit, with a due sense of the immense distance between us, and read the\ntracts we give them, and listen respectfully to our advice. It is genteel\nto have to do with poor people in this way, and even to know something\nabout them; the real genteel ignorance consists in not recognizing the\nexistence of those impediments that are familiar to people of limited\nmeans. \"I cannot understand,\" said an English lady, \"why people complain\nabout the difficulties of housekeeping. Such difficulties may almost\nalways be included under one head,--insufficiency of servants; people have\nonly to take more servants, and the difficulties disappear.\" Of course\nthe cost of maintaining a troup of domestics is too trifling to be taken\ninto consideration. A French lady, in my hearing, asked what fortune had\nsuch a family. The answer was simple and decided, they had no fortune at\nall. \"No fortune at all! then how can they possibly live? How can people\nlive who have no fortune?\" This lady's genteel ignorance was enlightened\nby the explanation that when there is no fortune in a family it is\ngenerally supported by the labor of one or more of its members. \"I cannot\nunderstand,\" said a rich Englishman to one of my friends, \"why men are so\nimprudent as to allow themselves to sink into money embarrassments. There\nis a simple rule that I follow myself, and that I have always found a\ngreat safeguard,--it is, _never to let one's balance at the banker's fall\nbelow five thousand pounds_. By strictly adhering to this rule one is\nalways sure to be able to meet any unexpected and immediate necessity.\"\nWhy, indeed, do we not all follow a rule so evidently wise? It may be\nespecially recommended to struggling professional men with large families.\nIf only they can be persuaded to act upon it they will find it an\nunspeakable relief from anxiety, and the present volume will not have been\npenned in vain.\n\nGenteel ignorance of pecuniary difficulties is conspicuous in the case of\namusements. It is supposed, if you are inclined to amuse yourself in a\ncertain limited way, that you are stupid for not doing it on a much more\nexpensive scale. Charles Lever wrote a charming paper for one of the early\nnumbers of the \"Cornhill Magazine,\" in which he gave an account of the\ndangers and difficulties he had encountered in riding and boating, simply\nbecause he had set limits to his expenditure on those pastimes, an economy\nthat seemed unaccountably foolish to his genteel acquaintances. \"Lever\nwill ride such screws! Why won't he give a proper price for a horse? It's\nthe stupidest thing in the world to be under-horsed; and bad economy\nbesides.\" These remarks, Lever said, were not sarcasms on his skill or\nsneers at his horsemanship, but they were far worse, they were harsh\njudgments on himself expressed in a manner that made reply impossible. So\nwith his boating. Lever had a passion for boating, for that real boating\nwhich is perfectly distinct from yachting and incomparably less costly;\nbut richer acquaintances insisted on the superior advantages of the more\nexpensive amusement. \"These cockle-shells, sir, must go over; they have no\nbearings, they lee over, and there you are,--you fill and go down. Have a\ngood decked boat,--I should say five-and-thirty or forty tons; _get a\nclever skipper and a lively crew_.\" Is not this exactly like the lady who\nthought people stupid for not having an adequate establishment of\nservants?\n\nAnother form of genteel ignorance consists in being so completely blinded\nby conventionalism as not to be able to perceive the essential identity of\ntwo modes of life or habits of action when one of them happens to be in\nwhat is called \"good form,\" whilst the other is not accepted by polite\nsociety. My own tastes and pursuits have often led me to do things for the\nsake of study or pleasure which in reality differ but very slightly from\nwhat genteel people often do; yet, at the same time, this slight\ndifference is sufficient to prevent them from seeing any resemblance\nwhatever between my practice and theirs. When a young man, I found a\nwooden hut extremely convenient for painting from nature, and when at a\ndistance from other lodging I slept in it. This was unfashionable; and\ngenteel people expressed much wonder at it, being especially surprised\nthat I could be so imprudent as to risk health by sleeping in a little\nwooden house. Conventionalism made them perfectly ignorant of the fact\nthat they occasionally slept in little wooden houses themselves. A railway\ncarriage is simply a wooden hut on wheels, generally very ill-ventilated,\nand presenting the alternative of foul air or a strong draught, with\nvibration that makes sleep difficult to some and to others absolutely\nimpossible. I have passed many nights in those public wooden huts on\nwheels, but have never slept in them so pleasantly as in my own private\none.[20] Genteel people also use wooden dwellings that float on water. A\nyacht's cabin is nothing but a hut of a peculiar shape with its own\nspecial inconveniences. On land a hut will remain steady; at sea it\ninclines in every direction, and is tossed about like Gulliver's large\nbox. An Italian nobleman who liked travel, but had no taste for dirty\nSouthern inns, had four vans that formed a square at night, with a little\ncourtyard in the middle that was covered with canvas and served as a\nspacious dining-room. The arrangement was excellent, but he was\nconsidered hopelessly eccentric; yet how slight was the difference between\nhis vans and a train of saloon carriages for the railway! He simply had\nsaloon carriages that were adapted for common roads.\n\nIt is difficult to see what advantage there can be in genteel ignorance to\ncompensate for its evident disadvantages. Not to be acquainted with\nunfashionable opinions, not to be able to imagine unfashionable\nnecessities, not to be able to perceive the real likeness between\nfashionable and unfashionable modes of life on account of some external\nand superficial difference, is like living in a house with closed\nshutters. Surely a man, or a woman either, might have as good manners, and\nbe as highly civilized in all respects, with accurate notions of things as\nwith a head full of illusions. To understand the world as it really is, to\nsee the direction in which humanity is travelling, ought to be the purpose\nof every strong and healthy intellect, even though such knowledge may take\nit out of gentility altogether.\n\nThe effect of genteel ignorance on human intercourse is such a deduction\nfrom the interest of it that men of ability often avoid genteel society\naltogether, and either devote themselves to solitary labors, cheered\nprincipally by the companionship of books, or else keep to intimate\nfriends of their own order. In Continental countries the public\ndrinking-places are often frequented by men of culture, not because they\nwant to drink, but because they can talk freely about what they think and\nwhat they know without being paralyzed by the determined ignorance of the\ngenteel. In England, no doubt, there is more information; and yet Stuart\nMill said that \"general society as now carried on in England is so insipid\nan affair, even to the persons who make it what it is, that it is kept up\nfor any reason rather than the pleasure it affords. All serious discussion\non matters in which opinions differ being considered ill-bred, and the\nnational deficiency in liveliness and sociability having prevented the\ncultivation of the art of talking agreeably on trifles, the sole\nattraction of what is called society to those who are not at the top of\nthe tree is the hope of being aided to climb a little higher. To a person\nof any but a very common order in thought or feeling, such society, unless\nhe has personal objects to serve by it, must be supremely unattractive;\nand most people in the present day of any really high class of intellect\nmake their contact with it so slight and at such long intervals as to be\nalmost considered as retiring from it altogether.\" The loss here is\ndistinctly to the genteel persons themselves. They may not feel it, they\nmay be completely insensible of it, but by making society insipid they\neliminate from it the very men who might have been its most valuable\nelements, and who, whether working in solitude or living with a few\ncongenial spirits, are really the salt of the earth.\n\n\n\n\nESSAY XIX.\n\nPATRIOTIC IGNORANCE.\n\n\nPatriotic ignorance is maintained by the satisfaction that we feel in\nignoring what is favorable to another nation. It is a voluntary closing of\nthe mind against the disagreeable truth that another nation may be on\ncertain points equal to our own, or even, though inferior, in some degree\ncomparable to our own.\n\nThe effect of patriotic ignorance as concerning human intercourse is to\nplace any one who knows the exact truth in the unpleasant dilemma of\nhaving either to correct mistakes which are strongly preferred to truth,\nor else to give assent to them against his sense of justice. International\nintercourse is made almost impossible by patriotic ignorance, except\namongst a few highly cultivated persons who are superior to it. Nothing is\nmore difficult than to speak about one's own country with foreigners who\nare perpetually putting forward the errors which they have imbibed all\ntheir lives, and to which they cling with such tenacity that it seems as\nif those errors were, in some mysterious way, essential to their mental\ncomfort and well-being. If, on the other hand, we have any really intimate\nknowledge of a foreign country, gained by long residence in it and\nstudious observation of the inhabitants, then we find a corresponding\ndifficulty in talking reasonably about it and them with our own\ncountrymen, because they, too, have their patriotic ignorance which they\nprize and value as foreigners value theirs.\n\nAt the risk of turning this Essay into a string of anecdotes, I intend to\ngive a few examples of patriotic ignorance, in order to show to what an\nastonishing degree of perfection it may attain. When we fully understand\nthis we shall also understand how those who possess such a treasure should\nbe anxious for its preservation. Their anxiety is the more reasonable that\nin these days there is a difficulty in keeping things when they are easily\ninjured by light.\n\nA French lady who possessed this treasure in its perfection gave, in my\nhearing, as a reason why French people seldom visited England, that there\nwere no works of art there, no collections, no architecture, nothing to\ngratify the artistic sense or the intelligence; and that it was only\npeople specially interested in trade and manufactures who went to England,\nas the country had nothing to show but factories and industrial products.\nOn hearing this statement, there suddenly passed before my mind's eye a\nrapid vision of the great works of architecture, sculpture, and painting\nthat I had seen in England, and a confused recollection of many minor\nexamples of these arts not quite unworthy of a studious man's attention.\nIt is impossible to contradict a lady; and any statement of the simple\ntruth would, in this instance, have been a direct and crushing\ncontradiction. I ventured on a faint remonstrance, but without effect; and\nmy fair enemy triumphed. There were no works of art in England. Thus she\nsettled the question.\n\nThis little incident led me to take note of French ideas about England\nwith reference to patriotic ignorance; and I discovered that there existed\na very general belief that there was no intellectual light of any kind in\nEngland. Paris was the light of the world, and only so far as Parisian\nrays might penetrate the mental fog of the British Islands was there a\nchance of its becoming even faintly luminous. It was settled that the\nspeciality of England was trade and manufacture, that we were all of us\neither merchants or cotton-spinners, and I discovered that we had no\nlearned societies, no British Museum, no Royal Academy of Arts.\n\nAn English painter, who for many years had exhibited on the line of the\nRoyal Academy, happened to be mentioned in my presence and in that of a\nFrench artist. I was asked by some French people who knew him personally\nwhether the English painter had a good professional standing. I answered\nthat he had a fair though not a brilliant reputation; meanwhile the French\nartist showed signs of uneasiness, and at length exploded with a vigorous\nprotest against the inadmissible idea that a painter could be anything\nwhatever who was not known at the French _Salon_. \"Il n'est pas connu au\nSalon de Paris, donc, il n'existe pas--il n'existe pas. Les r\u00e9putations\ndans les beaux-arts se font au Salon de Paris et pas ailleurs.\" This\nFrenchman had no conception whatever of the simple fact that artistic\nreputations are made in every capital of the civilized world. That was a\ntruth which his patriotism could not tolerate for a moment.\n\nA French gentleman expressed his surprise that I did not have my books\ntranslated into French, \"because,\" said he, \"no literary reputation can be\nconsidered established until it has received the consecration of Parisian\napproval.\" To his unfeigned astonishment I answered that London and not\nParis was the capital city of English literature, and that English authors\nhad not yet fallen so low as to care for the opinion of critics ignorant\nof their language.\n\nI then asked myself why this intense French patriotic ignorance should\ncontinue so persistently; and the answer appeared to be that there was\nsomething profoundly agreeable to French patriotic sentiment in the belief\nthat England had no place in the artistic and intellectual world. Until\nquite recently the very existence of an English school of painting was\ndenied by all patriotic Frenchmen, and English art was rigorously excluded\nfrom the Louvre.[21] Even now a French writer upon art can scarcely\nmention English painting without treating it _de haut en bas_, as if his\nGallic nationality gave him a natural right to treat uncivilized islanders\nwith lofty disdain or condescending patronage.\n\nMy next example has no reference to literature or the fine arts. A young\nFrench gentleman of superior education and manners, and with the instincts\nof a sportsman, said in my hearing, \"There is no game in England.\" His\ntone was that of a man who utters a truth universally acknowledged.\n\nIt might be a matter of little consequence, as touching our national\npride, whether there was game in England or not. I have no doubt that some\nphilosophers would consider, and perhaps with reason, that the\nnon-existence of game, where it can only be maintained by an army of\nkeepers and a penal code of its own, would be the sign of an advancing\nsocial state; but my young Frenchman was not much of a philosopher, and no\ndoubt he considered the non-existence of game in England a mark of\ninferiority to France. There is something in the masculine mind, inherited\nperhaps from ancestors who lived by the chase, which makes it look upon an\nabundance of wild things that can be shot at, or run after with horses and\ndogs, as a reason for the greatest pride and glorification. On reflection,\nit will be found that there is more in the matter than at first sight\nappears. As there is no game in England, of course there are no sportsmen\nin that country. The absence of game means the absence of shooters and\nhuntsmen, and consequently an inferiority in manly exercises to the\nFrench, thousands of whom take shooting licenses and enjoy the\ninvigorating excitement of the chase. For this reason it is agreeable to\nFrench patriotic sentiment to be perfectly certain that there is no game\nin England. When I inquired what reason my young friend had for holding\nhis conviction on the subject, he told me that in a country like England,\nso full of trade and manufactures, there could not be any room for game.\n\nOne of the most popular of French songs is that charming one by Pierre\nDupont in praise of his vine. Every Frenchman who knows anything knows\nthat song, and believes that he also knows the tune. The consequence is\nthat when one of them begins to sing it his companions join in the refrain\nor chorus, which is as follows:--\n\n  \"Bons Fran\u00e7ais, quand je vois mon verre\n   Plein de ce vin couleur de feu\n   Je songe en remerciant Dieu\n   Qu'ils n'en ont pas dans l'Angleterre!\"\n\nThe singers repeat \"qu'ils n'en ont pas,\" and besides this the whole of\nthe last line is repeated with triumphant emphasis.\n\nWe need not feel hurt by this little outburst of patriotism. There is no\nreal hatred of England at the bottom of it, only a little \"malice\" of a\nharmless kind, and the song is sometimes sung good-humoredly in the\npresence of Englishmen. It is, however, really connected with patriotic\nignorance. The common French belief is that as vines are not grown in\nEngland, we have no wine in our cellars, so that English people hardly\nknow the taste of wine; and this belief is too pleasing to the French mind\nto be readily abandoned by those who hold it. They feel that it enhances\nthe delightfulness of every glass they drink. The case is precisely the\nsame with fruit. The French enjoy plenty of excellent fruit, and they\nenjoy it all the more heartily from a firm conviction that there is no\nfruit of any kind in England. \"Pas un fruit,\" said a countryman of Pierre\nDupont in writing about our unfavored island, \"pas un fruit ne m\u00fbrit dans\nce pays.\" What, not even a gooseberry? Were the plums, pears,\nstrawberries, apples, apricots, that we consumed in omnivorous boyhood\nevery one of them unripe? It is lamentable to think how miserably the\nEnglish live. They have no game, no wine, no fruit (it appears to be\ndoubtful, too, whether they have any vegetables), and they dwell in a\nperpetual fog where sunshine is totally unknown. It is believed, also,\nthat there is no landscape-beauty in England,--nothing but a green field\nwith a hedge, and then another green field with another hedge, till you\ncome to the bare chalk cliffs and the dreary northern sea. The English\nhave no Devonshire, no valley of the Severn, no country of the Lakes. The\nThames is a foul ditch, without a trace of natural beauty anywhere.[22]\n\nIt would be easy to give many more examples of the patriotism of our\nneighbors, but perhaps for the sake of variety it may be desirable to turn\nthe glass in the opposite direction and see what English patriotism has to\nsay about France. We shall find the same principle at work, the same\ndetermination to believe that the foreign country is totally destitute of\nmany things on which we greatly pride ourselves. I do not know that there\nis any reason to be proud of having mountains, as they are excessively\ninconvenient objects that greatly impede agriculture and communication;\nhowever, in some parts of Great Britain it is considered, somehow, a glory\nfor a nation to have mountains; and there used to be a firm belief that\nFrench landscape was almost destitute of mountainous grandeur. There were\nthe Highlands of Scotland, but who had ever heard of the Highlands of\nFrance? Was not France a wearisome, tame country that unfortunately had to\nbe traversed before one could get to Switzerland and Italy? Nobody seemed\nto have any conception that France was rich in mountain scenery of the\nvery grandest kind. Switzerland was understood to be the place for\nmountains, and there was a settled but erroneous conviction that Mont\nBlanc was situated in that country. As for the Grand-Pelvoux, the Pointe\ndes \u00c9crins, the Mont Olan, the Pic d'Arsine, and the Trois Ellions, nobody\nhad ever heard of them. If you had told any average Scotchman that the\nmost famous Bens would be lost and nameless in the mountainous departments\nof France, the news would have greatly surprised him. He would have been\nastonished to hear that the area of mountainous France exceeded the area\nof Scotland, and that the height of its loftiest summits attained three\ntimes the elevation of Ben Nevis.\n\nIt may be excusable to feel proud of mountains, as they are noble objects\nin spite of their inconvenience, but it seems less reasonable to be\npatriotic about hedges, which make us pay dearly for any beauty they may\npossess by hiding the perspective of the land. A hedge six feet high\neasily masks as many miles of distance. However, there is a pride in\nEnglish hedges, accompanied by a belief that there are no such things in\nFrance. The truth is that regions of large extent are divided by hedges in\nFrance as they are in England Another belief is that there is little or\nno wood in France, though wood is the principal fuel, and vast forests are\nreserved for its supply. I have heard an Englishman proudly congratulating\nhimself, in the spirit of Dupont's song, on the supposed fact that the\nFrench had neither coal nor iron; and yet I have visited a vast\nestablishment at the Creuzot, where ten thousand workmen are continually\nemployed in making engines, bridges, armor-plates, and other things from\niron found close at hand, by the help of coal fetched from a very little\ndistance. I have read in an English newspaper that there were no singing\nbirds in France; and by way of commentary a hundred little French\nsongsters kept up a merry din that would have gladdened the soul of\nChaucer. It happened, too, to be the time of the year for nightingales,\nwhich filled the woods with their music in the moonlight.\n\nPatriotic ignorance often gets hold of some partial truth unfavorable to\nanother country, and then applies it in such an absolute manner that it is\ntruth no longer. It is quite true, for example, that athletic exercises\nare not so much cultivated in France, nor held in such high esteem, as\nthey are in England, but it is not true that all young Frenchmen are\ninactive. They are often both good swimmers and good pedestrians, and,\nthough they do not play cricket, many of them take a practical interest in\ngymnastics and are skilful on the bar and the trapeze. The French learn\nmilitary drill in their boyhood, and in early manhood they are inured to\nfatigue in the army, besides which great numbers of them learn fencing on\ntheir own account, that they may hold their own in a duel. Patriotic\nignorance likes to shut its eyes to all inconvenient facts of this kind,\nand to dwell on what is unfavorable. A man may like a glass of absinthe in\na _caf\u00e9_ and still be as energetic as if he drank port wine at home. I\nknow an old French officer who never misses his daily visit to the _caf\u00e9_,\nand so might serve as a text for moralizing, but at the same time he walks\ntwenty kilom\u00e8tres every day. Patriotic ignorance has its opportunity in\nevery difference of habit. What can be apparently more indolent, for an\nhour or two after _d\u00e9je\u00fbner_, than a prosperous man of business in Paris?\nVery possibly he may be caught playing cards or dominoes in the middle of\nthe day, and severely blamed by a foreign censor. The difference between\nhim and his equal in London is simply in the arrangement of time. The\nFrenchman has been at his work early, and divides his day into two parts,\nwith hours of idleness between them.\n\nMany examples of those numerous international criticisms that originate in\npatriotic ignorance are connected with the employment of words that are\napparently common to different nations, yet vary in their signification.\nOne that has given rise to frequent patriotic criticisms is the French\nword _univers_. French writers often say of some famous author, such as\nVictor Hugo, \"Sa renomm\u00e9e remplit l'univers;\" or of some great warrior,\nlike Napoleon, \"Il inqui\u00e9ta l'univers.\" English critics take up these\nexpressions and then say, \"Behold how bombastic these French writers are,\nwith their absurd exaggerations, as if Victor Hugo and Napoleon astonished\nthe universe, as if they were ever heard of beyond our own little\nplanet!\" Such criticism only displays patriotic ignorance of a foreign\nlanguage. The French expression is perfectly correct, and not in the least\nexaggerated. Napoleon did not disquiet the universe, but he disquieted\n_l'univers_. Victor Hugo is not known beyond the terrestrial globe, but he\nis known, by name at least, throughout _l'univers_. The persistent\nignorance of English writers on this point would be inexplicable if it\nwere not patriotic; if it did not afford an opportunity for deriding the\nvanity of foreigners. It is the more remarkable that the deriders\nthemselves constantly use the word in the same restricted sense as an\nadjective or an adverb. I open Mr. Stanford's atlas, and find that it is\ncalled \"The London Atlas of _Universal Geography_,\" though it does not\ncontain a single map of any planet but our own, not even one of the\nvisible hemisphere of the moon, which might easily have been given. I take\na newspaper, and I find that the late President of the Royal Society died\n_universally_ respected, though he was known only to the cultivated\ninhabitants of a single planet. Such is the power of patriotic ignorance\nthat it is able to prevent men from understanding a foreign word when they\nthemselves employ a nearly related word in identically the same\nsense.[23]\n\nThe word _univers_ reminds me of universities, and they recall a striking\nexample of patriotic ignorance in my own countrymen. I wonder how many\nEnglishmen there are who know anything about the University of France. I\nnever expect an Englishman to know anything about it; and, what is more, I\nam always prepared to find him impervious to any information on the\nsubject. As the organization of the University of France differs\nessentially from that of English universities, each of which is localized\nin one place, and can be seen in its entirety from the top of a tower, the\nEnglishman hears with contemptuous inattention any attempt to make him\nunderstand an institution without a parallel in his own country. Besides\nthis, the Universities of Oxford and Cambridge are venerable and wealthy\ninstitutions, visibly beautiful, whilst the University of France is of\ncomparatively recent origin; and, though large sums are expended in its\nservice, the result does not strike the eye because the expenditure is\ndistributed over the country. I remember having occasion to mention the\nAcademy of Lyons to a learned doctor of Oxford who was travelling in\nFrance, and I found that he had never heard of the Academy of Lyons, and\nknew nothing about the organization of the national university of which\nthat academy forms a part. From a French point of view this is quite as\nremarkable an example of patriotic ignorance as if some foreigner had\nnever heard of the diocese of York, or the episcopal organization of the\nChurch of England. Every Frenchman who has any education at all knows the\nfunctions of academies in the university, and which of the principal\ncities are the seats of those learned bodies.\n\nAs Englishmen ignore the University of France, they naturally at the same\ntime ignore the degrees that it confers. They never know what a _Licenci\u00e9_\nis, they have no conception of the _Agr\u00e9gation_, or of the severe ordeal\nof competitive examination through which an _Agr\u00e9g\u00e9_ must have passed.\nTherefore, if a Frenchman has attained either of these grades, his title\nis unintelligible to an Englishman.\n\nThere is, no doubt, great ignorance in France on the subject of the\nEnglish universities, but it is neither in the same degree nor of the same\nkind. I should hardly call French ignorance of the classes at Oxford\npatriotic ignorance, because it does not proceed from the belief that a\nforeign university is unworthy of a Frenchman's attention. I should call\nFrench ignorance of the Royal Academy, for example, genuine patriotic\nignorance, because it proceeds from a conviction that English art is\nunworthy of notice, and that the French _Salon_ is the only exhibition\nthat can interest an enlightened lover of art. That is the essence of\npatriotism in ignorance,--to be ignorant of what is done in another\nnation, because we believe our own to be first and the rest nowhere; and\nso the English ignorance of the University of France is genuine patriotic\nignorance. It is caused by the existence of Oxford and Cambridge, as the\nFrench ignorance of the Royal Academy is caused by the French _Salon_.\n\nPatriotic ignorance is one of the most serious impediments to conversation\nbetween people of different nationality, because occasions are continually\narising when the national sentiments of the one are hurt by the ignorance\nof the other. But we may also wound the feelings of a foreigner by\nassuming a more complete degree of ignorance on his part than that which\nis really his. This is sometimes done by English people towards Americans,\nwhen English people forget that their national literature is the common\npossession of the two countries. A story is told by Mr. Grant White of an\nEnglish lady who informed him that a novel (which she advised him to read)\nhad been written about Kenilworth, by Sir Walter Scott; and he expected\nher to recommend a perusal of the works of William Shakespeare. Having\nlived much abroad, I am myself occasionally the grateful recipient of\nvaluable information from English friends. For example, I remember an\nEnglishman who kindly and quite seriously informed me that Eton College\nwas a public school where many sons of the English aristocracy were\neducated.\n\nThere is a very serious side to patriotic ignorance in relation to war.\nThere can be no doubt that many of the most foolish, costly, and\ndisastrous wars ever undertaken were either directly due to patriotic\nignorance, or made possible only by the existence of such ignorance in the\nnation that afterwards suffered by them. The way in which patriotic\nignorance directly tends to produce war is readily intelligible. A nation\nsees its own soldiers, its own cannons, its own ships, and becomes so\nproud of them as to remain contentedly and even wilfully ignorant of the\nmilitary strength and efficiency of its neighbors. The war of 1870-71, so\ndisastrous to France, was the direct result of patriotic ignorance. The\ncountry and even the Emperor himself were patriotically ignorant of their\nown inferior military condition and of the superior Prussian organization.\nOne or two isolated voices were raised in warning, but it was considered\npatriotic not to listen to them. The war between Turkey and Russia, which\ncost Turkey Bulgaria and all but expelled her from Europe, might easily\nhave been avoided by the Sultan; but he was placed in a false position by\nthe patriotic ignorance of his own subjects, who believed him to be far\nmore powerful than he really was, and who would have probably dethroned or\nmurdered him if he had acted rationally, that is to say, in accordance\nwith the degree of strength that he possessed. In almost every instance\nthat I am able to remember, the nations that have undertaken imprudent and\neasily avoidable wars have done so because they were blinded by patriotic\nignorance, and therefore either impelled their rulers into a foolish\ncourse against their better knowledge, or else were themselves easily led\ninto peril by the temerity of a rash master, who would risk the well-being\nof all his subjects that he might attain some personal and private end.\nThe French have been cured of their most dangerous patriotic\nignorance,--that concerning the military strength of the country,--by the\nwar of 1870, but the cure was of a costly nature.\n\nPatriotism has been so commonly associated with a wilful closing of the\neyes against unpleasant facts, that those who prefer truth to illusion are\noften considered unpatriotic. Yet surely ignorance has not the immense\nadvantage over knowledge of having all patriotism on her side. There is a\nfar higher and better patriotism than that of ignorance; there is a love\nof country that shows itself in anxiety for its best welfare, and does not\nremain satisfied with the vain delusion of a fancied superiority in\neverything. It is the interest of England as a nation to be accurately\ninformed about all that concerns her position in the world, and it is\nimpossible for her to receive this information if a stupid national vanity\nis always ready to take offence when it is offered. It is desirable for\nEngland to know exactly in what degree she is a military power, and also\nhow she stands with reference to the naval armaments of other nations, not\nas they existed in the days of Nelson, but as they will exist next year.\nIt is the interest of England to know by what tenure she holds India, just\nas in the reign of George the Third it would have been very much the\ninterest of England to know accurately both the rights of the American\ncolonists and their strength. I cannot imagine any circumstances that\nmight make ignorance more desirable for a free people than knowledge. With\nenslaved peoples the case is different: the less they know and the\ngreater, perhaps, are their chances of enjoying the dull kind of somnolent\nhappiness which alone is attainable by them; but this is a kind of\nhappiness that no citizen of a free country would desire.\n\n\n\n\nESSAY XX.\n\nCONFUSIONS.\n\n\nSurely the analytical faculty must be very rare, or we should not so\ncommonly find people confounding together things essentially distinct. Any\none who possesses that faculty naturally, and has followed some occupation\nwhich strengthens it, must be continually amused if he has a humorous\nturn, or irritated if he is irascible, by the astounding mental confusions\nin which men contentedly pass their lives. To be just, this account ought\nto include both sexes, for women indulge in confusions even more\nfrequently than men, and are less disposed to separate things when they\nhave once been jumbled together.\n\nA confusion of ideas in politics which is not uncommon amongst the enemies\nof all change is to believe that whoever desires the reform of some law\nwants to do something that is not legal, and has a rebellious, subversive\nspirit. Yet the reformer is not a rebel; it is indeed the peculiar\ndistinction of his position not to be a rebel, for there has never been a\nreal reformer (as distinguished from a revolutionist) who wished to do\nanything illegal. He desires, certainly, to do something which is not\nlegal just at present, but he does not wish to do it so long as it remains\nin the condition of illegality. He wishes first to make it legal by\nobtaining legislative sanction for his proposal, and then to do it when it\nshall have become as legal as anything else, and when all the most\nconservative people in the kingdom will be strenuous in its defence as\n\"part and parcel of the law of the land.\"\n\nAnother confusion in political matters which has always been extremely\ncommon is that between private and public liberty. Suppose that a law were\nenacted to the effect that each British subject without exception should\ngo to Mass every Sunday morning, on pain of death, and should take the\nRoman Catholic Sacrament of Holy Communion, involving auricular\nconfession, at Easter; such a law would not be an infringement of the\nsensible liberty of Roman Catholics, because they do these things already.\nThen they might say, \"People talk of the tyranny of the law, yet the law\nis not tyrannical at all; we enjoy perfect liberty in England, and it is\nmost unreasonable to say that we do not.\" The Protestant part of the\ncommunity would exclaim that such a law was an intolerable infringement of\nliberty, and would rush to arms to get rid of it. This is the distinction\nbetween private and public liberty. There is private liberty when some men\nare not interfered with in the ordinary habits of their existence; and\nthere has always been much of such private liberty under the worst of\ndespotisms; but there is not public liberty until every man in the country\nmay live according to his own habits, so long as he does not interfere\nwith the rights of others. Here is a distinction plain enough to be\nevident to a very commonplace understanding; yet the admirers of tyrants\nare often successful in producing a confusion between the two things, and\nin persuading people that there was \"ample liberty\" under some foreign\ndespot, because they themselves, when they visited the country that lay\nprostrate under his irresistible power, were allowed to eat good dinners,\nand drive about unmolested, and amuse themselves by day and by night\naccording to every suggestion of their fancy.\n\nMany confusions have been intentionally maintained by political enemies in\norder to cast odium on their adversaries; so that it becomes of great\nimportance to a political cause that it should not bear a name with two\nmeanings, or to which it may be possible to give another meaning than that\nwhich was originally intended. The word \"Radical\" is an instance of this.\nAccording to the enemies of radicalism it has always meant a political\nprinciple that strikes at the root of the constitution; but it was not\nthat meaning of the word which induced the first Radicals to commit the\nimprudence of adopting it. The term referred to agriculture rather than\ntree-felling, the original idea being to uproot abuses as a gardener pulls\nweeds up by the roots. I distinctly remember my first boyish notion of the\nRadicals. I saw them in a sort of sylvan picture,--violent savage men\narmed with sharp axes, and hewing away at the foot of a majestic oak that\nstood for the glory of England. Since then I have become acquainted with\nanother instance of the unfortunate adoption of a word which may be\nplausibly perverted from its meaning. The French republican motto is\n_Libert\u00e9, \u00c9galit\u00e9, Fraternit\u00e9_, and to this day there is hardly an\nEnglish newspaper that does not from time to time sneer at the French\nRepublicans for aspiring to equality, as if equality were not impossible\nin the nature of things, and as if, supposing an unnatural equality to be\nestablished to-day, the operation of natural causes would not bring about\ninequality to-morrow. We are told that some men would be stronger, or\ncleverer, or more industrious than others, and earn more and make\nthemselves leaders; that children of the same parents, starting in life\nwith the same fortunes, never remain in precisely the same positions; and\nmuch more to the same purpose. All this trite and familiar reasoning is\nwithout application here. The word _\u00c9galit\u00e9_ in the motto means something\nwhich _can_ be attained, and which, though it did not exist in France\nbefore the Revolution, is now almost a perfect reality there,--it means\nequality before the law; it means that there shall not be privileged\nclasses exempt from paying taxes, and favored with such scandalous\npartiality that all posts of importance in the government, the army, the\nmagistracy, and the church are habitually reserved for them. If it meant\nabsolute equality, no Republican could aim at wealth, which is the\ncreation of inequality in his own favor; neither would any Republican\nlabor for intellectual reputation, or accept honors. There would not even\nbe a Republican in the gymnastic societies, where every member strives to\nbecome stronger and more agile than his fellows, and knows that, whether\nin his favor or against him, the most striking inequalities will be\nmanifested in every public contest. There would be no Republicans in the\nUniversity, for has it not a hierarchy with the most marked gradations of\ntitle, and differences of consideration and authority? Yet the University\nis so full of Republicans that it is scarcely too much to say that it is\nentirely composed of them. I am aware that there are dreamers in the\nworking classes, both in France and elsewhere, who look forward to a\nsocial state when all men will work for the same wages,--when the\nMeissonier of the day will be paid like a sign-painter, and the\nsign-painter like a white-washer, and all three perform each other's tasks\nby turns for equality of agreeableness in the work; but these dreams are\nonly possible in extreme ignorance, and lie quite outside of any theories\nto be seriously considered.\n\nReligious intolerance, when quite sincere and not mixed up with social\ncontempt or political hatred, is founded upon a remarkable confusion of\nideas, which is this. The persecutor assumes that the heretic knowingly\nand maliciously resists the will of God in rejecting the theology which he\nknows that God desires him to receive. This is a confusion between the\nmental states of the believer and the unbeliever, and it does not\naccurately describe either, for the believer of course accepts the\ndoctrine, and the unbeliever does not reject it as coming from God, but\nprecisely because he is convinced that it has a purely human origin.\n\n\"Are you a Puseyite?\" was a question put to a lady in my hearing; and she\nat once answered, \"Certainly not, I should be ashamed of being a\nPuseyite.\" Here was a confusion between her present mental state and her\nsupposed possible mental state as a Puseyite; for it is impossible to be a\nreal Puseyite and at the same time to think of one's belief with an inward\nsense of shame. A believer always thinks that his belief is simply the\ntruth, and nobody feels ashamed of believing what is true. Even\nconcealment of a belief does not imply shame; and those who have been\ncompelled, in self-defence, to hide their real opinions, have been\nashamed, if at all, of hiding and not of having them.\n\nA confusion common to all who do not think, and avoided only with the\ngreatest difficulty by those who do, is that between their own knowledge\nand the knowledge possessed by another person who has different tastes,\ndifferent receptive powers, and other opportunities. They cannot imagine\nthat the world does not appear the same to him that it appears to them.\nThey do not really believe that he can feel quite differently from\nthemselves and still be in every respect as sound in mind and as\nintelligent as they are. The incapacity to imagine a different mental\ncondition is strikingly manifested in what we call the Philistine mind,\nand is one of its strongest characteristics. The true Philistine thinks\nthat every form of culture which opens out a world that is closed against\nhimself leaves the votary exactly where he was before. \"I cannot imagine\nwhy you live in Italy,\" said a Philistine to an acquaintance; \"nothing\ncould induce _me_ to live in Italy.\" He did not take into account the\ndifference of gifts and culture, but supposed the person he addressed to\nhave just his own mental condition, the only one that he was able to\nconceive, whereas, in fact, that person was so endowed and so educated as\nto enjoy Italy in the supreme degree. He spoke the purest Italian with\nperfect ease; he had a considerable knowledge of Italian literature and\nantiquities; his love of natural beauty amounted to an insatiable passion;\nand from his youth he had delighted in architecture and painting. Of these\ngifts, tastes, and acquirements the Philistine was simply destitute. For\nhim Italy could have had no meaning. Where the other found unfailing\ninterest he would have suffered from unrelieved _ennui_, and would have\nbeen continually looking back, with the intolerable longing of nostalgia,\nto the occupations of his English home. In the same spirit a French\n_bourgeois_ once complained in my hearing that too much space was given to\nforeign affairs in the newspapers, \"car, vous comprenez, cela n'int\u00e9resse\npas.\" This was simply an attribution of his personal apathy to everybody\nelse. Certainly, as a nation, the French take less interest in foreign\naffairs than we do, but they do take some interest, and the degree of it\nis exactly reflected by the importance given to foreign affairs in their\njournals, always greatest in the best of them. An Englishman said, also in\nmy hearing, that to have a library was a mistake, as a library was of no\nuse; he admitted that a few books might be useful if the owner read them\nthrough. Here, again, is the attribution of one person's experience to all\ncases. This man had never himself felt the need of a library, and did not\nknow how to use one. He could not realize the fact that a few books only\nallow you to read, whilst a library allows you to pursue a study. He could\nnot at all imagine what the word \"library\" means to a scholar,--that it\nmeans the not being stopped at every turn for want of light, the not being\nexposed to scornful correction by men of inferior ability and inferior\nindustry, whose only superiority is the great and terrible one of living\nwithin a cabfare of the British Museum. I remember reading an account of\nthe establishment of a Greek professorship in a provincial town, and it\nwas wisely proposed, by one who understood the difficulties of a scholar\nremote from the great libraries, that provision should be made for the\naccumulation of books for the use of the future occupants of the chair,\nbut the trustees (honest men of business, who had no idea of a scholar's\nwants and necessities) said that each professor must provide his own\nlibrary, just as road commissioners advertise that a surveyor must have\nhis own horse.\n\nOne of the most serious reasons why it is imprudent to associate with\npeople whose opinions you do not wish to be made responsible for is that\nothers will confound you with them. There is an old Latin proverb, and\nalso a French one, to the effect that if a man knows what your friends\nare, he knows what you are yourself. These proverbs are not true, but they\nwell express the popular confusion between having something in common and\nhaving everything in common. If you are on friendly terms with clergymen,\nit is inferred that you have a clerical mind; when the reason may be that\nyou are a scholar living in the country, and can find no scholarship in\nyour neighborhood except in the parsonage houses. You associate with\nforeigners, and are supposed to be unpatriotic; when in truth you are as\npatriotic as any rational and well-informed creature can be, but have a\nfaculty for languages that you like to exercise in conversation. This kind\nof confusion takes no account of the indisputable fact that men constantly\nassociate together on the ground of a single pursuit that they have in\ncommon, often a mere amusement, or because, in spite of every imaginable\ndifference, they are drawn together by one of those mysterious natural\naffinities which are so obscure in their origin and action that no human\nintelligence can explain them.\n\nNot only are a man's tastes liable to be confounded with those of his\npersonal acquaintances, but he may find some trade attributed to him, by a\nperfectly irrational association of ideas, because it happens to be\nprevalent in the country where he lives. I have known instances of men\nsupposed to have been in the cotton trade simply because they had lived in\nLancashire, and of others supposed to be in the mineral oil trade for no\nother reason than because they had lived in a part of France where mineral\noil is found.\n\nProfessional men are usually very much alive to the danger of confusion as\naffecting their success in life. If you are known to do two things, a\nconfusion gets established between the two, and you are no longer classed\nwith that ease and decision which the world finds to be convenient. It\ntherefore becomes a part of worldly wisdom to keep one of the occupations\nin obscurity, and if that is not altogether possible, then to profess as\nloudly and as frequently as you can that it is entirely secondary and only\na refreshment after more serious toils. Many years ago a well-known\nsurgeon published a set of etchings, and the merit of them was so\ndangerously conspicuous, so superior, in fact, to the average of\nprofessional work, that he felt constrained to keep those too clever\nchildren in their places by a quotation from Horace,--\n\n      \"O laborum\n  Dulce lenimen!\"\n\nTo present one's self to the world always in one character is a great help\nto success, and maintains the stability of a position. The kings in the\nstory-books and on playing cards who have always their crowns on their\nheads and sceptres in their hands, appear to enjoy a decided advantage\nover modern royalty, which dresses like other people and enters into\ncommon interests and pursuits. Literary men admire the prudent\nself-control of our literary sovereign, Tennyson, who by his rigorous\nabstinence from prose takes care never to appear in public without his\nsinging robes and his crown of laurel. Had he carelessly and familiarly\nemployed the commoner vehicle of expression, there would have been a\nconfusion of two Tennysons in the popular idea, whilst at present his name\nis as exclusively associated with the exquisite music of his verse as that\nof Mozart with another kind of melody.\n\nThe great evil of confusions, as they affect conversation, is that they\nconstantly place a man of accurate mental habits in such trying situations\nthat, unless he exercises the most watchful self-control, he is sure to\ncommit the sin of contradiction. We have all of us met with the lady who\ndoes not think it necessary to distinguish between one person and\nanother, who will tell a story of some adventure as having happened to A,\nwhen in reality it happened to B; who will attribute sayings and opinions\nto C, when they properly belong to D; and deliberately maintain that it is\nof no consequence whatever, when some suffering lover of accuracy\nundertakes to set her right. It is in vain to argue that there really does\nexist, in the order of the universe, a distinction between one person and\nanother, though both belong to the human race; and that organisms are\ngenerally isolated, though there has been an exception in the case of the\nSiamese twins. The death of the wonderful swimmer who attempted to descend\nthe rapids of Niagara afforded an excellent opportunity for confounders.\nIn France they all confounded him with Captain Boyton, who swam with an\napparatus; and when poor Webb was sucked under the whirlpool they said,\n\"You see that, after all, his inflated dress was of no avail.\" Fame of a\nhigher kind does not escape from similar confusions. On the death of\nGeorge Eliot, French readers of English novels lamented that they would\nhave nothing more from the pen that wrote \"John Halifax,\" and a cultivated\nFrenchman expressed his regret for the author of \"Adam Bede\" and \"Uncle\nTom's Cabin.\"[24]\n\nMen who have trained themselves in habits of accurate observation often\nhave a difficulty in realizing the confused mental condition of those who\nsimply receive impressions without comparison and classification. A fine\nfield for confused tourists is architecture. They go to France and Italy,\nthey talk about what they have seen, and leave you in bewilderment, until\nyou make the discovery that they have substituted one building for\nanother, or, better still, mixed two different edifices inextricably\ntogether. Foreigners of this class are quite unable to establish any\ndistinction between the Houses of Parliament and Westminster Abbey,\nbecause both have towers; and they are not clear about the difference\nbetween the British Museum and the National Gallery, because there are\ncolumns in the fronts of both.[25] English tourists will stay some time in\nParis, and afterwards not be able to distinguish between photographs of\nthe Louvre and the H\u00f4tel de Ville. We need not be surprised that people\nwho have never studied architecture at all should not be sure whether St.\nPaul's is a Gothic building or not, but the wonder is that they seem to\nretain no impressions received merely by the eye. One would think that the\neye alone, without knowledge, would be enough to establish a distinction\nbetween one building and another altogether different from it; yet it is\nnot so.\n\nI cannot close this chapter without some allusion to a crafty employment\nof words only too well understood already by those who influence the\npopular mind. There is such a natural tendency to confusion in all\nordinary human beings that if you repeatedly present to them two totally\ndistinct things at the same time, they will, before long, associate them\nso closely as to consider them inseparable by their very nature. This is\nthe reason why all those branches of education that train the mind in\nanalysis are so valuable. To be able to distinguish between accidental\nconnections of things or characteristics and necessary connections, is one\nof the best powers that education bestows upon us. By far the greater\nnumber of erroneous popular notions are due simply to the inability to\nmake this distinction which belongs to all undisciplined minds. Calumnies,\nthat have great influence over such minds, must lose their power as the\nhabit of analysis enables people to separate ideas which the uncultivated\nmingle together.\n\nInsufficient analysis leads to a very common sort of confusion between the\ndefectiveness of a part only and a defect pervading the whole. An\ninvention (as often happens) does not visibly succeed on the first trial,\nand then the whole of the common public will at once declare the invention\nto be bad, when, in reality, it may be a good invention with a local\ndefect, easily remediable. Suppose that a yacht misses stays, the common\nsort of criticism would be to say that she was a bad boat, when, in fact,\nher hull and everything else might be thoroughly well made, and the defect\nbe due only to a miscalculation in the placing of her canvas. I have\nmyself seen a small steel boat sink at her anchorage, and a crowd laugh\nat her as badly contrived, when her only defect was the unobserved\nstarting of a rivet. The boat was fished up, the rivet replaced, and she\nleaked and sank no more. When Stephenson's locomotive did not go because\nits wheels slid on the rails, the vulgar spectators were delighted with\nthe supposed failure of a benefactor of the human species, and set up a\nnoise of jubilant derision. The invention, they had decided, was of no\ngood, and they sang their own foolish _gaudeamus igitur_. Stephenson at\nonce perceived that the only defect was want of weight, and he immediately\nproceeded to remedy it by loading the machine with ballast. So it is in\nthousands of cases. The common mind, untrained in analysis, condemns the\nwhole as a failure, when the defect lies in some small part which the\nspecialist, trained in analysis, seeks for and discovers.\n\nI have not touched upon the confusions due to the decline of the\nintellectual powers. In that case the reason is to be sought for in the\ncondition of the brain, and there is, I believe, no remedy. In healthy\npeople, enjoying the complete vigor of their faculties, confusions are\nsimply the result of carelessness and indolence, and are proper subjects\nfor sarcasm. With senile confusions the case is very different. To treat\nthem with hard, sharp, decided correction, as is so often done by people\nof vigorous intellect, is a most cruel abuse of power. Yet it is difficult\nto say what ought to be done when an old person falls into manifest errors\nof this kind. Simple acquiescence is in this case a pardonable abandonment\nof truth, but there are situations in which it is not possible. Then you\nfind yourself compelled to show where the confusion lies. You do it as\ngently as may be, but you fail to convince, and awaken that tenacious,\nunyielding opposition which is a characteristic of decline in its earlier\nstages. All that can be said is, that when once it has become evident that\nconfusions are not careless but senile, they ought to be passed over if\npossible, and if not, then treated with the very utmost delicacy and\ngentleness.\n\n\n\n\nESSAY XXI.\n\nTHE NOBLE BOHEMIANISM.\n\n\nAmongst the common injustices of the world there have been few more\ncomplete than its reprobation of the state of mind and manner of life that\nhave been called Bohemianism; and so closely is that reprobation attached\nto the word that I would gladly have substituted some other term for the\nbetter Bohemianism had the English language provided me with one. It may,\nhowever, be a gain to justice itself that we should be compelled to use\nthe same expression, qualified only by an adjective, for two states of\nexistence that are the good and the bad conditions of the same, as it will\ntend to make us more charitable to those whom we must always blame, and\nyet may blame with a more or less perfect understanding of the causes that\nled them into error.\n\nThe lower forms of Bohemianism are associated with several kinds of vice,\nand are therefore justly disliked by people who know the value of a\nwell-regulated life, and, when at the worst, regarded by them with\nfeelings of positive abhorrence. The vices connected with these forms of\nBohemianism are idleness, irregularity, extravagance, drunkenness, and\nimmorality; and besides these vices the worst Bohemianism is associated\nwith many repulsive faults that may not be exactly vices, and yet are\nalmost as much disliked by decent people. These faults are slovenliness,\ndirt, a degree of carelessness in matters of business, often scarcely to\nbe distinguished from dishonesty, and habitual neglect of the decorous\nobservances that are inseparable from a high state of civilization.\n\nAfter such an account of the worst Bohemianism, in which, as the reader\nperceives, I have extenuated nothing, it may seem almost an act of\ntemerity to advance the theory that this is only the bad side of a state\nof mind and feeling that has its good and perfectly respectable side also.\nIf this seems difficult to believe, the reader has only to consider how\ncertain other instincts of humanity have also their good and bad\ndevelopments. The religious and the sexual instincts, in their best\naction, are on the side of national and domestic order, but in their worst\naction they produce sanguinary quarrels, ferocious persecutions, and the\nexcesses of the most degrading sensuality. It is therefore by no means a\nnew theory that a human instinct may have a happy or an unfortunate\ndevelopment, and it is not a reason for rejecting Bohemianism, without\nunprejudiced examination, that the worst forms of it are associated with\nevil.\n\nAgain, before going to the _raison d'\u00eatre_ of Bohemianism, let me point to\none consideration of great importance to us if we desire to think quite\njustly. It is, and has always been, a characteristic of Bohemianism to be\nextremely careless of appearances, and to live outside the shelter of\nhypocrisy; so its vices are far more visible than the same vices when\npractised by men of the world, and incomparably more offensive to persons\nwith a strong sense of what is called \"propriety.\" At the time when the\nworst form of Bohemianism was more common than it is now, its most serious\nvices were also the vices of the best society. If the Bohemian drank to\nexcess, so did the nobility and gentry; if the Bohemian had a mistress, so\nhad the most exalted personages. The Bohemian was not so much blamed for\nbeing a sepulchre as for being an ill-kept sepulchre, and not a whited\nsepulchre like the rest. It was far more his slovenliness and poverty than\nhis graver vices that made him offensive to a corrupt society with fine\nclothes and ceremonious manners.\n\nBohemianism and Philistinism are the terms by which, for want of better,\nwe designate two opposite ways of estimating wealth and culture. There are\ntwo categories of advantages in wealth,--the intellectual and the\nmaterial. The intellectual advantages are leisure to think and read,\ntravel, and intelligent conversation. The material advantages are large\nand comfortable houses, tables well served and abundant, good coats, clean\nlinen, fine dresses and diamonds, horses, carriages, servants, hot-houses,\nwine-cellars, shootings. Evidently the most perfect condition of wealth\nwould unite both classes of advantages; but this is not always, or often,\npossible, and it so happens that in most situations a choice has to be\nmade between them. The Bohemian is the man who with small means desires\nand contrives to obtain the intellectual advantages of wealth, which he\nconsiders to be leisure to think and read, travel, and intelligent\nconversation. The Philistine is the man who, whether his means are small\nor large, devotes himself wholly to the attainment of the other set of\nadvantages,--a large house, good food and wine, clothes, horses, and\nservants.\n\nThe Philistine gratifies his passion for comfort to a wonderful extent,\nand thousands of ingenious people are incessantly laboring to make his\nexistence more comfortable still, so that the one great inconvenience he\nis threatened with is the super-multiplication of conveniences. Now there\nis a certain noble Bohemianism which perceives that the Philistine life is\nnot really so rich as it appears, that it has only some of the advantages\nwhich ought to belong to riches, and these not quite the best advantages;\nand this noble Bohemianism makes the best advantages its first aim, being\ncontented with such a small measure of riches as, when ingeniously and\nskilfully employed, may secure them.\n\nA highly developed material luxury, such as that which fills our modern\nuniversal exhibitions and is the great pride of our age, has in itself so\nmuch the appearance of absolute civilization that any proposal to do\nwithout it may seem like a return to savagery; and Bohemianism is exposed\nto the accusation of discouraging arts and manufactures. There is a\nphysical side to Bohemianism to be considered later; and there may,\nindeed, be some connection between Bohemianism and the life of a red\nIndian who roams in his woods and contents himself with a low standard of\nphysical well-being. The fair statement of the case between Bohemianism\nand the civilization of arts and manufactures is as follows: the\nintelligent Bohemian does not despise them; on the contrary, when he can\nafford it, he encourages them and often surrounds himself with beautiful\nthings; but he will not barter his mental liberty in exchange for them, as\nthe Philistine does so readily. If the Bohemian simply prefers sordid\nidleness to the comfort which is the reward of industry, he has no part in\nthe higher Bohemianism, but combines the Philistine fault of intellectual\napathy with the Bohemian fault of standing aloof from industrial\ncivilization. If a man abstains from furthering the industrial\ncivilization of his country he is only excusable if he pursues some object\nof at least equal importance. Intellectual civilization really is such an\nobject, and the noble Bohemianism is excusable for serving it rather than\nthat other civilization of arts and manufactures which has such numerous\nservants of its own. If the Bohemian does not redeem his negligence of\nmaterial things by superior intellectual brightness, he is half a\nPhilistine, he is destitute of what is best in Bohemianism (I had nearly\nwritten of all that is worth having in it), and his contempt for material\nperfection has no longer any charm, because it is not the sacrifice of a\nlower merit to a higher, but the blank absence of the lower merit not\ncompensated or condoned by the presence of anything nobler or better.\n\nBohemianism and Philistinism are alike in combining self-indulgence with\nasceticism, but they are ascetic or self-indulgent in opposite directions.\nBohemianism includes a certain self-indulgence, on the intellectual side,\nin the pleasures of thought and observation and in the exercise of the\nimaginative faculties, combining this with a certain degree of asceticism\non the physical side, not a severe religious asceticism, but a\ndisposition, like that of a thorough soldier or traveller, to do without\nluxury and comfort, and take the absence of them gayly when they are not\nto be had. The self-indulgence of Philistinism is in bodily comfort, of\nwhich it has never enough; its asceticism consists in denying itself\nleisure to read and think, and opportunities for observation.\n\nThe best way of describing the two principles will be to give an account\nof two human lives that exemplified them. These shall not be described\nfrom imagination, but from accurate memory; and I will not have recourse\nto the easy artifice of selecting an unfavorable example of the class with\nwhich I happen to have a minor degree of personal sympathy. My Philistine\nshall be one whom I sincerely loved and heartily respected. He was an\nadmirable example of everything that is best and most worthy in the\nPhilistine civilization; and I believe that nobody who ever came into\ncontact with him, or had dealings with him, received any other impression\nthan this, that he had a natural right to the perfect respect which\nsurrounded him. The younger son of a poor gentleman, he began life with\nnarrow means, and followed a profession in a small provincial town. By\nclose attention and industry he saved a considerable sum of money, which\nhe lost entirely through the dishonesty of a trusted but untrustworthy\nacquaintance. He had other mishaps, which but little disturbed his\nserenity, and he patiently amassed enough to make himself independent. In\nevery relation of life he was not only above reproach, he was much more\nthan that: he was a model of what men ought to be, yet seldom are, in\ntheir conduct towards others. He was kind to every one, generous to those\nwho needed his generosity, and, though strict with himself, tolerant\ntowards aberrations that must have seemed to him strangely unreasonable.\nHe had great natural dignity, and was a gentleman in all his ways, with an\nold-fashioned grace and courtesy. He had no vanity; there may have been\nsome pride as an ingredient in his character, but if so it was of a kind\nthat could hurt nobody, for he was as simple and straightforward in his\nintercourse with the poor as he was at ease with the rich.\n\nAfter this description (which is so far from being overcharged that I have\nomitted, for the sake of brevity, many admirable characteristics), the\nreader may ask in what could possibly consist the Philistinism of a nature\nthat had attained such excellence. The answer is that it consisted in the\nperfect willingness with which he remained outside of every intellectual\nmovement, and in the restriction of his mental activity to riches and\nreligion. He used to say that \"a man must be contentedly ignorant of many\nthings,\" and he lived in this contented ignorance. He knew nothing of the\nsubjects that awaken the passionate interest of intellectual men. He knew\nno language but his own, bought no books, knew nothing about the fine\narts, never travelled, and remained satisfied with the life of his little\nprovincial town. Totally ignorant of all foreign literatures, ancient or\nmodern, he was at the same time so slightly acquainted with that of his\nown country that he had not read, and scarcely even knew by name, the most\nfamous authors of his own generation. His little bookcase was filled\nalmost exclusively with evangelical sermons and commentaries. This is\nPhilistinism on the intellectual side, the mental inertness that remains\n\"contentedly ignorant\" of almost everything that a superior intellect\ncares for. But, besides this, there is also a Philistinism on the physical\nside, a physical inertness; and in this, too, my friend was a real\nPhilistine. In spite of great natural strength, he remained inexpert in\nall manly exercises, and so had not enjoyed life on that side as he might\nhave done, and as the Bohemian generally contrives to do. He belonged to\nthat class of men who, as soon as they reach middle age, are scarcely more\nactive than the chairs they sit upon, the men who would fall from a horse\nif it were lively, upset a boat if it were light, and be drowned if they\nfell into the water. Such men can walk a little on a road, or they can sit\nin a carriage and be dragged about by horses. By this physical inertia my\nfriend was deprived of one set of impressions, as he was deprived by his\nintellectual inertia of another. He could not enjoy that close intimacy\nwith nature which a Bohemian generally finds to be an important part of\nexistence.\n\nI wonder if it ever occurred to him to reflect, in the tedious hours of\ntoo tranquil age, how much of what is best in the world had been simply\n_missed_ by him; how he had missed all the variety and interest of travel,\nthe charm of intellectual society, the influences of genius, and even the\nphysical excitements of healthy out-door amusements. When I think what a\nmagnificent world it is that we inhabit, how much natural beauty there is\nin it, how much admirable human work in literature and the fine arts, how\nmany living men and women there are in each generation whose acquaintance\na wise man would travel far to seek, and value infinitely when he had\nfound it, I cannot avoid the conclusion that my friend might have lived as\nhe did in a planet far less richly endowed than ours, and that after a\nlong life he went out of the world without having really known it.\n\nI have said that the intelligent Bohemian is generally a man of small or\nmoderate means, whose object is to enjoy the _best_ advantages (not the\nmost visible) of riches. In his view these advantages are leisure, travel,\nreading, and conversation. His estimate is different from that of the\nPhilistine, who sets his heart on the lower advantages of riches,\nsacrificing leisure, travel, reading, and conversation, in order to have a\nlarger house and more servants. But how, without riches, is the Bohemian\nto secure the advantages that he desires, for they also belong to riches?\nThere lies the difficulty, and the Bohemian's way of overcoming it\nconstitutes the romance of his existence. In absolute destitution the\nintelligent Bohemian life is not possible. A little money is necessary for\nit, and the art and craft of Bohemianism is to get for that small amount\nof money such an amount of leisure, reading, travel, and good conversation\nas may suffice to make life interesting. The way in which an old-fashioned\nBohemian usually set about it was this: he treated material comfort and\noutward appearances as matters of no consequence, accepting them when they\ncame in his way, but enduring the privation of them gayly. He learned the\nart of living on a little.\n\n  \"Je suis pauvre, tr\u00e8s pauvre, et vis pourtant fort bien\n   C'est parce que je vis comme les gens de rien.\"[26]\n\nHe spent the little that he had, first for what was really necessary, and\nnext for what really gave him pleasure, but he spent hardly anything in\ndeference to the usages of society. In this way he got what he wanted. His\nbooks were second-hand and ill bound, but he _had_ books and read them;\nhis clothes were shabby, yet still they kept him warm; he travelled in all\nsorts of cheap ways and frequently on foot; he lived a good deal in some\nunfashionable quarters in a capital city, and saw much of art, nature, and\nhumanity.\n\nTo exemplify the true theory of Bohemianism let me describe from memory\ntwo rooms, one of them inhabited by an English lady, not at all Bohemian,\nthe other by a German of the coarser sex who was essentially and\nthoroughly Bohemian. The lady's room was not a drawing-room, being a\nreasonable sort of sitting-room without any exasperating inutilities, but\nit was extremely, excessively comfortable. Half hidden amongst its\nmaterial comforts might be found a little rosewood bookcase containing a\nnumber of pretty volumes in purple morocco that were seldom, if ever,\nopened. My German Bohemian was a steady reader in six languages; and if\nhe had seen such a room as that he would probably have criticised it as\nfollows. He would have said, \"It is rich in superfluities, but has not\nwhat is necessary. The carpet is superfluous; plain boards are quite\ncomfortable enough. One or two cheap chairs and tables might replace this\ncostly furniture. That pretty rosewood bookcase holds the smallest number\nof books at the greatest cost, and is therefore contrary to true economy;\ngive me, rather, a sufficiency of long deal shelves all innocent of paint.\nWhat is the use of fine bindings and gilt edges? This little library is\nmiserably poor. It is all in one language, and does not represent even\nEnglish literature adequately; there are a few novels, books of poems, and\ntravels, but I find neither science nor philosophy. Such a room as that,\nwith all its comfort, would seem to me like a prison. My mind needs wider\npastures.\" I remember his own room, a place to make a rich Englishman\nshudder. One climbed up to it by a stone corkscrew-stair, half-ruinous, in\nan old medi\u00e6val house. It was a large room, with a bed in one corner, and\nit was wholly destitute of anything resembling a carpet or a curtain. The\nremaining furniture consisted of two or three rush-bottomed chairs, one\nlarge cheap lounging-chair, and two large plain tables. There were plenty\nof shelves (common deal, unpainted), and on them an immense litter of\nbooks in different languages, most of them in paper covers, and bought\nsecond-hand, but in readable editions. In the way of material luxury there\nwas a pot of tobacco; and if a friend dropped in for an evening a jug of\nale would make its appearance. My Bohemian was shabby in his dress, and\nunfashionable; but he had seen more, read more, and passed more hours in\nintelligent conversation than many who considered themselves his\nsuperiors. The entire material side of life had been systematically\nneglected, in his case, in order that the intellectual side might\nflourish. It is hardly necessary to observe that any attempt at luxury or\nvisible comfort, any conformity to fashion, would have been incompatible,\non small means, with the intellectual existence that this German scholar\nenjoyed.\n\nLong ago I knew an English Bohemian who had a small income that came to\nhim very irregularly. He had begun life in a profession, but had quitted\nit that he might travel and see the world, which he did in the oddest,\nmost original fashion, often enduring privation, but never ceasing to\nenjoy life deeply in his own way, and to accumulate a mass of observations\nwhich would have been quite invaluable to an author. In him the two\nactivities, physical and mental, were alike so energetic that they might\nhave led to great results had they been consistently directed to some\nprivate or public end; but unfortunately he remained satisfied with the\nexistence of an observant wanderer who has no purpose beyond the healthy\nexercise of his faculties. In usefulness to others he was not to be\ncompared with my good and admirable Philistine, but in the art of getting\nfor himself what is best in the world he was by far the more accomplished\nof the two. He fully enjoyed both the physical and the intellectual life;\nhe could live almost like a red Indian, and yet at the same time carry in\nhis mind the most recent results of European thought and science. His\ndistinguishing characteristic was a heroic contempt for comfort, in which\nhe rather resembled a soldier in war-time than any self-indulgent\ncivilian. He would sleep anywhere,--in his boat under a sail, in a\nhayloft, under a hedge if belated, and he would go for days together\nwithout any regular meal. He dressed roughly, and his clothes became old\nbefore he renewed them. He kept no servant, and lived in cheap lodgings in\ntowns, or hired one or two empty rooms and adorned them with a little\nportable furniture. In the country he contrived to make very economical\narrangements in farmhouses, by which he was fed and lodged quite as well\nas he ever cared to be. It would be difficult to excel him in simple\nmanliness, in the quiet courage that accepts a disagreeable situation or\nfaces a dangerous one; and he had the manliness of the mind as well as\nthat of the body; he estimated the world for what it is worth, and cared\nnothing for its transient fashions either in appearances or opinion. I am\nsorry that he was a useless member of society,--if, indeed, such an\neccentric is to be called a member of society at all,--but if uselessness\nis blamable he shares the blame, or ought in justice to share it, with a\nmultitude of most respectable gentlemen and ladies who receive nothing but\napprobation from the world.\n\nExcept this fault of uselessness there was nothing to blame in this man's\nmanner of life, but his want of purpose and discipline made his fine\nqualities seem almost without value. And now comes the question whether\nthe fine qualities of the useless Bohemian may not be of some value in a\nlife of a higher kind. I think it is evident that they may, for if the\nBohemian can cheerfully sacrifice luxury for some mental gain he has made\na great step in the direction of the higher life, and only requires a\npurpose and a discipline to attain it. Common men are completely enslaved\nby their love of comfort, and whoever has emancipated himself from this\nthraldom has gained the first and most necessary victory. The use that he\nwill make of it depends upon himself. If he has high purposes, his\nBohemianism will be ennobled by them, and will become a most precious\nelement in his character; and if his purposes are not of the highest, the\nBohemian element may still be very valuable if accompanied by\nself-discipline. Napoleon cannot be said to have had high purposes, but\nhis Bohemianism was admirable. A man who, having attained success, with\nboundless riches at his disposal, could quit the luxury of his palaces and\nsleep anywhere, in any poor farmhouse, or under the stars by the fire of a\nbivouac, and be satisfied with poor meals at the most irregular hours,\nshowed that, however he may have estimated luxury, he was at least\nentirely independent of it. The model monarch in this respect was Charles\nXII. of Sweden, who studied his own personal comfort as little as if he\nhad been a private soldier. Some royal commanders have carried luxury into\nwar itself, but not to their advantage. When Napoleon III. went in his\ncarriage to meet his fate at Sedan the roads were so encumbered by wagons\nbelonging to the Imperial household as to impede the movements of the\ntroops.\n\nThere is often an element of Bohemianism where we should least expect to\nfind it. There is something of it in our English aristocracy, though it is\nnot _called_ Bohemianism here because it is not accompanied by poverty;\nbut the spirit that sacrifices luxury to rough travelling is, so far, the\ntrue Bohemian spirit. In the aristocracy, however, such sacrifices are\nonly temporary; and a rough life accepted for a few weeks or months gives\nthe charm of a restored freshness to luxury on returning to it. The class\nin which the higher Bohemianism has most steadily flourished is the\nartistic and literary class, and here it is visible and recognizable\nbecause there is often poverty enough to compel the choice between the\nobjects of the intelligent Bohemian and those of ordinary men. The early\nlife of Goldsmith, for example, was that of a genuine Bohemian. He had\nscarcely any money, and yet he contrived to get for himself what the\nintelligent Bohemian always desires, namely, leisure to read and think,\ntravel, and interesting conversation. When penniless and unknown he\nlounged about the world thinking and observing; he travelled in Holland,\nFrance, Switzerland, and Italy, not as people do in railway carriages, but\nin leisurely intercourse with the inhabitants. Notwithstanding his poverty\nhe was received by the learned in different European cities, and, notably,\nheard Voltaire and Diderot talk till three o'clock in the morning. So long\nas he remained faithful to the true principles of Bohemianism he was happy\nin his own strange and eccentric way, and all the anxieties, all the\nslavery of his later years were due to his apostasy from those\nprinciples. He no longer estimated leisure at its true value when he\nallowed himself to be placed in such a situation that he was compelled to\ntoil like a slave in order to clear off work that had been already paid\nfor, such advances having been rendered necessary by expenditure on\nPhilistine luxuries. He no longer enjoyed humble travel but on his later\ntour in France with Mrs. Horneck and her two beautiful daughters, instead\nof enjoying the country in his own old simple innocent way, he allowed his\nmind to be poisoned with Philistine ideas, and constantly complained of\nthe want of physical comfort, though he lived far more expensively than in\nhis youth. The new apartments, taken on the success of the \"Good-natured\nMan,\" consisted, says Irving, \"of three rooms, which he furnished with\nmahogany sofas, card-tables, and bookcases; with curtains, mirrors, and\nWilton carpets.\" At the same time he went even beyond the precept of\nPolonius, for his garments were costlier than his purse could buy, and his\nentertainments were so extravagant as to give pain to his acquaintances.\nAll this is a desertion of real Bohemian principles. Goldsmith ought to\nhave protected his own leisure, which, from the Bohemian point of view,\nwas incomparably more precious to himself than Wilton carpets and coats\n\"of Tyrian bloom.\"\n\nCorot, the French landscape-painter, was a model of consistent Bohemianism\nof the best kind. When his father said, \"You shall have \u00a380 a year, your\nplate at my table, and be a painter; or you shall have \u00a34,000 to start\nwith if you will be a shop-keeper,\" his choice was made at once. He\nremained always faithful to true Bohemian principles, fully understanding\nthe value of leisure, and protecting his artistic independence by the\nextreme simplicity of his living. He never gave way to the modern rage for\nluxuries, but in his latter years, when enriched by tardy professional\nsuccess and hereditary fortune, he employed his money in acts of fraternal\ngenerosity to enable others to lead the intelligent Bohemian life.\n\nWordsworth had in him a very strong element of Bohemianism. His long\npedestrian rambles, his interest in humble life and familiar intercourse\nwith the poor, his passion for wild nature, and preference of natural\nbeauty to fine society, his simple and economical habits, are enough to\nreveal the tendency. His \"plain living and high thinking\" is a thoroughly\nBohemian idea, in striking opposition to the Philistine passion for rich\nliving and low thinking. There is a story that he was seen at a\nbreakfast-table to cut open a new volume with a greasy butter-knife. To\nevery lover of books this must seem horribly barbarous, yet at the same\ntime it was Bohemian, in that Wordsworth valued the thought only and cared\nnothing for the material condition of the volume. I have observed a like\nindifference to the material condition of books in other Bohemians, who\ntook the most lively interest in their contents. I have also seen\n\"bibliophiles\" who had beautiful libraries in excellent preservation, and\nwho loved to fondle fine copies of books that they never read. That is\nPhilistine, it is the preference of material perfection to intellectual\nvalues.\n\nThe reader is, I hope, fully persuaded by this time that the higher\nBohemianism is compatible with every quality that deserves respect, and\nthat it is not of necessity connected with any fault or failing. I may\ntherefore mention as an example of it one of the purest and best\ncharacters whom it was ever my happiness to know. There was a strong\nelement of noble Bohemianism in Samuel Palmer, the landscape-painter.\n\"From time to time,\" according to his son, \"he forsook his easel, and\ntravelled far away from London smoke to cull the beauties of some favorite\ncountry side. His painting apparatus was complete, but singularly simple,\nhis dress and other bodily requirements simpler still; so he could walk\nfrom village to hamlet easily carrying all he wanted, and utterly\nindifferent to luxury. With a good constitution it mattered little to him\nhow humble were his quarters or how remote from so-called civilization.\n'In exploring wild country,' he writes, 'I have been for a fortnight\ntogether, uncertain each day whether I should get a bed under cover at\nnight; and about midsummer I have repeatedly been walking all night to\nwatch the mystic phenomena of the silent hours.' He enjoyed to the full\nthis rough but not uncomfortable mode of travelling, and was better\npleased to take his place, after a hard day's work, in some old chimney\ncorner--joining on equal terms the village gossip--than to mope in the\ndull grandeur of a private room.\"\n\nHere are two of my Bohemian elements,--the love of travel and the love of\nconversation. As for the other element,--the love of leisure to think and\nread,--it is not visible in this extract (though the kind of travel\ndescribed is leisurely), but it was always present in the man. During the\nquiet, solitary progress by day and night there were ample opportunities\nfor thinking, and as for reading we know that Palmer never stirred without\na favorite author in his pocket, most frequently Milton or Virgil. To\ncomplete the Bohemian we only require one other\ncharacteristic,--contentment with a simple material existence; and we are\ntold that \"the painting apparatus was singularly simple, the dress and\nother bodily requirements simpler still.\" So here we have the intelligent\nBohemian in his perfection.\n\nAll this is the exact opposite of Philistine \"common sense.\" A Philistine\nwould not have exposed himself, voluntarily, to the certainty of poor\naccommodation. A Philistine would not have remained out all night \"to\nwatch the mystic phenomena of the silent hours.\" In the absence of a\nrailway he would have hired a carriage, and got through the wild country\nrapidly to arrive at a good dinner. Lastly, a Philistine would not have\ncarried either Milton or Virgil in his pocket; he would have had a\nnewspaper.\n\nSome practical experience of the higher Bohemianism is a valuable part of\neducation. It enables us to estimate things at their true worth, and to\nextract happiness from situations in which the Philistine is both dull and\nmiserable. A true Bohemian, of the best kind, knows the value of mere\nshelter, of food enough to satisfy hunger, of plain clothes that will keep\nhim sufficiently warm; and in the things of the mind he values the liberty\nto use his own faculties as a kind of happiness in itself. His philosophy\nleads him to take an interest in talking with human beings of all sorts\nand conditions, and in different countries. He does not despise the poor,\nfor, whether poor or rich in his own person, he understands simplicity of\nlife, and if the poor man lives in a small cottage, he, too, has probably\nbeen lodged less spaciously still in some small hut or tent. He has lived\noften, in rough travel, as the poor live every day. I maintain that such\ntastes and experiences are valuable both in prosperity and in adversity.\nIf we are prosperous they enhance our appreciation of the things around\nus, and yet at the same time make us really know that they are not\nindispensable, as so many believe them to be; if we fall into adversity\nthey prepare us to accept lightly and cheerfully what would be depressing\nprivations to others. I know a painter who in consequence of some change\nin the public taste fell into adversity at a time when he had every reason\nto hope for increased success. Very fortunately for him, he had been a\nBohemian in early life,--a respectable Bohemian, be it understood,--and a\ngreat traveller, so that he could easily dispense with luxuries. \"To be\nstill permitted to follow art is enough,\" he said; so he reduced his\nexpenses to the very lowest scale consistent with that pursuit, and lived\nas he had done before in the old Bohemian times. He made his old clothes\nlast on, he slung a hammock in a very simple painting-room, and cooked his\nown dinner on the stove. With the canvas on his easel and a few books on a\nshelf he found that if existence was no longer luxurious it had not yet\nceased to be interesting.\n\n\n\n\nESSAY XXII.\n\nOF COURTESY IN EPISTOLARY COMMUNICATION.\n\n\nThe universal principle of courtesy is that the courteous person manifests\na disposition to sacrifice something in favor of the person whom he\ndesires to honor; the opposite principle shows itself in a disposition to\nregard our own convenience as paramount over every other consideration.\n\nCourtesy lives by a multitude of little sacrifices, not by sacrifices of\nsufficient importance to impose any burdensome sense of obligation. These\nlittle sacrifices may be both of time and money, but more of time, and the\nmoney sacrifice should be just perceptible, never ostentatious.\n\nThe tendency of a hurried age, in which men undertake more work or more\npleasure (hardest work of all!) than they are able properly to accomplish,\nis to abridge all forms of courtesy because they take time, and to replace\nthem by forms, if any forms survive, which cost as little time as\npossible. This wounds and injures courtesy itself in its most vital part,\nfor the essence of it is the willingness to incur that very sacrifice\nwhich modern hurry avoids.\n\nThe first courtesy in epistolary communication is the mere writing of the\nletter. Except in cases where the letter itself is an offence or an\nintrusion, the mere making of it is an act of courtesy towards the\nreceiver. The writer sacrifices his time and a trifle of money in order\nthat the receiver may have some kind of news.\n\nIt has ever been the custom to commence a letter with some expression of\nrespect, affection, or good will. This is graceful in itself, and\nreasonable, being nothing more than the salutation with which a man enters\nthe house of his friend, or his more ceremonious act of deference in\nentering that of a stranger or a superior. In times and seasons where\ncourtesy has not given way to hurry, or a selfish dread of unnecessary\nexertion, the opening form is maintained with a certain amplitude, and the\nsubstance of the letter is not reached in the first lines, which gently\ninduce the reader to proceed. Afterwards these forms are felt to involve\nan inconvenient sacrifice of time, and are ruthlessly docked.\n\nIn justice to modern poverty in forms it is fair to take into\nconsideration the simple truth, so easily overlooked, that we have to\nwrite thirty letters where our ancestors wrote one; but the principle of\nsacrifice in courtesy always remains essentially the same; and if of our\nmore precious and more occupied time we consecrate a smaller portion to\nforms, it is still essential that there should be no appearance of a\ndesire to escape from the kind of obligation which we acknowledge.\n\nThe most essentially modern element of courtesy in letter-writing is the\npromptitude of our replies. This promptitude was not only unknown to our\nremote ancestors, but even to our immediate predecessors. They would\npostpone answering a letter for days or weeks, in the pure spirit of\nprocrastination, when they already possessed all the materials necessary\nfor the answer. Such a habit would try our patience very severely, but our\nfathers seem to have considered it a part of their dignity to move slowly\nin correspondence. This temper even yet survives in official\ncorrespondence between sovereigns, who still notify to each other their\ndomestic events long after the publication of them in the newspapers.\n\nA prompt answer equally serves the purpose of the sender and the receiver.\nIt is a great economy of time to answer promptly, because the receiver of\nthe letter is so much gratified by the promptitude itself that he readily\npardons brevity in consideration of it. An extremely short but prompt\nletter, that would look curt without its promptitude, is more polite than\na much longer one written a few days later.\n\nPrompt correspondents save all the time that others waste in excuses. I\nremember an author and editor whose system imposed upon him the tax of\nperpetual apologizing. He always postponed writing until the delay had put\nhis correspondent out of temper, so that when at last he _did_ write,\nwhich somehow happened ultimately, the first page was entirely occupied\nwith apologies for his delay, as he felt that the necessity had arisen for\nsoothing the ruffled feelings of his friend. It never occurred to him that\nthe same amount of pen work which these apologies cost him would, if given\nearlier, have sufficed for a complete answer. A letter-writer of this sort\nmust naturally be a bad man of business, and this gentleman was so, though\nhe had excellent qualities of another order.\n\nI remember receiving a most extraordinary answer from a correspondent of\nthis stamp. I wrote to him about a matter which was causing me some\nanxiety, and did not receive an answer for several weeks. At last the\nreply came, with the strange excuse that as he knew I had guests in my\nhouse he had delayed writing from a belief that I should not be able to\nattend to anything until after their departure. If such were always the\neffect of entertaining friends, what incalculable perturbation would be\ncaused by hospitality in all private and public affairs!\n\nThe reader may, perhaps, have met with a collection of letters called the\n\"Plumpton Correspondence,\" which was published by the Camden Society in\n1839. I have always been interested in this for family reasons, and also\nbecause the manuscript volume was found in the neighborhood where I lived\nin youth;[27] but it does not require any blood connection with the now\nextinct house of Plumpton of Plumpton to take an interest in a collection\nof letters which gives so clear an insight into the epistolary customs of\nEngland in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. The first peculiarity\nthat strikes the modern reader is the extreme care of almost all the\nwriters, even when near relations, to avoid a curt and dry style,\ndestitute of the ambages which were in those days esteemed an essential\npart of politeness. The only exception is a plain, straightforward\ngentleman, William Gascoyne, who heads his letters, \"To my Uncle Plumpton\nbe these delivered,\" or \"To my Uncle Plumpton this letter be delivered in\nhast.\" He begins, \"Uncle Plumpton, I recommend me unto you,\" and\nfinishes, \"Your nephew,\" simply, or still more laconically, \"Your.\" Such\nplainness is strikingly rare. The rule was, to be deliberately perfect in\nall epistolary observances, however near the relationship. Not that the\nforms used were hard forms, entirely fixed by usage and devoid of personal\nfeeling and individuality. They appear to have been more flexible and\nliving than our own, as they were more frequently varied according to the\ntaste and sentiment of the writers. Sometimes, of course, they were\nperfunctory, but often they have an original and very graceful turn. One\nletter, which I will quote at length, contains curious evidence of the\ncourtesy and discourtesy of those days. The forms used in the letter\nitself are perfect, but the writer complains that other letters have not\nbeen answered.\n\nIn the reign of Henry VII. Sir Robert Plumpton had a daughter, Dorothy,\nwho was in the household of Lady Darcy (probably as a sort of maid of\nhonor to her ladyship), but was not quite pleased with her position, and\nwanted to go home to Plumpton. She had written to her father several\ntimes, but had received no answer, so she now writes again to him in these\nterms. The date of the letter is not fully given, as the year is wanting;\nbut her parents were married in 1477, and her father died in 1523, at the\nage of seventy, after a life of strange vicissitudes. The reader will\nobserve two leading characteristics in this letter,--that it is as\ncourteous as if the writer were not related to the receiver, and as\naffectionate as if no forms had been observed. As was the custom in those\ndays, the young lady gives her parents their titles of worldly honor, but\nshe always adds to them the most affectionate filial expressions:\n\n    _To the right worshipfull and my most entyerly beloved, good, kind\n    father, Sir Robart Plompton, knyght, lying at Plompton in Yorkshire,\n    be thes delivered in hast._\n\n    Ryght worshipfull father, in the most humble manner that I can I\n    recommend me to you, and to my lady my mother, and to all my brethren\n    and sistren, whom I besech almyghtie God to mayntayne and preserve in\n    prosperus health and encrese of worship, entyerly requiering you of\n    your daly blessing; letting you wyt that I send to you mesuage, be\n    Wryghame of Knarsbrugh, of my mynd, and how that he should desire you\n    in my name to send for me to come home to you, and as yet I had no\n    answere agane, the which desire my lady hath gotten knowledg.\n    Wherefore, she is to me more better lady than ever she was before,\n    insomuch that she hath promysed me hir good ladyship as long as ever\n    she shall lyve; and if she or ye can fynd athing meyter for me in this\n    parties or any other, she will helpe to promoote me to the uttermost\n    of her puyssaunce. Wherefore, I humbly besech you to be so good and\n    kind father unto me as to let me know your pleasure, how that ye will\n    have me ordred, as shortly as it shall like you. And wryt to my lady,\n    thanking hir good ladyship of hir so loving and tender kyndnesse\n    shewed unto me, beseching hir ladyship of good contynewance thereof.\n    And therefore I besech you to send a servant of yours to my lady and\n    to me, and show now by your fatherly kyndnesse that I am your child;\n    for I have sent you dyverse messuages and wryttings, and I had never\n    answere againe. Wherefore yt is thought in this parties, by those\n    persones that list better to say ill than good, that ye have litle\n    favor unto me; the which error ye may now quench yf yt will like you\n    to be so good and kynd father unto me. Also I besech you to send me a\n    fine hatt and some good cloth to make me some kevercheffes. And thus I\n    besech _Jesu_ to have you in his blessed keeping to his pleasure, and\n    your harts desire and comforth. Wryten at the Hirste, the xviii day of\n    Maye.\n\n        By your loving daughter,\n            DORYTHE PLOMPTON.\n\nIt may be worth while, for the sake of contrast, and that we may the\nbetter perceive the lost fragrance of the antique courtesy, to put the\nsubstance of this letter into the style of the present day. A modern young\nlady would probably write as follows:--\n\n    HIRST, _May 18_.\n\n    DEAR PAPA,--Lady Darcy has found out that I want to leave her, but she\n    has kindly promised to do what she can to find something else for me.\n    I wish you would say what you think, and it would be as well, perhaps,\n    if you would be so good as to drop a line to her ladyship to thank\n    her. I have written to you several times, but got no answer, so people\n    here say that you don't care very much for me. Would you please send\n    me a handsome bonnet and some handkerchiefs? Best love to mamma and\n    all at home.\n\n        Your affectionate daughter,\n            DOROTHY PLUMPTON.\n\nThis, I think, is not an unfair specimen of a modern letter.[28] The\nexpressions of worship, of humble respect, have disappeared, and so far it\nmay be thought that there is improvement, yet that respect was not\nincompatible with tender feeling; on the contrary, it was closely\nassociated with it, and expressions of sentiment have lost strength and\nvitality along with expressions of respect. Tenderness may be sometimes\nshown in modern letters, but it is rare; and when it occurs it is\ngenerally accompanied by a degree of familiarity which our ancestors would\nhave considered in bad taste. Dorothy Plumpton's own letter is far richer\nin the expression of tender feeling than any modern letter of the\ncourteous and ceremonious kind, or than any of those pale and commonplace\ncommunications from which deep respect and strong affection are almost\nequally excluded. Please observe, moreover, that the young lady had reason\nto be dissatisfied with her father for his neglect, which does not in the\nleast diminish the filial courtesy of her style, but she chides him in the\nsweetest fashion,--\"_Show now by your fatherly kindness that I am your\nchild_.\" Could anything be prettier than that, though the reproach\ncontained in it is really one of some severity?\n\nDorothy's father, Sir Robert, puts the following superscription on a\nletter to his wife, \"To my entyrely and right hartily beloved wife, Dame\nAgnes Plumpton, be this Letter delivered.\" He begins his letter thus, \"My\ndeare hart, in my most hartily wyse, I recommend mee unto you;\" and he\nends tenderly, \"By your owne lover, Robert Plumpton, Kt.\" She, on the\ncontrary, though a faithful and brave wife, doing her best for her husband\nin a time of great trial, and enjoying his full confidence, begins her\nletters, \"Right worshipful Sir,\" and ends simply, \"By your wife, Dame\nAgnes Plumpton.\" She is so much absorbed by business that her expressions\nof feeling are rare and brief. \"Sir, I am in good health, and all your\nchildren prays for your daly blessing. And all your servants is in good\nhealth and prays diligently for your good speed in your matters.\"\n\nThe generally courteous tone of the letters of those days may be judged of\nby the following example. The reader will observe how small a space is\noccupied with the substance of the letter in comparison with the\nexpressions of pure courtesy, and how simply and handsomely regret for the\ntrespass is expressed:--\n\n    _To his worshipful Cosin, Sir Robart Plompton, Kt._\n\n    Right reverend and worshipful Cosin, I commend me unto you as hertyly\n    as I can, evermore desiring to heare of your welfare, the which I\n    besech _Jesu_ to continew to his pleasure, and your herts desire.\n    Cosin, please you witt that I am enformed, that a poor man somtyme\n    belonging to mee, called Umfrey Bell, hath trespased to a servant of\n    youres, which I am sory for. Wherefore, Cosin, I desire and hartily\n    pray you to take upp the matter into your own hands for my sake, and\n    rewle him as it please you; and therein you wil do, as I may do that\n    may be plesur to you, and my contry, the which I shalbe redy too, by\n    the grace of God, who preserve you.\n\n        By your own kynsman,\n            ROBART WARCOPP, of Warcoppe.\n\nThe reader has no doubt by this time enough of these old letters, which\nare not likely to possess much charm for him unless, like the present\nwriter, he is rather of an antiquarian turn.[29]\n\nThe quotations are enough to show some of the forms used in correspondence\nby our forefathers, forms that were right in their own day, when the state\nof society was more ceremonious and deferential, but no one would propose\nto revive them. We may, however, still value and cultivate the beautifully\ncourteous spirit that our ancestors possessed and express it in our own\nmodern ways.\n\nI have already observed that the essentially modern form of courtesy is\nthe rapidity of our replies. This, at least, is a virtue that we can\nresolutely cultivate and maintain. In some countries it is pushed so far\nthat telegrams are very frequently sent when there is no need to employ\nthe telegraph. The Arabs of Algeria are extremely fond of telegraphing for\nits own sake: the notion of its rapidity pleases and amuses them; they\nlike to wield a power so wonderful. It is said that the Americans\nconstantly employ the telegraph on very trivial occasions, and the habit\nis increasing in England and France. The secret desire of the present age\nis to find a plausible excuse for excessive brevity in correspondence, and\nthis is supplied by the comparative costliness of telegraphing. It is a\ncomfort that it allows you to send a single word. I have heard of a letter\nfrom a son to a father consisting of the Latin word _Ibo_, and of a still\nbriefer one from the father to the son confined entirely to the imperative\n_I_. These miracles of brevity are only possible in letters between the\nmost intimate friends or relations, but in telegraphy they are common.\n\nIt is very difficult for courtesy to survive this modern passion for\nbrevity, and we see it more and more openly cast aside. All the long\nphrases of politeness have been abandoned in English correspondence for a\ngeneration, except in formal letters to official or very dignified\npersonages; and the little that remains is reduced to a mere shred of\ncourteous or affectionate expression. We have not, it is true, the\ndetestable habit of abridging words, as our ancestors often did, but we\ncut our phrases short, and sometimes even words of courtesy are abridged\nin an unbecoming manner. Men will write Dr. Sir for Dear Sir. If I am\ndear enough to these correspondents for their sentiments of affection to\nbe worth uttering at all, why should they be so chary of expressing them\nthat they omit two letters from the very word which is intended to affect\nmy feelings?\n\n  \"If I be dear, if I be dear,\"\n\nas the poet says, why should my correspondent begrudge me the four letters\nof so brief an adjective?\n\nThe long French and Italian forms of ceremony at the close of letters are\nfelt to be burdensome in the present day, and are gradually giving place\nto briefer ones; but it is the very length of them, and the time and\ntrouble they cost to write, that make them so courteous, and no brief form\ncan ever be an effective substitute in that respect.\n\nI was once placed in the rather embarrassing position of having suddenly\nto send telegrams in my own name, containing a request, to two high\nforeign authorities in a corps where punctilious ceremony is very strictly\nobserved. My solution of the difficulty was to write two full ceremonious\nletters, with all the formal expressions unabridged, and then have these\nletters telegraphed _in extenso_. This was the only possible solution, as\nan ordinary telegram would have been entirely out of the question. It\nbeing rather expensive to telegraph a very formal letter, the cost added\nto the appearance of deference, so I had the curious but very real\nadvantage on my side that I made a telegram seem even more deferential\nthan a letter.\n\nThe convenience of the letter-writer is consulted in inverse ratio to the\nappearances of courtesy. In the matter of sealing, for example, that seems\nso slight and indifferent a concern, a question of ceremony and courtesy\nis involved. The old-fashioned custom of a large seal with the sender's\narms or cipher added to the importance of the contents both by strictly\nguarding the privacy of the communication and by the dignified assertion\nof the writer's rank. Besides this, the time that it costs to take a\nproper impression of a seal shows the absence of hurry and the disposition\nto sacrifice which are a part of all noble courtesy; whilst the act of\nrapidly licking the gum on the inside of an envelope and then giving it a\nthump with your fist to make it stick is neither dignified nor elegant.\nThere were certain beautiful associations with the act of sealing. There\nwas the taper that had to be lighted, and that had its own little\ncandlestick of chased or gilded silver, or delicately painted porcelain;\nthere was the polished and graven stone of the seal, itself more or less\nprecious, and enhanced in value by an art of high antiquity and noble\nassociations, and this graven signet-stone was set in massive gold. The\nact of sealing was deliberate, to secure a fair impression, and as the wax\ncaught flame and melted it disengaged a delicate perfume. These little\nthings may be laughed at by a generation of practical men of business who\nknow the value of every second, but they had their importance, and have it\nstill, amongst those who possess any delicacy of perception.[30] The\nreader will remember the sealing of Nelson's letter to the Crown Prince of\nDenmark during the battle of Copenhagen. \"A wafer was given him,\" says\nSouthey, \"but he ordered a candle to be brought from the cockpit, and\nsealed the letter with wax, _affixing a larger seal than he ordinarily\nused_. 'This,' said he, 'is no time to appear hurried and informal.'\" The\nstory is usually told as a striking example of Nelson's coolness in a time\nof intense excitement, but it might be told with equal effect as a proof\nof his knowledge of mankind and of the trifles which have a powerful\neffect on human intercourse. The preference of wax to a wafer, and\nespecially the deliberate choice of a larger seal as more ceremonious and\nimportant, are clear evidence of diplomatic skill. No doubt, too, the\nimpression of Nelson's arms was very careful and clear.\n\nIn writing to French Ministers of State it is a traditional custom to\nemploy a certain paper called \"papier ministre,\" which is very much larger\nthan that sent to ordinary mortals. Paper is by no means a matter of\nindifference. It is the material costume under which we present ourselves\nto persons removed from us by distance; and as a man pays a call in\nhandsome clothes as a sign of respect to others, and also of self-respect,\nso he sends a piece of handsome paper to be the bearer of his salutation.\nBesides, a letter is in itself a gift, though a small one, and however\ntrifling a gift may be it must never be shabby. The English understand\nthis art of choosing good-looking letter-paper, and are remarkable for\nusing it of a thickness rare in other nations. French love of elegance has\nled to charming inventions of tint and texture, particularly in delicate\ngray tints, and these papers are now often decorated with embossed\ninitials of heraldic devices on a large scale, but that is carrying\nprettiness too far. The common American habit of writing letters on ruled\npaper is not to be recommended, as the ruling reminds us of copy-books and\naccount-books, and has a mechanical appearance that greatly detracts from\nwhat ought to be the purely personal air of an autograph.\n\nModern love of despatch has led to the invention of the post-card, which,\nfrom our present point of view, that of courtesy, deserves unhesitating\ncondemnation. To use a post-card is as much as to say to your\ncorrespondent, \"In order to save for myself a very little money and a very\nlittle time, I will expose the subject of our correspondence to the eyes\nof any clerk, postman, or servant, who feels the slightest curiosity about\nit; and I take this small piece of card, of which I am allowed to use one\nside only, in order to relieve myself from the obligation, and spare\nmyself the trouble, of writing a letter.\" To make the convenience\nabsolutely perfect, it is customary in England to omit the opening and\nconcluding salutations on post-cards, so that they are the _ne plus\nultra_, I will not say of positive rudeness, but of that negative rudeness\nwhich is not exactly the opposite of courtesy, but its absence. Here\nagain, however, comes the modern principle; and promptitude and frequency\nof communication may be accepted as a compensation for the sacrifice of\nformality. It may be argued, and with reason, that when a man of our own\nday sends a post-card his ancestors would have been still more laconic,\nfor they would have sent nothing at all, and that there are a thousand\ncircumstances in which a post-card may be written when it is not possible\nto write a letter. A husband on his travels has a supply of such cards in\na pocket-book. With these, and his pencil, he writes a line once or twice\na day in train or steamboat, or at table between two dishes, or on the\nwindy platform of a railway station, or in the street when he sees a\nletter-box. He sends fifty such communications where his father would\nhave written three letters, and his grandfather one slowly composed and\nslowly travelling epistle.\n\nMany modern correspondents appreciate the convenience of the post-card,\nbut their conscience, as that of well-bred people, cannot get over the\nfault of its publicity. For these the stationers have devised several\ndifferent substitutes. There is the French plan of what is called \"Un Mot\n\u00e0 la Poste,\" a piece of paper with a single fold, gummed round the other\nthree edges, and perforated like postage-stamps for the facility of the\nopener.[31] There is the miniature sheet of paper that you have not to\nfold, and there is the card that you enclose in an envelope, and that\nprepares the reader for a very brief communication. Here, again, is a very\ncurious illustration of the sacrificial nature of courtesy. A card is\nsent; why a card? Why not a piece of paper of the same size which would\nhold as many words? The answer is that a card is handsomer and more\ncostly, and from its stiffness a little easier to take out of the\nenvelope, and pleasanter to hold whilst reading, so that a small sacrifice\nis made to the pleasure and convenience of the receiver, which is the\nessence of courtesy in letter-writing. All this brief correspondence is\nthe offspring of the electric telegraph. Our forefathers were not used to\nit, and would have regarded it as an offence. Even at the present date\n(1884) it is not quite safe to write in our brief modern way to persons\nwho came to maturity before the electric telegraph was in use.\n\nThere is a wide distinction between brevity and hurry; in fact, brevity,\nif of the intelligent kind, is the best preservative against hurry. Some\nmen write short letters, but are very careful to observe all the forms;\nand they have the great advantage that the apparent importance of the\nformal expressions is enhanced by the shortness of the letter itself. This\nis the case in Robert Warcopp's letter to Sir Robert Plumpton.\n\nWhen hurry really exists, and it is impossible to avoid the appearance of\nit, as when a letter _cannot_ be brief, yet must be written at utmost\nspeed, the proper course is to apologize for hurry at the beginning and\nnot at the end of the letter. The reader is then propitiated at once, and\nexcuses the slovenly penmanship and style.\n\nIt is remarkable that legibility of handwriting should never have been\nconsidered as among the essentials of courtesy in correspondence. It is\nobviously for the convenience of the reader that a letter should be easily\nread; but here another consideration intervenes. To write very legibly is\nthe accomplishment of clerks and writing-masters, who are usually poor\nmen, and, as such, do not hold a high social position. Aristocratic pride\nhas always had it for a principle to disdain, for itself, the\naccomplishments of professional men; and therefore a careless scrawl is\nmore aristocratic than a clean handwriting, if the scrawl is of a\nfashionable kind. Perhaps the historic origin of this feeling may be the\nscorn of the ignorant medi\u00e6val baron for writing of all kinds as beneath\nthe attention of a warrior. In a cultured age there may be a reason of a\nhigher order. It may be supposed that attention to mechanical excellence\nis incompatible with the action of the intellect; and people are curiously\nready to imagine incompatibilities where they do not really exist. As a\nmatter of fact, some men of eminent intellectual gifts write with as\nexquisite a clearness in the formation of their letters as in the\nelucidation of their ideas. It is easily forgotten, too, that the same\nperson may use different kinds of handwriting, according to circumstances,\nlike the gentleman whose best hand some people could read, whose middling\nhand the writer himself could read, and whose worst neither he nor any\nother human being could decipher. Legouv\u00e9, in his exquisite way, tells a\ncharming story of how he astonished a little girl by excelling her in\ncalligraphy. His scribble is all but illegible, and she was laughing at it\none day, when he boldly challenged her to a trial. Both sat down and\nformed their letters with great patience, as in a writing class, and it\nturned out, to the girl's amazement, that the scribbling Academician had\nby far the more copperplate-like hand of the two. He then explained that\nhis bad writing was simply the result of speed. Frenchmen provokingly\nreserve their very worst and most illegible writing for the signature. You\nare able to read the letter but not the signature, and if there is not\nsome other means of ascertaining the writer's name you are utterly at\nfault.\n\nThe old habit of crossing letters, now happily abandoned, was a direct\nbreach of real, though not of what in former days were conventional, good\nmanners. To cross a letter is as much as to say, \"In order to spare myself\nthe cost of another sheet of paper or an extra stamp, I am quite willing\nto inflict upon you, my reader, the trouble of disengaging one set of\nlines from another.\" Very economical people in the past generation saved\nan occasional penny in another way at the cost of the reader's eyes. They\ndiluted their ink with water, till the recipient of the letter cried,\n\"Prithee, why so pale?\"\n\nThe modern type-writing machine has the advantage of making all words\nequally legible; but the receiver of the printed letter is likely to feel\non opening it a slight yet perceptible shock of the kind always caused by\na want of consideration. The letter so printed is undoubtedly easier to\nread than all but the very clearest manuscript, and so far it may be\nconsidered a politeness to use the instrument; but unluckily it is\nimpersonal, so that the performer on the instrument seems far removed from\nthe receiver of the letter and not in that direct communication with him\nwhich would be apparent in an autograph. The effect on the mind is almost\nlike that of a printed circular, or at least of a letter which has been\ndictated to a short-hand writer.\n\nThe dictation of letters is allowable in business, because men of business\nhave to use the utmost attainable despatch, and (like the use of the lead\npencil) it is permitted to invalids, but with these exceptions it is sure\nto produce a feeling of distance almost resembling discourtesy. In the\nfirst place, a dictated letter is not strictly private, its contents\nbeing already known to the amanuensis; and besides this it is felt that\nthe reason for dictating letters is the composer's convenience, which he\nought not to consult so obviously. If he dictates to a short-hand writer\nhe is evidently chary of his valuable time, whereas courtesy always at\nleast _seems_ willing to sacrifice time to others. These remarks, I\nrepeat, have no reference to business correspondence, which has its own\ncode of good manners.\n\nThe most irritating letters to receive are those which, under a great show\nof courtesy, with many phrases and many kind inquiries about your health\nand that of your household, and even with some news adapted to your taste,\ncontain some short sentence which betrays the fact that the whole letter\nwas written with a manifestly selfish purpose. The proper answer to such\nletters is a brief business answer to the one essential sentence that\nrevealed the writer's object, not taking any notice whatever of the froth\nof courteous verbiage.\n\nIs it a part of necessary good breeding to answer letters at all? Are we\nreally, in the nature of things, under the obligation to take a piece of\npaper and write phrases and sentences thereupon because it has pleased\nsomebody at a distance to spend his time in that manner?\n\nThis requires consideration; there can be no general rule. It seems to me\nthat people commit the error of transferring the subject from the region\nof oral conversation to the region of written intercourse. If a man asked\nme the way in the street it would be rudeness on my part not to answer\nhim, because the answer is easily given and costs no appreciable time,\nbut in written correspondence the case is essentially different. I am\nburdened with work; every hour, every minute of my day is apportioned to\nsome definite duty or necessary rest, and three strangers make use of the\npost to ask me questions. To answer them I must make references; however\nbrief the letters may be they will take time,--altogether the three will\nconsume an hour. Have these correspondents any right to expect me to work\nan hour for them? Would a cabman drive them about the streets of London\nduring an hour for nothing? Would a waterman pull them an hour on the\nThames for nothing? Would a shoe-black brush their boots and trousers an\nhour for nothing? And why am I to serve these men gratuitously and be\ncalled an ill-bred, discourteous person if I tacitly decline to be their\nservant? We owe sacrifices--occasional sacrifices--of this kind to friends\nand relations, and we can afford them to a few, but we are under no\nobligation to answer everybody. Those whom we do answer may be thankful\nfor a word on a post-card in Gladstone's brief but sufficient fashion. I\nam very much of the opinion of Rudolphe in Ponsard's \"L'Honneur et\nl'Argent.\" A friend asks him what he does about letters:--\n\n    _Rudolphe._          Je les mets\n  Soigneusement en poche et ne r\u00e9ponds jamais.\n    _Premier Ami._      Oh! vous raillez.\n    _Rudolphe._ Non pas. Je ne puis pas admettre\n  Qu'un importun m'oblige \u00e0 r\u00e9pondre \u00e0 sa lettre,\n  Et, parcequ'il lui pla\u00eet de noircir du papier\n  Me condamne moi-m\u00eame \u00e0 ce f\u00e2cheux m\u00e9tier.\n\n\n\n\nESSAY XXIII.\n\nLETTERS OF FRIENDSHIP.\n\n\nIf the art of writing had been unknown till now, and if the invention of\nit were suddenly to burst upon the world as did that of the telephone, one\nof the things most generally said in praise of it would be this. It would\nbe said, \"What a gain to friendship, now that friends can communicate in\nspite of separation by the very widest distances!\"\n\nYet we have possessed this means of communication, the fullest and best of\nall, from remote antiquity, and we scarcely make any use of it--certainly\nnot any use at all responding to its capabilities, and as time goes on,\ninstead of developing those capabilities by practice in the art of\nfriendly correspondence, we allow them to diminish by disuse.\n\nThe lowering of cost for the transport of letters, instead of making\nfriendly correspondents numerous, has made them few. The cheap\npostage-stamp has increased business correspondence prodigiously, but it\nhas had a very different effect on that of friendship. Great numbers of\nmen whose business correspondence is heavy scarcely write letters of\nfriendship at all. Their minds produce the business letter as by a second\nnature, and are otherwise sterile.\n\nAs for the facilities afforded by steam communication with distant\ncountries, they seem to be of little use to friendship, since a moderate\ndistance soon puts a stop to friendly communication. Except in cases of\nstrong affection the Straits of Dover are an effectual though imaginary\nbar to intercourse of this kind, not to speak of the great oceans.\n\nThe impediment created by a narrow sea is, as I have said, imaginary, but\nwe may speculate on the reasons for it; and my own reflections have ended\nin the somewhat strange conclusion that it must have something to do with\nsea-sickness. It must be that people dislike the idea of writing a letter\nthat will have to cross a narrow channel of salt-water, because they\nvaguely and dimly dread the motion of the vessel. Nobody would consciously\navow to himself such a sympathy with a missive exempt from all human ills,\nbut the feeling may be unconsciously present. How else are we to account\nfor the remarkable fact that salt-water breaks friendly communication by\nletter? If you go to live anywhere out of your native island your most\nintimate friends cease to give any news of themselves. They do not even\nsend printed announcements of the marriages and deaths in their families.\nThis does not imply any cessation of friendly feeling on their part. If\nyou appeared in England again they would welcome you with the utmost\nkindness and hospitality, but they do not like to post anything that will\nhave to cross the sea. The news-vendors have not the same delicate\nimaginative sympathy with the possible sufferings of rag-pulp, so you get\nyour English journals and find therein, by pure accident, the marriage of\none intimate old friend and the death of another. You excuse the married\nman, because he is too much intoxicated with happiness to be responsible\nfor any omission; and you excuse the dead man, because he cannot send\nletters from another world. Still you think that somebody not preoccupied\nby bridal joys or impeded by the last paralysis might have sent you a line\ndirectly, were it only a printed card.\n\nNot only do the writers of letters feel a difficulty in sending their\nmanuscript across the sea, but people appear to have a sense of difficulty\nin correspondence proportionate to the distance the letter will have to\ntraverse. One would infer that they really experience, by the power of\nimagination, a feeling of fatigue in sending a letter on a long journey.\nIf this is not so, how are we to account for the fact that the rarity of\nletters from friends increases in exact proportion to our remoteness from\nthem? A simple person without correspondence would naturally imagine that\nit would be resorted to as a solace for separation, and that the greater\nthe distance the more the separated friends would desire to be drawn\ntogether occasionally by its means, but in practice this rarely happens.\nPeople will communicate by letter across a space of a hundred miles when\nthey will not across a thousand.\n\nThe very smallest impediments are of importance when the desire for\nintercourse is languid. The cost of postage to colonies and to countries\nwithin the postal union is trifling, but still it is heavier than the cost\nof internal postage, and it may be unconsciously felt as an impediment.\nAnother slight impediment is that the answer to a letter sent to a great\ndistance cannot arrive next day, so that he who writes in hope of an\nanswer is like a trader who cannot expect an immediate return for an\ninvestment.\n\nTo prevent friendships from dying out entirely through distance, the\nFrench have a custom which seems, but is not, an empty form. On or about\nNew Year's Day they send cards to _all_ friends and many acquaintances,\nhowever far away. The useful effects of this custom are the following:--\n\n1. It acquaints you with the fact that your friend is still\nalive,--pleasing information if you care to see him again.\n\n2. It shows you that he has not forgotten you.\n\n3. It gives you his present address.\n\n4. In case of marriage, you receive his wife's card along with his own;\nand if he is dead you receive no card at all, which is at least a negative\nintimation.[32]\n\nThis custom has also an effect upon written correspondence, as the printed\ncard affords the opportunity of writing a letter, when, without the\naddress, the letter might not be written. When the address is well known\nthe card often suggests the idea of writing.\n\nWhen warm friends send visiting-cards they often add a few words of\nmanuscript on the card itself, expressing friendly sentiments and giving a\nscrap of brief but welcome news.\n\nHere is a suggestion to a generation that thinks friendly letter-writing\nirksome. With a view to the sparing of time and trouble, which is the\ngreat object of modern life (sparing, that is, in order to waste in other\nways), cards might be printed as forms of invitation are, leaving only a\nfew blanks to be filled up; or there might be a public signal-book in\nwhich the phrases most likely to be useful might be represented by\nnumbers.\n\nThe abandonment of letter-writing between friends is the more to be\nregretted that, unless our friends are public persons, we receive no news\nof them indirectly; therefore, when we leave their neighborhood, the\nseparation is of that complete kind which resembles temporary death. \"No\nword comes from the dead,\" and no word comes from those silent friends. It\nis a melancholy thought in leaving a friend of this kind, when you shake\nhands at the station and still hear the sound of his voice, that in a few\nminutes he will be dead to you for months or years. The separation from a\ncorresponding friend is shorn of half its sorrows. You know that he will\nwrite, and when he writes it requires little imagination to hear his voice\nagain.\n\nTo write, however, is not all. For correspondence to reach its highest\nvalue, both friends must have the natural gift of friendly letter-writing,\nwhich may be defined as the power of talking on paper in such a manner as\nto represent their own minds with perfect fidelity in their friendly\naspect.\n\nThis power is not common. A man may be a charming companion, full of humor\nand gayety, a well of knowledge, an excellent talker, yet his\ncorrespondence may not reveal the possession of these gifts. Some men are\nso constituted that as soon as they take a pen their faculties freeze. I\nremember a case of the same congelation in another art. A certain painter\nhad exuberant humor and mimicry, with a marked talent for strong effects\nin talk; in short, he had the gifts of an actor, and, as Pius VII. called\nNapoleon I., he was both _commediante_ and _tragediante_. Any one who knew\nhim, and did not know his paintings, would have supposed at once that a\nman so gifted must have painted the most animated works; but it so\nhappened (from some cause in the deepest mysteries of his nature) that\nwhenever he took up a brush or a pencil his humor, his tragic power, and\nhis love of telling effects all suddenly left him, and he was as timid,\nslow, sober, and generally ineffectual in his painting as he was full of\nfire and energy in talk. So it is in writing. That which ought to be the\npouring forth of a man's nature often liberates only a part of his nature,\nand perhaps that part which has least to do with friendship. Your friend\ndelights you by his ease and affectionate charm of manner, by the\nhappiness of his expressions, by his wit, by the extent of his\ninformation, all these being qualities that social intercourse brings out\nin him as colors are revealed by light. The same man, in dull solitude at\nhis desk, may write a letter from which every one of these qualities may\nbe totally absent, and instead of them he may offer you a piece of\nperfunctory duty-writing which, as you see quite plainly, he only wanted\nto get done with, and in which you do not find a trace of your friend's\nreal character. Such correspondence as that is worth having only so far\nas it informs you of your friend's existence and of his health.\n\nAnother and a very different way in which a man may represent himself\nunfairly in correspondence, so that his letters are not his real self, is\nwhen he finds that he has some particular talent as a writer, and\nunconsciously cultivates that talent when he holds a pen, whereas his real\nself has many other qualities that remain unrepresented. In this way humor\nmay become the dominant quality in the letters of a correspondent whose\nconversation is not dominantly humorous.\n\nHabits of business sometimes produce the effect that the confirmed\nbusiness correspondent will write to his friend willingly and promptly on\nany matter of business, and will give him excellent advice, and be glad of\nthe opportunity of rendering him a service, but he will shrink from the\nunaccustomed effort of writing any other kind of letter.\n\nThere is a strong temptation to blame silent friends and praise good\ncorrespondents; but we do not reflect that letter-writing is a task to\nsome and a pleasure to others, and that if people may sometimes be justly\nblamed for shirking a _corv\u00e9e_ they can never deserve praise for indulging\nin an amusement. There is a particular reason why, when friendly\nletter-writing is a task, it is more willingly put off than many other\ntasks that appear far heavier and harder. It is either a real pleasure or\na feigned pleasure, and feigned pleasures are the most wearisome things in\nlife, far more wearisome than acknowledged work. For in work you have a\nplain thing to do and you see the end of it, and there is no need for\nambages at the beginning or for a graceful retiring at the close; but a\nfeigned pleasure has its own observances that must be gone through whether\none has any heart for them or not. The groom who cleans a rich man's\nstable, and whistles at his work, is happier than the guest at a state\ndinner who is trying to look other than what he is,--a wearied victim of\nfeigned and formal pleasure with a set false smile upon his face. In\nwriting a business letter you have nothing to affect; but a letter of\nfriendship, unless you have the real inspiration for it, is a narrative of\nthings you have no true impulse to narrate, and the expression of feelings\nwhich (even if they be in some degree existent) you do not earnestly\ndesire to utter.\n\nThe sentiment of friendship is in general rather a quiet feeling of regard\nthan any lively enthusiasm. It may be counted upon for what it is,--a\ndisposition to receive the friend with a welcome or to render him an\noccasional service, but there is not, commonly, enough of it to be a\nperennial warm fountain of literary inspiration. Therefore the worst\nmistake in dealing with a friend is to reproach him for not having been\ncordial and communicative enough. Sometimes this reproach is made,\nespecially by women, and the immediate effect of it is to close whatever\ncommunicativeness there may be. If the friend wrote little before being\nreproached he will write less after.\n\nThe true inspiration of the friendly letter is the perfect faith that all\nthe concerns of the writer will interest his friend. If James, who is\nseparated by distance from John, thinks that John will not care about what\nJames has been doing, hoping, suffering, the fount of friendly\ncorrespondence is frozen at its source. James ought to believe that John\nloves him enough to care about every little thing that can affect his\nhappiness, even to the sickness of his old horse or the accident that\nhappened to his dog when the scullery-maid threw scalding water out of the\nkitchen window; then there will be no lack, and James will babble on\ninnocently through many a page, and never have to think.\n\nThe believer in friendship, he who has the true undoubting faith, writes\nwith perfect carelessness about great things and small, avoiding neither\nserious interests, as a wary man would, nor trivial ones that might be\npassed over by a writer avaricious of his time. William of Orange, in his\nletters to Bentinck, appears to have been the model of friendly\ncorrespondents; and he was so because his letters reflected not a part\nonly of his thinking and living, but the whole of it, as if nothing that\nconcerned him could possibly be without interest for the man he loved.\nFamiliar as it must be to many readers, I cannot but quote a passage from\nMacaulay:\n\n    \"The descendants of Bentinck still preserve many letters written by\n    William to their master, and it is not too much to say that no person\n    who has not studied those letters can form a correct notion of the\n    Prince's character. He whom even his admirers generally accounted the\n    most frigid and distant of men here forgets all distinctions of rank,\n    and pours out all his thoughts with the ingenuousness of a schoolboy.\n    He imparts without reserve secrets of the highest moment. He explains\n    with perfect simplicity vast designs affecting all the governments of\n    Europe. Mingled with his communications on such subjects are other\n    communications of a very different but perhaps not of a less\n    interesting kind. All his adventures, all his personal feelings, his\n    long runs after enormous stags, his carousals on St. Hubert's Day, the\n    growth of his plantations, the failure of his melons, the state of his\n    stud, his wish to procure an easy pad-nag for his wife, his vexation\n    at learning that one of his household, after ruining a girl of good\n    family, refused to marry her, his fits of sea-sickness, his coughs,\n    his headaches, his devotional moods, his gratitude for the Divine\n    protection after a great escape, his struggles to submit himself to\n    the Divine will after a disaster, are described with an amiable\n    garrulity hardly to have been expected from the most discreetly sedate\n    statesman of his age. Still more remarkable is the careless effusion\n    of his tenderness, and the brotherly interest which he takes in his\n    friend's domestic felicity.\"\n\nFriendly letters easily run over from sheet to sheet till they become\nample and voluminous. I received a welcome epistle of twenty pages\nrecently, and have seen another from a young man to his comrade which\nexceeded fifty; but the grandest letter that I ever heard of was from\nGustave Dor\u00e9 to a very old lady whom he liked. He was travelling in\nSwitzerland, and sent her a letter eighty pages long, full of lively\npen-sketches for her entertainment. Artists often insert sketches in their\nletters,--a graceful habit, as it adds to their interest and value.\n\nThe talent for scribbling friendly letters implies some rough literary\npower, but may coexist with other literary powers of a totally different\nkind, and, as it seems, in perfect independence of them. There is no\napparent connection between the genius in \"Childe Harold,\" \"Manfred,\"\n\"Cain,\" and the talent of a lively letter-writer, yet Byron was the best\ncareless letter-writer in English whose correspondence has been published\nand preserved. He said \"dreadful is the exertion of letter-writing,\" but\nby this he must have meant the first overcoming of indolence to begin the\nletter, for when once in motion his pen travelled with consummate\nnaturalness and ease, and the exertion is not to be perceived. The length\nand subject of his communications were indeterminate. He scribbled on and\non, every passing mood being reflected and fixed forever in his letters,\nwhich complete our knowledge of him by showing us the action of his mind\nin ordinal times as vividly as the poems display its power in moments of\nhighest exaltation. We follow his mental phases from minute to minute. He\nis not really in one state and pretending to be in another for form's\nsake, so you have all his moods, and the letters are alive. The\ntransitions are quick as thought. He darts from one topic to another with\nthe freedom and agility of a bird, dwelling on each just long enough to\nsatisfy his present need, but not an instant longer, and this without any\nreference to the original subject or motive of the letter. He is one of\nthose perfect correspondents _qui causent avec la plume_. Men, women, and\nthings, comic and tragic adventures, magnificent scenery, historical\ncities, all that his mind spontaneously notices in the world, are touched\nupon briefly, yet with consummate power. Though the sentences were written\nin the most careless haste and often in the strangest situations, many a\nparagraph is so dense in its substance, so full of matter, that one could\nnot abridge it without loss. But the supreme merit of Byron's letters is\nthat they record his own sensations with such fidelity. What do I, the\nreceiver of a letter, care for second-hand opinions about anything? I can\nhear the fashionable opinions from echoes innumerable. What I _do_ want is\na bit of my friend himself, of his own peculiar idiosyncrasy, and if I get\n_that_ it matters nothing that his feelings and opinions should be\ndifferent from mine; nay, the more they differ from mine the more\nfreshness and amusement they bring me. All Byron's correspondents might be\nsure of getting a bit of the real Byron. He never describes anything\nwithout conveying the exact effect upon himself. Writing to his publisher\nfrom Rome in 1817, he gives in a single paragraph a powerful description\nof the execution of three robbers by the guillotine (rather too terrible\nto quote), and at the end of it comes the personal effect:--\n\n    \"The pain seems little, and yet the effect to the spectator and the\n    preparation to the criminal are very striking and chilling. The first\n    turned me quite hot and thirsty, and made me shake so that I could\n    hardly hold the opera-glass (I was close, but was determined to see as\n    one should see everything once, with attention); the second and third\n    (which shows how dreadfully soon things grow indifferent), I am\n    ashamed to say, had no effect on me as a horror, though I would have\n    saved them if I could.\"\n\nHow accurately this experience is described with no affectation of\nimpassible courage (he trembles at first like a woman) or of becoming\nemotion afterwards, the instant that the real emotion ceased! Only some\npity remains,--\"I would have saved them if I could.\"\n\nThe bits of frank criticism thrown into his letters, often quite by\nchance, were not the least interesting elements in Byron's\ncorrespondence. Here is an example, about a book that had been sent him:--\n\n    \"Modern Greece--good for nothing; written by some one who has never\n    been there, and, not being able to manage the Spenser stanza, has\n    invented a thing of his own, consisting of two elegiac stanzas, an\n    heroic line and an Alexandrine, twisted on a string. Besides, why\n    _modern_? You may say _modern Greeks_, but surely _Greece_ itself is\n    rather more ancient than ever it was.\"\n\nThe carelessness of Byron in letter-writing, his total indifference to\nproportion and form, his inattention to the beginning, middle, and end of\na letter, considered as a literary composition, are not to be counted for\nfaults, as they would be in writings of any pretension. A friendly letter\nis, by its nature, a thing without pretension. The one merit of it which\ncompensates for every defect is to carry the living writer into the\nreader's presence, such as he really is, not such as by study and art he\nmight make himself out to be. Byron was energetic, impetuous, impulsive,\nquickly observant, disorderly, generous, open-hearted, vain. All these\nqualities and defects are as conspicuous in his correspondence as they\nwere in his mode of life. There have been better letter-writers as to\nliterary art,--to which he gave no thought,--and the literary merits that\nhis letters possess (their clearness, their force of narrative and\ndescription, their conciseness) are not the results of study, but the\ncharacteristics of a vigorous mind.\n\nThe absolutely best friendly letter-writer known to me is Victor\nJacquemont. He, too, wrote according to the inspiration of the moment, but\nit was so abundant that it carried him on like a steadily flowing tide.\nHis letters are wonderfully sustained, yet they are not _composed_; they\nare as artless as Byron's, but much more full and regular. Many scribblers\nhave facility, a flux of words, but who has Jacquemont's weight of matter\nalong with it? The development of his extraordinary epistolary talent was\ndue to another talent deprived of adequate exercise by circumstances.\nJacquemont was by nature a brilliant, charming, amiable talker, and the\ncircumstances were various situations in which this talker was deprived of\nan audience, being often, in long wanderings, surrounded by dull or\nignorant people. Ideas accumulated in his mind till the accumulation\nbecame difficult to bear, and he relieved himself by talking on paper to\nfriends at a distance, but intentionally only to one friend at a time. He\ntried to forget that his letters were passed round a circle of readers,\nand the idea that they would be printed never once occurred to him:--\n\n    \"En \u00e9crivant aujourd'hui aux uns et aux autres, j'ai cherch\u00e9 \u00e0 oublier\n    ce que tu me dis de l'\u00e9change que chacun fait des lettres qu'il re\u00e7oit\n    de moi. Cette pens\u00e9e m'aurait retenu la plume, ou du moins, _ne\n    l'aurait pas laiss\u00e9e couler assez nonchalamment sur le papier pour en\n    noircir, en un jour, cinquante-huit feuilles_, comme je l'ai fait....\n    _Je sais et j'aime beaucoup causer \u00e0 deux; \u00e0 trois, c'est autre chose;\n    il en est de m\u00eame pour \u00e9crire._ Pour parler comme je pense et sans\n    blague, _il me faut la persuasion que je ne serai lu que de celui \u00e0\n    qui j'\u00e9cris_.\"\n\nTo read these letters, in the four volumes of them which have been happily\npreserved, is to live with the courageous observer from day to day, to\nshare pleasures enjoyed with the freshness of sensation that belongs to\nyouth and strength, and privations borne with the cheerfulness of a truly\nheroic spirit.\n\nThis Essay would run to an inordinate length if I even mentioned the best\nof the many letter-writers who are known to us; and it is generally by\nsome adventitious circumstance that they have ever been known at all. A\nman wins fame in something quite outside of letter-writing, and then his\nletters are collected and given to the world, but perfectly obscure people\nmay have been equal or superior to him as correspondents. Occasionally the\nletters of some obscure person are rescued from oblivion. Madame de\nR\u00e9musat passed quietly through life, and is now in a blaze of posthumous\nfame. Her son decided upon the publication of her letters, and then it\nbecame at once apparent that this lady had extraordinary gifts of the\nobserving and recording order, so that her testimony, as an eye-witness of\nrare intelligence, must affect all future estimates of the conqueror of\nAusterlitz. There may be at this moment, there probably are, persons to\nwhom the world attributes no literary talent, yet who are cleverly\npreserving the very best materials of history in careless letters to their\nfriends.\n\nIt seems an indiscretion to read private letters, even when they are in\nprint, but it is an indiscretion we cannot help committing. What can be\nmore private than a letter from a man to his wife on purely family\nmatters? Surely it is wrong to read such letters; but who could repent\nhaving read that exquisite one from Tasso's father, Bernardo Tasso,\nwritten to his wife about the education of their children during an\ninvoluntary separation? It shows to what a degree a sheet of paper may be\nmade the vehicle of a tender affection. In the first page he tries, and,\nlover-like, tries again and again, to find words that will draw them\ntogether in spite of distance. \"Not merely often,\" he says, \"but\ncontinually our thoughts must meet upon the road.\" He expresses the\nfullest confidence that her feelings for him are as strong and true as his\nown for her, and that the weariness of separation is painful alike for\nboth, only he fears that she will be less able to bear the pain, not\nbecause she is wanting in prudence but by reason of her abounding love. At\nlength the tender kindness of his expressions culminates in one passionate\noutburst, \"poi ch' io amo voi in quello estremo grado che si possa amar\ncosa mortale.\"\n\nIt would be difficult to find a stronger contrast than that between\nBernardo Tasso's warmth and the tranquil coolness of Montaigne, who just\nsays enough to save appearances in that one conjugal epistle of his which\nhas come down to us. He begins by quoting a sceptical modern view of\nmarriage, and then briefly disclaims it for himself, but does not say\nexactly what his own sentiments may be, not having much ardor of affection\nto express, and honestly avoiding any feigned declarations:--\n\n    \"Ma Femme vous entendez bien que ce n'est pas le tour d'vn galand\n    homme, aux reigles de ce temps icy, de vous courtiser & caresser\n    encore. Car ils disent qu'vn habil homme peut bien prendre femme: mais\n    que de l'espouser c'est \u00e0 faire \u00e0 vn sot. Laissons les dire: ie me\n    tiens de ma part \u00e0 la simple fa\u00e7on du vieil aage, aussi en porte-ie\n    tantost le poil. Et de vray la nouuellet\u00e9 couste si cher iusqu'\u00e0\n    ceste heure \u00e0 ce pauure estat (& si ie ne s\u00e7ay si nous en sommes \u00e0 la\n    derni\u00e8re enchere) qu'en tout & par tout i'en quitte le party. Viuons\n    ma femme, vous & moy, \u00e0 la vieille Fran\u00e7oise.\"\n\nIf friendship is maintained by correspondence, it is also liable to be\nimperilled by it. Not unfrequently have men parted on the most amiable\nterms, looking forward to a happy meeting, and not foreseeing the evil\neffects of letters. Something will be written by one of them, not quite\nacceptable to the other, who will either remonstrate and cause a rupture\nin that way, or take his trouble silently and allow friendship to die\nmiserably of her wound. Much experience is needed before we entirely\nrealize the danger of friendly intercourse on paper. It is ten times more\ndifficult to maintain a friendship by letter than by personal intercourse,\nnot for the obvious reason that letter-writing requires an effort, but\nbecause as soon as there is the slightest divergence of views or\ndifference in conduct, the expression of it or the account of it in\nwriting cannot be modified by kindness in the eye or gentleness in the\ntone of voice. My friend may say almost anything to me in his private\nroom, because whatever passes his lips will come with tones that prove him\nto be still my friend; but if he wrote down exactly the same words, and a\npostman handed me the written paper, they might seem hard, unkind, and\neven hostile. It is strange how slow we are to discover this in practice.\nWe are accustomed to speak with great freedom to intimate friends, and it\nis only after painful mishaps that we completely realize the truth that it\nis perilous to permit ourselves the same liberty with the pen. As soon as\nwe _do_ realize it we see the extreme folly of those who timidly avoid the\noral expression of friendly censure, and afterwards write it all out in\nblack ink and send it in a missive to the victim when he has gone away. He\nreceives the letter, feels it to be a cold cruelty, and takes refuge from\nthe vexations of friendship in the toils of business, thanking Heaven that\nin the region of plain facts there is small place for sentiment.\n\n\n\n\nESSAY XXIV.\n\nLETTERS OF BUSINESS.\n\n\nThe possibilities of intercourse by correspondence are usually\nunderestimated.\n\nThat there are great natural differences of talent for letter-writing is\ncertainly true; but it is equally true that there are great natural\ndifferences of talent for oral explanation, yet, although we constantly\nhear people say that this or that matter of business cannot be treated by\ncorrespondence, we _never_ hear them say that it cannot be treated by\npersonal interviews. The value of the personal interview is often as much\nover-estimated as that of letters is depreciated; for if some men do best\nwith the tongue, others are more effective with the pen.\n\nIt is presumed that there is nothing in correspondence to set against the\nadvantages of pouring forth many words without effort, and of carrying on\nan argument rapidly; but the truth is, that correspondence has peculiar\nadvantages of its own. A hearer seldom grasps another person's argument\nuntil it has been repeated several times, and if the argument is of a very\ncomplex nature the chances are that he will not carry away all its points\neven then. A letter is a document which a person of slow abilities can\nstudy at his leisure, until he has mastered it; so that an elaborate\npiece of reasoning may be set forth in a letter with a fair chance that\nsuch a person will ultimately understand it. He will read the letter three\nor four times on the day of its arrival, then he will still feel that\nsomething may have escaped him, and he will read it again next day. He\nwill keep it and refer to it afterwards to refresh his memory. He can do\nnothing of all this with what you say to him orally. His only resource in\nthat case is to write down a memorandum of the conversation on your\ndeparture, in which he will probably make serious omissions or mistakes.\nYour letter is a memorandum of a far more direct and authentic kind.\n\nAppointments are sometimes made in order to settle a matter of business by\ntalking, and after the parties have met and talked for a long time one\nsays to the other, \"I will write to you in a day or two;\" and the other\ninstantly agrees with the proposal, from a feeling that the matter can be\nsettled more clearly by letter than by oral communication.\n\nIn these cases it may happen that the talking has cleared the way for the\nletter,--that it has removed subjects of doubt, hesitation, or dispute,\nand left only a few points on which the parties are very nearly agreed.\n\nThere are, however, other cases, which have sometimes come under my own\nobservation, in which men meet by appointment to settle a matter, and then\nseem afraid to cope with it, and talk about indifferent subjects with a\nhalf-conscious intention of postponing the difficult one till there is no\nlonger time to deal with it on that day. They then say, when they\nseparate, \"We will settle that matter by correspondence,\" as if they could\nnot have done so just as easily without giving themselves the trouble of\nmeeting. In such cases as these the reason for avoiding the difficult\nsubject is either timidity or indolence. Either the parties do not like to\nface each other in an opposition that may become a verbal combat, or else\nthey have not decision and industry enough to do a hard day's work\ntogether; so they procrastinate, that they may spread the work over a\nlarger space of time.\n\nThe timidity that shrinks from a personal encounter is sometimes the cause\nof hostile letter-writing about matters of business even when personal\ninterviews are most easy. There are instances of disputes by letter\nbetween people who live in the same town, in the same street, and even in\nthe same house, and who might quarrel with their tongues if they were not\nafraid, but fear drives them to fight from a certain distance, as it\nrequires less personal courage to fire a cannon at an enemy a league away\nthan to face his naked sword.\n\nTimidity leads people to write letters and to avoid them. Some timorous\npeople feel bolder with a pen; others, on the contrary, are extremely\nafraid of committing anything to paper, either because written words\nremain and may be referred to afterwards, or because they may be read by\neyes they were never intended for, or else because the letter-writer feels\ndoubtful about his own powers in composition, grammar, or spelling.\n\nOf these reasons against doing business by letter the second is really\nserious. You write about your most strictly private affairs, and unless\nthe receiver of the letter is a rigidly careful and orderly person, it may\nbe read by his clerks or servants. You may afterwards visit the recipient\nand find the letter lying about on a disorderly desk, or stuck on a hook\nsuspended from a wall, or thrust into a lockless drawer; and as the letter\nis no longer your property, and you have not the resource of destroying\nit, you will keenly appreciate the wisdom of those who avoid\nletter-writing when they can.\n\nThe other cause of timidity, the apprehension that some fault may be\ncommitted, some sin against literary taste or grammatical rule, has a\npowerful effect as a deterrent from even necessary business\ncorrespondence. The fear which a half-educated person feels that he will\ncommit faults causes a degree of hesitation which is enough of itself to\nproduce them; and besides this cause of error there is the want of\npractice, also caused by timidity, for persons who dread letter-writing\npractise it as little as possible.\n\nThe awkwardness of uneducated letter-writers is a most serious cause of\nanxiety to people who are compelled to intrust the care of things to\nuneducated dependants at a distance. Such care-takers, instead of keeping\nyou regularly informed of the state of affairs as an intelligent\ncorrespondent would, write rarely, and they have such difficulty in\nimagining the necessary ignorance of one who is not on the spot, that the\ninformation they give you is provokingly incomplete on some most important\npoints.\n\nAn uneducated agent will write to you and tell you, for example, that\ndamage has occurred to something of yours, say a house, a carriage, or a\nyacht, but he will not tell you its exact nature or extent, and he will\nleave you in a state of anxious conjecture. If you question him by letter,\nhe will probably miss what is most essential in your questions, so that\nyou will have great difficulty in getting at the exact truth. After much\ntrouble you will perhaps have to take the train and go to see the extent\nof damage for yourself, though it might have been described to you quite\naccurately in a short letter by an intelligent man of business.\n\nNothing is more wonderful than the mistakes in following written\ndirections that can be committed by uneducated men. With clear directions\nin the most legible characters before their eyes they will quietly go and\ndo something entirely different, and appear unfeignedly surprised when you\nshow them the written directions afterwards. In these cases it is probable\nthat they have unconsciously substituted a notion of their own for your\nidea, which is the common process of what the uneducated consider to be\nunderstanding things.\n\nThe extreme facility with which this is done may be illustrated by an\nexample. The well-known French _savant_ and inventor, Ruolz, whose name is\nfamous in connection with electro-plating, turned his attention to paper\nfor roofing and, as he perceived the defects of the common bituminous\npapers, invented another in which no bitumen was employed. This he\nadvertised constantly and extensively as the \"Carton _non_ bitum\u00e9 Ruolz,\"\nconsequently every one calls it the \"Carton bitum\u00e9 Ruolz.\" The reason here\nis that the notion of papers for roofs was already so associated in the\nFrench mind with bitumen, that it was absolutely impossible to effect the\ndisjunction of the two ideas.\n\nInstances have occurred to everybody in which the consequence of warning a\nworkman that he is not to do some particular thing, is that he goes and\ndoes it, when if nothing had been said on the subject he might, perchance,\nhave avoided it. Here are two good instances of this, but I have met with\nmany others. I remember ordering a binder to bind some volumes with red\nedges, specially stipulating that he was not to use aniline red. He\ntherefore carefully stained the edges with aniline. I also remember\nwriting to a painter that he was to stain some new fittings of a boat with\na transparent glaze of raw sienna, and afterwards varnish them, and that\nhe was to be careful _not_ to use opaque paint anywhere. I was at a great\ndistance from the boat and could not superintend the work. In due time I\nvisited the boat and discovered that a foul tint of opaque paint had been\nemployed everywhere on the new fittings, without any glaze or varnish\nwhatever, in spite of the fact that old fittings, partially retained, were\nstill there, with mellow transparent stain and varnish, in the closest\njuxtaposition with the hideous thick new daubing.\n\nIt is the evil of mediocrity in fortune to have frequently to trust to\nuneducated agents. Rich men can employ able representatives, and in this\nway they can inform themselves accurately of what occurs to their\nbelongings at a distance. Without riches, however, we may sometimes have a\nfriend on the spot who will see to things for us, which is one of the\nkindest offices of friendship. The most efficient friend is one who will\nnot only look to matters of detail, but will take the trouble to inform\nyou accurately about them, and for this he must be a man of leisure. Such\na friend often spares one a railway journey by a few clear lines of report\nor explanation. Judging from personal experience, I should say that\nretired lawyers and retired military officers were admirably adapted to\nrender this great service efficiently, and I should suppose that a man who\nhad retired from busy commercial life would be scarcely less useful, but I\nshould not hope for precision in one who had always been unoccupied, nor\nshould I expect many details from one who was much occupied still. The\nfirst would lack training and experience; the second would lack leisure.\n\nThe talent for accuracy in affairs may be distinct from literary talent\nand education, and though we have been considering the difficulty of\ncorresponding on matters of business with the uneducated, we must not too\nhastily infer that because a man is inaccurate in spelling, and inelegant\nin phraseology, he may not be an agreeable and efficient business\ncorrespondent. There was a time when all the greatest men of business in\nEngland were uncertain spellers. Clear expression and completeness of\nstatement are more valuable than any other qualities in a business\ncorrespondent. I sometimes have to correspond with a tradesman in Paris\nwho rose from an humble origin and scarcely produces what a schoolmaster\nwould consider a passable letter; yet his letters are models in essential\nqualities, as he always removes by plain statements or questions every\npossibility of a mistake, and if there is any want of absolute precision\nin my orders he is sure to find out the deficiency, and to call my\nattention to it sharply.\n\nThe habit of _not acknowledging orders_ is one of the worst negative vices\nin business correspondence. It is most inconveniently common in France,\nbut happily much rarer in England. Where this vice prevails you cannot\ntell whether the person you wish to employ has read your order or not; and\nif you suppose him to have read it, you have no reason to feel sure that\nhe has understood it, or will execute it in time.\n\nIt is a great gain to the writer of letters to be able to make them brief\nand clear at the same time, but as there is obscurity in a labyrinth of\nmany words so there may be another kind of obscurity from their\npaucity,--that kind which Horace alluded to with reference to poetry,--\n\n    \"Brevis esse laboro\n  Obscurus fio.\"\n\nSometimes one additional word would spare the reader a doubt or a\nmisunderstanding. This is likely to become more and more the dominant\nfault of correspondence as it imitates the brevity of the telegram.\n\nObserve the interesting use of the word _laboro_ by Horace. You may, in\nfact, _labor_ to be brief, although the result is an appearance of less\nlabor than if you had written at ease. It may take more time to write a\nvery short letter than one of twice the length, the only gain in this\ncase being to the receiver.\n\nLetters of business often appear to be written in the most rapid and\ncareless haste; the writing is almost illegible from its speed, the\ncomposition slovenly, the letter brief. And yet such a letter may have\ncost hours of deliberate reflection before one word of it was committed to\npaper. It is the rapid registering of a slowly matured decision.\n\nIt is a well-known principle of modern business correspondence that if a\nletter refers only to one subject it is more likely to receive attention\nthan if it deals with several; therefore if you have several different\norders or directions to give it is bad policy to write them all at once,\nunless you are absolutely compelled to do so because they are all equally\npressing. Even if there is the same degree of urgency for all, yet a\npractical impossibility that all should be executed at the same time, it\nis still the best policy to give your orders successively and not more\nquickly than they can be executed. The only danger of this is that the\nreceiver of the orders may think at first that they are small matters in\nwhich postponement signifies little, as they can be executed at any time.\nTo prevent this he should be strongly warned at first that the order will\nbe rapidly followed by several others. If there is not the same degree of\nurgency for all, the best way is to make a private register of the\ndifferent matters in the order of their urgency, and then to write several\nshort notes, at intervals, one about each thing.\n\nPeople have such a marvellous power of misunderstanding even the very\nplainest directions that a business letter never _can_ be made too clear.\nIt will, indeed, frequently happen that language itself is not clear\nenough for the purposes of explanation without the help of drawing, and\ndrawing may not be clear to one who has not been educated to understand\nit, which compels you to have recourse to modelling. In these cases the\ntask of the letter-writer is greatly simplified, as he has nothing to do\nbut foresee and prevent any misunderstanding of the drawing or model.\n\nEvery material thing constructed by mankind may be explained by the three\nkinds of mechanical drawing,--plan, section, and elevation,--but the\ndifficulty, is that so many people are unable to understand plans and\nsections; they only understand elevations, and not always even these. The\nspecial incapacity to understand plans and sections is common in every\nrank of society, and it is not uncommon even in the practical trades. All\nletter-writing that refers to material construction would be immensely\nsimplified if, by a general rule in popular and other education, every\nfuture man and woman in the country were taught enough about mechanical\ndrawing to be able at least to _read_ it.\n\nIt is delightful to correspond about construction with any trained\narchitect or engineer, because to such a correspondent you can explain\neverything briefly, with the perfect certainty of being accurately\nunderstood. It is terrible toil to have to explain construction by letter\nto a man who does not understand mechanical drawing; and when you have\ngiven great labor to your explanation, it is the merest chance whether he\nwill catch your meaning or not. The evil does not stop at mechanical\ndrawing. Not only do uneducated people misunderstand a mechanical plan or\nsection, but they are quite as liable to misunderstand a perspective\ndrawing, as the great architect and draughtsman Viollet-le-Duc charmingly\nexemplified by the work of an intelligent child. A little boy had drawn a\ncat as he had seen it in front with its tail standing up, and this front\nview was stupidly misunderstood by a mature _bourgeois_, who thought the\nanimal was a biped (as the hind-legs were hidden), and believed the erect\ntail to be some unknown object sticking out of the nondescript creature's\nhead. If you draw a board in perspective (other than isometrical) a\nworkman is quite likely to think that one end of it is to be narrower than\nthe other.\n\nBusiness correspondence in foreign languages is a very simple matter when\nit deals only with plain facts, and it does not require any very extensive\nknowledge of the foreign tongue to write a common order; but if any\ndelicate or complicated matter has to be explained, or if touchy\nsensitiveness in the foreigner has to be soothed by management and tact,\nthen a thorough knowledge of the shades of expression is required, and\nthis is extremely rare. The statement of bare facts, or the utterance of\nsimple wants, is indeed only a part of business correspondence, for men of\nbusiness, though they are not supposed to display sentiment in affairs,\nare in reality just as much human beings as other men, and consequently\nthey have feelings which are to be considered. A correspondent who is able\nto write a foreign language with delicacy and tact will often attain his\nobject when one with a ruder and more imperfect knowledge of the language\nwould meet with certain failure, though he asked for exactly the same\nthing.\n\nIt is surety possible to be civil and even polite in business\ncorrespondence without using the deplorable commercial slang which exists,\nI believe, in every modern language. The proof that such abstinence is\npossible is that some of the most efficient and most active men of\nbusiness never have recourse to it at all. This commercial slang consists\nin the substitution of conventional terms originally intended to be more\ncourteous than plain English, French, etc., but which, in fact, from their\nmechanical use, become wholly destitute of that best politeness which is\npersonal, and does not depend upon set phrases that can be copied out of a\ntradesman's model letter-writer. Anybody but a tradesman calls your letter\na letter; why should an English tradesman call it \"your favor,\" and a\nFrench one \"_votre honor\u00e9e_\"? A gentleman writing in the month of May\nspeaks of April, May, and June, when a tradesman carefully avoids the\nnames of the months, and calls them _ultimo_, _courant_, and _proximo_;\nwhilst instead of saying \"by\" or \"according to,\" like other Englishmen, he\nsays _per_. This style was touched upon by Scott in Provost Crosbie's\nletter to Alexander Fairford: \"Dear Sir--Your _respected favor_ of 25th\n_ultimo_, _per_ favor of Mr. Darsie Latimer, reached me in safety.\" This\nis thought to be a finished commercial style. One sometimes meets with the\nmost astonishing and complicated specimens of it, which the authors are\nevidently proud of as proofs of their high commercial training. I regret\nnot to have kept some fine examples of these, as their perfections are far\nbeyond all imitation. This is not surprising when we reflect that the very\nworst commercial style is the result of a striving by many minds, during\nseveral generations, after a preposterous ideal.\n\nTradesmen deserve credit for understanding the one element of courtesy in\nletter-writing which has been neglected by gentlemen. They value legible\nhandwriting, and they print clear names and addresses on their\nletter-paper, by which they spare much trouble.\n\nBefore closing this chapter let me say something about the reading of\nbusiness letters as well as the writing of them. It is, perhaps, a harder\nduty to read such letters with the necessary degree of attention than to\ncompose them, for the author has his head charged with the subject, and\nwriting the letter is a relief to him; but to the receiver the matter is\nnew, and however lucid may be the exposition it always requires some\ndegree of real attention on his part. How are you, being at a distance, to\nget an indolent man to bestow that necessary attention? He feels secure\nfrom a personal visit, and indulges his indolence by neglecting your\nconcerns, even when they are also his own. Long ago I heard an English\nArchdeacon tell the following story about his Bishop. The prelate was one\nof that numerous class of men who loathe the sight of a business letter;\nand he had indulged his indolence in that respect to such a degree that,\nlittle by little, he had arrived at the fatal stage where one leaves\nletters unopened for days or weeks. At one particular time the Archdeacon\nwas aware of a great arrear of unopened letters, and impressed his\nlordship with the necessity for taking some note of their contents.\nYielding to a stronger will, the Bishop began to read; and one of the\nfirst communications was from a wealthy man who offered a large sum for\nchurch purposes (I think for building), but if the offer was not accepted\nwithin a certain lapse of time he declared his intention of making it to\nthat which a Bishop loveth not--a dissenting community. The prelate had\nopened the letter too late, and he lost the money. I believe that the\nArchdeacon's vexation at the loss was more than counterbalanced by\ngratification that his hierarchical superior had received such a lesson\nfor his neglect. Yet he did but imitate Napoleon, of whom Emerson says,\n\"He directed Bourrienne to leave all letters unopened for three weeks, and\nthen observed with satisfaction how large a part of the correspondence had\ndisposed of itself and no longer required an answer.\" This is a very\nunsafe system to adopt, as the case of the Bishop proves. Things may\n\"dispose of themselves\" in the wrong way, like wine in a leaky cask,\nwhich, instead of putting itself carefully into a sound cask, goes\ntrickling into the earth.\n\nThe indolence of some men in reading and answering letters of business\nwould be incredible if they did not give clear evidence of it. The most\nremarkable example that ever came under my notice is the following. A\nFrench artist, not by any means in a condition of superfluous prosperity,\nexhibited a picture at the _Salon_. He waited in Paris till after the\nopening of the exhibition and then went down into the country. On the day\nof his departure he received letters from two different collectors\nexpressing a desire to purchase his work, and asking its price. Any real\nman of business would have seized upon such an opportunity at once. He\nwould have answered both letters, stayed in town, and contrived to set the\ntwo amateurs bidding against each other. The artist in question was one of\nthose unaccountable mortals who would rather sacrifice all their chances\nof life than indite a letter of business, so he left both inquiries\nunanswered, saying that if the men had really wanted the picture they\nwould have called to see him. He never sold it, and some time afterwards\nwas obliged to give up his profession, quite as much from the lack of\npromptitude in affairs as from any artistic deficiency.\n\nSometimes letters of business are _read_, but read so carelessly that it\nwould be better if they were thrown unopened into the fire. I have seen\nsome astounding instances of this, and, what is most remarkable, of\nrepeated and incorrigible carelessness in the same person or firm,\ncompelling one to the conclusion that in corresponding with that person or\nthat firm the clearest language, the plainest writing, and the most\nlegible numerals, are all equally without effect. I am thinking\nparticularly of one case, intimately known to me in all its details, in\nwhich a business correspondence of some duration was finally abandoned,\nafter infinite annoyance, for the simple reason that it was impossible to\nget the members of the firm, or their representatives, to attend to\nwritten orders with any degree of accuracy. Even whilst writing this very\nEssay I have given an order with regard to which I foresaw a probable\nerror. Knowing by experience that a probable error is almost certain if\nsteps are not taken energetically to prevent it, I requested that this\nerror might not be committed, and to attract more attention to my request\nI wrote the paragraph containing it in red ink,--a very unusual\nprecaution. The foreseen error was accurately committed.\n\n\n\n\nESSAY XXV.\n\nANONYMOUS LETTERS.\n\n\nProbably few of my mature readers have attained middle age without\nreceiving a number of anonymous letters. Such letters are not always\noffensive, sometimes they are amusing, sometimes considerate and kind, yet\nthere is in all cases a feeling of annoyance on receiving them, because\nthe writer has made himself inaccessible to a reply. It is as if a man in\na mask whispered a word in your ear and then vanished suddenly in a crowd.\nYou wish to answer a calumny or acknowledge a kindness, and you may talk\nto the winds and streams.\n\nAnonymous letters of the worst kind have a certain value to the student of\nhuman nature, because they afford him glimpses of the evil spirit that\ndisguises itself under the fair seemings of society. You believe with\nchildlike simplicity and innocence that, as you have never done any\nintentional injury to a human being, you cannot have a human enemy, and\nyou make the startling discovery that somewhere in the world, perhaps even\namongst the smiling people you meet at dances and dinners, there are\ncreatures who will have recourse to the foulest slanders if thereby they\nmay hope to do you an injury. What _can_ you have done to excite such\nbitter animosity? You may both have done much and neglected much. You may\nhave had some superiority of body, mind, or fortune; you may have\nneglected to soothe some jealous vanity by the flattery it craved with a\ntormenting hunger.\n\nThe simple fact that you seem happier than Envy thinks you ought to be is\nof itself enough to excite a strong desire to diminish your offensive\nhappiness or put an end to it entirely. That is the reason why people who\nare going to be married receive anonymous letters. If they are not really\nhappy they have every appearance of being happy, which is not less\nintolerable. The anonymous letter-writer seeks to put a stop to such a\nstate of things. He might go to one of the parties and slander the other\nopenly, but it would require courage to do that directly to his face. A\nletter might be written, but if name and address were given there would\ncome an inconvenient demand for proofs. One course remains, offering that\nimmunity from consequences which is soothing to the nerves of a coward.\nThe envious or jealous man can throw his vitriol in the dark and slip away\nunperceived--_he can write an anonymous letter_.\n\nHas the reader ever really tried to picture to himself the state of that\nman's or woman's mind (for women write these things also) who can sit\ndown, take a sheet of paper, make a rough draft of an anonymous letter,\ncopy it out in a very legible yet carefully disguised hand, and make\narrangements for having it posted at a distance from the place where it\nwas written? Such things are constantly done. At this minute there are a\ncertain number of men and women in the world who are vile enough to do\nall that simply in order to spoil the happiness of some person whom they\nregard with \"envy, hatred, malice, and all uncharitableness.\" I see in my\nmind's eye the gentleman--the man having all the apparent delicacy and\nrefinement of a gentleman--who is writing a letter intended to blast the\ncharacter of an acquaintance. Perhaps he meets that acquaintance in\nsociety, and shakes hands with him, and pretends to take an interest in\nhis health. Meanwhile he secretly reflects upon the particular sort of\ncalumny that will have the greatest degree of verisimilitude. Everything\ndepends upon his talent in devising the most _credible_ sort of\ncalumny,--not the calumny most likely to meet general credence, but that\nwhich is most likely to be believed by the person to whom it is addressed,\nand most likely to do injury when believed. The anonymous calumniator has\nthe immense advantage on his side that most people are prone to believe\nevil, and that good people are unfortunately the most prone, as they hate\nevil so intensely that even the very phantom of it arouses their anger,\nand they too frequently do not stop to inquire whether it is a phantom or\na reality. The clever calumniator is careful not to go too far; he will\nadvance something that might be or that might have been; he does not love\n_le vrai_, but he is a careful student of _le vraisemblable_. He will\nassume an appearance of reluctance, he will drop hints more terrible than\nassertions, because they are vague, mysterious, disquieting. When he\nthinks he has done enough he stops in time; he has inoculated the drop of\npoison, and can wait till it takes effect.\n\nIt must be rather an anxious time for the anonymous letter-writer when he\nhas sent off his missive. In the nature of things he cannot receive an\nanswer, and it is not easy for him to ascertain very soon what has been\nthe result of his enterprise. If he has been trying to prevent a marriage\nhe does not know immediately if the engagement is broken off, and if it is\nnot broken off he has to wait till the wedding-day before he is quite sure\nof his own failure, and to suffer meanwhile from hope deferred and\nconstantly increasing apprehension. If the rupture occurs he has a moment\nof Satanic joy, but it _may_ be due to some other cause than the success\nof his own calumny, so that he is never quite sure of having himself\nattained his object.\n\nIt is believed that most people who are engaged to be married receive\nanonymous letters recommending them to break off the match. Not only are\nsuch letters addressed to the betrothed couple themselves, but also to\ntheir relations. If there is not a doubt that the statements in such\nletters are purely calumnious, the right course is to destroy them\nimmediately and never allude to them afterwards; but if there is the\nfaintest shadow of a doubt--if there is the vaguest feeling that there may\nbe _some_ ground for the attack--then the only course is to send the\nletter to the person accused, and to say that this is done in order to\nafford him an opportunity for answering the anonymous assailant. I\nremember a case in which this was done with the best results. A\nprofessional man without fortune was going to marry a young heiress; I do\nnot mean a great heiress, but one whose fortune might be a temptation.\nHer family received the usual anonymous letters, and in one of them it was\nstated that the aspirant's father, who had been long dead, had dishonored\nhimself by base conduct with regard to a public trust in a certain town\nwhere he occupied a post of great responsibility towards the municipal\nauthorities. The letter was shown to the son, and he was asked if he knew\nanything of the matter, and if he could do anything to clear away the\nimputation. Then came the difficulty that the alleged betrayal of trust\nwas stated to have occurred twenty years before, and that the Mayor was\ndead, and probably most of the common councillors also. What was to be\ndone? It is not easy to disprove a calumny, and the _onus_ of proof ought\nalways to be thrown upon the calumniator, but this calumniator was\nanonymous and intangible, so the son of the victim was requested to repel\nthe charge. By a very unusual and most fortunate accident, his father had\nreceived on quitting the town in question a letter from the Mayor of a\nmost exceptional character, in which he spoke with warm and grateful\nappreciation of services rendered and of the happy relations of trust and\nconfidence that had subsisted between himself and the slandered man down\nto the very termination of their intercourse. This letter, again by a most\nlucky accident, had been preserved by the widow, and by means of it one\ndead man defended the memory of another. It removed the greatest obstacle\nto the marriage; but another anonymous writer, or the same in another\nhandwriting, now alleged that the slandered man had died of a disease\nlikely to be inherited by his posterity. Here, again, luck was on the\nside of the defence, as the physician who had attended him was still\nalive, so that this second invention was as easily disposed of as the\nfirst. The marriage took place; it has been more than usually happy, and\nthe children are pictures of health.\n\nThe trouble to which anonymous letter-writers put themselves to attain\ntheir ends must sometimes be very great. I remember a case in which some\nof these people must have contrived by means of spies or agents to procure\na private address in a foreign country, and must have been at great pains\nalso to ascertain certain facts in England which were carefully mingled\nwith the lies in the calumnious letter. The nameless writer was evidently\nwell informed, possibly he or she may have been a \"friend\" of the intended\nvictim. In this case no attention was paid to the attack, which did not\ndelay the marriage by a single hour. Long afterwards the married pair\nhappened to be talking about anonymous letters, and it then appeared that\neach side had received several of these missives, coarsely or ingeniously\nconcocted, but had given them no more attention than they deserved.\n\nAn anonymous letter is sometimes written in collaboration by two persons\nof different degrees of ability. When this is done one of the slanderers\ngenerally supplies the basis of fact necessary to give an appearance of\nknowledge, and the other supplies or improves the imaginative part of the\ncommon performance and its literary style. Sometimes one of the two may be\ndetected by the nature of the references to fact, or by the supposed\nwriter's personal interest in bringing about a certain result.\n\nIt is very difficult at the first glance entirely to resist the effect of\na clever anonymous letter, and perhaps it is only men of clear strong\nsense and long experience who at once overcome the first shock. In a very\nshort time, however, the phantom evil grows thin and disappears, and the\nmotive of the writer is guessed at or discerned.\n\nThe following brief anonymous letter or one closely resembling it (I quote\nfrom memory) was once received by an English gentleman on his travels.\n\n    \"DEAR SIR,--I congratulate you on the fact that you will be a\n    grandfather in about two months. I mention this as you may like to\n    purchase baby-linen for your grandchild during your absence. I am,\n    Sir, yours sincerely,\n\n        \"A WELL-WISHER.\"\n\nThe receiver had a family of grown-up children of whom not one was\nmarried. The letter gave him a slight but perceptible degree of\ndisquietude which he put aside to the best of his ability. In a few days\ncame a signed letter from one of his female servants confessing that she\nwas about to become a mother, and claiming his protection as the\ngrandfather of the child. It then became evident that the anonymous letter\nhad been written by the girl's lover, who was a tolerably educated man\nwhilst she was uneducated, and that the pair had entered into this little\nplot to obtain money. The matter ended by the dismissal of the girl, who\nthen made threats until she was placed in the hands of the police. Other\ncircumstances were recollected proving her to be a remarkably audacious\nliar and of a slanderous disposition.\n\nThe torture that an anonymous letter may inflict depends far more on the\nnature of the person who receives it than on the circumstances it relates.\nA jealous and suspicious nature, not opened by much experience or\nknowledge of the world, is the predestined victim of the anonymous\ntorturer. Such a nature jumps at evil report like a fish at an artificial\nfly, and feels the anguish of it immediately. By a law that seems really\ncruel such natures seize with most avidity on those very slanders that\ncause them the most pain.\n\nA kind of anonymous letter of which we have heard much in the present\ndisturbed state of European society is the letter containing threats of\nphysical injury. It informs you that you will be \"done for\" or \"disabled\"\nin a short time, and exhorts you in the meanwhile to prepare for your\nawful doom. The object of these letters is to deprive the receiver of all\nfeeling of security or comfort in existence. His consolation is that a\nreal intending murderer would probably be thinking too much of his own\nperilous enterprise to indulge in correspondence about it, and we do not\nperceive that the attacks on public men are at all proportionate in number\nto the menaces addressed to them.\n\nAs there are malevolent anonymous letters intended to inflict the most\nwearing anxiety, so there are benevolent ones written to save our souls.\nSome theologically minded person, often of the female sex, is alarmed for\nour spiritual state because she fears that we have doubts about the\nsupernatural, and so she sends us books that only make us wonder at the\nmental condition for which such literature can be suitable. I remember one\nof my female anonymous correspondents who took it for granted that I was\nlike a ship drifting about without compass or rudder (a great mistake on\nher part), and so she offered me the safe and spacious haven of\nSwedenborgianism! Others will tell you of the \"great pain\" with which they\nhave read this or that passage of your writings, to which an author may\nalways reply that as there is no Act of Parliament compelling British\nsubjects to read his books the sufferers have only to let them alone in\norder to spare themselves the dolorous sensations they complain of.\n\nSome kind anonymous correspondents write to console us for offensive\ncriticism by maintaining the truth of our assertions as supported by their\nown experience. I remember that when the novel of \"Wenderholme\" was\npublished, and naturally attacked for its dreadful portraiture of the\ndrinking habits of a past generation, a lady wrote to me anonymously from\na locality of the kind described bearing mournful witness to the veracity\nof the description.[33] In this case the employment of the anonymous form\nwas justified by two considerations. There was no offensive intention, and\nthe lady had to speak of her own relations whose names she desired to\nconceal. Authors frequently receive letters of gently expressed criticism\nor remonstrance from readers who do not give their names. The only\nobjection to these communications, which are often interesting, is that it\nis rather teasing and vexatious to be deprived of the opportunity for\nanswering them. The reader may like to see one of these gentle anonymous\nletters. An unmarried lady of mature age (for there appears to be no\nreason to doubt the veracity with which she gives a slight account of\nherself) has been reading one of my books and thinks me not quite just to\na most respectable and by no means insignificant class in English society.\nShe therefore takes me to task,--not at all unkindly.\n\n    \"DEAR SIR,--I have often wished to thank you for the intense pleasure\n    your books have given me, especially the 'Painter's Camp in the\n    Highlands,' the word-pictures of which reproduced the enjoyment,\n    intense even to pain, of the Scottish scenery.\n\n    \"I have only now become acquainted with your 'Intellectual Life,'\n    which has also given me great pleasure, though of another kind. Its\n    general fairness and candor induce me to protest against your judgment\n    of a class of women whom I am sure you underrate from not having a\n    sufficient acquaintance with their capabilities.\n\n    \"'_Women who are not impelled by some masculine influence are not\n    superior, either in knowledge or in discipline of the mind, at the age\n    of fifty to what they were at twenty-five.... The best illustration of\n    this is a sisterhood of three or four rich old maids.... You will\n    observe that they invariably remain, as to their education, where they\n    were left by their teachers many years before.... Even in what most\n    interests them--theology, they repeat but do not extend their\n    information._'\n\n    \"My circle of acquaintance is small, nevertheless I know many women\n    between twenty-five and forty whose culture is always steadily\n    progressing; who keep up an acquaintance with literature for its own\n    sake, and not 'impelled' thereto 'by masculine influence;' who, though\n    without creative power, yet have such capability of reception that\n    they can appreciate the best authors of the day; whose theology is not\n    quite the fossil you represent it, though I confess it is for but a\n    small number of my acquaintance that I can claim the power of\n    judicially estimating the various schools of theology.\n\n    \"Without being specialists, the more thoughtful of our class have such\n    an acquaintance with current literature that they are able to enter\n    into the progress of the great questions of the day, and may even\n    estimate the more fairly a Gladstone or a Disraeli for being\n    spectators instead of actors in politics.\n\n    \"I have spoken of my own acquaintances, but they are such as may be\n    met within any middle-class society. For myself, I look back to the\n    painful bewilderment of twenty-five and contrast it with satisfaction\n    with the brighter perceptions of forty, finding out 'a little more,\n    and yet a little more, of the eternal order of the universe.' One\n    reason for your underrating us may be that our receptive powers only\n    are in constant use, and we have little power of expression. I dislike\n    anonymous letters as a rule, but as I write as the representative of a\n    class, I beg to sign myself,\n\n        \"Yours gratefully,\n            \"ONE OF THREE OR FOUR RICH OLD MAIDS.\n\n    \"_November 13, 1883._\"\n\nLetters of this kind give no pain to the receiver, except when they compel\nhim to an unsatisfactory kind of self-examination. In the present case I\nmake the best amends by giving publicity and permanence to this clearly\nexpressed criticism. Something may be said, too, in defence of the\npassages incriminated. Let me attempt it in the form of a letter which may\npossibly fall under the eye of the Rich Old Maid.\n\n    DEAR MADAM,--Your letter has duly reached me, and produced feelings of\n    compunction. Have I indeed been guilty of injustice towards a class so\n    deserving of respect and consideration as the Rich Old Maids of\n    England? It has always seemed to me one of the privileges of my native\n    country that such a class should flourish there so much more amply and\n    luxuriantly than in other lands. Married women are absorbed in the\n    cares and anxieties of their own households, but the sympathies of old\n    maids spread themselves over a wider area. Balzac hated them, and\n    described them as having souls overflowing with gall; but Balzac was a\n    Frenchman, and if he was just to the rare old maids of his native\n    country (which I cannot believe) he knew nothing of the more numerous\n    old maids of Great Britain. I am not in Balzac's position. Dear\n    friends of mine, and dearer relations, have belonged to that kindly\n    sisterhood.\n\n    The answer to your objection is simple. \"The Intellectual Life\" was\n    not published in 1883 but in 1873. It was written some time before,\n    and the materials had been gradually accumulating in the author's mind\n    several years before it was written. Consequently your criticism is of\n    a much later date than the work you criticise, and as you are forty in\n    1883 you were a young maid in the times I was thinking of when\n    writing. It is certainly true that many women of the now past\n    generation, particularly those who lived in celibacy, had a remarkable\n    power of remaining intellectually in the same place. This power is\n    retained by some of the present generation, but it is becoming rarer\n    every day because the intellectual movement is so strong that it is\n    drawing a constantly increasing number of women along with it; indeed\n    this movement is so accelerated as to give rise to a new anxiety, and\n    make us look back with a wistful regret. We are now beginning to\n    perceive that a certain excellent old type of Englishwomen whom we\n    remember with the greatest affection and respect will soon belong as\n    entirely to the past as if they had lived in the days of Queen\n    Elizabeth. From the intellectual point of view their lives were hardly\n    worth living, but we are beginning to ask ourselves whether their\n    ignorance (I use the plain term) and their prejudices (the plain term\n    again) were not essential parts of a whole that commanded our respect.\n    Their simplicity of mind may have been a reason why they had so much\n    simplicity of purpose in well-doing. Their strength of prejudice may\n    have aided them to keep with perfect steadfastness on the side of\n    moral and social order. Their intellectual restfulness in a few clear\n    settled ideas left a degree of freedom to their energy in common\n    duties that may not always be possible amidst the bewildering theories\n    of an unsettled and speculative age.\n\n        Faithfully yours,\n            THE AUTHOR OF \"THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE.\"\n\n\n\n\nESSAY XXVI.\n\nAMUSEMENTS.\n\n\nOne of the most unexpected discoveries that we make on entering the\nreflective stage of existence is that amusements are social obligations.\n\nThe next discovery of this kind is that the higher the rank of the person\nthe more obligatory and the more numerous do his so-called \"amusements\"\nbecome, till finally we reach the princely life which seems to consist\nalmost exclusively of these observances.\n\nWhy should it ever be considered obligatory upon a man to amuse himself in\nsome way settled by others? There appear to be two principal reasons for\nthis. The first is, that when amusements are practised by many persons in\ncommon it appears unsociable and ungracious to abstain. Even if the\namusement is not interesting in itself it is thought that the society it\nleads us into ought to be a sufficient reason for following it.\n\nThe second reason is that, like all things which are repeated by many\npeople together, amusements soon become fixed customs, and have all the\nweight and authority of customs, so that people dare not abstain from\nobserving them for fear of social penalties.\n\nIf the amusements are expensive they become not only a sign of wealth but\nan actual demonstration and display of it, and as nothing in the world is\nso much respected as wealth, or so efficient a help to social position,\nand as the expenditure which is visible produces far more effect upon the\nmind than that which is not seen, it follows that all costly amusements\nare useful for self-assertion in the world, and become even a means of\nmaintaining the political importance of great families.\n\nOn the other hand, not to be accustomed to expensive amusements implies\nthat one has lived amongst people of narrow means, so that most of those\nwho have social ambition are eager to seize upon every opportunity for\nenlarging their experience of expensive amusements in order that they may\ntalk about them afterwards, and so affirm their position as members of the\nupper class.\n\nThe dread of appearing unsociable, of seeming rebellious against custom,\nor inexperienced in the habits of the rich, are reasons quite strong\nenough for the maintenance of customary amusements even when there is very\nlittle real enjoyment of them for their own sake.\n\nBut, in fact, there are always _some_ people who practise these amusements\nfor the sake of the pleasure they give, and as these people are likely to\nexcel the others in vivacity, activity, and skill, as they have more\n_entrain_ and gayety, and talk more willingly and heartily about the\nsports they love, so they naturally come to lead opinion upon the subject\nand to give it an appearance of earnestness and warmth that is beyond its\nreal condition. Hence the tone of conversation about amusements, though it\nmay accurately represent the sentiments of those who enjoy them, does not\nrepresent all opinion fairly. The opposite side of the question found a\nwitty exponent in Sir George Cornewall Lewis, when he uttered that\nimmortal saying by which his name will endure when the recollection of his\npolitical services has passed away,--\"How tolerable life would be were it\nnot for its pleasures!\" There you have the feeling of the thousands who\nsubmit and conform, but who would have much to say if it were in good\ntaste to say anything against pleasures that are offered to us in\nhospitality.\n\nAmusements themselves become work when undertaken for an ulterior purpose\nsuch as the maintenance of political influence. A great man goes through a\ncertain regular series of dinners, balls, games, shooting and hunting\nparties, races, wedding-breakfasts, visits to great houses, excursions on\nland and water, and all these things have the outward appearance of\namusement, but may, in reality, be labors that the great man undertakes\nfor some purpose entirely outside of the frivolous things themselves. A\nPrime Minister scarcely goes beyond political dinners, but what an endless\nseries of engagements are undertaken by a Prince of Wales! Such things are\nan obligation for him, and when the obligation is accepted with unfailing\npatience and good temper, the Prince is not only working, but working with\na certain elegance and grace of art, often involving that prettiest kind\nof self-sacrifice which hides itself under an appearance of enjoyment.\nNobody supposes that the social amusements so regularly gone through by\nthe eldest son of Queen Victoria can be, in all cases, very entertaining\nto him; we suppose them to be accepted as forms of human intercourse that\nbring him into personal relations with his future subjects. The difference\nbetween this Prince and King Louis II. of Bavaria is perhaps the most\nstriking contrast in modern royal existences. Prince Albert Edward is\naccessible to everybody, and shares the common pleasures of his\ncountrymen; the Bavarian sovereign is never so happy as when in one of his\nromantic and magnificent residences, surrounded by the sublimity of nature\nand the embellishments of art, he sits alone and dreams as he listens to\nthe strains of exquisite music. Has he not erected his splendid castle on\na rock, like the builder of \"The Palace of Art\"?\n\n  \"A huge crag-platform, smooth as burnish'd brass\n       I chose. The ranged ramparts bright\n   From level meadow-bases of deep grass\n       Suddenly scaled the light.\n\n  \"Thereon I built it firm. Of ledge or shelf\n       The rock rose clear, or winding stair.\n   My soul would live alone unto herself\n       In her high palace there.\"\n\nThe life of the King of Bavaria, sublimely serene in its independence, is\na long series of tranquil omissions. There may be a wedding-feast in one\nof his palaces, but such an occurrence only seems to him the best of all\nreasons why he should be in another. He escapes from the pleasures and\ninterests of daily life, making himself an earthly paradise of\narchitecture, music, and gardens, and lost in his long dream, assuredly\none of the most poetical figures in the biographies of kings, and one of\nthe most interesting, but how remote from men! This remoteness is due, in\ngreat part, to a sincerity of disposition which declines amusements that\ndo not amuse, and desires only those real pleasures which are in perfect\nharmony with one's own nature and constitution. We like the sociability,\nthe ready human sympathy, of the Prince of Wales; we think that in his\nposition it is well for him to be able to keep all that endless series of\nengagements, but has not King Louis some claim upon our indulgence even in\nhis eccentricity? He has refused the weary round of false amusements and\nmade his choice of ideal pleasure. If he condescended to excuse himself,\nhis _Apologia pro vit\u00e2 sua_ might take a form somewhat resembling this. He\nmight say, \"I was born to a great fortune and only ask leave to enjoy it\nin my own way. The world's amusements are an infliction that I consider\nmyself at liberty to avoid. I love musical or silent solitude, and the\nenchantments of a fair garden and a lofty dwelling amidst the glorious\nBavarian mountains. Let the noisy world go its way with its bitter\nwranglings, its dishonest politics, its sanguinary wars! I set up no\ntyranny. I leave my subjects to enjoy their brief human existence in their\nown fashion, and they let me dream my dream.\"\n\nThese are not the world's ways nor the world's view. The world considers\nit essential to the character of a prince that he should be at least\napparently happy in those pleasures which are enjoyed in society, that he\nshould seem to enjoy them along with others to show his fellow-feeling\nwith common men, and not sit by himself, like King Louis in his theatre,\nwhen \"Tannhauser\" is performed for the royal ears alone.\n\nOf the many precious immunities that belong to humble station there are\nnone more valuable than the freedom from false amusements. A poor man is\nunder one obligation, he must work, but his work itself is a blessed\ndeliverance from a thousand other obligations. He is not obliged to shoot,\nand hunt, and dance against his will, he is not obliged to affect interest\nand pleasure in games that only weary him, he has not to receive tiresome\nstrangers in long ceremonious repasts when he would rather have a simple\nshort dinner with his wife. B\u00e9ranger sang the happiness of beggars with\nhis sympathetic humorous philosophy, but in all seriousness it might be\nmaintained that the poor are happier than they know. They get their easy\nunrestrained human intercourse by chance meetings, and greetings, and\ngossipings, and they are spared all the acting, all the feigning, that is\nconnected with the routine of imposed enjoyments.\n\nAvowed work, even when uncongenial, is far less trying to patience than\nfeigned pleasure. You dislike accounts and you dislike balls, but though\nyour dislike may be nearly equal in both cases you will assuredly find\nthat the time hangs less heavily when you are resolutely grappling with\nthe details of your account-books than when you are only wishing that the\ndancers would go to bed. The reason is that any hard work, whatever it is,\nhas the qualities of a mental tonic, whereas unenjoyed pleasures have an\nopposite effect, and even though work may be uncongenial you see a sort\nof result, whilst a false pleasure leaves no result but the extreme\nfatigue that attends it,--a kind of fatigue quite exceptional in its\nnature, and the most disagreeable that is known to man.\n\nThe dislike for false amusements is often misunderstood to be a\npuritanical intolerance of all amusement. It is in this as in all things\nthat are passionately enjoyed,--the false thing is most disliked by those\nwho best appreciate the true.\n\nWhat may be called the truth or falsehood of amusements is not in the\namusements themselves, but in the relation between one human idiosyncrasy\nand them. Every idiosyncrasy has its own strong mysterious affinities,\ngenerally distinguishable in childhood, always clearly distinguishable in\nyouth. We are like a lute or a violin, the tuned strings vibrate in answer\nto certain notes but not in answer to others.\n\nTo convert amusements into social customs or obligations, to make it a\nman's duty to shoot birds or ride after foxes because it is agreeable to\nothers to discharge guns and gallop across fields, is an infringement of\nindividual liberty which is less excusable in the case of amusements than\nit is in more serious things. For in serious things, in politics and\nreligion, there is always the plausible argument that the repression of\nthe individual conscience is good for the unity of the State; whereas\namusements are supposed to exist for the recreation of those who practise\nthem, and when they are not enjoyed they are not amusements but something\nelse. There is no single English word that exactly expresses what they\nare, but there is a French one, the word _corv\u00e9e_, which means forced\nlabor, labor under dictation, all the more unpleasant in these cases that\nit must assume the appearance of enjoyment.[34]\n\nSurely there is nothing in which the independence of the individual ought\nto be so absolute, so unquestioned, as in amusements. What right have I,\nbecause a thing is a pleasant pastime to me, to compel my friend or my son\nto do that thing when it is a _corv\u00e9e_ to him? No man can possibly amuse\nhimself in obedience to a word of command, the most he can do is to\nsubmit, to try to appear amused, wishing all the time that the weary task\nwas over.\n\nTo mark the contrast clearly I will describe some amusements from the\nopposite points of view of those who enjoy them naturally, and those to\nwhom they would be indifferent if they were not imposed, and hateful if\nthey were.\n\nShooting is delightful to genuine sportsmen in many ways. It renews in\nthem the sensations of the vigorous youth of humanity, of the tribes that\nlived by the chase. It brings them into contact with nature, gives a zest\nand interest to hard pedestrian exercise, makes the sportsmen minutely\nacquainted with the country, and leads to innumerable observations of the\nhabits of wild animals that have the interest without the formal\npretensions of a science. Shooting is a delightful exercise of skill,\nrequiring admirable promptitude and perfect nerve, so that any success in\nit is gratifying to self-esteem. Sir Samuel Baker is always proud of\nbeing such a good marksman, and frankly shows his satisfaction. \"I had\nfired three _beautifully correct_ shots with No. 10 bullets, and seven\ndrachms of powder in each charge; these were so nearly together that they\noccupied a space in her forehead of about three inches.\" He does not aim\nat an animal in a general way, but always at a particular and penetrable\nspot, recording each hit, and the special bullet used. Of course he loves\nhis guns. These modern instruments are delightful toys on account of the\nhighly developed art employed in their construction, so that they would be\ncharming things to possess, and handle, and admire, even if they were\nnever used, whilst the use of them gives a terrible power to man. See a\ngood marksman when he takes a favorite weapon in his hand! More\nredoubtable than Roland with the sword Durindal, he is comparable rather\nto Apollo with the silver bow, or even to Olympian Zeus himself grasping\nhis thunders. Listen to him when he speaks of his weapon! If he thinks you\nhave the free-masonry of the chase, and can understand him, he talks like\na poet and lover. Baker never fails to tell us what weapon he used on each\noccasion, and how beautifully it performed, and due honor and\nadvertisement are kindly given to the maker, out of gratitude.\n\n    \"I accordingly took my trusty little Fletcher double rifle No. 24, and\n    running knee-deep into the water to obtain a close shot I fired\n    exactly between the eyes near the crown of the head. At the reports of\n    the little Fletcher the hippo disappeared.\"\n\nThen he adds an affectionate foot-note about the gun, praising it for\ngoing with him for five years, as if it had had a choice about the matter,\nand could have offered its services to another master. He believes it to\nbe alive, like a dog.\n\n    \"This excellent and handy rifle was made by Thomas Fletcher, of\n    Gloucester, and accompanied me like a faithful dog throughout my\n    journey of nearly five years to the Albert Nyanza, and returned with\n    me to England as good as new.\"\n\nIn the list of Baker's rifles appears his bow of Ulysses, his Child of a\nCannon, familiarly called the Baby, throwing a half-pound explosive shell,\na lovely little pet of a weapon with a recoil that broke an Arab's\ncollar-bone, and was not without some slight effect even upon that mighty\nhunter, its master.\n\n    \"Bang went the Baby; round I spun like a weather-cock with the blood\n    flowing from my nose, as the recoil had driven the top of the hammer\n    deep into the bridge. My Baby not only screamed but kicked viciously.\n    However I knew the elephant would be bagged, as the half-pound shell\n    had been aimed directly behind the shoulder.\"\n\nWe have the most minute descriptions of the effects of these projectiles\nin the head of a hippopotamus and the body of an elephant. \"I was quite\nsatisfied with my explosive shells,\" says the enthusiastic sportsman, and\nthe great beasts appear to have been satisfied too.\n\nNow let me attempt to describe the feelings of a man not born with the\nnatural instinct of a sportsman. We need not suppose him to be either a\nweakling or a coward. There are strong and brave men who can exercise\ntheir strength and prove their courage without willingly inflicting wounds\nor death upon any creature. To some such men a gun is simply an\nencumbrance, to wait for game is a wearisome trial of patience, to follow\nit is aimless wandering, to slaughter it is to do the work of a butcher or\na poulterer, to wound it is to incur a degree of remorse that is entirely\ndestructive of enjoyment. The fact that somewhere on mountain or in forest\npoor creatures are lying with festering flesh or shattered bones to die\nslowly in pain and hunger, and the terrible thirst of the wounded, and all\nfor the pleasure of a gentleman,--such a fact as that, when clearly\nrealized, is not to be got over by anything less powerful than the genuine\ninstinct of the sportsman who is himself one of Nature's own born\ndestroyers, as panthers and falcons are. The feeling of one who has not\nthe sporting instinct has been well expressed as follows by Mr. Lewis\nMorris, in \"A Cynic's Day-dream:\"--\n\n  \"Scant pleasure should I think to gain\n   From endless scenes of death and pain;\n   'Twould little profit me to slay\n   A thousand innocents a day;\n   I should not much delight to tear\n   With wolfish dogs the shrieking hare;\n   With horse and hound to track to death\n   A helpless wretch that gasps for breath;\n   To make the fair bird check its wing,\n   And drop, a dying, shapeless thing;\n   To leave the joy of all the wood\n   A mangled heap of fur and blood,\n   Or else escaping, but in vain,\n   To pine, a shattered wretch, in pain;\n   Teeming, perhaps, or doomed to see\n   Its young brood starve in misery.\"\n\nHunting may be classed with shooting and passed over, as the instinct is\nthe same for both, with this difference only that the huntsman has a\nnatural passion for horsemanship that may be wanting to the pedestrian\nmarksman. An amusement entirely apart from every other, and requiring a\nspecial instinct, is that of sailing.\n\nIf you have the nautical passion it was born with you, and no reasoning\ncan get it out of you. Every sheet of navigable water draws you with a\nmarvellous attraction, fills you with an indescribable longing. Miles away\nfrom anything that can be sailed upon, you cannot feel a breeze upon your\ncheek without wishing to be in a sailing-boat to catch it in a spread of\ncanvas. A ripple on a duck-pond torments you with a teazing reminder of\nlarger surfaces, and if you had no other field for navigation you would\nwant to be on that duck-pond in a tub. \"I would rather have a plank and a\nhandkerchief for a sail,\" said Charles Lever, \"than resign myself to give\nup boating.\" You have pleasure merely in being afloat, even without\nmotion, and all the degrees of motion under sail have their own peculiar\ncharm for you, from an insensible gliding through glassy waters to a fight\nagainst opposite winds and raging seas. You have a thorough, intimate, and\naffectionate knowledge of all the details of your ship. The constant\nsuccession of little tasks and duties is an unfailing interest, a\ndelightful occupation. You enjoy the manual labor, and acquire some skill\nnot only as a sailor but as ship's carpenter and painter. You take all\naccidents and disappointments cheerfully, and bear even hardship with a\nmerry heart. Nautical exercise, though on the humble scale of the modest\namateur, has preserved or improved your health and activity, and brought\nyou nearer to Nature by teaching you the habits of the winds and waters\nand by displaying to you an endless variety of scenes, always with some\nfresh interest, and often of enchanting beauty.\n\nNow let us suppose that you are simple enough to think that what pleases\nyou, who have the instinct, will gratify another who is destitute of it.\nIf you have power enough to make him accompany you, he will pass through\nthe following experiences.\n\nTry to realize the fact that to him the sailing-boat is only a means of\nlocomotion, and that he will refer to his watch and compare it with other\nmeans of locomotion already known to him, not having the slightest\naffectionate prejudice in its favor or gentle tolerance of its defects. If\nyou could always have a steady fair wind he would enjoy the boat as much\nas a coach or a very slow railway train, but he will chafe at every delay.\nNone of the details that delight you can have the slightest interest for\nhim. The sails, and particularly the cordage, seem to him an irritating\ncomplication which, he thinks, might be simplified, and he will not give\nany mental effort to master them. He cares nothing about those qualities\nof sails and hull which have been the subject of such profound scientific\ninvestigation, such long and passionate controversy. You cannot speak of\nanything on board without employing technical terms which, however\nnecessary, however unavoidable, will seem to him a foolish and useless\naffectation by which an amateur tries to give himself nautical airs. If\nyou say \"the mainsheet\" he thinks you might have said more rationally and\nconcisely \"the cord by which you pull towards you that long pole which is\nunder the biggest of the sails,\" and if you say \"the starboard quarter,\"\nhe thinks you ought to have said, in simple English, \"that part of the\nvessel's side that is towards the back end of it and to your right hand\nwhen you are standing with your face looking forwards.\" If you happen to\nbe becalmed he suffers from an infinite _ennui_. If you have to beat to\nwindward he is indifferent to the wonderful art and vexed with you\nbecause, as his host, you have not had the politeness and the forethought\nto provide a favorable breeze. If you are a yachtsman of limited means and\nyour guest has to take a small share in working the vessel, he will not\nperform it with any cheerful alacrity, but consider it unfit for a\ngentleman. If this goes on for long it is likely that there will be\nirritation on both sides, snappish expressions, and a quarrel. Who is in\nfault? Both are excusable in the false situation that has been created,\nbut it ought not to have been created at all. You ought not to have\ninvited a man without nautical instincts, or he ought not to have accepted\nthe invitation. He was a charming companion on land, and that misled you\nboth. Meet him on land again, receive him hospitably at your house. I\nwould say \"forgive him!\" if there were anything to forgive, but it is not\nany fault of his or any merit of yours if, by the irrevocable fate of\ncongenital idiosyncrasy, the amusement that you were destined to seek and\nenjoy is the _corv\u00e9e_ that he was destined to avoid.\n\nI find no language strong enough to condemn the selfishness of those who,\nin order that they may enjoy what is a pleasure to themselves,\ndeliberately and knowingly inflict a _corv\u00e9e_ upon others. This objection\ndoes not apply to paid service, for that is the result of a contract.\nServants constantly endure the tedium of waiting and attendance, but it is\ntheir form of work, and they have freely undertaken it. Work of that kind\nis not a _corv\u00e9e_, it is not forced labor. Real _corv\u00e9es_ are inflicted by\nheads of families on dependent relations, or by patrons on humble friends\nwho are under some obligation to them, and so bound to them as to be\ndefenceless. The father or patron wants, let us say, his nightly game at\nwhist; he must and will have it, if he cannot get it he feels that the\nmachine of the universe is out of gear. He singles out three people who do\nnot want to play, perhaps takes for his partner one who thoroughly\ndislikes the game, but who has learned something of it in obedience to his\norders. They sit down to their board of green cloth. The time passes\nwearily for the principal victim, who is thinking of something else and\nmakes mistakes. The patron loses his temper, speaks with increasing\nacerbity, and finally either flies into a passion and storms (the\nold-fashioned way), or else adopts, with grim self-control, a tone of\ninsulting contempt towards his victim that is even more difficult to\nendure. And this is the reward for having been unselfish and obliging,\nthese are the thanks for having sacrificed a happy evening!\n\nIf this is often done by individuals armed with some kind of power and\nauthority, it is done still more frequently by majorities. The tyranny of\nmajorities begins in our school-days, and the principal happiness of\nmanhood is in some measure to escape from it. Many a man in after-life\nremembers with bitterness the weary hours he had to spend for the\ngratification of others in games that he disliked. The present writer has\na vivid recollection of what, to him, was the infinite dulness of cricket.\nHe was not by any means an inactive boy, but it so happened that cricket\nnever had the slightest interest for him, and to this day he cannot pass a\ncricket-ground without a feeling of strong antipathy to its level surface\nof green, and of thankfulness that he is no longer compelled to go through\nthe irksome old _corv\u00e9e_ of his youth. One of the many charms, to his\ntaste, of a rocky mountain-side in the Highlands is that cricket is\nimpossible there. At the same time he quite believes and admits everything\nthat is so enthusiastically claimed for cricket by those who have a\nnatural affinity for the game.\n\nThere are not only sports and pastimes, but there is the long\nreverberating echo of every sport in endless conversations. Here it may be\nremarked that the lovers of a particular amusement, when they happen to be\na majority, possess a terrible power of inflicting _ennui_ upon others,\nand they often exercise it without mercy. Five men are dining together,\nand three are fox-hunters. Evidently they ought to keep fox-hunting to\nthemselves in consideration for the other two, but this requires an almost\nsuperhuman self-discipline and politeness, so there is a risk that the\nminority may have to submit in silence to an inexhaustible series of\ndetails about horses and foxes and dogs. Indeed you are never safe from\nthis kind of conversation, even when you have numbers on your side.\nSporting talk may be inflicted by a minority when that minority is\nincapable of any other conversation and strong in its own incapacity. Here\nis a case in point that was narrated to me by one of the three _convives_.\nThe host was a country gentleman of great intellectual attainments, one\nguest was a famous Londoner, and the other was a sporting squire who had\nbeen invited as a neighbor. Fox-hunting was the only subject of talk,\nbecause the squire was garrulous and unable to converse about any other\ntopic.\n\nLadies are often pitiable sufferers from this kind of conversation.\nSometimes they have the instinct of masculine sport themselves, and then\nthe subject has an interest for them; but an intelligent woman may find\nherself in a wearisome position when she would rather avoid the subject of\nslaughter, and all the men around her talk of nothing but killing and\nwounding.\n\nIt is natural that men should talk much about their amusements, because\nthe mere recollection of a true amusement (that for which we have an\naffinity) is in itself a renewal of it in imagination, and an immense\nrefreshment to the mind. In the midst of a gloomy English winter the\nyachtsman talks of summer seas, and whilst he is talking he watches,\nmentally, his well-set sails, and hears the wash of the Mediterranean\nwave.\n\nThere are three pleasures in a true amusement, first anticipation, full of\nhope, which is\n\n  \"A feast for promised triumph yet to come,\"\n\noften the best banquet of all. Then comes the actual fruition, usually\ndashed with disappointments that a true lover of the sport accepts in the\nmost cheerful spirit. Lastly, we go through it all over again, either with\nthe friends who have shared our adventures or at least with those who\ncould have enjoyed them had they been there, and who (for vanity often\nclaims her own delights) know enough about the matter to appreciate our\nown admirable skill and courage.\n\nIn concluding this Essay I desire to warn young readers against a very\ncommon mistake. It is very generally believed that literature and the fine\narts can be happily practised as amusements. I believe this to be an error\ndue to the vulgar notion that artists and literal people do not work but\nonly display talent, as if anybody could display talent without toil.\nLiterary and artistic pursuits are in fact _studies_ and not amusements.\nToo arduous to have the refreshing quality of recreation, they put too\nsevere a strain upon the faculties, they are too troublesome in their\nprocesses, and too unsatisfactory in their results, unless a natural gift\nhas been developed by earnest and long-continued labor. It does indeed\noccasionally happen that an artist who has acquired skill by persistent\nstudy will amuse himself by exercising it in sport. A painter may make\nidle sketches as Byron sometimes broke out into careless rhymes, or as a\nscholar will playfully compose doggerel in Greek, but these gambols of\naccomplished men are not to be confounded with the painful efforts of\namateurs who fancy that they are going to dance in the Palace of Art and\nshortly discover that the muse who presides there is not a smiling\nhostess but a severe and exigent schoolmistress. An able French painter,\nLouis Leloir, wrote thus to a friend about another art that he felt\ntempted to practise:--\n\n    \"Etching tempts me much. I am making experiments and hope to show you\n    something soon. Unhappily life is too short; we do a little of\n    everything and then perceive that each branch of art would of itself\n    consume the life of a man, to practise it very imperfectly after\n    all.... We get angry with ourselves and struggle, but too late. It was\n    at the beginning that we ought to have put on blinkers to hide from\n    ourselves everything that is not art.\"\n\nIf we mean to amuse ourselves let us avoid the painful wrestling against\ninsuperable difficulties, and the humiliation of imperfect results. Let us\nshun all ostentation, either of wealth or talent, and take our pleasures\nhappily like poor children, or like the idle angler who stands in his old\nclothes by the purling stream and watches the bobbing of his float, or the\nglancing of the fly that his guileful industry has made.\n\n\n\n\nINDEX.\n\n\n  Absinthe, French use, 273.\n\n  Absurdity, in languages, 157.\n\n  Academies, in a university, 275.\n\n  Accidents, Divine connection with (Essay XV.), 218-222.\n\n  Acquaintances: new and humble, 21, 22;\n    chance, 23-26;\n    met in travelling (Essay XVII.), 239-252 _passim_.\n\n  Adaptability: a mystery, 9;\n    in life's journey, 44;\n    to unrefined people, 72.\n\n  Adultery, overlooked in princes, 168.\n\n  Affection: not blinding to faults, 10;\n    how to obtain filial, 98;\n    in the beginning of letters, 316.\n\n  Affinities, mysterious, 288.\n\n  Age: affecting human intercourse, ix;\n    outrun by youth, 86-93 _passim_;\n    affecting friendship, 112;\n    senility hard to convince, 293, 294;\n    middle and old, 302;\n    kind letter to an old lady, 345.\n\n  Agnosticism, affecting filial relations, 93.\n\n  Agriculture: under law, 228;\n    and Radicals, 282.\n\n  Albany, Duke of, his associations, 5.\n\n  Albert Nyanza, Baker's exploits, 392.\n\n  Alexis, Prince, sad relations to his father, 95, 96.\n\n  Alps: first sight, 235;\n    grandeur, 271.\n\n  Americans: artistic attraction, 8;\n    inequalities of wealth, 248;\n    behaviour towards strangers, 249;\n    treated as ignorant by the English, 277;\n    under George III., 279;\n    use of ruled paper, 328.\n\n  Amusements: pursuit of, 27;\n    sympathy with youthful, 88;\n    out-door, 302, 303;\n    praise for indulgence not deserved, 342;\n    in general (Essay XXVI.), 383-401;\n    obligatory, 383;\n    expensive and pleasurable, 384;\n    laborious, 385;\n    princely enjoyments, 386, 387;\n    poverty not compelled to practise, 388;\n    feigned, 388, 389;\n    converted into customs, 389;\n    should be independent in, 390;\n    shooting, 391-393;\n    boating, 394-396;\n    selfish compulsion, 397;\n    tyranny of majorities, 398;\n    conversational echoes, 398, 399;\n    ladies not interested, 399;\n    three stages of pleasure, 399, 400;\n    artistic gambols, 400;\n    to be taken naturally and happily, 401.\n\n  Analysis: important to prevent confusion (Essay XX.), 280-294 _passim_;\n    analytical faculty wanting, 280, 292-294.\n\n  Ancestry: aristocratic, 123;\n    boast, 130;\n    home, 138;\n    less religion, 214.\n\n  Angels, and the arts, 191.\n\n  Anglicanism, and Russian Church, 257, 258.\n\n  Angling, pleasure of, 401.\n\n  Animals, feminine care, 177.\n\n  Annuities, affecting family ties, 68, 69.\n\n  Answers to letters, 334, 335.\n\n  Anticipation, pleasure of, 399, 400.\n\n  Antiquarianism, author's, 323.\n\n  Apollo, a sportsman compared to, 391.\n\n  Arabs: use of telegraph, 323;\n    collar-bone broken, 392.\n\n  Arch\u00e6ology: a friend's interest, x;\n    affected by railway travel, 14.\n\n  Architecture: illustration, vii, xii;\n    studies in France, 17, 23, 24;\n    connection with religion, 189, 190, 192;\n    ignorance about English, 265;\n    common mistakes, 291;\n    letters about, 365.\n\n  Aristocracy: French rural, 18, 19;\n    English laws of primogeniture, 66;\n    English instance, 123, 124;\n    discipline, 128;\n    often poor, 135, 136;\n    effect of deference, 146, 147;\n    a mark of? 246, 247;\n    Norman influence, 251, 252;\n    antipathy, to Dissent, 256, 257;\n    sent to Eton, 277;\n    and Bohemianism, 309;\n    dislike of scholarship, 331, 332.\n    (See _Rank_.)\n\n  Aristophilus, fictitious character, 146.\n\n  Armies: national ignorance, 277-279;\n    monopoly of places in French, 283.\n    (See _War_.)\n\n  Art: detached from religion, xii;\n    affecting friendship, 6, 8;\n    Claude and Turner, 13;\n    chance acquaintances, 23, 24;\n    purposes lowered, 28, 29;\n    penetrated by love, 42, 43;\n    affecting fraternity, 64;\n    friendship, 113, 114;\n    lifts above mercenary motives, 132;\n    literary, 154;\n    adaptability of Greek language, 158;\n    preferences of artists rewarded, 165;\n    affecting relations of Priests and Women (Essay XIII. part II.),\n        187-195, _passim_;\n    exaggeration and diminution, both admissible, 232, 233;\n    result of selection, 253;\n    French ignorance of English, 265, 266, 267;\n    antagonized by Philistinism, 285, 286, 301;\n    not mere amusement, 400.\n    (See _Painting_, _Sculpture_, _Turner_, etc.)\n\n  Asceticism, tinges both the Philistine and Bohemian, 299, 300.\n    (See _Priesthood_, _Roman Catholicism_, etc.)\n\n  Association: pleasurable or not, 3;\n    affected by opinions, 5, 6;\n    by tastes, 7, 8;\n    London, 20;\n    of a certain French painter, 28;\n    between Priests and Women (Essay XIII. part III.), 195-204 _passim_;\n    among travellers (Essay XVII.), 239-252;\n    leads to misapprehension of opinions, 287, 288.\n    (See _Companionship_, _Friendship_, _Society_, etc.)\n\n  Atavism, puzzling to parents, 88.\n\n  Atheism: reading prayers, 163;\n    apparent, 173;\n    confounded with Deism, 257.\n    (See _God_, _Religion_, etc.)\n\n  Attention: how directed in the study of language, 154;\n    want of, 197.\n\n  Austerlitz, battle, 350.\n    (See _Napoleon I._)\n\n  Austria, Empress, 180.\n\n  Authority, of fathers (Essay VI.), 78-98 _passim_.\n    (See _Priests_.)\n\n  Authors: illustration, 9;\n    indebtedness to humbler classes, 22, 23;\n    relations of several to women, 46 _et seq._;\n    sensitiveness to family indifference, 74;\n    in society and with the pen, 237, 238;\n    a procrastinating correspondent, 317;\n    anonymous letters, 378.\n    (See _Hamerton_, etc.)\n\n  Authorship, illustrating interdependence, 12.\n    (See _Literature_, etc.)\n\n  Autobiographies, revelations of faithful family life, 65.\n\n  Autumn tints, 233.\n\n  Avignon, France, burial-place of Mill, 53.\n\n\n  Bachelors: independence, 26;\n    dread of a wife's relations, 73;\n    lonely hearth, 76;\n    friendship destroyed by marriage, 115, 116;\n    reception into society, 120;\n    eating-habits, 244.\n    (See _Marriage_, _Wives_, etc.)\n\n  Baker, Sir Samuel, shooting, 390-392.\n\n  Balzac, his hatred of old maids, 381.\n\n  Baptism, religious influence, 184, 185.\n    (See _Priesthood_.)\n\n  Baptists: in England, 170;\n    ignorance about, 257.\n    (See _Religion_.)\n\n  Barbarism, emerging from, 161.\n    (See _Civilization_.)\n\n  Baronius, excerpts by Prince Alexis, 95.\n\n  Barristers, mercenary motives, 132, 133.\n\n  Bavaria, king of, 385-387.\n\n  Bazaar, charity, 188.\n\n  Beard, not worn by priests, 202.\n\n  Beauty: womanly attraction, 38, 39;\n    sought by wealth, 299.\n\n  Bedford, Duke of, knowledge of French, 151.\n\n  Belgium, letters written at the date of Waterloo, 153.\n\n  Beljame, his knowledge of English, 152.\n\n  Bell, Umfrey, in old letter, 323.\n\n  Benevolence, priestly and feminine association therein, 195, 196.\n    (See _Priests_, etc.)\n\n  Ben Nevis, and other Scotch heights, 271.\n\n  Bentinck, William, letters to, 344, 345.\n\n  Betham-Edwards, Amelia, her description of English bad manners, 240, 245.\n\n  Bible: faith in, 6;\n    allusion to Proverbs and Canticles, 41;\n    reading, 123;\n    Babel, 159;\n    commentaries studied, authority, 206;\n    examples, 208;\n    narrow limits, 211, 212;\n    commentaries and sermons, 302.\n    (See _Religion_, etc.)\n\n  Bicycle, illustration, 15.\n\n  Birds, in France, 272.\n\n  Birth, priestly connection with, 184, 185.\n    (See _Priests_, _Women_.)\n\n  Black cap, illustration, 204.\n\n  Blake, William, quotation about Folly and Wisdom, 31.\n\n  Blasphemy, royal, 167.\n    (See _Immorality_, etc.)\n\n  Boating: affected by railways, 14;\n    French river, 128;\n    rich and poor, 138, 139;\n    comparison, 154;\n    Lever's experience, 260;\n    mistaken judgments, 292, 293;\n    not enjoyed, 302;\n    sleeping, 307;\n    on the Thames, 335;\n    painting a boat, 359;\n    amusement, 394-396.\n    (See _Yachts_, etc.)\n\n  Boccaccio, quotation about pestilence, 222.\n\n  Bohemianism: Noble (Essay XXI.), 295-314;\n    unjust opinions, 295;\n    lower forms, 296;\n    social vices, 297;\n    sees the weakness of Philistinism, 298;\n    how justifiable, 299;\n    imagination and asceticism, 300;\n    intimacy with nature, 302;\n    estimate of the desirable, 303;\n    living illustration, 304;\n    furniture, mental and material, 305;\n    an English Bohemian's enjoyment, 306;\n    contempt for comfort, uselessness, 307;\n    self-sacrifice, 308;\n    higher sort, 309;\n    of Goldsmith, 309, 310;\n    Corot, Wordsworth, 311;\n    Palmer, 312, 313;\n    part of education, 313, 314;\n    a painter's, 314.\n    (See _Philistinism_.)\n\n  Bonaparte Family, criminality of, 168.\n    (See _Napoleon I._)\n\n  Books: how far an author's own, 13;\n    in hospitality, 142;\n    refusal to read, 195;\n    indifference to, 286, 287;\n    cheap and dear, 304, 305;\n    Wordsworth's carelessness, 311;\n    binding, 359.\n    (See _Literature_, etc.)\n\n  Bores, English dread of, 245.\n    (See _Intrusion_.)\n\n  Borrow, George, on English houses, 145.\n\n  Botany, allusion, 166.\n\n  Bourbon Family, criminality of, 168.\n\n  Bourrienne, Fauvelet de, Napoleon's secretary, 367.\n\n  Boyton, Captain, swimming-apparatus, 290.\n\n  Boys: French, 23, 24;\n    English fraternal jealousies, 66;\n    education, and differences with older people, 78-98 _passim_;\n    roughened by play, 100;\n    friendships, 111.\n    (See _Brothers_, _Fathers_, _Sons_, etc.)\n\n  Brassey, Sir Thomas, his yacht, 138, 139.\n\n  Brevity, in correspondence, 324-331, 361.\n\n  Bright, John, his fraternity, 68.\n\n  British Museum: ignorance about, 266;\n    library, 287;\n    confused with other buildings, 291.\n    (See _London_.)\n\n  Bront\u00eb, Charlotte, her St. John, in Jane Eyre, 196.\n\n  Brothers: divided by incompatibility, 10;\n    English divisions, 63;\n    idiosyncrasy, 64;\n    petty jealousy, 65, 66;\n    love and hatred illustrated, 67;\n    the Brights, 68;\n    money affairs, 69;\n    generosity and meanness, 70;\n    refinement an obstacle, 71;\n    lack of fraternal interest, 74;\n    riches and poverty, 77.\n    (See _Boys_, _Friendship_, _Sons_, etc.)\n\n  Buffon, Georges Louis Leclerc de, his noble life, 209, 210.\n\n  Buildings, literary illustration, vii.\n\n  Bulgaria, lost to Turkey, 278.\n\n  Bull-fights, women's presence, 180.\n    (See _Cruelty_.)\n\n  Bunyan, John: choice in religion, 173;\n    imprisoned, 181.\n\n  Business: affecting family ties, 64, 67;\n    affecting letter-writing, 342, 343;\n    Letters of (Essay XXIV.), 354-369;\n    orally conducted or written, 354-357;\n    stupid agents, 358, 359;\n    talent for accuracy, 360;\n    acknowledging orders, 361;\n    apparent carelessness, one subject best, 362;\n    knowledge of drawing important to explanations on paper, 363, 364;\n    acquaintance with languages a help, 364;\n    commercial slang, 365;\n    indolence in letter-reading has disastrous results, 366-369.\n    (See _Correspondence_.)\n\n  Byron, Lord: on Friendship, 30;\n    Haid\u00e9e, 39;\n    marriage relations, 46, 48-50, 55-57;\n    as a letter-writer, 345-349;\n    careless rhymes, 400.\n\n\n  Calumny: caused by indistinct ideas, 292;\n    in letters, 370-377.\n\n  Cambridge University, 275, 276.\n\n  Camden Society, publication, 318.\n\n  Cannes, anecdote, 235.\n\n  Cannon-balls, national intercourse, 160.\n    (See _Wars_.)\n\n  Canoe, illustration, 15.\n\n  Card-playing: incident, 128, 129;\n    French habit, 273;\n    kings, 289;\n    laborious, 397.\n\n  Carelessness, causing wrong judgments, 293.\n\n  Caste: as affecting friendship, 4;\n    not the uniting force, 9;\n    French rites, 16;\n    English prejudice, 19;\n    sins against, 22;\n    among authors, 46-56;\n    kinship of ideas, 67;\n    ease with lower classes, 64;\n    really existent, 124, 125;\n    loss through poverty, 136;\n    among English travellers, 240-242, 245, 246.\n    (See _Classes_, _Rank_, _Titles_, etc.)\n\n  Cat, drawing by a child, 364.\n\n  Cathedrals: drawing a French, 23, 24;\n    imposing, 189, 190, 192.\n\n  Celibacy: Shelley's experience, 34;\n    in Catholic Church, 120;\n    clerical, 198-201;\n    of old maids, 379-382.\n    (See _Clergy_, _Priests_, _Wives_, etc.)\n\n  Censure, dangerous in letters, 352, 353.\n\n  Ceremony: dependent on prosperity, 125, 126;\n    fondness of women for, 197, 198;\n    also 187-195 _passim_.\n    (See _Manners_, _Rank_, etc.)\n\n  Chamberlain, the title, 137.\n\n  Chambord, Count de, restoration possible, 254, 255.\n\n  Channel, British, illustration, 14.\n\n  Charles II., women's influence during his reign, 181.\n\n  Charles XII., his hardiness, 308.\n\n  Chaucer, Geoffrey, on birds, 272.\n\n  Cheltenham, Eng., treatment of Dissenters, 19.\n\n  Chemistry, illustration, 3.\n\n  Cheshire, Eng., a case of generosity, 68.\n\n  Children: recrimination with parents, 75;\n    as affecting parental wealth, 119;\n    social reception, 120;\n    keenly alive to social distinctions, 121;\n    imprudent marriages, 123;\n    a poor woman's, 139;\n    interruptions, 140, 141;\n    ignorance of foreign language makes us seem like, 151;\n    feminine care, 177;\n    of clergy, 200, 201;\n    cat picture, 364;\n    pleasures of poor, 401.\n    (See _Boys_, _Brothers_, _Marriage_, _Sons_, etc.)\n\n  Chinese mandarins, 130.\n\n  Chirography, in letters, 331-333.\n\n  Christ: his divinity a past issue, 6;\n    Church instituted, 178, 179;\n    Dr. Macleod on, 186;\n    limits of knowledge in Jesus' day, 213.\n    (See _Church_, _Religion_, etc.)\n\n  Christianity: as affecting intercourse, 5, 6;\n    its early disciples, 142;\n    preferment for adherence, 162, 163;\n    morality a part of, 168, 169;\n    state churches, 170;\n    in poetry, 198;\n    early ideal, 206.\n    (See _Roman Catholicism_, etc.)\n\n  Christmas: decorations, 188;\n    in Tennyson, 198.\n    (See _Clergy_, _Priesthood_, _Women_.)\n\n  Church: attendance of hypocrites, 163;\n    compulsory, 172;\n    instituted by God in Christ, 178, 179;\n    influence at all stages of life, 183-186;\n    \u00e6sthetic industry, 188;\n    dress, 189;\n    buildings, 190;\n    menaces, 193;\n    partisanship, 194;\n    power of custom, 198;\n    authority, 203.\n    (See _Religion_, _Roman Catholicism_, etc.)\n\n  Church of England: as affecting friendship, 6;\n    freedom of members in their own country, instance of Dissenting\n        tyranny, 164;\n    dangers of forsaking, 165;\n    bondage of royalty, 166, 168;\n    adherence of nobility, 169, 170, 173;\n    of working-people, 170, 171;\n    compulsory attendance, liberality, 172, 173;\n    ribaldry sanctioned by its head, 181;\n    priestly consolation, 183;\n    the _legal_ church, 185;\n    ritualistic art, 188-190;\n    a bishop's invitation to a discussion, 192;\n    story of a bishop's indolence, 366, 367;\n    French ignorance of, 275.\n    (See _England_, _Christ_, etc.)\n\n  Cipher, in letters, 326.\n\n  Civility. (See _Hospitality_.)\n\n  Civilization: liking for, xiii;\n    antagonism to nature in love-matters, 41;\n    lower state, 72;\n    affected by hospitality, 100;\n    material adjuncts, 253;\n    physical, 298;\n    duty to further, 299;\n    forsaken, 310.\n    (See _Barbarism_, _Bohemianism_, _Philistinism_, etc.)\n\n  Classes: Differences of Rank (Essay X.), 130-147 _passim_;\n    affected by religion (Essay XII.), 161-174;\n    limits, 250;\n    in connection with Gentility (Essay XVIII.), 253-263 _passim_.\n    (See _Caste_, _Ceremonies_, _Rank_, etc.)\n\n  Classics, study of, in the Renaissance, 212.\n\n  Claude, helps Turner. (See _Painters_, etc.)\n\n  Clergy: mercenary motives, 132, 133;\n    more tolerant of immorality than of heresy, 168;\n    belief in natural law, 221;\n    dangers of association with, 287.\n    (See _Priesthood_, _Religion_, etc.)\n\n  Clergywomen, 200, 201.\n\n  Clerks, their knowledge an aid to national intercourse, 149, 150.\n    (See _Business_, _Languages_, etc.)\n\n  Coats-of-arms: usurped, 135;\n    in letters, 326, 327.\n    (See _Rank_.)\n\n  Cockburn, Sir Alexander, knowledge of French, 151.\n\n  Cock Robin, boat, 138.\n    (See _Boating_.)\n\n  Coffee, satire on trade, 133, 134.\n\n  Cologne Cathedral, 190.\n\n  Colors, in painting, 232, 233.\n\n  Columbus, Voltaire's allusion, 274.\n\n  Comet, in Egyptian war, 229.\n    (See _Superstition_.)\n\n  Comfort, pursuit of, 27, 298, 299.\n    (See _Philistinism_.)\n\n  Commerce, affected by language, 148-150, 159, 160.\n    (See _Business_, _Languages_, etc.)\n\n  Communism, threats, 377.\n\n  Como, Italy, solitude, 31.\n\n  Companionship: how decided, 4;\n    affected by opinions, 5, 6;\n    by tastes, 7, 8;\n    in London, 20;\n    with the lower classes, 21-23;\n    chance, 24-26;\n    intellectual exclusiveness, 27, 28;\n    books, 29;\n    nature, 30;\n    in Marriage (Essay IV.), 44-62;\n    travelling, absence, 44;\n    intellectual, 45;\n    instances of unlawful, 46, 47;\n    failures not surprising, 48;\n    of Byron, 49, 50;\n    Goethe, 51, 52;\n    Mill, 53, 54;\n    discouraging examples, 55, 56;\n    difficulties of extraordinary minds, 57;\n    artificial, 58;\n    hopelessness of finding ideal associations, 59;\n    indications and realizations, 60;\n    trust, 61, 62;\n    hindered by refinement, 71, 72;\n    affected by cousinship, 73;\n    parents and children (Essay VI.), 78-98 _passim_;\n    Death of Friendship (Essay VIII.), 110-118;\n    affected by wealth and poverty (Essays IX. and X.), 119-147 _passim_;\n    between Priests and Women (Essay XIII.), 175-204.\n    (See _Association_, _Friendship_, etc.)\n\n  Comradeship, difficult between parents and children, 89.\n    (See _Association_, etc.)\n\n  Concession: weakening the mind, 147;\n    national, 148;\n    feminine liking, 175.\n\n  Confessional, the: influencing women, 201-203;\n    a supposititious compulsion, 281.\n    (See _Religion_, etc.)\n\n  Confirmation, priestly connection with, 185.\n    (See _Women_.)\n\n  Confusion: (Essay XX.), 280-294;\n    masculine and feminine, 280;\n    political, 280-284;\n    rebels and reformers, 280;\n    private and public liberty, 281;\n    Radicals, 282;\n    _\u00e9galit\u00e9_, 283;\n    religious, 284, 285;\n    Philistines and Bohemians, 285-287;\n    confounding people with their associates, 287, 288;\n    vocations, 288, 289;\n    persons, 290;\n    foreign buildings, 291;\n    inducing calumny, 292;\n    caused by insufficient analysis, 292, 293;\n    about inventions, 293;\n    result of carelessness, indolence, or senility, 293, 294.\n\n  Consolation, of clergy, 179-183.\n    (See _Religion_.)\n\n  Construing, different from reading, 154.\n    (See _Languages_.)\n\n  Continent, the: family ties, 63;\n    friendship broken by marriage, 116;\n    religious liberality, 173;\n    marriage, 184;\n    flowers, 188, 189;\n    confessional, 202, 203;\n    exaggeration, 234, 235;\n    table-manners of travellers, 240-252 _passim_;\n    drinking-places, 262.\n    (See _France_, etc.)\n\n  Controversy, disliked, xiii.\n\n  Conventionality: affecting personality, 15-17;\n    genteel ignorance engendered by, 260-262.\n    (See _Courtesy_, _Manners_, etc.)\n\n  Conversation: chance, 26;\n    compared with literature, 29;\n    study of languages, 156;\n    at _table d'h\u00f4te_, 239-249;\n    among strangers, 247-252 _passim_;\n    useless to quote, 291;\n    Goldsmith's enjoyment, 309.\n\n  Convictions, our own to be trusted, iii, iv.\n\n  Copenhagen, battle, 327.\n\n  Cornhill Magazine, Lever's article, 259, 260.\n\n  Corot (Jean Baptiste Camille), his Bohemianism, 310, 311.\n\n  Correspondence: akin to periodicals, 30;\n    Belgian letters, 153;\n    Courtesy of Epistolary Communication (Essay XXII.), 315-335;\n    introductions and number of letters, 316;\n    promptness, 317, 318;\n    Plumpton Letters, 318-323;\n    brevity, 324;\n    telegraphy and abbreviations, 325;\n    sealing, 326, 327;\n    peculiar stationery, 328;\n    post-cards, 329;\n    _un mot \u00e0 la poste_, 330;\n    brevity and hurry, 331;\n    handwriting, 332;\n    crossed lines, ink, type-writers, 333;\n    dictation, outside courtesy, 334;\n    to reply or not reply? 335;\n    Letters of Friendship (Essay XXIII.), 336-353;\n    a supposed gain to friendship, 336;\n    neglected, 337;\n    impediments, 338;\n    French cards, 339;\n    abandonment to be regretted, 340;\n    letter-writing a gift, 341;\n    real self wanted in letters, 342;\n    letters of business and friendship, 343;\n    familiarity best, 344;\n    lengthy letters, 345;\n    Byron's, 346-348;\n    Jacquemont's, 349;\n    the R\u00e9musat letters, 350;\n    Bernardo Tasso's, Montaigne's, 350;\n    perils of plain speaking, 352, 353;\n    Letters of Business (Essay XXIV.), 354-369;\n    differences of talent, 354;\n    repeated perusals, 355;\n    refuge of timidity, 356;\n    letters exposed, literary faults, omissions, 357;\n    directions misunderstood, 358, 359;\n    acknowledging orders, 361;\n    slovenly writing, one subject in each letter, 362;\n    misunderstanding through ignorance, 363;\n    in foreign languages, 364;\n    conventional slang, 365;\n    careful reading necessary, 366;\n    unopened letters, 367;\n    epistles half-read, 368;\n    a stupid error, 369;\n    Anonymous Letters (Essay XXV.), 370-382;\n    common, 370;\n    slanderous, 371;\n    vehicle of calumny, 372;\n    written to betrothed lovers, 373;\n    story, 374;\n    written in collaboration and with pains, 375;\n    an expected grandchild, 376;\n    torture and threats, 377;\n    kindly and critical, 378-382.\n\n  Corv\u00e9e: allusion, 342;\n    definition, 389, 390, 396, 397.\n    (See _Amusements_.)\n\n  Cottage, love in a, 35, 36.\n\n  Court-circulars, 166, 167.\n\n  Courtesy: its forms, 127-129;\n    idioms, 157;\n    in Epistolary Communication (Essay XXII.), 315-335;\n    in what courtesy consists, 315;\n    the act of writing, phrases, 316;\n    promptitude, 317;\n    instance of procrastination, 317, 318;\n    illustrations, in the Plumpton Correspondence, of ancient courtesy,\n        318-323, 331;\n    consists in modern brevity, 324;\n    foreign forms, 325;\n    by telegraph, 326;\n    in little things, 327;\n    in stationery, 328;\n    affected by postal cards, 329, 330;\n    in chirography, 331, 332;\n    affected by type-writers, 333;\n    for show merely, 334;\n    requiring answers, 335.\n    (See _Manners_, _Classes_, etc.)\n\n  Cousins: French proverb, general relationship, 72;\n    lack of friendly interest, 74.\n    (See _Brothers_, etc.)\n\n  Creuzot, French foundry, 272.\n\n  Cricket: not played in France, 272;\n    author's dislike, 398.\n    (See _Amusements_.)\n\n  Crimean War, caused by ignorance, 278.\n    (See _War_.)\n\n  Criticism: intolerant of certain features in books, 89;\n    in Byron's letters, 347;\n    in anonymous letters, 379;\n    explained by a date, 381.\n\n  Cromwell, Oliver, contrasted with his son, 96.\n\n  Culture and Philistinism, 285-287.\n\n  Customs: upheld by clergy, 197, 198;\n    amusements changed into, 383, 384, 389.\n    (See _Ceremonies_, _Courtesy_, _Rank_, etc.)\n\n\n  Daily News, London, illustration of natural law _vs._ religion, xii.\n\n  Dancing: French quotation about, 31;\n    religious aversion, 123;\n    not compulsory to the poor, 388.\n    (See _Amusements_, etc.)\n\n  Dante, his subjects, 192.\n\n  Daughters, their respectful and impertinent letters, 319-321.\n    (See _Fathers_, _Sons_, _Women_, etc.)\n\n  Death: termination of intercourse, x, xi;\n    from love, 39;\n    Byron's lines, 50;\n    ingratitude expressed in a will, 69;\n    of wife's relations, 73;\n    of Friendship (Essay VIII.), 110-118;\n    not personal, 110;\n    of a French gentleman, 182;\n    priestly connection with, 184-186, 203;\n    of absent friends, 338;\n    French customs, 339;\n    silence, 340.\n    (See _Priests_, _Religion_.)\n\n  Debauchery, destructive of love, 34.\n\n  Deference, why liked, 122.\n    (See _Rank_, etc.)\n\n  Deism, confounded with Atheism, 257.\n    (See _God_, _Religion_, etc.)\n\n  Delos, oracle of, 229.\n\n  Democracies, illustration of broken friendships, 114, 115.\n\n  Democracy: accusation of, 131;\n    confounded with Dissent, 257.\n    (See _Nationality_, etc.)\n\n  Denmark, the crown-prince of, 327.\n\n  Dependence, of one upon all, 12.\n\n  De Saussure, Horace Benedict, his life study, 230, 231.\n\n  Despotism, provincial and social, 17.\n    (See _Tyranny_.)\n\n  De Tocqueville, Alexis Charles Henri Clerel: allusion, 147;\n    translation, 152;\n    on English unsociability (Essay XVII.), 239-252 _passim_.\n\n  Devil: priestly opposition, 195;\n    belief in agency, 224;\n    God's relation to, 228.\n    (See _Clergy_, _Superstition_, _Religion_, etc.)\n\n  Devonshire, Eng., its beauty, 270.\n\n  Dickens, Charles: his middle-class portraitures, 20;\n    his indebtedness to the poor, 22;\n    humor, 72.\n\n  Dictionary, references, 155.\n    (See _Languages_.)\n\n  Diderot, Denis, Goldsmith's interview, 309.\n\n  Dignity, to be maintained in middle-life, 117.\n\n  Diminution, habit in art and life (Essay XVI.), 232-238.\n    (See _Exaggeration_.)\n\n  Diogenes, his philosophy, 127.\n\n  Discipline: of children, 78-98 _passim_;\n    delegated, 83;\n    mental, 208;\n    of self, 308.\n\n  Discord, the result of high taste, 6.\n\n  Dishonesty, part of Bohemianism, 296.\n\n  Disraeli, Benjamin, female estimate, 380.\n\n  Dissenters: French estimate, 18, 19;\n    English exclusion, 19, 256;\n    liberty in religion, 164, 165;\n    position not compulsory, 170;\n    small towns, 171-173.\n    (See _Church of England_, etc.)\n\n  Dissipation: among working-men, 124;\n    in France, 272, 273.\n    (See _Wine_, etc.)\n\n  Distinctions forgotten (Essay XX.), 280-294 _passim_.\n    (See _Confusion_.)\n\n  Divorce, causes of, 38.\n    (See _Marriage_, _Women_, etc.)\n\n  Dobell, Sidney, social exclusion, 19.\n\n  Dog, rifle compared to, 392.\n    (See _Amusements_.)\n\n  Dominicans, dress, 189.\n    (See _Religion_, etc.)\n\n  Dominoes in France, 273.\n    (See _Amusements_.)\n\n  Don Quixote, illustration of paternal satire, 97.\n\n  Dor\u00e9, Gustave, his kind and long letter, 345.\n\n  Double, L\u00e9opold, home, 142.\n\n  Dover Straits, 337.\n\n  Drama: power of adaptation, 72;\n    amateur actors, 143.\n\n  Drawing: a French church, 23, 24;\n    aid to business letters, 363, 364.\n    (See _Painters_, etc.)\n\n  Dreams, outgrown, 60.\n\n  Dress: connection with manners, 126, 127;\n    ornaments to indicate wealth, 131;\n    feminine interest, 187;\n    clerical vestments, 187, 188, 198;\n    sexless, 202, 203;\n    of the Philistines, 297, 298;\n    Bohemian, 304-307, 313, 314.\n    (See _Women_.)\n\n  Driving, sole exercise, 302.\n\n  Drunkenness: part of Bohemianism, 296;\n    in best society, 297.\n    (See _Table_, _Wine_, etc.)\n\n  Duelling, French, 273.\n\n  Du Maurier, George, his satire on coffee-dealers, 133, 134.\n\n  Dupont, Pierre, song about wine, 268, 269, 272.\n\n\n  Ear, learning languages by, 156.\n    (See _Languages_.)\n\n  Easter: allusion, 198;\n    confession, 281.\n\n  Eccentricity: high intellect, 56;\n    in an artist, 307;\n    claims indulgence, 387.\n\n  Eclipse, superstitious view, 215-217, 229.\n\n  Economy, necessitated by marriage, 26.\n    (See _Wealth_.)\n\n  Edinburgh Review, editor, 152.\n\n  Editor, a procrastinating correspondent, 317.\n\n  Education: similarity, 10;\n    affecting idiosyncrasy, 13;\n    conventional, 15;\n    effect upon humor, 20;\n    literary, derived from the poor, 22;\n    affected by change in filial obedience, 80-88;\n    home, 81 _et seq._;\n    authority of teachers, 81, 83;\n    divergence of parental and filial, 84;\n    special efforts, 85;\n    divergent, 90-92;\n    profound lack of, 91;\n    never to be thrown off, 92;\n    of hospitality, 99, 100;\n    the effect on all religion (Essay XV.), 215-231 _passim_;\n    knowledge of languages, 245;\n    of Tasso family, 350, 351.\n    (See _Languages_, etc.)\n\n  Egypt: Suez Canal, xii;\n    illustration of school tasks, 85;\n    war of 1882, 222-224, 229.\n\n  Eliot, George: hints from the poor, 22;\n    her peculiar relation to Mr. Lewes, 45, 46, 55, 56;\n    often confounded with other writers, 290.\n\n  Elizabeth, Queen: order about the marriage of clergy, 200;\n    her times, 381.\n    (See _Celibacy_.)\n\n  Emerson, Ralph Waldo: the dedication, iii, iv;\n    anecdote of Napoleon, 367.\n\n  England: newspaper reports, 41;\n    a French woman's knowledge of, 107;\n    respect for rank, 136;\n    title-worship, 137;\n    estimate of wealth, 144-146;\n    slavery to houses, 145;\n    French ideas slowly received, 150;\n    religious freedom, 164-168, 172;\n    two religions for the nobility, 169, 170, 173;\n    a most relentless monarch, 180;\n    women during reign of Charles II., 181;\n    marriage rites, 184, 185;\n    aristocracy, 246;\n    A Remarkable Peculiarity (Essay XVII.), 239-252;\n    meeting abroad, 239;\n    reticence in each other's company, 240;\n    anecdotes, 241, 242;\n    dread of intrusion, 243, 244;\n    freedom with foreigners and with compatriots, 245;\n    not a mark of aristocracy, 246;\n    fear of meddlers, 247;\n    interest in rank, 248;\n    reticence outgrown, 249;\n    Lever's illustration, 250;\n    exceptions, 251;\n    Saxon and Norman influence, 251, 252;\n    Dissenters ignored, 256, 257;\n    general information, 263;\n    French ignorance of art and literature in, 265-267, 269;\n    game, 268;\n    mountains, 270, 271;\n    landscapes, 270;\n    Church, 275;\n    supposed law about attending the Mass, 281;\n    homes longed for, 286;\n    the architectural blunders of tourists, 291;\n    Philistine lady, 304;\n    painter and Philistine, 306;\n    letters in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, 318-321;\n    use of telegraph, 323;\n    letters shortened, 325;\n    letter-paper 328;\n    post-cards, 329, 330;\n    communication with France, 337;\n    trade habits, 361, 365;\n    reading of certain books not compulsory, 378;\n    old maids, 381;\n    winter, 399.\n    (See _Church of England_, _France_, etc.)\n\n  English Language: ignorance of, a misfortune, 149, 150;\n    familiar knowledge unusual in France, 151-153;\n    forms of courtesy, 157;\n    conversation abroad, 240;\n    _Bohemian_, 295;\n    literature, 305;\n    bad spelling, 360, 361;\n    no synonym for _corv\u00e9e_, 389;\n    nautical terms, 396.\n    (See _England_, etc.)\n\n  English People: Continental repulsion, 7;\n    artistic attraction, 8;\n    undervaluation of chance conversations, 26;\n    looseness of family ties, 63;\n    ashamed of sentiment, 82;\n    feeling about heredity, 93;\n    one lady's empty rooms, 104;\n    another's incivility, 106;\n    a merchant's loss of wealth, 121, 122;\n    deteriorated aristocrat, 123;\n    letters by ladies, 153;\n    no consoling power, 182;\n    gentlewomen of former generation, 205, 206;\n    where to find inspiriting models, 208;\n    companions of Prince Imperial, 225;\n    understatement a habit, 234-238;\n    a lady's ignorant remark about servants, 258, 259;\n    ignorance of French mountains, etc., 270-271;\n    fuel and iron, 272;\n    universities, 275, 276;\n    patronage of Americans, 277;\n    anonymous letter to a gentleman, 376.\n\n  Ennui: banished by labor, 32;\n    on shipboard, 396.\n\n  Enterprise, affecting individualism, 14.\n\n  Envy, expressed in anonymous letters, 371.\n\n  Epiphany, annual Egyptian ceremony, xii.\n    (See _Science_, _Superstition_, etc.)\n\n  Epithets, English, 235.\n\n  Equality: affecting intercourse, 246;\n    _\u00e9galit\u00e9_, 282, 283.\n    (See _Rank_, _Ignorance_.)\n\n  Equestrianism, affected by railways, 14.\n\n  Etching, Leloir's fondness for, 401.\n\n  Etheredge, Sir George, his ribaldry, 181.\n\n  Eton College, allusion, 277.\n\n  Eug\u00e9nie, Empress: her influence over her husband, 176;\n    his regard, 225.\n\n  Europe: vintages, 133;\n    influence of Littr\u00e9, 210;\n    Southern, 240;\n    allusion, 254;\n    Turkey nearly expelled, 278;\n    latest thought, 306;\n    cities, 309;\n    William of Orange, on complications, 344;\n    communistic disturbances, 377.\n    (See _England_, _France_, etc.)\n\n  Evangelicism, English peculiarities, 123.\n    (See _Dissenters_, etc.)\n\n  Evans, Marian. (See _George Eliot_.)\n\n  Evolution, theory of, 176.\n\n  Exaggeration, the habit in art and life (Essay XVI.), 232-238.\n    (See _Diminution_.)\n\n  Exercise: love of, 14;\n    in the young and the old, 86, 87.\n    (See _Amusements_.)\n\n  Experience: value, 30;\n    needed to avoid dangers in letter-writing, 352.\n\n  Extravagance: part of Bohemianism, 295;\n    Goldsmith's, 310.\n\n\n  Family: Ties (Essay V.), 63-77;\n    looseness in England, 63;\n    brotherly coolness, 64;\n    domestic jealousies, 65;\n    laws of primogeniture, 66;\n    instances of strong attachment, 67;\n    illustrations of kindness, 68;\n    pecuniary relations, 69;\n    parsimony, 70;\n    discomfort of refinement, 71;\n    cousins, 72;\n    wife's relations, 73;\n    indifference to the achievements of kindred, 74;\n    aid from relatives, domestic rudeness, 75;\n    brutality, misery, 76;\n    home privations, 77;\n    Fathers and Sons (Essay VI.), 78-98;\n    intercourse, to be distinguished from individual, 119, 120;\n    rich friends, 121;\n    false, 122;\n    children's marriages, 123;\n    old, 135, 136;\n    clerical, 199, 200;\n    subjects of letters, 205;\n    regard of Napoleon III., 225.\n    (See _Brothers_, _Sons_, etc.)\n\n  Fashion, transient, 307.\n\n  Fathers: separated from children by incompatibility, 10;\n    by irascibility, 75;\n    by brutality of tongue, 76;\n    and Sons (Essay VI.), 78-98;\n    unsatisfactory relation, interregnum, 78;\n    old and new feelings and customs, 79;\n    commanding, 80;\n    exercise of authority, 81;\n    Mill's experience, 82;\n    abdication of authority, 83;\n    personal education of sons, 84, 85;\n    mistakes of middle-age, 86;\n    outstripped by sons, 87;\n    intimate friendship impossible, 88;\n    differences of age, 89;\n    divergences of education and experience, 90, 91;\n    opinions not hereditary, 92, 93;\n    the attempted control of marriage, 94;\n    Peter the Great and Alexis, 95;\n    other illustrations of discord, 96;\n    satire and disregard of personality, 97;\n    true foundation of paternal association, 98;\n    death of a French parent, 182;\n    a letter, 319-322.\n\n  Favor, fear of loss, 147.\n\n  Ferdinand and Isabella, religious freedom in their reign, 164.\n\n  Fiction: love in French, 41;\n    absorbing theme, 42;\n    in a library, 305.\n\n  Fletcher, Thomas, firearms made by, 391, 392.\n\n  Florence, Italy, pestilence, 222.\n\n  Flowers: illustration, 179;\n    church use, 188;\n    Flower Sunday, 189.\n    (See _Women_, etc.)\n\n  Fly, artificial, 377.\n\n  Fog, English, 270.\n\n  Foreigners: associations with, 7;\n    view of English family life, 63;\n    in travelling-conditions (Essay XVII.), 239-252 _passim_;\n    association leads to misapprehension, 287;\n    in England, 291.\n\n  Fox-hunting, 180, 398, 399.\n    (See _Amusements_, _Sports_, etc.)\n\n  France: a peasant's outlook, xii;\n    social despotism in small cities, 17-19;\n    pleasant associations in a cathedral city, 23, 24;\n    political criticism, 115;\n    noisy card-players, 128, 129;\n    disregard of titles, 136, 137;\n    adage about riches, 145;\n    English ideas slowly received, 150;\n    travel in Southern, 150;\n    religious freedom, 165;\n    marriage, 184;\n    railway accident, 218-220;\n    the Imperialists, 225;\n    feudal fashions, 246;\n    obstinacy of the old r\u00e9gime, 254-256;\n    mountains, 271;\n    vigor of young men, 272, 273;\n    universities, 275, 276;\n    equality attained by Revolution, 283;\n    bourgeois complaint of newspapers, 286;\n    mineral oil, 288;\n    confusion of tourists, 291;\n    Goldsmith's travels, 309, 310;\n    landscape painter, 310;\n    end of Plumpton family, 323;\n    use of telegraph, 323;\n    letters shortened, 325;\n    letter-paper, 328;\n    post-cards, 330;\n    chirography, 332;\n    New Year's cards, 339;\n    _carton non bitum\u00e9_, 358, 359;\n    habits of tradesmen, 360, 361, 365;\n    the _Salon_, 367;\n    old maids, 381;\n    a _corv\u00e9e_, 389, 390;\n    Leloir the painter, 401.\n    (See _Continent_, etc.)\n\n  Fraternity, _fraternit\u00e9_, 282, 283.\n    (See _Brothers_.)\n\n  Freedom: national, 279;\n    public and private liberty confounded, 281, 282.\n\n  French Language: teaching, 85;\n    ignorance a misfortune, 149, 150;\n    rare knowledge of, by Englishmen, 151, 152;\n    letters by English ladies, 153;\n    forms of courtesy, 157;\n    prayers, 158;\n    as the universal tongue, 158, 159;\n    English knowledge of, 245;\n    _univers_, 273, 274.\n    (See _Languages_.)\n\n  French People: excellence in painting, and relations to Americans and\n        English, 7;\n    an ideal of _good form_, 15;\n    old conventionality, 16-18;\n    love in fiction, 41;\n    family ties, 63;\n    proverb about cousins, 72;\n    unbelieving sons, 93;\n    bourgeois table manners formerly, 101, 102;\n    state apartments, 105;\n    incivility towards, at an English table, 106;\n    girls, 106;\n    a woman's clever retort, 107;\n    literature condemned by wholesale, 147;\n    royal daily life, 167;\n    power of consolation, 182;\n    examples of virtue, 208;\n    old nobility, 209;\n    Buffon and Littr\u00e9, 209-211;\n    _hazard providentiel_, 227;\n    painters, 232, 233;\n    overstatement, 234, 235;\n    sociability with strangers contrasted with the English want of it\n        (Essay XVII.), 239-252 _passim_;\n    a widow and suite, 242, 243;\n    discreet social habits, 247, 248;\n    a disregard of titles, 248;\n    a weak question about fortune, 259;\n    ignorance of English matters, 265-270;\n    wine-song, 268, 269;\n    fuel and iron, 271, 272;\n    seeming vanity of language, 273, 274;\n    conceit cured by war, 278;\n    communist dreamers, 284;\n    proverb, 287;\n    confusion of persons, 290.\n\n  Friendship: supposed impossible in a given case, viii, ix;\n    real, x;\n    how formed, 4;\n    not confined to the same class, 5;\n    affected by art and religion, 6;\n    by taste and nationality, 7, 8;\n    by likeness, 8;\n    with those with whom we have not much in common, 9, 10;\n    affected by incompatibility, 10;\n    Byron's comparison, 30;\n    affecting illicit love, 41;\n    akin to marriage, 48;\n    elective affinity, 75;\n    Death of (Essay VIII.), 110-118;\n    sad subject, no resurrection, definition, 110;\n    boyish alliances, growth, 111;\n    personal changes, 112;\n    differences of opinion, 113;\n    of prosperity, financial, professional, political, 114;\n    habits, marriage, 115;\n    neglect, poor and rich, 116;\n    equality not essential, acceptance of kindness, new ties, 117;\n    intimacy easily destroyed, 118;\n    affected by wealth (Essays IX., X.), 119-147 _passim_;\n    by language, 149;\n    between Priests and Women (Essay XIII.), 175-204 _passim_;\n    formed with strangers, 251;\n    leads to misunderstood opinions, 287, 288;\n    disturbed by procrastination, 317;\n    Letters of, (Essay XXIII.), 336-353;\n    infrequency, 336;\n    obstacles, 337;\n    the sea a barrier, 338;\n    aid of a few words at New Year's, 339;\n    death-like silence, 340;\n    charm of manner not always carried into letters, 341;\n    excluded by business, 342;\n    cooled by reproaches, 343;\n    all topics interesting to a friend, 344;\n    affection overflows in long letters, 345-351;\n    fault-finding dangerous, 352, 353;\n    journeys saved, 360.\n    (See _Association_, _Companionship_, _Family_, etc.)\n\n  Fruit, ignorance about English, 269, 270.\n\n  Fruition, pleasure of, 400.\n\n  Fuel, French, 272.\n\n  Furniture: feminine interest in, 187;\n    regard and disregard (Essay XXI.), 295-314 _passim_;\n    Goldsmith's extravagance, 310.\n    (See _Women_.)\n\n\n  Gambetta, his death, 225.\n\n  Game: in England, 267, 268, 270;\n    elephant and hippopotamus, 392.\n    (See _Sports_.)\n\n  Games, connection with amusement, 385, 397.\n    (See _Cards_, etc.)\n\n  Garden, illustration, 9.\n\n  Gascoyne, William, letters, 318, 319.\n\n  Generosity: affecting family ties, 69, 70;\n    of a Philistine, 301.\n\n  Geneva Lake, as seen by different eyes, 230, 231.\n\n  Genius, enjoyment of, 303.\n\n  Gentility: Genteel Ignorance (Essay XVIII.), 253-263;\n    an ideal condition, 253;\n    misfortune, 254;\n    French noblesse, 255;\n    ignores differing forms of religion, 256, 257;\n    poverty, 258;\n    inferior financial conditions, 259, 260;\n    real differences, 261;\n    genteel society avoided, 262;\n    because stupid, 263.\n\n  Geography: London Atlas, 274;\n    work of Reclus, 291.\n    (See _Ignorance_.)\n\n  Geology, allusion, 166.\n    (See _Science_.)\n\n  George III., colonial tenure, 279.\n\n  Germany: models of virtue, 208;\n    hotel fashions, 244;\n    a Bohemian and scholar, 304-306.\n\n  German Language, English knowledge, 245.\n\n  Gladstone, William E.: the probable effect of a French training, 17, 18;\n    indebtedness to trade, 135;\n    _Lord_, 137;\n    foreign troubles ending in inkshed, 150;\n    allusion, 241;\n    use of post-cards, 335;\n    female estimate, 380.\n\n  Glasgow, steamer experience, 25.\n\n  Gloucester, Eng., manufactory of rifles, 391, 392.\n\n  God: of the future, 177;\n    personal care, 178, 179;\n    against wickedness, 180;\n    Divine love, 178-181, 186, 187;\n    interference with law (Essay XV.), 215-231 _passim_;\n    human motives, 228.\n    (See _Religion_, etc.)\n\n  Gods: our valors the best, 177;\n    siege of Syracuse, 215-217.\n    (See _Superstition_.)\n\n  Godwin, Mary, relations to Shelley, 46-48.\n\n  Goethe: Faust's Margaret, 39;\n    relation to women, 46, 50, 56, 57;\n    Life, 244.\n\n  Gold: in embroidery to indicate wealth, 131;\n    color, 232, 233.\n\n  Goldsmith, Oliver, his Bohemianism, 309, 310.\n\n  Gormandizing, 103.\n    (See _Table_.)\n\n  Government: feminine, 176;\n    scientific, 229.\n\n  Grammar: French knowledge of, 152;\n    rival of literature, 154;\n    in correspondence, 356, 357.\n    (See _Languages_, etc.)\n\n  Gratitude: a sister's want of, 69;\n    hospitality not reciprocated, 122.\n\n  Greece: Byron's enthusiasm, 50, 57;\n    story of Nikias, 215-217;\n    advance of knowledge, 230;\n    Byron's notice of a book, 348.\n\n  Greek Church: Czar's headship, 168;\n    the only true, 258.\n    (See _Church of England_, etc.)\n\n  Greek Language: teaching, 84;\n    fitness as the universal language, 158, 159;\n    in the Renaissance, 212;\n    professorship and library, 287;\n    doggerel, 400.\n    (See _Languages_.)\n\n  Groom, true happiness in a stable, 343.\n\n  Guests: Rights of (Essay VII.), 99-109;\n    respect, exclusiveness, 99;\n    two views, 100;\n    conformity insisted upon, 101;\n    left to choose for himself, 102;\n    duties towards a host, generous entertainment, 103;\n    parsimonious treatment, 104;\n    illustrations, ideas to be respected, 105;\n    nationality also, 107;\n    a host the ally of his guests, 107;\n    discourtesy towards a host, 108;\n    illustration, 109;\n    among rich and poor, 140-144.\n\n  Guiccioli, Countess, her relations to Byron, 49, 50.\n\n  Guillotine, Byron's description, 347.\n\n  Gulliver's Travels, allusion, 261.\n\n  Gymnastics: by young Frenchmen, 272;\n    aristocratic monopoly, 283.\n    (See _Amusements_, etc.)\n\n\n  Habits: in language, 157;\n    French discretion, 247, 248.\n\n  Hamerton, Philip Gilbert: indebtedness to Emerson, iii, iv;\n    plan of the book, vii-ix;\n    omissions, ix;\n    the pleasures of friendship, x;\n    on death, x, xi;\n    a liking for civilization and all its amenities, xii;\n    thoughts in French travel, 17 _et seq._;\n    pleasant experience in studying French architecture, 23, 24;\n    conversation in Scotland, 24, 25;\n    in a steamer, 25, 26;\n    acquaintance with a painter, 28;\n    belief in Nature's promises, 60 _et seq._;\n    what a sister said, 65;\n    the love of two brothers, 67;\n    delightful experience with wife's relations, 73;\n    experience of hospitable tyranny, 100 _et seq._;\n    Parisian dinner, 107;\n    experience with friendship, 113;\n    noisy French farmers, 128, 129;\n    Scotch dinner, 131;\n    country incident, 139, 140;\n    questioning a Parisian lady, 152;\n    Waterloo letters, 156;\n    how Italian seems to him, 155;\n    incident of Scotch travel, 173;\n    visit to a bereaved French lady, 182;\n    travel in France, 219;\n    lesson from a painter, 232;\n    snubbed at a hotel, 240-242;\n    a French widow on her travels, 242, 243;\n    a lady's ignorance about religious distinctions, 257;\n    personal anecdotes about ignorance between the English and French,\n        265-279 _passim_;\n    translations into French, 267;\n    Puseyite anecdote, 284, 285;\n    conversations heard, 291;\n    boat incident, 292, 293;\n    life-portraits, 300-308;\n    experience with procrastinators, 317, 318;\n    residence in Lancashire, 318;\n    interest in Plumpton family, 323, 324;\n    telegraphing a letter, 326;\n    experience with _un mot \u00e0 la poste_, 330;\n    his boat wrongly painted, 359;\n    his Parisian correspondent, 360, 361;\n    efforts to ensure accuracy, 368, 369;\n    a strange lady's anxiety for his religious condition, 378;\n    his Wenderholme, 378;\n    anonymous letter answered, 379-382;\n    dislike of cricket, 398.\n\n  Harewood, Earl of, 323.\n\n  Haste, connection with refinement and wealth, 125, 126.\n    (See _Leisure_.)\n\n  Hastings, Marquis of, his elopement, 321.\n\n  Haweis, H. R., sermon on Egyptian war, 224.\n\n  Hedges: English, 270, 271;\n    sleeping under, 307.\n\n  Hell, element in oratory, 192, 193.\n    (See _Priests_.)\n\n  Heredity, opinions not always hereditary, 92-97.\n\n  Heresy: banishment for, 161;\n    disabilities, 162 _et seq._;\n    punishment by fire, 180;\n    pulpit attack, 192;\n    shades in, 257, 258;\n    resistance to God, 284.\n    (See _Roman Catholicism_, etc.)\n\n  Highlanders, their rowing, 154.\n\n  Hirst, Eng., letters from, 320, 321.\n\n  History, French knowledge of, 152.\n\n  Holland, Goldsmith's travels, 309.\n\n  Home: Family Ties (Essay V.), 62-77;\n    a hell, 76;\n    crowded, 77;\n    absence affecting friendship, 111;\n    French, 142;\n    English (Essay X.), 130-147 _passim_;\n    the confessional, 202;\n    nostalgia, 286.\n\n  Homer: indebtedness to the poor, 22;\n    on the appetite, 103.\n\n  Honesty, at a discount, 162, 163, 170.\n\n  Honor, in religious conformity, 162.\n\n  Horace: familiarity with, 155;\n    quoted, 289, 361.\n\n  Horneck, Mrs., Goldsmith's friend, 310.\n\n  Horseback: illustration, 168, 260;\n    luxury, 298.\n\n  Hospitality: (Essay VII.), 99-109;\n    help to liberty, 99;\n    an educator for right or wrong, 100;\n    opposite views, 100;\n    tyranny over guests, 101;\n    reaction against old customs, 102;\n    a host's rights, some extra effort to be expected, 103;\n    disregard of a guest's comfort, 104;\n    instances, opinions to be respected, 105;\n    host should protect a guest's rights, 106;\n    anecdote, 107;\n    invasion of rights, 108;\n    glaring instance, 109;\n    affected by wealth, 140-144;\n    excuse by a procrastinator, 318.\n    (See _Guests_.)\n\n  Hosts, rights and duties (Essay VII.), 99-109 _passim_.\n    (See _Hospitality_.)\n\n  Houghton, Lord, his knowledge of French, 151, 152.\n\n  Housekeeping: ignorance of cost, 258, 259;\n    cares, 381.\n\n  Houses: effect of living in the same, ix;\n    big, 145;\n    evolution of dress, 189;\n    movable, 261, 262;\n    damage, 358.\n\n  Hugo, Victor, use of a word, 273, 274.\n\n  Humanity: obligations to, 12;\n    future happiness dependent upon a knowledge of languages, 148 _et seq._\n\n  Humor: in different classes, 20;\n    lack of it, 72;\n    in using a foreign language, 157, 158;\n    not carried into letters and pictures, 340-342.\n\n  Hungarians, their sociability, 249.\n\n  Hurry, to be distinguished from brevity in letter-writing, 331.\n\n  Husbands: narration of experience, 25, 26;\n    unsuitable, 40;\n    relations of noted men to wives, 44-62 _passim_;\n    compulsory unions, 94-98;\n    old-fashioned letter, 322;\n    use of post-cards, 329, 330;\n    privacy of letters, 350;\n    Montaigne's letter, 351, 352.\n    (See _Wives_, etc.)\n\n  Hut: suggestions of a, 261, 262;\n    for an artist, 314.\n\n  Huxley, Thomas Henry, on natural law, 217, 219.\n\n  Hypocrisy: to be avoided, xi-xiii;\n    in religion (Essay XII.), 161-174 _passim_;\n    not a Bohemian vice, 296.\n\n\n  Ibraheem, lost at sea, 226.\n\n  Ideas, their interchange dependent upon language, 148.\n\n  Idiosyncrasy: its charm, 9;\n    in art and authorship, 12, 13;\n    nullified by travel, 14, 15;\n    affecting marital happiness, 48-62 _passim_;\n    affecting family ties, 64;\n    wanted in letters, 347;\n    in amusements, 389;\n    congenital, 396.\n\n  Ignorance: Genteel (Essay XVIII.), 253-263;\n    among French royalists, 254, 255;\n    in religion, 256, 257;\n    in regard to pecuniary conditions, 258, 259;\n    of likeness and unlikeness, 260, 261;\n    disadvantages, 262;\n    drives people from society, 263;\n    Patriotic (Essay XIX.), 264-279;\n    a narrow satisfaction, 264;\n    French ignorance of English art, 265, 267;\n    of English game, 268;\n    of English fruit, 269;\n    English errors as to mountains, 270, 271;\n    fuel, manly vigor, 272, 273;\n    word _universal_, 274;\n    universities, 275, 276;\n    literature, 277;\n    leads to war, 277, 278;\n    not the best patriotism, 279;\n    unavoidable, 301;\n    contented, 302;\n    of gentlewomen, 381, 382.\n    (See _Nationality_, etc.)\n\n  Imagination, a luxury, 300.\n\n  Immorality: too easily forgiven in princes, 168;\n    considered essential to Bohemianism, 295.\n    (See _Vice_.)\n\n  Immortality: connection with music, 191;\n    menaces and rewards, 193.\n    (See _Priests_, etc.)\n\n  Impartiality, not shown by clergy, 194.\n\n  Impediments, to national intercourse (Essay XI.), 148-160.\n\n  Impertinence, ease of manner mistaken for, 250.\n\n  Incompatibility: inexplicable, 10;\n    one of two great powers deciding intercourse, 11.\n    (See _Friendship_, etc.)\n\n  Independence: (Essay II.), 12-32;\n    illusory and real, influence of language, 12;\n    illustrations, 13;\n    railway travel destructive to, 14;\n    conventionality and French ideas of _good form_, 15;\n    social repressions and London life, 16;\n    local despotism, 17;\n    the French rural aristocracy, 18;\n    illustrations and social exclusion, 19;\n    humor and domestic anxiety, society not essential, 20;\n    palliations to solitude, outside of society, absolute solitude, 21;\n    rural illustrations, 22;\n    incident in a French town, 23;\n    one in Scotland, 24;\n    on a steamer, 25;\n    English reticence, 26;\n    an evil of solitude, pursuits in common, 27;\n    illustration from Mill, deterioration of an artist, 28;\n    patient endurance, the refreshment of books, 29;\n    companionship of nature, 30;\n    consolation of labor, 31;\n    an objection to this relief, 32;\n    a fault, 69;\n    of Philistines and Bohemians (Essay XXI.), 295-314 _passim_.\n    (See _Society_, etc.)\n\n  Independents, the, in England, 170.\n\n  India: a brother's cold farewell, 67;\n    relations of England, 279.\n\n  Indians, their Bohemian life, 298, 306.\n\n  Individualism, affected by railways, 13-15.\n\n  Individuality, reliance upon our own, iv.\n\n  Indolence: destroying friendship, 116;\n    stupid, 197;\n    causes wrong judgment, 293;\n    part of Bohemianism, 295;\n    in business, 356;\n    in reading letters, 366-369.\n\n  Indulgences, affecting friendship, 115.\n\n  Industry: to be respected, 132;\n    professional work, 196;\n    Buffon's and Littr\u00e9's, 209, 210;\n    ignorance about English, 265, 266;\n    of a Philistine, 300;\n    in letter-writing, 356.\n\n  Inertia, in middle-life, 302.\n\n  Infidelity: affecting political rights, 162, 163;\n    withstood by Dissent, 257.\n\n  Ink: dilution to save expense, 333;\n    red, 369.\n\n  Inquisition, the, in Spain, 180.\n\n  Inspiration, in Jacquemont's letters, 348.\n\n  Intellectuality: a restraint upon passion, 38;\n    affecting family ties, 73, 74;\n    its pursuits, 127;\n    denied to England, 265, 266, 267;\n    ambition for, 283;\n    the accompaniment of wealth, 297;\n    outside of, 301;\n    enjoyed, 306.\n\n  Intelligence: the supreme, 176, 177;\n    connection with leisure, 197.\n\n  Intercession, feminine fondness for, 175, 176.\n\n  Intercourse. (This subject is so interwoven with the whole work that\n        special references are impossible.)\n\n  Interdependence, illustrated by literary work, 12.\n\n  Interviews, compared with letters, 354-357.\n\n  Intimacy: mysteriously hindered, 10;\n    with nature, 302.\n\n  Intolerance, of amusements, 389.\n\n  Intrusion, dreaded by the English, 243, 247.\n\n  Inventions, why sometimes misjudged, 292, 293.\n\n  Irascibility, in parents, 75, 76.\n\n  Iron, in France, 272.\n\n  Irving, Washington, on Goldsmith, 310.\n\n  Isolation: affecting study, 28, 29;\n    alleviations, 29-31.\n    (See _Independence_.)\n\n  Italian Language: Latin naturalized, 155;\n    merriment in using, 158.\n\n  Italy: Byron's sojourn, 50;\n    Goethe's, 51,\n    titles and poverty, 136;\n    overstatement a habit, 234;\n    papal government, 255, 256;\n    travelling-vans, 261,\n    allusion, 271;\n    why live there, 285, 286;\n    tourists, 291;\n    Goldsmith's travels, 309;\n    forms in letter-writing, 325.\n\n\n  Jacquemont, Victor, his letters, 348-350.\n\n  James, an imaginary friend, 343, 344.\n\n  Jardin des Plantes, Buffon's work, 209.\n\n  Jealousy: national, 7;\n    domestic, 65,\n    youthful, effect of primogeniture, 66;\n    between England and France, 150;\n    Greece need not awaken, 159,\n    excited by the confessional, 202, 203;\n    in anonymous letters, 371.\n\n  Jerusalem, the Ark lost, 229.\n\n  Jewelry: worn by priests, 202;\n    enjoyment of, 297.\n\n  Jews: not the only subjects of useful study, 207, 208, 211;\n    God of Battles, 224;\n    advance of knowledge, 230.\n    (See _Bible_.)\n\n  John, an imaginary friend, 344, 345.\n\n  Jones, an imaginary gentleman, 130.\n\n  Justice: feminine disregard, 180;\n    connection with priesthood, 194.\n\n\n  Keble, John, Christian Year, 198.\n\n  Kempis, Thomas \u00e0, his great work, 95.\n\n  Kenilworth, anecdote, 277.\n\n  Kindness, how to be received, 117.\n\n  Kindred: affected by incompatibility, 10;\n    Family Ties (Essay V.), 63, 77;\n    given by Fate, 75.\n    (See _Sons_, etc.)\n\n  Kings: divine right, 255;\n    on cards, 289;\n    courtesy in correspondence, 317;\n    a poetic figure, 386, 387.\n    (See _Rank_, etc.)\n\n  Knarsbrugh, Eng., 320.\n\n  Knyghton, Henry, quotation, 251.\n\n\n  Lakes, English, 270.\n\n  Lancashire, Eng.: all residents not in cotton-trade, 288;\n    residence, 318,\n    drinking-habits, 378.\n\n  Land-ownership, 131.\n\n  Landscape: companionship, 31;\n    ignorance about the English, 270.\n\n  Languages: as affecting friendship, 7;\n    similarity, 10;\n    influences interdependence, 12;\n    study of foreign, 29, 84, 85;\n    ignorance of, an Obstacle (Essay XI.), 148-160;\n    impediment to national intercourse, 148;\n    mutual ignorance of the French and English, 149;\n    commercial advantages, American kinship, 150;\n    an imperfect knowledge induces reticence, 151;\n    rarity of full knowledge, 152;\n    illustrations, first stage of learning a tongue, 153;\n    second, 154;\n    third, fourth, 155;\n    fifth, learning by ear, 156;\n    absurdities, idioms, forms of politeness, 157;\n    a universal speech, 158;\n    Greek commended, 159;\n    advantages, 160;\n    one enough, 301, 305;\n    acquaintance with six, 304;\n    foreign letters, 364, 365.\n\n  Latin: teaching, 84;\n    construction unnatural, 155;\n    in the Renaissance, 212;\n    church, 258;\n    proverb, 287;\n    poetry, 289;\n    in telegrams, 324;\n    Horace, 361;\n    _corrogata_, 390.\n\n  Laws: difficult to ascertain, viii;\n    human resignation to, xi;\n    of Human Intercourse (Essay I.), 3-11;\n    fixed knowledge difficult, 3,\n    common belief, 4;\n    similarity of interest, 5;\n    may breed antagonism, 6;\n    national prejudices, 7;\n    likeness begets friendship, 8;\n    idiosyncrasy and adaptability, 9;\n    intimacy slow, 10;\n    law of the pleasure of human intercourse still hidden, 11;\n    fixed, 179;\n    feminine disregard, 184;\n    quiet tone, 193;\n    regularity and interference (Essay XV.), 215-231 _passim_;\n    legal distinctions, 280, 281.\n\n  Laymen, contrasted with clergy, 181, 182.\n\n  Lectures, one-sided, 29.\n\n  Legouv\u00e9, M.: on filial relations, 78;\n    religious question, 93;\n    anecdote of chirography, 332.\n\n  Leisure: its connection with refinement, 125, 126;\n    varying in different professions, 196, 197.\n\n  Leloir, Louis, fondness for etching, 401.\n\n  Lent, allusion, 198.\n\n  Letters. (See _Correspondence_.)\n\n  Lever, Charles: quotation from That Boy of Norcott's, 249, 250;\n    finances misunderstood, 259, 260;\n    boating, 259, 394.\n\n  Lewes, George Henry: relation to Marian Evans, 45;\n    quotation from Life of Goethe, 244.\n\n  Lewis, Sir George Cornewall, immortal saying, 385.\n\n  L'Honneur et l'Argent, quotation, 304, 335.\n\n  Liberality: French lack of, 18, 19;\n    induced by hospitality, 99, 100;\n    apparent, 173.\n\n  Liberty: in religion (Essay XII.), 161-174;\n    private and public, 281, 282;\n    _libert\u00e9_, 282, 283;\n    with friends in letters, 353.\n\n  Libraries: value, 286, 287;\n    narrow specimens, 302.\n\n  Lies, at a premium, 162, 163.\n\n  Life: companionship for, 44-62;\n    enjoyed in different ways, 306.\n\n  Likeness, the secret of companionship, 8.\n\n  Limpet, an illustration of incivility, 108.\n\n  Literature: conventional, 15;\n    influence of the humbler classes, 22, 23;\n    softens isolation, 29, 31;\n    deaths from love, 39;\n    affecting fraternity, 64;\n    youthful nonsense not tolerated in books, 89;\n    superiority to mercenary motives, 132;\n    advantages of mutual national knowledge, 149-153;\n    rivals in its own domain, 154;\n    not necessarily religious, 198;\n    English periodical, 237;\n    ignorance about English, 267;\n    and Philistinism, 286, 287;\n    singleness of aim, 289;\n    English, 305;\n    not an amusement, 400.\n\n  Littr\u00e9, Maximilien Paul \u00c9mile, his noble life, 209-211.\n\n  Livelihood, anxiety about, 20.\n\n  London: mental independence, 16-18;\n    solitude needless, 20;\n    Mill's rank, 56;\n    old but new, 136;\n    Flower Sunday, 189;\n    pestilence improbable, 222;\n    The Times, 244;\n    centre of English literature, 267;\n    business time contrasted with that of Paris, 273;\n    buildings, 291;\n    Palmer leaving, 310;\n    cabman, 335;\n    a famous Londoner, 399.\n\n  Lottery, illustrative of kinship, 75.\n\n  Louis II., amusements, 386-388.\n\n  Louis XVIII., impiety, 167.\n\n  Louvre: English art excluded, 267;\n    confounded with other buildings, 291.\n\n  Love: of nature, 30;\n    Passionate (Essay III.), 33-43;\n    nature, blindness, 33;\n    not the monopoly of youth, debauchery, 34;\n    permanence not assured, 35;\n    \"in a cottage,\" perilous to happiness, socially limited, 36;\n    restraints, higher and lower, 37;\n    varieties, selfishness, in intellectual people, 38;\n    poetic subject, dying for, 39;\n    old maids, unlawful in married people, 40;\n    French fiction, early marriage repressed by civilization, 41;\n    passion out of place, the endless song, 42;\n    natural correspondences and Shelley, 43;\n    in marriage, 44-62;\n    some family illustrations, 63-77;\n    wife's relations, 73;\n    paternal and filial (Essay VI.), 78-98 _passim_;\n    between friends (Essay VIII.), 110-118;\n    divine, 178, 179;\n    family, 205.\n    (See _Brothers_, _Family_, etc.)\n\n  Lowell, James Russell, serious humor, 20.\n\n  Lower Classes, the: English rural, 22;\n    rudeness, 75;\n    religious privileges, 170, 171.\n\n  Luxury, material, 298.\n    (See _Philistinism_.)\n\n  Lyons, France, the Academy, 275.\n\n\n  Macaulay, T. B., quotations, 181, 200, 224, 344, 345.\n\n  Macleod, Dr. Norman, his sympathy, 186, 187.\n\n  Magistracy, French, 283.\n\n  Mahometanism, as affecting intercourse, 5.\n\n  Malice: harmless, 269;\n    in letters, 371-377.\n\n  Manchester, Eng., life there, 31.\n\n  Manners: affected by wealth, 125-129;\n    by leisure, 197;\n    by aristocracy, 246.\n    (See _Courtesy_, etc.)\n\n  Manufactures: under fixed law, 228;\n    ignorance about English, 265, 266, 268.\n\n  Marriage: responsibility increased, 25, 26;\n    or celibacy? 34;\n    Shelley's, does not assure love, 35;\n    following love, 36;\n    irregular, 37;\n    restraints of superior intellects, 38;\n    love outside of, 40;\n    early marriage restrained by civilization, 41;\n    philosophy of this, 42;\n    Companionship in (Essay IV.), 44-62;\n    life-journey, 44;\n    alienations for the sake of intellectual companionship, 45;\n    illustrations, 46, 47;\n    mistakes not surprising, 48;\n    Byron, 49, 50;\n    Goethe, 51, 52;\n    Mill, 53, 54;\n    difficulty in finding true mates, 55;\n    exceptional cases not discouraging, 56;\n    easier for ordinary people, 57;\n    inequality, 58;\n    hopeless tranquillity, 59;\n    youthful dreams dispelled, 60;\n    Nature's promises, how fulfilled, 61;\n    \"I thee worship,\" 62;\n    wife's relations, 73;\n    filial obedience, 94-97;\n    destroying friendship, 115;\n    affecting personal wealth, 119;\n    social treatment, 120;\n    of children, 123;\n    effect of royal religion, 166;\n    and of lower-class, 171;\n    civil and religious, 184, 185;\n    clerical, 196, 198-201;\n    of absent friends, 338;\n    French customs, 339;\n    Montaigne's sentiments, 351, 352;\n    slanderous attempts to prevent, 371-375;\n    household cares, 381;\n    breakfasts, 385, 386.\n    (See _Women_, etc.)\n\n  Mask, a simile, 370.\n\n  Mediocrity, dead level of, 236.\n\n  Mediterranean Sea, allusion, 399.\n\n  Meissonier, Jean Ernest Louis, his talent, 284.\n\n  Melbourne, Bishop of, 221.\n\n  Men, choose for themselves, 197.\n    (See _Marriage_, _Sons_, _Women_, etc.)\n\n  Mephistopheles, allusion, 235.\n\n  Merchants, connection with national peace, 149, 150.\n\n  M\u00e9rim\u00e9e, Prosper, Correspondence, 321.\n\n  Metallurgy, under fixed law, 228.\n\n  Methodists, the: in England, 170;\n    hymns, 257.\n\n  Michelet, Jules: on the Church, 189, 190;\n    on the confessional, 202, 203.\n\n  Middle Classes: Dickens's descriptions, 20;\n    rank of some authors, 56;\n    domestic rudeness, 75;\n    table customs, 103;\n    religious freedom, 170;\n    clerical inferences, 183.\n    (See _Classes_, _Lower Class_, etc.)\n\n  Mignet, Fran\u00e7ois Auguste Marie: friendship with Thiers, 120;\n    condition, 121.\n\n  Military Life: illustration, 21;\n    filial obedience, 80;\n    religion, 123;\n    religious conformity, 169;\n    antagonistic to toleration, 173, 174;\n    French, 272;\n    allusion, 300, 307.\n\n  Mill, John Stuart: social affinities, 20;\n    aversion to unintellectual society, 27, 28;\n    relations to women, 53-55;\n    social rank, 56;\n    education by his father, 81-84;\n    on friendship, 112, 113;\n    on sneering depreciation, 237;\n    on English conduct towards strangers, 245;\n    on social stupidity, 263.\n\n  Milnes, Richard Monckton. (See _Lord Houghton_.)\n\n  Milton, John, Palmer's constant interest, 313.\n\n  Mind, weakened by concession, 147.\n\n  Misanthropy, appearance of, 27.\n\n  Montaigne, Michel: marriage, 59;\n    letter to wife, 351, 352.\n\n  Montesquieu, Baron, allusion, 147.\n\n  Months, trade terms for, 365.\n\n  Morris, Lewis, A Cynic's Day-dream, 393.\n\n  Mothers, \"loud-tongued,\" 75.\n    (See _Children_, _Women_, etc.)\n\n  Mountains: climbing affected by railways, 14;\n    quotation from Byron, 30;\n    in pictures, 43;\n    glory in England and France, 270, 271;\n    Mont Blanc, where situated, 271.\n\n  Mozart, Johann Chrysostom Wolfgang Amadeus, allusion, 289.\n\n  Muloch, Dinah Maria, confounded with George Eliot, 290.\n\n  Music: detached from religion, xii, xiii;\n    voice of love, 42;\n    affecting fraternity, 64;\n    connection with religion, 191;\n    illustration of harmony, 389.\n\n\n  Nagging, by parents, 76.\n\n  Napoleon I.: and the Universe, 273, 274;\n    privations, 308;\n    _mot_ of the Pope, 341;\n    R\u00e9musat letters, 350.\n\n  Napoleon III.: death, son, 225;\n    ignorance of German power, 278;\n    losing Sedan, 308.\n\n  Nationality: prejudices, 7;\n    to be respected at table, 106, 107;\n    different languages an obstacle to intercourse (Essay XI.), 148-160;\n    mutual ignorance (Essay XIX.), 264-279 _passim_.\n\n  National Gallery, London, 291.\n\n  Nature: compensations, iv;\n    causes, xii;\n    laws not deducible from single cases, 4;\n    inestimable gifts, 26;\n    beauty an alleviation of solitude, loyalty, 30, 31;\n    opposed to civilization in love-matters, 41;\n    universality of love, 42, 43;\n    promises fulfilled, 60-62;\n    revival of study, 212;\n    laws fixed (Essay XV.), 215-231 _passim_;\n    De Saussure's study, 230, 231;\n    expressed in painting, 232, 233;\n    nearness, 303-314 _passim_;\n    her destroyers, 393.\n\n  Navarre, King Henry of, 224.\n\n  Navy, a young officer's acquaintance, 25, 26.\n\n  Neglect, destroys friendship, 116.\n\n  Nelson, Lord: the navy in his time, 279;\n    letter in battle, 327, 328.\n\n  Nerves, affected by rudeness, 128, 129.\n\n  New England, a blond native, 240.\n\n  Newspapers: on nature and the supernatural, xii;\n    adultery reports in English, 41;\n    personal interest, 124;\n    regard for titles, 137;\n    quarrels between English and American, 150;\n    reading, 156;\n    on royalty, 166, 167;\n    deaths in, 225;\n    English and French subservience to rank, 248;\n    a bourgeois complaint, 286;\n    crossing the seas, 337, 338.\n\n  New Year's, French customs, 339.\n\n  Niagara Rapids, 290.\n\n  Night, Palmer's watches, 312.\n\n  Nikias, a military leader, his superstition, 215-217, 229.\n\n  Nineteenth Century, earlier half, 205, 206.\n\n  Nobility: the English have two churches to choose from, 169-171, 173;\n    opposition to Dissent, 256, 257.\n\n  Nonconformity, English, 256, 257.\n    (See _Dissent_, etc.)\n\n  Normans, influence of the Conquest, 251, 252.\n\n\n  Oaths, no obstacle to hypocrisy, 162.\n\n  Obedience, filial (Essay VI.), 78-98.\n\n  Observation, cultivated, 290, 291.\n\n  Obstacles: of Language, between nations (Essay XI.), 148-160;\n    of Religion (Essay XII.), 161-174.\n\n  Occupations, easily confused, 288, 289.\n\n  Oil, mineral, 288.\n\n  Old Maids, defence, 379-382.\n\n  Olympus, unbelief in its gods, 162.\n\n  Oman, sea of, 226.\n\n  Opinions: not the result of volition, xiii;\n    of guests to be respected, 105, 106;\n    changes affecting friendship, 112, 113.\n\n  Orange, William of, correspondence, 344, 345.\n\n  Oratory, connection with religion, xii, 191-195.\n\n  Order of the Universe, to be trusted, iii.\n\n  Originality: seen in authorship, 12;\n    how hindered and helped, 13, 14;\n    French estimate, 15.\n\n  Orthodoxy, placed on a level with hypocrisy, 162, 163.\n\n  Ostentation, to be shunned in amusements, 401.\n\n  Oxford: opinion of a learned doctor about Christ's divinity, 6;\n    Shelley's expulsion, 96;\n    its antiquity, 275, 276.\n\n\n  Paganism: hypocrisy, and preferment, 162;\n    gods and wars, 224.\n\n  Paget, Lady Florence, curt letter, 321.\n\n  Pain, feminine indifference to, 180.\n\n  Painters: taste in travel, 14;\n    deterioration of a, 28;\n    discovering new beauties, 60;\n    Corot, 310, 311;\n    Palmer, 312;\n    one in adversity, 314;\n    gayety not in pictures, 341;\n    sketches in letters, 345;\n    of boats, 359;\n    lack of business in French painter, 367, 368;\n    idle sketches, 400;\n    Leloir, 401.\n\n  Painter's Camp in the Highlands, 379.\n\n  Painting: fondness for it a cause of discord, 6;\n    French excellence, 8;\n    interdependence, 13;\n    high aims, 28;\n    palpitating with love, 43;\n    affecting fraternity, 64;\n    none in heaven, 191;\n    not necessarily religious, 198;\n    copies, 203;\n    two methods, 232, 233;\n    convenient building, 261;\n    ignorance about English, 265-267;\n    not merely an amusement, 400.\n    (See _Art_, etc.)\n\n  Paleontology, allusion, 206.\n\n  Palgrave, Gifford, saved from shipwreck, 226-228.\n\n  Palmer, George, a speech, 223.\n\n  Palmer, Samuel, his Bohemianism, 312, 313.\n\n  Palmer, William, in Russia, 257, 258.\n\n  Paper, used in correspondence, 328.\n\n  Paradise: the arts in, 191;\n    affecting pulpit oratory, 193.\n    (See _Priests_.)\n\n  Paris: an artistic centre, 8;\n    incivility at a dinner, 107;\n    effect of wealth, 121;\n    elegant house, 142;\n    English residents, 150;\n    a lady's reply about English knowledge of French language, 152;\n    Notre Dame, 190;\n    Jardin des Plantes, 209;\n    hotel incident, 240-242;\n    not a desert, 242;\n    light of the world, 266, 267, 274;\n    resting after _d\u00e9je\u00fbner_, 273;\n    confusion about buildings, 291;\n    an illiterate tradesman, 360, 361;\n    the _Salon_, 367.\n\n  Parliament: illustration of heredity, 93;\n    indebtedness of members to trade, 135;\n    infidelity in, 162;\n    superiority of pulpit, 191;\n    George Palmer, 223;\n    questions in, 241;\n    Houses, 291.\n\n  Parsimony: affecting family ties, 70;\n    in hospitality, 104, 105.\n\n  Patriotism: obligations, 12;\n    Littr\u00e9's, 210;\n    Patriotic Ignorance (Essay XIX.), 264-279;\n    places people in a dilemma, 264;\n    anecdotes of French and English errors, about art, literature,\n        mountains, landscapes, fuel, ore, schools, language, 265-277;\n    ignorance leading to war, 277-279;\n    suspected of lacking, 287-288.\n\n  Peace, affected by knowledge of, languages, 148-150, 160.\n\n  Peculiarity, of English people towards each other (Essay XVII.), 239-252.\n\n  Pedagogues, their narrowness, 154.\n\n  Pedestrianism: as affected by railways, 14;\n    in France, 272, 273;\n    not enjoyed, 302.\n\n  Peel, Arthur, his indebtedness to trade, 135.\n\n  Pencil, use, when permissible, 333.\n\n  Periodicals, akin to correspondence, 30.\n\n  Persecution, feminine sympathy with, 80, 181.\n\n  Perseverance, Buffon's and Littr\u00e9's, 209, 210.\n\n  Personality: its \"abysmal deeps,\" 11;\n    repressed by conventionality, 15;\n    accompanies independence, 17;\n    affecting family ties, 63-77 _passim_;\n    paternal and filial differences, 78-98 _passim_;\n    its frank recognition, 98;\n    confused, anecdotes, 289, 290.\n\n  Persuasion, feminine trust in, 175.\n\n  Pestilence, God's anger in, 222.\n\n  Peter the Great, sad relations to his son, 95, 96.\n\n  Philistinism: illustrative stories, 285, 286;\n    defined, 297;\n    passion for comfort, 298;\n    asceticism and indulgence, 299, 300;\n    a life-portrait, 300-303;\n    estimate of life, 303;\n    an English lady's parlor, 304, 305;\n    contrast, 306;\n    avoidance of needless exposure, 313.\n\n  Philology: a rival of literature, 154;\n    favorable to progress in language, 155.\n\n  Philosophy: detached from religion, xii;\n    rational tone, 193.\n\n  Photography: a French experience, 24;\n    under fixed law, 228.\n\n  Physicians: compared with priests, 186;\n    rational, 193;\n    Littr\u00e9's service, 210.\n\n  Picturesque, regard for the, 7.\n\n  Piety: and law (Essay XV.), 215-231 _passim_;\n    shipwreck, 226, 227.\n\n  Pitt, William, foreign disturbances in his day, 150.\n\n  Pius VII., on Napoleon, 341.\n\n  Play, boyish friendship in, 111.\n\n  Pleasures, three in amusements, 399, 400.\n\n  Plebeians, in England, 251, 252.\n\n  Plumpton Correspondence, 318-323, 331.\n\n  Poetry: detached from religion, xii;\n    of love, 42;\n    dulness to, 47;\n    Shelley's, 47;\n    Byron's, 50, 345-349;\n    Goethe's, 51;\n    and science, 57;\n    Tennyson on Brotherhood, 67;\n    lament, 73;\n    art, 154;\n    music in heaven, 191;\n    Keble, 198;\n    Battle of Ivry, 224;\n    French, 268, 269;\n    Latin, loyalty of Tennyson, 289;\n    French couplet, 304;\n    in a library, 305;\n    \"If I be dear,\" 325;\n    Horace, 361;\n    Palace of Art, 386;\n    quotation from Morris, 393;\n    line about anticipation, 399.\n\n  Poets: ideas about the harmlessness of love, 36;\n    avoidance of practical difficulties, 39;\n    love in natural scenery, 43.\n\n  Politics: conventional, 15;\n    French narrowness, 18, 19;\n    coffee-house, 28;\n    inherited opinions, 93;\n    opinions of guests to be respected, 105, 106;\n    affecting friendship, 113-115;\n    affected by ignorance of language, 148, 150, 160;\n    adaptation of Greek language, 158;\n    disabilities arising from religion, 161-174;\n    divine government, 229;\n    genteel ignorance, 254-256;\n    votes sought, 257;\n    affected by national ignorance, 277-279;\n    distinctions confounded, 280-284;\n    verses on letter-writing, 335.\n\n  Ponsard, Fran\u00e7ois, quotations, 304, 335.\n\n  Popes: their infidelity, 162;\n    temporal power, 255, 256.\n    (See _Roman Catholicism_, etc.)\n\n  Popular Notions, often wrong, 292.\n\n  Postage, cheap, 336.\n\n  Postal Union, a forerunner, 159.\n\n  Post-cards, affecting correspondence, 329, 330, 335.\n\n  Poverty: allied with shrewdness, 22;\n    affecting friendship (Essay IX.), 116, 119-129;\n    priestly visits, 183;\n    Littr\u00e9's service, 210;\n    ignorance about, 258-260;\n    French rhyme, 304;\n    not always the concomitant of Bohemianism, 309;\n    not despised, 314;\n    in epistolary forms, 317.\n\n  Prayers: reading in French, 158;\n    averting calamities, 220-231 _passim_.\n\n  Prejudices: about great men, 4;\n    national, 7;\n    of English gentlewomen, 382.\n\n  Pride: of a wife, 59;\n    in family wealth, 66;\n    refusal of gifts, 68;\n    in shooting, 390.\n\n  Priesthood: Priests and Women (Essay XIII.), 175-204;\n    meeting feminine dependence, 178;\n    affectionate interest, 179;\n    representing God, 182;\n    sympathy, 183;\n    marriages and burials, 184;\n    baptism and confirmation, 185;\n    death, 186;\n    Queen Victoria's reflections, 186, 187;\n    \u00e6sthetic interest, 188;\n    vestments, 189;\n    architecture, 190;\n    music, 191;\n    oratory and dignity, 192;\n    heaven and hell, 193;\n    partisanship, 194;\n    association in benevolence, 195;\n    influence of leisure, 196;\n    custom and ceremony, 197;\n    holy seasons, 198;\n    celibacy, 199;\n    marriage in former times, 200;\n    sceptical sons, 201;\n    confessional, 202;\n    assumption of superiority, 203;\n    perfunctory goodness, 204.\n\n  Primogeniture, affecting family ties, 66.\n\n  Privacy: of a host, to be respected, 109;\n    in letters, 350, 357.\n\n  Procrastination: in correspondence, 318, 319, 356;\n    anecdotes, 366-369.\n\n  Profanity, definition, 208.\n\n  Professions, contrasted with trades, 132, 133.\n\n  Progress, five stages in the study of language, 153-157.\n\n  Promptness: in correspondence, 316, 317, 329;\n    in business, 368.\n\n  Propriety, cloak for vice, 297.\n\n  Prose: an art, 154;\n    eschewed by Tennyson, 289.\n\n  Prosody, rival of literature, 154.\n\n  Protestantism: in France, 19, 165, 256;\n    Prussian tyranny, 173;\n    exclusion of music, 191;\n    clerical marriages, 200, 201;\n    auricular confession, 201-203;\n    liberty infringed, 281.\n\n  Providence and Law (Essay XV.), 215-231 _passim_.\n\n  Prussia: Protestant tyranny, 173;\n    a soldier's cloak, 189;\n    military strength, 278.\n\n  Public Men, wrong judgment about, 4.\n\n  Punch's Almanack, quoted, 133.\n\n  Pursuits, similarity in, 10.\n\n  Puseyism, despised, 284, 285.\n\n  Puzzle, language regarded as a, 153, 154.\n\n\n  Rabelais, quotation, 165.\n\n  Racehorses, illustration, 65.\n\n  Radicalism, definition, 282, 283.\n\n  Railways: affecting independence, 13-15;\n    meditations in a French, 17;\n    story in illustration of rudeness, 108, 109;\n    distance from, 116;\n    French accident, 218-220;\n    moving huts, 261, 262;\n    Stephenson's locomotive, 293;\n    allusion, 309;\n    journeys saved, 360;\n    compared to sailing, 395.\n\n  Rain: cause of accident, 219;\n    prayers for, 221.\n\n  Rank: a power for good, 5;\n    conversation of French people of, 16;\n    pursuit of, 27;\n    discrimination in hospitality, 104;\n    affecting friendship, 116;\n    Differences (Essay X.), 130-147;\n    social precedence, 130;\n    land and money, 131;\n    trades and professions, 132-135;\n    unreal distinctions, 135;\n    to be ignored, 136;\n    English and Continental views, 136, 137;\n    family without title, 138;\n    affecting hospitality, 139-145;\n    price, deference, 145-147;\n    English admiration, 241, 242, 248, 249-252;\n    connection with amusement, 383-401 _passim_.\n\n  Rapidity, in letter-writing, 324, 325.\n\n  Reading, in a foreign language, 154-158.\n\n  Reading, Eng., speech, 223, 224.\n\n  Reasoning, in letters, 384, 385.\n\n  Rebels, contrasted with reformers, 280.\n\n  Recreation, the purpose of amusement, 389.\n\n  Reeve, Henry, knowledge of French, 152.\n\n  Reformers, and rebels, 280, 281.\n\n  Refinement: affecting family harmony, 64;\n    companionship, 71;\n    enhanced by wealth, 125, 126.\n\n  Religion: affecting human intercourse, xi-xiii;\n    detached from the arts, xii;\n    affecting friendship, 5, 6;\n    conventional, 15;\n    Cheltenham prejudice, 19;\n    formal in England, 63;\n    affecting fraternity, 64;\n    affecting family regard, 74;\n    clergyman's son, 90, 91;\n    family differences, 93, 94;\n    to be respected in guests, 105, 106;\n    destroying friendship, 113;\n    Evangelical, 123;\n    personal deterioration, 124;\n    mercenary motives, 132, 133;\n    title-worship, 137;\n    an Obstacle (Essay XII.), 161-174;\n    the dominant, 161;\n    a hindrance to honest people, 162;\n    dissimulation, 163;\n    apparent liberty, 164;\n    social penalties, 165;\n    no liberty for princes, 166;\n    French illustration, 167;\n    royal liberty in morals, 168;\n    official conformity, 169;\n    greater freedom in the lower ranks, 170;\n    less in small communities, 171;\n    liberty of rejection and dissent, 172;\n    false position, 173;\n    enforced conformity, 174;\n    Priests and Women (Essay XIII.), 175-204;\n    of love, 178, 179;\n    Why we are Apparently becoming Less Religious (Essay XIV.), 205-214;\n    meditations of ladies of former generation, 205;\n    trust in Bible, 206;\n    idealization, 207;\n    Nineteenth Century inquiries, 208;\n    Buffon as an illustration, 209;\n    Littr\u00e9, 210;\n    compared with Bible characters, 211;\n    the Renaissance, 212;\n    boundaries outgrown, 213;\n    less theology, 214;\n    How we are Really becoming Less Religious (Essay XV.), 215-231;\n    superstition, 215;\n    supernatural interference, 216, 217;\n    idea of law diminishes emotion, 218;\n    railway accident, 219;\n    prayers and accidents, 220;\n    future definition, 221;\n    penitence and punishment, 222;\n    war and God, 223;\n    natural order, 224;\n    Providence, 225;\n    salvation from shipwreck, 226;\n    _un hazard providentiel_, 227;\n    _irreligion_, 228;\n    less piety, 229;\n    devotion and science, 230;\n    wise expenditure of time, 231;\n    feuds, 240;\n    genteel ignorance of established churches, 255-258;\n    French ignorance of English Church, 275;\n    distinctions confounded, 281, 282;\n    intolerance mixed with social contempt, 284, 285;\n    activity limited to religion and riches, 301;\n    in old letters, 320, 321, 323;\n    female interest in the author's welfare, 377, 378;\n    in theology, 379, 380.\n    (See _Church of England_, _Methodism_, _Protestantism_, etc.)\n\n  R\u00e9musat, Mme. de, letters, 350.\n\n  Renaissance, expansion of study in the, 212.\n\n  Renan, Ernest, one objection to trade, 132.\n\n  Republic, French, 254, 283, 284.\n\n  Residence, affecting friendship, 116.\n\n  Respect: the road to filial love, 98;\n    why liked, 122;\n    in correspondence, 316.\n\n  Restraints, of marriage and love, 36, 37.\n\n  Retrospection, pleasures of, 400.\n\n  Revolution, French, 209, 246, 283.\n    (See _France_.)\n\n  Riding, Lever's difficulties, 260.\n\n  Rifles: in hunting, 391-393;\n    names, 392.\n\n  Rights. (See different heads, such as _Hospitality_, _Sons_, etc.)\n\n  Robinson Crusoe, illustration, 21.\n\n  Rock, simile, 251.\n\n  Roland, his sword Durindal, 391.\n\n  Roman Camp, site, 14.\n\n  Roman Catholicism: its effect on companionship, 6;\n    seen in rural France, 19;\n    illustration of the Pope, 87;\n    infidel sons, 93;\n    wisdom of celibacy, 120;\n    infidel dignitaries, 162;\n    liberty in Spain, 164;\n    royalty hearing Mass, 167;\n    military salute to the Host, 169;\n    recognition in England, 169, 170, 173;\n    Continental intolerance, 172, 173;\n    a conscientious traveller, 173;\n    oppression in Prussia, 173;\n    tradesmen compelled to hear Mass, 174;\n    Madonna's influence, 176;\n    priestly consolation, 183;\n    use of art, 188-190;\n    Dominican dress, 189;\n    cathedrals, the Host, 190;\n    astuteness, celibacy, 199;\n    female allies, 200;\n    confessional, 201, 202;\n    feudal tenacity, 255;\n    Protestantism ignored, 256;\n    Romanism ignored by the Greek Church, 258;\n    compulsory attendance, 282.\n    (See _Priesthood_, _Religion_, etc.)\n\n  Romance: like or dislike for, 7;\n    glamour of love, 42.\n\n  Rome: people not subjected to the papacy, 255, 256;\n    Byron's letter, 347.\n\n  Rossetti, on Mrs. Harriett Shelley, 46.\n\n  Rouen Cathedral, 190.\n\n  Royal Academy, London, 266, 276.\n\n  Royal Society, London, 274.\n\n  Royalty, its religious bondage, 166-169, 171.\n\n  Rugby, residence of a father, 84.\n\n  Ruolz, the inventor, his bituminous paper, 358, 359.\n\n  Russell, Lord Arthur, his knowledge of French, 152.\n\n  Russia: religious position of the Czar, 168;\n    orthodoxy, 257, 258;\n    war with Turkey, 278.\n    (See _Greek Church_.)\n\n\n  Sabbath, its observance, 123.\n\n  Sacredness, definition of, 208.\n\n  Sacrifices: demanded by courtesy, 315, 316;\n    in letter-writing, 329-331;\n    to indolence, 368.\n\n  Sahara, love-simile, 60.\n\n  Saint Bernard, qualities, 230, 231.\n\n  Saint Hubert's Day, carousal, 345.\n\n  Saints, in every occupation, 209.\n\n  Salon, French, 266, 276, 367.\n\n  Sarcasm: lasting effects, 66;\n    brutal and paternal, 97.\n\n  Satire. (See _Sarcasm_.)\n\n  Savagery, return to, 298.\n    (See _Barbarism_, _Civilization_.)\n\n  Saxons, influence in England, 251, 252.\n\n  Scepticism: and religious rites, 184, 185;\n    in clergymen's sons, 201.\n    (See _Heresy_.)\n\n  Schools, prejudice against French, 106.\n\n  Schuyler's Life of Peter the Great, 96.\n\n  Science: study affected by isolation, 29;\n    and poetry, 57;\n    superiority to mercenary motives, 132;\n    in language, 154;\n    adaptation of Greek language to, 158;\n    illustration, 166;\n    cold, 176, 178, 190;\n    disconnected with religion, 198;\n    affecting Bible study, 206;\n    connection with religion (Essay XV.), 215-231 _passim_.\n\n  Scolding, 75, 76.\n\n  Scotland: a chance acquaintance, 25, 26;\n    gentleman's sacrifice for his son, 84;\n    incident in a country-house, 131;\n    religious incident in travel, 173;\n    a painter's hint, 232;\n    the Highlands, 271;\n    scenery, 379;\n    cricket impossible, 398.\n\n  Scott, Sir Walter: indebtedness to the poor, 22;\n    Lucy of Lammermoor, 39, 143, 144;\n    Jeanie Deans, 175;\n    supposed American ignorance of, 277;\n    quotation from Waverley, 327;\n    Provost's letter, 365.\n\n  Sculpture: warmed by love, 42, 43;\n    none in heaven, 191;\n    ignorance about English, 265.\n    (See _Art_, etc.)\n\n  Seals on letters, 326-328.\n\n  Secularists: in England, 171;\n    tame oratory, 193.\n\n  Sedan, cause of lost battle, 308.\n\n  Seduction, how restrained, 38.\n\n  Self-control, grim, 397.\n\n  Self-esteem, effect of benevolence in developing, 196.\n\n  Self-examination, induced by letters, 380.\n\n  Self-indulgence, of opposite kinds, 299, 300.\n\n  Self-interest: affecting friendship, 116;\n    at the confessional, 202.\n\n  Selfishness: affected by marriage, 26;\n    desire for comfort, 27;\n    affecting passion, 38;\n    in hosts, 101, 102;\n    in a letter, 334;\n    in amusements, 397.\n\n  Sensuality, connection with Bohemianism, 296.\n\n  Sentences, reading, 156.\n\n  Sentiment, none in business, 353, 364.\n\n  Separations: between friends, 111-118;\n    letter-writing during, 338;\n    Tasso family, 350, 351.\n\n  Sepulchre, whited, 297.\n\n  Sermons: one-sided, 29;\n    in library, 302.\n\n  Servants: marriage to priests, 200;\n    often needful, 259;\n    concomitants of wealth, 297, 298;\n    none, 307;\n    in letters, 324;\n    anonymous letter, 376;\n    hired to wait, 397.\n\n  Severn River, 270.\n\n  Sexes: pleasure in association, 3;\n    passionate love, 34;\n    relations socially limited, 36, 37;\n    antagonism of nature and civilization, 41;\n    in natural scenery, 43;\n    inharmony in marriages, 44-62 _passim_;\n    sisters and brothers, 65;\n    connection with confession, 201-204;\n    lack of analysis, 280;\n    Bohemian relations, 296, 297.\n\n  Shakspeare: indebtedness to the poor, 22;\n    Juliet, 39;\n    portraiture of youthful nonsense, 88;\n    allusion by Grant White, 277;\n    Macbeth and Hamlet confused, 290;\n    Polonius's advice applied to Goldsmith, 310.\n\n  Shelley, Percy Bysshe: his study of past literature, 13;\n    passionate love, 34;\n    marriages, 35, 46-48, 55, 56;\n    quotation, 43;\n    disagreement with his father, 96, 97.\n\n  Ships: passing the Suez canal, xii;\n    interest of Peter the Great, and dislike of his son, 85;\n    at siege of Syracuse, 215;\n    of war, 277, 278;\n    as affecting correspondence, 337;\n    drifting, 378;\n    fondness for details, 394.\n\n  Shoeblack, illustration, 335.\n\n  Shyness, English, 245.\n\n  Siamese Twins, allusion, 290.\n\n  Silence, golden, 85.\n\n  Sin, affecting pulpit oratory, 193.\n\n  Sir, the title, 137.\n\n  Sisters: affection, 63-77 _passim_;\n    jealousy of admiration, 65;\n    pecuniary obligations, how regarded, 69.\n\n  Slander: by rich people, 146, 147;\n    in anonymous letters, 370-377.\n\n  Slang, commercial, 365.\n\n  Slovenliness, part of Bohemianism, 296.\n\n  Smith, an imaginary gentleman, 130.\n\n  Smith, Jane, an imaginary character, 178.\n\n  Smoking: affecting friendship, 115;\n    Bohemian practice, 305.\n\n  Snobbery, among English travellers, 240-242.\n\n  Sociability: affecting the appetite, 102;\n    English want of (Essay XVII.), 239-252;\n    in amusements, 383, 384.\n\n  Society: good, in France, 15, 16;\n    eccentricity no barrier in London, 16-18;\n    exclusion, 21, 22;\n    unexpectedly found, 23-26;\n    alienation from common pursuits, 27, 28;\n    aid to study, 29-31;\n    restraints upon love, 36, 37;\n    laws set aside by George Eliot, 45, 46, 55;\n    Goethe's defiance, 52, 56, 57;\n    rights of hospitality, illustrated (Essay VII.), 99-109;\n    aristocratic, 124;\n    affected by rank and wealth (Essay X.), 130-147 _passim_;\n    and by religion (Essay XII.), 161-174 _passim_;\n    ruled by women, 176;\n    tyranny, 181;\n    clerical leisure, 196, 197;\n    inimical to Littr\u00e9, 210;\n    absent air in, 237;\n    affected by Gentility (Essay XVIII.), 253-263;\n    secession of thinkers, 262, 263;\n    intellectual, 303;\n    usages, 304;\n    outside of, 307.\n\n  Socrates, allusion, 204.\n\n  Solicitors, their industry, 196.\n\n  Solitude: social, 19;\n    dread, 21;\n    pleasant reliefs, 22-26;\n    serious evil, 27;\n    sometimes demoralizing, 28;\n    affecting study, 29;\n    mitigations, 29-31;\n    preferred, 31;\n    forgotten in labor, 31, 32;\n    picture of, 43;\n    Shelley's fondness, 47;\n    free space necessary, 77;\n    dislike prompting to hospitality (_q. v._), 143.\n\n  Sons: separated from fathers by incompatibility, 10;\n    escape from paternal brutality, 76;\n    Fathers and (Essay VI.), 78-98;\n    change of circumstances, 78;\n    former obedience, 79;\n    orders out of fashion, 80;\n    outside education, 81;\n    education by the father, 82-85;\n    rapidity of youth, 86, 87;\n    lack of paternal resemblance, 88;\n    differing tastes, 89;\n    fathers outgrown, 90;\n    changes in culture, 91;\n    reservations, 92;\n    differing opinions, 93;\n    oldtime divisions, 94;\n    an imperial son, 95;\n    other painful instances, 96;\n    wounded by satire, 97;\n    right basis of sonship, 98.\n    (See _Family_, _Fathers_, etc.)\n\n  Sorbonne, the, professorship of English, 152.\n\n  Southey, Robert, Life of Nelson, 327.\n\n  Spain: religious freedom, 164;\n    heretics burned, 180.\n\n  Speculation, compared with experience, 30.\n\n  Speech, silvern, 85.\n\n  Spelling, inaccurate, 360.\n    (See _Languages_, etc.)\n\n  Spencer, Herbert: made the cover for an assault upon a guest's opinions,\n        106;\n    on display of wealth, 145;\n    confidence in nature's laws, 227.\n\n  Spenser, Edmund, his poetic stanza, 384.\n\n  Sports: often comparatively unrestrained, 36;\n    affecting fraternity, 64;\n    youth fitted for, 86;\n    roughening influence, 100;\n    affecting friendship, 115;\n    aristocratic, 124;\n    among the rich, 143;\n    ignorance about English, 267, 268;\n    concomitant of wealth, 297;\n    not enjoyed, 302;\n    William of Orange's, 345;\n    connection with amusement, 385-401 _passim_.\n\n  Springtime of love, 34.\n\n  Stanford's London Atlas, 274.\n\n  Stars, illustration of crowds, 77.\n\n  Steam, no help to friendship, 337.\n\n  Stein, Baroness von, relations to Goethe, 51-53.\n\n  Stephenson, George, his locomotive not a failure, 293.\n\n  Stowe, Harriet Beecher, her works confounded with George Eliot's, 290.\n\n  Strangers, treatment of by the English and others (Essay XVII.), 239-252\n        _passim_.\n\n  Stream, illustration from the impossibility of upward flow, 98.\n\n  Strength, accompanied with exercise, 302.\n\n  Studies: affecting friendship, 111;\n    literary and artistic, 400, 401.\n\n  Subjugation, the motive of display of wealth, 145.\n\n  Suez Canal, and superstition, xii.\n\n  Sunbeam, yacht, 138, 139.\n\n  Sunday: French incident, 128, 129;\n    allusion, 198;\n    supposed law, 281.\n    (See _Sabbath_.)\n\n  Sunset, allusion, 31.\n\n  Supernaturalism (Essay XV.), 215-231 _passim_;\n    doubts about, 377, 378.\n\n  Superstition and religion (Essay XV.), 215-231 _passim_.\n\n  Surgeon, an artistic, 289.\n\n  Sweden, king of, 308.\n\n  Swedenborgianism, commended to the author, 378.\n\n  Swift, Jonathan, Gulliver's box, 261.\n\n  Swimming: affected by railways, 14;\n    in France, 272.\n\n  Switzerland: epithets applied to, 235;\n    tourists, 240;\n    Alps, 271;\n    Goldsmith's travels, 309;\n    Dor\u00e9's travels, 345.\n\n  Sympathy: with an author, 9;\n    one of two great powers deciding human intercourse, 11;\n    of a married man with a single, 25, 26;\n    between parents and children (Essay VI.), 78-98 _passim_;\n    between Priests and Women (Essay XIII. part I.), 175-186 _passim_.\n\n  Symposium, antique, allusion, 29.\n\n  Syracuse, siege, 215-217, 229.\n\n\n  Table: its pleasures comparatively unrestrained, 36;\n    former tyranny of hospitality, 101, 102;\n    modern customs, appetite affected by sociability, 102;\n    excess not required by hospitality, 103;\n    French fashion, 105;\n    instances of bad manners, 106, 107, 126-128;\n    rules of precedence, 130, 131;\n    matrons occupied with cares, 140, 141;\n    among the rich, 143;\n    tyranny, 172;\n    English manners towards strangers contrasted with those of other\n        nations (Essay XVII.), 239-252;\n    _d\u00e9je\u00fbner_, 273;\n    among the rich, 297;\n    talk about hunting, 398, 399.\n\n  Talking, contrasted with writing, 354-357.\n\n  Tasso, Bernardo, father of the poet, his letters, 350, 351.\n\n  Taylor, Mrs., relations to Mill, 53-55.\n\n  Telegraphy: under fixed law, 228;\n    affecting letters, 324, 325, 331, 361;\n    anecdote, 326.\n\n  Telephone, illustration, 336.\n\n  Temper, destroys friendship, 112, 118.\n\n  Temperance, sometimes at war with hospitality, 102-104.\n\n  Tenderness, in letters, 320, 322.\n\n  Tennyson: study of past literature, 13;\n    line about brotherhood, 67;\n    religious sentiment of In Memoriam, 198;\n    loyalty to verse, 289;\n    Palace of Art, 386, 400.\n\n  Thackeray, William Makepeace: Rev. Honeyman in The Newcomes, 203;\n    Book of Snobs, 242.\n\n  Thames River, 270, 335.\n\n  Theatre: avoidance, 123;\n    English travellers like actors, 242;\n    gifts of a painter, 341.\n\n  Th\u00e9l\u00e8me, Abbaye de, its motto, 165.\n\n  Thierry, Augustin, History of Norman Conquest, 251, 252.\n\n  Thiers, Louis Adolphe, friendship with Mignet, 120, 121.\n\n  Time, forgotten in labor, 31, 32.\n\n  Timidity, taking refuge in correspondence, 356, 357.\n\n  Titles: table precedence, 130;\n    estimate in England and on the Continent, 136, 137;\n    British regard, 241, 242, 248-252 _passim_;\n    French disregard, 248.\n\n  Tolerance: induced by hospitality, 99;\n    of amusements, 389.\n\n  Towneley Hall, library, 318.\n\n  Trade: English and social exclusion, 19;\n    foolish distinctions, 132-135;\n    connection with national peace, 150;\n    adaptation of Greek language, 158;\n    interference of religion, 171, 174;\n    ignorance about English, 265, 266, 268;\n    Lancashire, 288;\n    careless tradesmen, 360, 361;\n    slang, 365.\n\n  Translations: disliked, 154;\n    of Hamerton into French, 267.\n\n  Transubstantiation: private opinion and outward form, 169;\n    poetic, 190.\n    (See _Roman Catholicism_, etc.)\n\n  Trappist, freedom of an earnest, 164, 165.\n\n  Travel: railway illustration, 13-15;\n    marriage simile, 44;\n    affecting fraternity, 64;\n    affecting friendship, 111;\n    facilitated, 160;\n    in Arabia, 226;\n    unsociability (Essay XVII.), 239-252;\n    in vans, 261, 262;\n    confusion of places, 291;\n    dispensing with luxury, 300;\n    an untravelled man, 301;\n    not cared for, 302;\n    cheap conveyances, 304;\n    books of, 305;\n    Goldsmith's, 309.\n\n  Trees, and Radicals, 282, 283.\n\n  Trinity, denial of, 257.\n\n  Truth, violations (Essay XVI.), 232-238.\n\n  Tudor Family: Mary's reign, 164;\n    criminality, 168;\n    Mary's persecution, 180.\n\n  Turkey, war with Russia, 278.\n\n  Turner, Joseph Mallord William, aided by Claude, 13.\n\n  Type-writers, effect on correspondence, 333.\n\n  Tyranny: of religion (Essay XII.), 161-174;\n    meanest form, 172, 174;\n    of majorities, 398.\n\n\n  Ulysses: literary simile, 29;\n    Bow of, 392.\n\n  Understatement. (See _Untruth_.)\n\n  Union of languages and peoples, 148-150.\n\n  Unitarianism: no European sovereign dare profess, 167, 168;\n    difficulty with creeds, 172;\n    ignorance about, 257.\n\n  United States, advantage of having the same language as England, 150.\n\n  Universe, _univers_, 273-275.\n\n  Universities: degrees, 91;\n    French and English, 275, 276;\n    Radical members, 284.\n\n  Untruth: an Unrecognized Form of (Essay XVI.), 232-238;\n    two methods in painting, 232;\n    exaggeration and diminution, 233;\n    self-misrepresentation, 234;\n    overstatement and understatement illustrated in travelling epithets,\n        235;\n    dead mediocrity in conversation, 236;\n    inadequacy, 237;\n    illustration, 238.\n\n\n  Vanity: national (Essay XIX.), 264-279 _passim_;\n    taking offence, 279;\n    absence, 301.\n\n  Vice: of classes, 124, 125;\n    devilish, 195;\n    part of Bohemianism, 295, 296;\n    of best society, 297.\n\n  Victoria, Queen: quotation from her diary, 186, 187;\n    her oldest son, 385.\n\n  Violin, illustration, 389.\n\n  Viollet-le-Duc, anecdote, 364.\n\n  Virgil, Palmer's constant companion, 313.\n    (See _Latin_.)\n\n  Virgin Mary, her influence, 176.\n    (See _Eug\u00e9nie_, etc.)\n\n  Virtue: of classes, 124, 125;\n    priestly adherence, 195;\n    definition, 208;\n    Buffon's and Littr\u00e9's, 211.\n\n  Visiting, with rich and poor, 139-144.\n\n  Vitriol, in letters, 371.\n\n  Vituperation, priestly, 194.\n\n  Vivisection, feminine dislike, 180.\n\n  Voltaire: quotation about Columbus, 274;\n    Goldsmith's interview, 309.\n\n  Vulpius, Christiane, relations to Goethe, 52, 53.\n\n\n  Wagner, Richard, his Tannha\u00fcser, 388.\n\n  Wales, Prince of, laborious amusements, 385-387.\n\n  Warcopp, Robert, in Plumpton letters, 323, 331.\n\n  Wars: affected by study of languages, 148-150, 151, 160;\n    Eug\u00e9nie's influence, 176;\n    divine connection, 215-224;\n    caused by national ignorance, 277, 278.\n\n  Waterloo, battle, 153.\n\n  Wave, simile, 251.\n\n  Wealth: affecting fraternity, 66;\n    affecting domestic harmony, 77;\n    destroying friendship, 114, 116;\n    Flux of (Essay IX.), 119-129;\n    property variable, influence of changes, 119;\n    access of bachelors and the married to society, 120;\n    instances of friendship affected by poverty, 121;\n    false friends, 122;\n    imprudent marriages, 123;\n    middle-class instances of contentment, 124;\n    aid to refinement, 125;\n    dress, 126;\n    cards, and other forms of courtesy, superfluities, 127;\n    discipline of courtesy, 128;\n    rural manners in France, 129;\n    Differences (Essay X.), 130-147;\n    social precedence, 130;\n    land-ownership, 131;\n    trade, 132-134;\n    _nouveau riche_ and ancestry, 135;\n    titles, 136, 137;\n    varied enjoyments, 138, 139;\n    hospitality, 140-144;\n    English appreciation, 144-146;\n    undue deference, 146, 147;\n    overstatement and understatement, 234;\n    assumption, 242;\n    plutocracy, 246, 247;\n    American inequalities, 248;\n    genteel ignorance, 258-260;\n    two great advantages, 297, 298;\n    small measure, 298;\n    connection with Philistinism and Bohemianism, 299-314;\n    employs better agents, 359, 360;\n    connection with amusements, 383-401.\n    (See _Poverty_, etc.)\n\n  Webb, Captain, lost at Niagara, 290.\n\n  Weeds, illustration of Radicalism, 282.\n\n  Weimar: Goethe's home, 52, 57;\n    Duke of, 57.\n\n  Wenderholme, Hamerton's story, 378.\n\n  Wesley, John, choice in religion, 173.\n    (See _Methodism_.)\n\n  Westbrook, Harriett, relation to Shelley, 46, 47, 97.\n\n  Westminster Abbey, mistaken for another building, 291.\n\n  White, Richard Grant, story, 277.\n\n  Whist, selfishness in, 397.\n\n  William, emperor of Germany, table customs, 103.\n\n  Wine: connection with hospitality, 101-103, 121;\n    traders in considered superior, 133;\n    ignorance about English use, 268, 269, 270;\n    port, 273;\n    concomitant of wealth, 297, 298;\n    simile, 367.\n    (See _Table_, etc.)\n\n  Wives: a pitiful confession, 41;\n    George Eliot's position, 45, 46;\n    relations to noted husbands, 47-62;\n    dread of a wife's kindred, 73;\n    unions made by parents, 94-98;\n    destroying friendship, 115, 116;\n    tired, 144;\n    regard of Napoleon III., 225;\n    old letters, 322;\n    gain from post-cards, 329, 330;\n    privacy of letters, 350;\n    Montaigne's letter, 251, 252.\n    (See _Marriage_, _Women_, etc.)\n\n  Wolf, priestly, 203.\n\n  Wolseley, Sir Garnet, victory, 222, 223, 229.\n\n  Wood, French use of, 272.\n\n  Women: friendship between two, viii, ix;\n    absorption in one, 33;\n    beauty's attraction, 33, 38, 39;\n    passion long preserved, 40;\n    relations to certain noted men, 44-62 _passim_;\n    sisterly jealousy, 65;\n    governed by sentiment, 69;\n    adding to home discomfort, 75, 76;\n    English incivility, 106;\n    French incivility to English, and defence, 106;\n    social acuteness, 130;\n    Priests and Women (Essay XIII.), 175-204;\n    dislike of fixed rules, 175;\n    persuasive powers, ruling society, 176;\n    dependence, advisers, 177;\n    _love_, 178;\n    gentleness, 179;\n    sympathy with persecution, 180;\n    harm of both frivolity and seriousness, 181;\n    injustice of female sex, anxiety for sympathy, 182;\n    sensitiveness, 183;\n    services desired at special times, 184;\n    motherhood, 185;\n    consolation, 186;\n    \u00e6sthetic nature, 187;\n    fondness for show, 188;\n    dress, 189;\n    churches, 190;\n    worship in music, 191;\n    eloquence, 192;\n    eager for the right, 194;\n    obstinacy, 195;\n    association in benevolence, 196;\n    love of ceremony, 197;\n    festivals, 198;\n    confidence in a clergyman, 199;\n    marriage formerly disapproved, _clergywomen_, 200;\n    relief in confession, 201, 202;\n    gentlewomen's letters, 205, 206;\n    French, among strangers, 242, 243;\n    want of analysis, 280;\n    strong theological interest, 377-380;\n    old maids, 379-382;\n    gentlewomen, 381, 382;\n    not interested in sporting talk, 399.\n    (See _Marriage_, _Wives_, etc.)\n\n  Word, power of a, 118.\n\n  Wordsworth: indebtedness to the poor, 22;\n    on Nature's loyalty, 30;\n    instance of his uncleanness, 311.\n\n  Work, softens solitude, 31, 32.\n\n  Working-men. (See _Lower Classes_.)\n\n  World, possible enjoyment of, 303.\n\n  Worship: word in wedding-service, 62;\n    limited by locality, 171-174;\n    musical, 191;\n    expressions in letters, 321.\n\n  Writing, a new discovery supposed, 336.\n\n  Wryghame, message by, 320.\n\n  Wycherley, William, his ribaldry, 181.\n\n\n  Yachting, 258, 259, 292, 358.\n    (See _Boating_.)\n\n  York: Minster, 190;\n    archbishop, 222;\n    diocese, 275.\n\n  Yorkshire, letter to, 320.\n\n  Youth: contrasted with age, 87-89;\n    nonsense reproduced by Shakspeare, 89;\n    insult, 107;\n    in friendship, 111, 112;\n    acceptance of kindness, 117;\n    semblance caused by ignorance of a language, 151.\n\n\n  Zeus, a hunter compared to, 391.\n\n\nTHE END.\n\nUniversity Press: John Wilson & Son, Cambridge.\n\n\n\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[1] An expression used to me by a learned Doctor of Oxford.\n\n[2] The causes of this curious repulsion are inquired into elsewhere in\nthis volume.\n\n[3] The exact degree of blame due to Shelley is very difficult to\ndetermine. He had nothing to do with the suicide, though the separation\nwas the first in a train of circumstances that led to it. It seems clear\nthat Harriett did not desire the separation, and clear also that she did\nnothing to assert her rights. Shelley ought not to have left her, but he\nhad not the patience to accept as permanent the consequences of a mistaken\nmarriage.\n\n[4] Lewes's \"Life of Goethe.\"\n\n[5] Only a poet can write of his private sorrows. In prose one cannot\nsing,--\n\n  \"A dirge for her, the doubly dead, in that she died so young.\"\n\n[6] Schuyler's \"Peter the Great.\"\n\n[7] That valiant enemy of false pretensions, Mr. Punch, has often done\ngood service in throwing ridicule on unreal distinctions. In \"Punch's\nAlmanack\" for 1882 I find the following exquisite conversation beneath one\nof George Du Maurier's inimitable drawings:\n\n    _Grigsby._ Do you know the Joneses?\n\n    _Mrs. Brown._ No, we--er--don't care to know _Business_ people, as a\n    rule, although my husband's in business; but then he's in the _Coffee_\n    business,--and they're all GENTLEMEN in the _Coffee_ business, you\n    know!\n\n    _Grigsby_ (who always suits himself to his company). _Really_, now!\n    Why, that's more than can be said of the Army, the Navy, the Church,\n    the Bar, or even the _House of Lords_! I don't _wonder_ at your being\n    rather _exclusive_!\n\n[8] I am often amused by the indignant feelings of English journalists on\nthis matter. Some French newspaper calls an Englishman a lord when he is\nnot a lord, and our journalists are amazed at the incorrigible ignorance\nof the French. If Englishmen cared as little about titles they would be\nequally ignorant, and two or three other things are to be said in defence\nof the French journalist that English critics _never_ take into account.\nThey suppose that because Gladstone is commonly called Mr. a Frenchman\nought to know that he cannot be a lord. That does not follow. In France a\nman may be called Monsieur and be a baron at the same time. A Frenchman\nmay answer, \"If Gladstone is not a lord, why do you call him one? English\nalmanacs not only say that Gladstone is a lord, but that he is the very\nFirst Lord of the Treasury. Again, why am I not to speak of Sir\nChamberlain? I have seen a printed letter to him beginning with 'Sir,'\nwhich is plain evidence that your 'Sir' is the equivalent of our\n_Monsieur_.\" A Frenchman is surely not to be severely blamed if he is not\naware that the First Lord of the Treasury is not a lord at all, and that a\nman who is called a \"Sir\" inside every letter addressed to him has no\nright to that title on the envelope.\n\n[9] That of M. L\u00e9opold Double.\n\n[10] I need hardly say that this is not intended as a description of poor\nmen's hospitality generally, but only of the effects of poverty on\nhospitality in certain cases. The point of the contrast lies in the\ndifference between this uncomfortable hospitality, which a lover of\npleasant human intercourse avoids, with the easy and agreeable hospitality\nthat the very same people would probably have offered if they had\npossessed the conveniences of wealth.\n\n[11] Italian, to me, seems Latin made natural.\n\n[12] So far as the State and society generally are concerned; but there\nare private situations in which even a member of the State Church does not\nenjoy perfect religious liberty. Suppose the case (I am describing a real\ncase) of a lady left a widow and in poverty. Her relations are wealthy\nDissenters. They offer to provide for her handsomely if she will renounce\nthe Church of England and join their own sect. Does she enjoy religious\nliberty? The answer depends upon the question whether she is able to earn\nher own living or not. If she is, she can secure religious freedom by\nincessant labor; if she is unable to earn her living she will have no\nreligious freedom, although she belongs, in conscience, to the most\npowerful religion in the State. In the case I am thinking of, the lady had\nthe honorable courage to open a little shop, and so remained a member of\nthe Church of England; but her freedom was bought by labor and was\ntherefore not the same thing as the best freedom, which is unembittered by\nsacrifice.\n\n[13] The phrase adopted by Court journalists in speaking of such a\nconversion is, \"The Princess has received instruction in the religion\nwhich she will adopt on her marriage,\" or words to that effect, just as if\ndifferent and mutually hostile religions were not more contradictory of\neach other than sciences, and as if a person could pass from one religion\nto another with no more twisting and wrenching of previous beliefs than he\nwould incur in passing from botany to geology.\n\n[14] The word \"generally\" is inserted here because women do apparently\nsometimes enjoy the infliction of undeserved pain on other creatures. They\ngrace bull-fights with their presence, and will see horses disembowelled\nwith apparent satisfaction. It may be doubted, too, whether the Empress of\nAustria has any compassion for the sufferings of a fox.\n\n[15] I have purposely omitted from the text another cause for feminine\nindifference to the work of persecutors, but it may be mentioned\nincidentally. At certain times those women whose influence on persons in\nauthority might have been effectively employed in favor of the oppressed\nwere too frivolous or even too licentious for their thoughts to turn\nthemselves to any such serious matter. This was the case in England under\nCharles II. The contrast between the occupations of such women as these\nand the sufferings of an earnest man has been aptly presented by\nMacaulay:--\n\n    \"The ribaldry of Etherege and Wycherley was, in the presence and under\n    the special sanction of the head of the Church, publicly recited by\n    female lips in female ears, while the author of the 'Pilgrim's\n    Progress' languished in a dungeon, for the crime of proclaiming the\n    gospel to the poor.\"\n\nThis is deplorable enough; but on the whole I do not think that the\nfrivolity of light-minded women has been so harmful to noble causes as the\nreadiness with which serious women place their immense influence at the\nservice of constituted authorities, however wrongfully those authorities\nmay act. Ecclesiastical authorities especially may quietly count upon this\nkind of support, and they always do so.\n\n[16] Since this Essay was written I have met with the following passage in\nHer Majesty's diary, which so accurately describes the consolatory\ninfluence of clergymen, and the natural desire of women for the\nconsolation given by them, that I cannot refrain from quoting it. The\nQueen is speaking of her last interview with Dr. Norman Macleod:--\n\n    \"He dwelt then, as always, on the love and goodness of God, and on his\n    conviction that God would give us, in another life, the means to\n    perfect ourselves and to improve gradually. No one ever felt so\n    convinced, and so anxious as he to convince others, that God was a\n    loving Father who wished all to come to Him, and to preach of a living\n    personal Saviour, One who loved us as a brother and a friend, to whom\n    all could and should come with trust and confidence. No one ever\n    raised and strengthened one's faith more than Dr. Macleod. His own\n    faith was so strong, his heart so large, that all--high and low, weak\n    and strong, the erring and the good--_could alike find sympathy, help,\n    and consolation from him_.\"\n\n    \"_How I loved to talk to him, to ask his advice, to speak to him of my\n    sorrows and anxieties._\"\n\nA little farther on in the same diary Her Majesty speaks of Dr. Macleod's\nbeneficial influence upon another lady:--\n\n    \"He had likewise a marvellous power of winning people of all kinds,\n    and of sympathizing with the highest and with the humblest, and of\n    soothing and comforting the sick, the dying, the afflicted, the\n    erring, and the doubting. _A friend of mine told me that if she were\n    in great trouble, or sorrow, or anxiety, Dr. Norman Macleod was the\n    person she would wish to go to._\"\n\nThe two points to be noted in these extracts are: first, the faith in a\nloving God who cares for each of His creatures individually (not acting\nonly by general laws); and, secondly, the way in which the woman goes to\nthe clergyman (whether in formal confession or confidential conversation)\nto hear consolatory doctrine from his lips in application to her own\npersonal needs. The faith and the tendency are both so natural in women\nthat they could only cease in consequence of the general and most\nimprobable acceptance by women of the scientific doctrine that the Eternal\nEnergy is invariably regular in its operations and inexorable, and that\nthe priest has no clearer knowledge of its inscrutable nature than the\nlayman.\n\n[17] These quotations (I need hardly say) are from Macaulay's History,\nChapter III.\n\n[18] The difference of interest as regards people of rank may be seen by a\ncomparison of French and English newspapers. In an English paper, even on\nthe Liberal side, you constantly meet with little paragraphs informing you\nthat one titled person has gone to stay with another titled person; that\nsome old titled lady is in poor health, or some young one going to be\nmarried; or that some gentleman of title has gone out in his yacht, or\nentertained friends to shoot grouse,--the reason being that English people\nlike to hear about persons of title, however insignificant the news may be\nin itself. If paragraphs of the same kind were inserted in any serious\nFrench newspaper the subscribers would wonder how they got there, and what\npossible interest for the public there could be in the movements of\nmediocrities, who had nothing but titles to distinguish them.\n\n[19] Since this Essay was written I have come upon a passage quoted from\nHenry Knyghton by Augustin Thierry in his \"History of the Norman\nConquest:\"--\n\n    \"It is not to be wondered at if the difference of nationality (between\n    the Norman and Saxon races) produces a difference of conditions, or\n    that there should result from it an excessive distrust of natural\n    love; and that the separateness of blood should produce a broken\n    confidence in mutual trust and affection.\"\n\nNow, the question suggests itself, whether the reason why Englishman shuns\nEnglishman to-day may not be traceable, ultimately, to the state of\nfeeling described by Knyghton as a result of the Norman Conquest. We must\nremember that the avoidance of English by English is quite peculiar to us;\nno other race exhibits the same peculiarity. It is therefore probably due\nto some very exceptional fact in English history. The Norman Conquest was\nexactly the exceptional fact we are in search of. The results of it may be\ntraceable as follows:--\n\n1. Norman and Saxon shun each other.\n\n2. Norman has become aristocrat.\n\n3. Would-be aristocrat (present representative of Norman) shuns possible\nplebeian (present representative of Saxon).\n\n[20] It so happens that I am writing this Essay in a rough wooden hut of\nmy own, which is in reality a most comfortable little building, though\n\"stuffy luxury\" is rigorously excluded.\n\n[21] At present it is most inadequately represented by a few unimportant\ngifts. The donors have desired to break the rule of exclusion, and have\nsucceeded so far, but that is all.\n\n[22] These, of course, are only examples of vulgar patriotic ignorance. A\nfew Frenchmen who have really _seen_ what is best in English landscape are\ndelighted with it; but the common impression about England is that it is\nan ugly country covered with _usines_, and on which the sun never shines.\n\n[23] The French word _univers_ has three or four distinct senses. It may\nmean all that exists, or it may mean the solar system, or it may mean the\nearth's surface, in whole or in part. Voltaire said that Columbus, by\nsimply looking at a map of our _univers_, had guessed that there must be\nanother, that is, the western hemisphere. \"Paris est la plus belle ville\nde l'univers\" means simply that Paris is the most beautiful city in the\nworld.\n\n[24] A French critic recently observed that his countrymen knew little of\nthe tragedy of \"Macbeth\" except the familiar line \"To be or not to be,\nthat is the question!\"\n\n[25] I never make a statement of this kind without remembering instances,\neven when it does not seem worth while to mention them particularly. It is\nnot of much use to quote what one has heard in conversation, but here are\ntwo instances in print. Reclus, the French geographer, in \"La Terre \u00e0 Vol\nd'Oiseau,\" gives a woodcut of the Houses of Parliament and calls it\n\"L'Abbaye de Westminster.\" The same error has even occurred in a French\nart periodical.\n\n[26] Rodolphe, in \"L'Honneur et l'Argent.\"\n\n[27] In the library at Towneley Hall in Lancashire.\n\n[28] In Prosper M\u00e9rim\u00e9e's \"Correspondence\" he gives the following as the\nauthentic text of the letter in which Lady Florence Paget announced her\nelopement with the last Marquis of Hastings to her father:--\n\n    \"Dear Pa, as I knew you would never consent to my marriage with Lord\n    Hastings, I was wedded to him to-day. I remain yours, etc.\"\n\n[29] For those who take an interest in such matters I may say that the\nlast representative of the Plumptons died in France unmarried in 1749, and\nPlumpton Hall was barbarously pulled down by its purchaser, an ancestor of\nthe present Earls of Harewood. The history of the family is very\ninteresting, and the more so to me that it twice intermarried with my own.\nDorothy Plumpton was a niece of the first Sir Stephen Hamerton.\n\n[30] Sir Walter Scott had sympathy enough with the courtesy of old time to\nnote its minuti\u00e6 very closely:--\n\n    \"After inspecting the cavalry, Sir Everard again conducted his nephew\n    to the library, where he produced a letter, _carefully folded,\n    surrounded by a little stripe of flox-silk, according to ancient\n    form_, and sealed with _an accurate impression_ of the Waverley\n    coat-of-arms. It was addressed, _with great formality_, 'To Cosmo\n    Comyne Bradwardine, Esq., of Bradwardine, at his principal mansion of\n    Tully-Veolan, in Perthshire, North Britain. These--by the hands of\n    Captain Edward Waverley, nephew of Sir Everard Waverley, of\n    Waverley-Honour, Bart.'\"--_Waverley_, chap. vi.\n\nI had not this passage in mind when writing the text of this Essay, but\nthe reader will notice how closely it confirms what I have said about\ndeliberation and care to secure a fair impression of the seal.\n\n[31] A very odd but very real objection to the employment of these\nmissives is that the receiver does not always know how to open them, and\nmay burn them unread. I remember sending a short letter in this shape from\nFrance to an English lady. She destroyed my letter without opening it; and\nI got for answer that \"if it was a French custom to send blank post-cards\nshe did not know what could be the signification of it.\" Such was the\nresult of a well-meant attempt to avoid the non-courteous post-card!\n\n[32] Besides which, in the case of a French friend, you are sure to have\nnotice of such events by printed _lettres de faire part_.\n\n[33] I need hardly say that there has been immense improvement in this\nrespect, and that such descriptions have no application to the Lancashire\nof to-day; indeed, they were never true, in that extreme degree, of\nLancashire generally, but only of certain small localities which were at\none time like spots of local disease on a generally vigorous body.\n\n[34] Littr\u00e9 derives _corv\u00e9e_ from the Low-Latin _corrogata_, from the\nLatin _cum_ and _rogare_.","title":"Human Intercourse","tradition":"philosophy-ethics","translated_text":null,"word_count":123398}