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3mif*§^^^l

i
i

Human Intercourse.

BY

PHILIP GILBERT HAMERTON,

AUTHOR OF "THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE," "A PAINTER'S CAMP," "THOUGHTS

ABOUT ART," "CHAPTERS ON ANIMALS," "ROUND MY HOUSE," "THE

SYLVAN YEAR " AND ** THE UNKNOWN RIVER," " WENDERHOLMB."

*' MODERN FRENCHMEN," •*LIFE OF J. M. W. TURNER,"

••THE GRAPHIC ARTS," "ETCHING AND ETCHERS,"

"PARIS IN OLD AND PRESENT TIMES,"

"HARRY BLOUNT."

''I Jove tranquil solitude.
And such society
As is quiet, wise, and good."

SUELLBY.

BOSTON:

ROBERTS BROTHERS.

1884.

^/-Vc^y, /f. /

HARVARD COLLEGE LIBRAW

THE BEQUEST OF

THEODORE JEWETT EASTMAN

}931

AUTHOR'S EDITION.

John Wilson and Son, Cambridgb.

Eo tfie Hemors of Emttfion,

J^T dedicate this book on JETuman Intercourse to the
memory of one whose voice I never heard, and to
whom I never addressed a letter, the seeming inappro-
priateness will disappear when the reader knows what
a greaJt and persistent influence he had on the whole
course of my thinking, and there/ore on all my work.
He was told of this before his death, and the acknowl-
edgment gave him pleasure. Perhaps this public
repetition of it may not be without utility at a time
when, although it is clear to us that he has left an
immortal name, the exact nature of the rank he wiU
occupy amongst great men does not seem to be evident
as yet. The embarrassment of premature criticism is
a testimony to his originality. But although it may
be too soon for us to know whal his napie will mean
to posterity, we may tell posterity what service he
rendered to ourselves. To me he taught two great
lessons. The first was to rely confidently on that
order of the universe which makes it always really
worth while to do our best, even though the reward
may not be visible ; and the second was to have self-
reliance enough to trust our oum convictions and our

VI DEDICATION.

own gifts, such as they are, or siich as they may be^
come, without either echoing the opinions or desiring
the more hriUiant gifts of others, Emerson taught
much besides ; but it is these two doctrines of reliance
on the compensations of Nature, and of a self -respect-
ful reliance on our own individuality, that have the
most invigorating influence on workers like myself
Emerson knew that each of us can only receive that
for which he has an affinity, and can only give forth
effectually what is by birthright, or has become, his
own. To have accepted this doctrine with perfect
contentment is to possess on^s sovl in peace,

Emerson combined high intellect with pure honesty,
and remained faithful to the double law of the inteU
lectical life — high thinking and fearless utterance-^
to the end of his days, with a beautiful persistence
and ^serenity. So now I go, in spirit, a pilgrim to
that tall pine-tree that grows upon " the hill-top to the
east of Sleepy SoUow" and lay one mare wreath upon
an honored grave,

June £4, ISU-

PREFACE.

WHEN thy book was begun, some years ago, I
made a formal plan, according to which it was
to have been one long Essay or Treatise, divided into
sections and chapters, and presenting that apparently
perfect ordonnance which gives such an imposing air to
a work of art. I say " apparentl}'^ perfect ordonnance"
because in such cases the perfection of the arrangement
is often only apparent, and the work is like those formal
pseudo-classical buildings that seem, with their regular
columns, spaces, and windows, the very highest ex-
amples of method ; but you find on entering that the
internal distribution of space is defective and incon-
venient, that one room has a window in a corner and
another half a window, that one is needlessly large for
its employment and another far too small. In litera-
ture the ostentation of order may compel an author to
extreme condensation in one part of his book and to
excessive amplification in another, since, in reality, the
parts of his subject do not fall more naturallj'^ into equal
divisions than words beginning with difierent letters in
the dictionary. I therefore soon abandoned external
rigidity of order, and made my divisions more elastic ;
but I went still farther after some experiments, and
abandoned the idea of a Treatise. This was not done
without some regret, as I know that a Treatise has a

viii PREFACE,

better chance of permanence than a collection of Essays ;
but, in this case, I met with an invisible obstacle that
threatened to prevent good literary execution. After
making some progress I felt that the work was not very
readable, and that the writing of it was not a satisfac-
tory occupation. Whenever this happens there is sure
to be an error of method somewhere. What the error
was in this case I did not discover for a long time, but
at last I suddenly perceived it. A foritaal Treatise, to
be satisfactor}', can only be written about ascertained
or ascertainable laws ; and human intercourse as it is
carried on between individuals, though it looks so acces-
sible to every observer, is in realit}' a subject of infinite
mystery and obscuritj^, about which hardly anj'thing is
known, about which certainly nothing is known abso-
lutely and completely. I found that every attempt to
ascertain and proclaim a law only ended, when the sup-
posed law was brought face to face with nature, by
discovering so many exceptions that the best practical
rules were suspension of judgment and a reliance upon
nothing but special observation in each particular case.
I found that in real human intercourse the theoretically
improbable, or even the theoretically impossible, was
constantly happening. I remember a case in real life
which illustrates this very forcibly. A certain English
lady, influenced by the received ideas about human in-
tercourse which define the conditions of it in a hard and
sharp manner, was strongly convinced that it would be
impossible for her to have friendly relations with another
lady whom she had never seen, but was likely to see
frequently. All her reasons would be considered excel-
lent reasons by those who believe in maxims and rules.
It was plain that there could be nothing in common.
The other lady was neither of the same country, nor

PREFACE, IX

of the same religioas and political parties, nor exactly
of the same class, nor of the same generation. These
facts were known, and the inference deduced from them
was that intercourse would be impossible. After some
time the English lady began to perceive that the case
did not bear out the supposed rules ; she discovered that
the younger lady might be an acceptable fiieud. At
last the full strange truth became apparent, — that she
was singularly well adapted, better adapted than any
other human being, to take a filial relation to the elder,
especially in times of sickness, when her presence was
a wonderful support. Then the warmest affection
sprang up between the two, lasting till separation by
death and still cherished by the survivor. What be-
comes of rules and maxims and wise old saws in the
face of nature and reality ? What can we do better than
to observe nature with an open, unprejudiced mind, and
gather some of the results of observation ?

I am conscious of several omissions that may possibly
be rectified in another volume if this is favorabh' ac-
cepted. The most important of these are the influence
of age on intercourse, and the effects of living in the
same house, which are not invariably favorable. Both
these subjects are very important, and I have not time
to treat them now with the care they would require.
There ought also to have been a careful study of the
natural antagonisms, which are of terrible importance
when people, naturally antagonistic, are compelled by
circumstances to live together. These are, however,
generally of less importance than the aflSuities, because
we contrive to make our intercourse with antagonistic
people as short and rare as possible, and that with sym-
pathetic people as frequent and long as circumstances
will permit.

X PREFACE.

I will not closd this preface without sa5^iiig that the
happiness of sympathetic human intercourse seems to
me incomparably greater than any other pleasure. I
may be supposed to haVe passed the age of enthusiastic
illusions, yet I would at any time rather pass a week
with a l:eal friend in any place that Afforded simple
shelter than with an indifferent person in a palace. In
saying this I am thinking of i*eal experiences. One of
my friends who is devoted to archaeological excavations
has often invited me to share his life in a hut or a cot-
tage, and I have invariably found that the pleasure of
his society far overbalanced the absence of luxury. On
the other hand, I have sometimes endured extreme ennui
at sumptuous feasts in richly appointed houses. The
result of experience, in my case, has been to confirm a
youthful conviction that the value of certain persons is
not to be estimated by comparison with anything else.
I was always a believer, and am so at this day more
than ever, in the happiness of genuine human inter-
course, but I prefer solitude to the false imitation of it.
It is in this as in other pleasures, the better we appre-
ciate the real thing, the less we are disposed to accept
the spurious copy as a substitute. By far the greater
part of what passes for human intercourse is not inter-
course at all, but only acting, of which the highest
object and most considerable merit is to conceal the
weariness that accompanies its hollow observances.

One sad aspcfct of my subject has not been touched
upon in this volume. It was often present in my
thoughts, but I timidly shrank from dealing with It.
I might have attempted to show in what manner inter-
course is cut short by death. All reciprocity of inter-
course is, or appears to be, entirety cut short by that
catastrophe ; but those who have talked with us much

PREFACE. xi

in foimef years retain an inflaenee that may be even
more constant than our recollection of them. My own
recollection of- the dead is e&tremely vivid and clear,
and I cultivate it by willingly thinking about them,
being especially happy when by some accidental flash
of brighter memory a more than usual degree of lucidity
is obtained. I accept with resignation the natural law,
on the whole so beneficent, that when an organism is
no longer able to exist without suffering, or senile de-
crepitude, it should be dissolved and made insensible
of suffering ; but I by no means accept the idea that
the dead are to be foi^otten in order that we may spare
ourselves distress. Let us give them their due place,
their great place, in our hearts and in our thoughts;
and if the sweet reciprocity of human intercourse is no
longer possible with those who are silent and asleep, let
the memory of past intercourse be still a part of our
lives. There are hours when we live with the dead
more than with the living,' so that without any trace of
superstition we feel their old sweet influence acting
upon us yet, and it seems as if only a little more were
needed to give us ^'the touch of a vanished hand, and
the sound of a voice that is still."

Closely connected with this subject of death is the
subject of religious beliefs. In the present state of
confusion and change, some causes of which are indi-
cated in this volume, the only plain course for honorable
men is to act always in favor of truthfulness, and there-
fore against hypocrisy, and against those encouragers of
hypocrisy who offer social advantages as rewards for it.
What may come in the future we cannot tell, but we
may be sure that the best way to prepare for the future
is to be honest and candid in the present. There are
two causes which are gradually effecting a great change.

xu PREFACE.

and as they are natural causes they are irresistibly pow-
erful. One is the process of analytic detachment, by
which sentiments and feelings once believed to be re-
ligious are now found to be separable from religion. If
a French peasant has a feeling for architecture, poetry,
or music, or an appreciation of eloquence, or a desire
to hear a kind of moral philosophy, he goes to the vil-
lage church to satisfy these dim incipient desires. In
his case these feelings and wants are all confusedly con-
nected with religion ; in ours they are detached from it,
and only reconnected with it b}^ accident, we being still
aware that there is no essential identit3\ That is the
first dissolving cause. It seems only to affect the ex-
ternals of religion, but it goes deeper by making the
consciously religious state of mind less habitual. The
second cause is even more serious in its effects. "We .
are acquiring the habit of explaining everything by
natural causes, and of trying to remedy everything by
the employment of natural means. Journals dependent
on popular approval for the enormous circulation that
is necessary to their existence do not hesitate, in clear
tenns, to express their preference of natural means to
the invocation of supernatural agencies. For example,
the correspondent of the "Daily News" at Port Said,
after describing the annual blessing of the Suez Canal at
the Epiphany, observes : "Thus the canal was solemnly
blessed. The opinion of the captains of the ships that
throng the harbor, waiting until the block adjusts itself,
is that it would be better to widen it." Such an opinion
is perfectly modern, perfectly characteristic of our age.
We think that steam excavators and dredgers would be
more likely to prevent blocks in the Suez Canal than
a priest reading prayers out of a book and throwing a
golden cross into the sea, to be fished up again by divers.

PREFACE. xiii

We cannot help thinking as we do : our opinion has not
been chosen by us voluntarily, it has been forced upon
us by facts that we cannot help seeing, but it deprives
us of an opportunity for a religious emotion, and it
separates us, on that point, from all those who are still
capable of feeling it. I have given considerable space
to the consideration of these changes, but not a dis-
proportionate space. They have a deplorable effect on
human intercourse by dividing friends and families into
different groups, and by separating those who might
otherwise have enjoyed friendship unreservedly. It is
probable, too, that we are only at the beginning of the
conflict, and that in years not immeasurably distant
there will be fierce struggles on the most irritating of
practical issues. To name but one of these it is prob-
able that there will be a sharp struggle when a strong
and determined naturalist party shall claim the instruc-
tion of the young, especially with regard to the origin
of the race, the beginnings of animal life, and the evi-
dences of intention in nature. Loving, as I do, the
amenities of a peaceful and polished civilization much
better than angry controversy, I long for the time when
these great questions will be considered as settled one
way or the other, or else, if they are beyond our intel-
ligence, for the time when they may be classed as in-
soluble, so that men may work out their destiny without
bitter quarrels about their origin. The present at least
is ours, and it depends upon ourselves whether it is to
be wasted in vain disputes or brightened by charity and
kindness.

a.

CONTENTS.

Essay Paoi

> L Otr THS DiTncuLTT ov DiscoT]SKDro Fixed

Laws 3

n. Indefendencb 13

m. Of Passionate Loys • • • 33

lY. CiOMPANIONSHIP IN MaERIAGE 44

V. Family Ties 63

YI. Fathebs and Sons 78

yn. The Rights op the Guest 99

Vin. The Death o* Friendship 110

IX. The Ylvx op Wealth 119

X DiPPEEENCEs OP Rank and Wealth .... 130

XI. The Obstacle op Language 148

Xn. The Obstacle op Religion 161

Xm. Priests and Women 175

XrV. Why we are Appabentlt becoming Less

Religious 205

XY. How WE ARE Really becoming Less Religious 215

XYI. On an Unrecognized Form op Untruth . . 232

XVi CONTENTS.

Essay Pagb

XYII. On a Eemabkable English Peculiarity . . 239

XVIII. Op Genteel Ignorance . 253

XTX. Patriotic Ignorance 264

XX. Confusions • • . 1 . 280

XXI. The Noble Bohemianism 295

XXII. Of Courtesy in Epistolary Communication 315

XXIII. Letters of Priendship 336

XXIY. Letters of Business 354

XXV, Anonymous Letters 370

XXVL Amusements . 383

INDEX 403

HUMAN INTERCOURSE.

HUMAN INTEECOUESE.

ESSAY L

ON THE DIFFICULTY OF DISCOVERING FIXED
LAWS.

A BOOK on H!aman Intercourse might be written
-^^ in a variety of ways, and amongst them might
be -an attempt to treat the subject in a scientific manner
so as to elucidate those natural laws by which inter-
course between human beings must be regulated. If
we knew quite perfectly what those laws are we should
enjoy the great convenience of being able to predict
with certainty which men and women would be able
to associate with pleasure, and which would be con-
strained or repressed in each other's society. Human
intercourse would then be as much a positive science
as chemistry, in which the effects of bringing substances
together can be foretold with the utmost accuracy.
Some very distant approach to this scientific state may
in certain instances actually be made. When we know
the characters of two people with a certain degree of
precision we may sometimes predict that they are sure
to quarrel, and have the satisfaction of witnessing the
explosion that our own acumen has foretold. To detect

4 ON THE DIFFICULTY OF

in people we know those incompatibilities that are the
fatal seeds of future dissension is one of our malicious
pleasures. An acute observer reall}' has considerable
powers of prediction and calculation with reference to
individual human beings, but there his wisdom ends.
He cannot deduce from these separate cases an}' general
rules or laws that can be firmlj' relied upon as every
real law of nature can be relied upon, and therefore it
may be concluded that such rules are not laws of
nature at all, but only poor and untrustworthy substi-
tutes for them.

The reason for this difficulty I take to be the ex-
treme complexit}' of human nature and its boundless
variet}', which make it always probable that in every
mind which we have not long and closely studied there
will be elements wholly unknown to us. How often,
with regard to some public man, who is known to us
onl}'^ in part through his acts or his writings, are we
surprised by the sudden revelation of characteristics
that we never imagined for him and that seem almost
incompatible with the better known side of his nature !
How much the more, then, are we likely to go wrong
in our estimates of people we know nothing about, and
how impossible it must be for us to determine how they
are likely to select their friends and companions !

Certain popular ideas appear to represent a sort of
rude philosophy of human intercourse. There is the
common belief, for example, that, in order to associate
pleasantty together, people should be of the same class
and nearly in the same condition of fortune, but when
we turn to real life we find very numerous instances in

DISCOVERING FIXED LAWS, 6

which this fancied law is broken with the happiest
results. The late Duke of Albany may be mentioned
as an example. No doubt his own natural refinement
would have prevented him from associating with vulgar
people ; but he readily associated with refined and cul-
tivated people who had no pretension to rank. His
own rank was a power in his hands that he used for
good, and he was conscious of it, but it did not isolate
him ; he desired to know people as they are, and was
capable of feeling the most sincere respect for anybody
who deserved it. So it is, generally, with all who have
the gifts of sj'mpath}' and intelligence. Merelj- to avoid
what is disagreeable has nothing to do with pride of
station. Vulgar society is disagreeable, which is a suffi-
cient reason for keeping aloof from it. Amongst people
of refinement, association or even friendship is possible
in spite of differences of rank and fortune.

Another popular belief is that " men associate to-
getlier when the}' are interested in the same things."
It would, however, be eas}^ to adduce very numerous
instances in which an interest in similar things has
been a cause of quaiTel, when if one of the two parties
had regarded those things with indifference, harmonious
intercourse might have been preserved. The livelier
our interest in an^'thing the more does acquiescence in
matters of detail appear essential to us. Two people
are both of them extremely religious, but one of them
is a Mahometan, and the other a Christian ; here the in-
terest in religion causes a divergence, enough in most
cases to make intercourse impossible, when it would
have been quite possible if both parties had regarded

6 ON THE DIFFICULTY OF

religion with indifference. Bring the two nearer to-
gether, suppose them to be both Christians, they ac-
knowledge one law, one doctrine, one Head of the
church in heaven. Yes, but they do not acknowledge
the same head of it on earth, for one accepts the
Papal supremacy, which the other denies; and their
common Christianity is a feeble bond of union in com-
parison with the forces of repulsion contained in a
multitude of details. Two nominal, indifferent Chris-
tians who take no interest in theology would have a
better chance of agreeing. Lastl}', suppose them to
be both members of the Church of England, one of the
old school, with firm and settled beliefs on every point
and a horror of the most distant approaches to heresy,
the other of the new school, vague, indeterminate, desir-
ing to preserve his Christianity as a sentiment when it
has vanished as a faith, thinking that the Bible is not
true in the old sense but only '' contains" truth, that
the divinit3' of Christ is " a past issue," ^ and that ^vo-
lution is, on the whole, more probable than direct and
intentional creation, — what possible agreement can
exist between these two? If they both care about
religious topics, and talk about them, will not their
disagreement be in exact proportion to the liveliness
of their interest in the subject? So in a realm with
which I have some acquaintance, that of the fine arts,
discord is always probable between those who have a
passionate delight in art. Innocent, well-intentioned
friends think that because two men "like painting,"
they ought to be introduced, as they are sure to amuse

1 An expression used to me by a learned Doctor of Oxford.

DISCOVERING FIXED LAWS. 7

each other. In reality, their tastes may be more op-
posed than the taste of either of them is to perfect
indifference. One has a severe taste for beautiful form
and an active contempt for picturesque accidents and
romantic associations, the other feels chilled by severe
beauty and delights in the picturesque and romantic.
If each is convinced of the superiority of his own
principles he will deduce from them an endless series
of judgments that can only irritate the other.

Seeing that nations are always hostile to each other,
always watchfully jealous and inclined to rejoice in
every evil that happens to a neighbor, it would appear
safe to predict that little intercourse could exist be-
tween persons of different nationalit3'. When, however,
we observe the facts as the}^ are in real life, we per-
ceive that very strong and durable friendships often
exist between men who are not of the same nation, and
that the chief obstacle to the formation of these is not
so much nationality as difference of language. There
Is, no doubt, a prejudice that one is not likely to get
on well with a foreigner, and the prejudice has often
the effect of keeping people of different nationality
apart, but when once it is overcome it is often found
that very powerful feelings of mutual respect and sym-
pathy draw the strangers together. On the other hand,
. there is not the least assurance that the mere fact of
being born in the same country will make two men
regard each other with kindness. An Englishman
repels another Englishman when he meets him on the
Continent.^ The only just conclusion is that nationality

1 Tfie causes of this curious repulsion are inquired into else-
where in this volume.

8 ON THE DIFFICULTY OF

affords no certain rule either in favor of intercourse
or against it. A man may possibl3^ be drawn towards
a foreign nationality b}' his appreciation of its excel-
lence in some art that he loves, but this is the case only
when the excellence is of the peculiar kind that supplies
the needs of his own intelligence. The French excel
in painting ; that is to say, that many Frenchmen have
attained a certain kind of excellence in certain depart-
ments of the art of painting. Englishmen and Ameri-
cans who value that particular kind of excellence are
often strongly drawn towards Paris as an artistic centre
or capital ; and this opening of their minds to French
influence in art may admit other French influences at
the same time, so that the ultimate effect of a love of
art may be a breaking down of the barrier of nation-
ality. It seldom happens that Frenchmen are drawn
towards England and America by their love of painting,
but it frequently" happens that the}- become in a meas-
ure Anglicized or Americanized either by the serious
study of nautical science, or by the love of yachting
as an amusement, in which they look to England and
America both for the most advanced theories and the
newest examples.

The nearest approach ever made to a general rule
ma}' be the affirmation that likeness is the secret of
companionship. This has a great look of probability,
and may really be the reason for many associations,
but after observing others we might come to the con-
clusion that an opposite law would be at least equalty
applicable. We might sa}^ that a companion, to be
interesting, ought to bring new elements, and not be a

DISCOVERING FIXED LAWS. 9

repetition of our own too familiar personalit3\ We
have enough of ourselves in ourselves ; we desire a
companion who will relieve us from the bounds of our
thoughts, as a neighbor opens his garden to us, and
delivers us from our own hedges. But if the unlikeness
is so great that mutual understanding is impossible,
then it is too great. We fancy that we should like to
know this or that author, because we feel a certain
sympathy with him though he is very different from
us, but there are other writers whom we do not desire
to know because we are aware of a difference too ex-
cessive for companionship.

The only approximation to a general law that I would
venture to affirm is that the strongest reason why men
are drawn together is not identity of class, not identity
of race, not a common interest in any particular art or
science, but because there is something in their idiosyn-
crasies that gives a charm to intercourse between the
two. What it is I cannot tell, and I have never met
with the wise man who was able to enlighten me.

It is not respect for character, seeing that we often
respect people heartily without being able to enjoy their
societ}'. It is a mysterious suitableness or adaptability,
and how mysterious it is may be in some degree real-
ized when we reflect that we cannot account for our
own preferences. I try to explain to myself, for my
own intellectual satisfaction, how and why it is that I
take pleasure in the society of one very dear friend.
He is a most able, honorable, and high-minded man,
but others are all that, and the}' give me no pleasure.
My friend and I have really not very much in common,

10 ON THE DIFFICULTY OF

far less than I have with some perfectly indifferent
people. I onl}' know that we are always glad to be
together, that each of us likes to listen to the other, and
that we have talked for innumerable hours. Neither
does my affection blind me to his faults. I see them as
cleai'ly as if I were his enemy, and doubt not that he
sees mine. There is no illusion, and there has been no
change in our sentiments for twentj' years.

As a contrast to this instance I think of others in
which everj'thing seems to have been prepared on
purpose for facility of intercourse, in which there is simi-
larity of pursuits, of language, of education, of every-
thing that is likely to permit men to talk easily together,
and yet there is some obstacle that makes any real in-
tercourse impossible. What the obstacle is I am unable
to explain even to myself. It need not be any unkind
feeling, nor any feeling of disapprobation ; there may
be good-will on both sides and a mutual desire for a
gi-eater degree of intimacy, yet with all tliis the intimacy
does not come, and such intercourse as we have is that
of simple politeness. In these cases each party is apt
to think that the other is reservcjd, when there is no
wish to be reserved but rather a desire to be as open as
the unseen obstacle will allow. The existence of the
obstacle does not prevent respect and esteem or even
a considerable degree of affection. It divides people
who seem to be on the most friendly terms ; it divides
even the nearest relations, brother from brother, and
the son from the father. Nobody knows exactly what
it is, but we have a word for it, — we call it incompati-
Ulity. The difficulty of going farther and explaining

^*:i.L-

DISCOVERING FIXED LAWS. 11

the real nature of Incompatibilit}' is that it takes as
many shapes as there are varieties in the characters
of mankind.

Sympathy and incompatibility, — these are the two
great powers that decide for us whether intercourse is
to be possible or not, but the causes of them are dark
mysteries that lie undiscovered far down in the " abys-
mal deeps of personality."

12 INDEPENDENCE.

ESSAY IL

INDEPENDENCE.

'T^HERE is an illusory and unattainable indepen-
■*• dence which is a mere dream, but there is also a
reasonable and attainable independence not really in-
consistent with our obligations to humanity and our
countr3^

The dependence of the individual upon the race has
never been so fully recognized as now, so that there
is little fear of its being overlooked. The danger of
our age, and of the future, is rather that a reasonable
and possible independence should be made needlessly
difficult to attain and to preserve.

The distinction between the two may be conveniently
illustrated b}' a reference to literar}' production. Every
educated man is dependent upon his own country for
the language that he uses ; and again, that language is
itself dependent on other languages from which it is
deriveds and, farther, the modern author is indebted
for a continual stimulus and man}^ a suggestion to the
writings of his predecessors, not in his own country
only but in far distant lands. He cannot, therefore,
saj^ in any absolute way, " M}' books are my own," but
he ma}' preserve a certain mental independence which
will allow him to sa}' that with truth in a relative sense.
If he expresses himself such as he is, an idiosyncrasy

INDEPENDENCE. 13

affected but not annihilated by education, he may say
that his books are his own.

Few English authoi^s have studied past literature
more willingl}' than Shelley and Tenn3'son, and none
are more original. In these cases idiosyncrasy has
been affected by education, but instead of being annihi-
lated thereby it has gained from education the means
of expressing its own inmost self more clearlj-. We
have the true Shelley, the born Tennyson, far more
perfectly than we should ever have possessed them if
their own minds had not been opened by the action of
other minds. Culture is like wealth, it makes us more
ourselves, it enables us to express ourselves. The
real nature of the poor and the ignorant is an obscure
and doubtful problem, for we can never know the in-
born powers that remain in them undeveloped till they
die. In this way the help of the race, so far from
being unfavorable to individuality, is necessary to it.
Claude helped Turner to become Turner. In complete
isolation from art, however magnificentlj^ surrounded
by the beauties of the natural world, a man does not
express his originality as a landscape-painter, he is
simply incapable of expressing anything in paint.

But now let us inquire whether there may not be
cases in which the labors of others, instead of helping
originality to express itself, act as a check to it by
making originality superfluous.

As an illustration of this possibilitj' I may take the
modern railway" system. Here we have the labor and
ingenuity of the race applied to travelling, greatly to
the convenience of the individual, but in a manner

14 INDEPENDENCE.

which is totally repressive of originality and indifferent
to personal tastes. People of the most different idiosyn-
crasies travel exactly in the same wa}'. The landscape-
painter is hurried at speed past beautiful spots that he
would like to contemplate at leisure ; the archaeologist
is whirled by the site of a Homan camp that he would
willingly pause to examine ; the mountaineer is not per-
mitted to climb the tunnelled hill, nor the swimmer to
cross in his own refreshing, natural way the breadth of
the iron-spanned river. And as individual tastes are
disregarded, so individual powers are left uncultivated
and unimproved. The only talent required is that of
sitting passivel}^ on a seat and of enduring, for hours
together, an unpleasant though mitigated vibration.
The skill and courage of the horseman, the endurance
of the pedestrian, the art of the paddler or the oarsman,
are all made supei-fluous by this system of travelling
by machines, in which previous labors of engineers
and mechanics have determined everything beforehand.
Happilj-, the love of exercise and enterprise has pro-
duced a reaction of individualism against this levelling
railway system, a reaction that shows itself in many
kinds of slower but more adventurous locomotion and
restores to the individual creature his lost independence
by allowing him to pause and stop when he pleases ; a
reaction delightful to him especially in this, that it
gives him some pride and pleasure in the use of bis
own muscles and his own wits. There are still, hap-
pily. Englishmen who would rather steer a cutter across
the Channel in rough weather than be shot through a
long hole in the chalk.

&.:

INDEPENDENCE. 16

What the railway is to physical motion, settled con-
ventions are to the movements of the mind. Conven-
tion is a contrivance for facilitating what we write
or speak by which we are relieved from personal ef-
fort and almost absolved from personal responsibility.
There are men whose whole art of living consists in
passing from one conventionalism to another as a trav-
eller changes his train. Such men may be envied for
the skill with which they avoid the difficulties of life.
They take their religion, their politics, their education,
their social and literary opinions, all as provided by the
brains of others, and they glide through existence with
a minimum of personal exertion. For those who are
satisfied with easy, conventional ways the desire for
intellectual independence is unintelligible. What is
the need of it? Whj" go, mentall}-, on a bicycle or in a
canoe by 3'our own toilsome exertions when you may
sit so very comfortably in the train, a rug round your
lazy legs and your softly capped head in a corner?

The French ideal of " good form " is to be undistin-
guishable from others ; by which it is not understood
that 3'ou are to be undistinguishable from the multitude
of poor people, but one of the smaller crowd of rich
and fashionable people. Independence and originality
are so little esteemed in what is called " good society "
in France that the adjectives ^'independant" and
'^original*' are constantly used in a bad sense. '*7^
est tres independant " often means that the man is of
a rude, insubordinate, rebellious temper, unfitting him
for social life. ^^11 eat original^** or more contempt-
uously, '' CPest un original^' means that the subject of the

16 INDEPENDENCE.

criticism has views of his own which are not the fash-
ionable views, and which therefore (whatever may be
their accurac}') are proper objects of well-bred ridicule.

I cannot imagine any state of feeling more destruc-
tive of all interest in human intercourse than this, for
if on going into societ}' I am only to hear the fashiona-
ble opinions and sentiments, what is the gain to me who
know them too well already-? I could even repeat
them quite accurately with the proper conventional
tone, so wh}' put m3'self to inconvenience to hear that
dull and wearisome play acted over again ? The only
possible explanation of the pleasure that French people
of some rank appear to take in hearing things, which
are as stale as the}^ are inaccurate, repeated bj^ every
one the}' know, is that the repetition of them appears
to be one of the signs of gentilitj^, and to give alike to
those who utter them and to those who hear, tlie pro-
found satisfaction of feeling that the}^ are present at
the mysterious rites of Caste.

There is probabl}^ no place in the whole world where
the feeling of mental independence is so complete as it
is in London. There is no place where differences of
opinion are more marked in character or more frank
and open in expression ; but what strikes one as partic-
ularly admirable in London is that in the present da}'
(it has not always been so) men of the most opposite
opinions and the most various tastes can profess their
opinions and indulge their tastes without inconvenient
consequences to themselves, and there is hardly any
opinion, or any eccentricit}*, that excludes a man from
pleasant social intercourse if he does not make himself

INDEPENDENCE. 17

impossible and intolerable by bad manners. This inde-
pendence gives a savor to social intercoui-se in London
that is lamentably wanting to it elsewhere. There is a
strange and novel pleasure (to one who lives habitually
in the country) in .hearing men and women say what
they think without deference to any local public opinion.

In man}^ small places this local public opinion is so
despotic that there is no individual independence in
society', and it then becomes necessar}^ that a man who
values his independence, and desires to keep it, should
learn the art of' living contentedly outside of society.

It has often occurred to me to reflect that there are
many men in London who enjoj- a pleasant and even
a^igh social position, who live with intelligent people,
and even with people of great wealth and exalted rank,
and 3'et who, if their lot had been cast in certain small
provincial towns, would have found themselves rigor-
ously' excluded from the upper local circles, if not from
all circles whatsoever.

I have sometimes asked m3'self, when travelling on
the railway through France, and visiting for a few
hours one of those sleepy little old cities, to me so
delightful, in which the student of architecture and the
lover of the picturesque find so much to interest them,
what would have been the career of a man having, for
example, the capacity and the convictions of Mr. Glad-
stone, if he had passed all the years of his manhood in
such a place.

It commonly happens that when Nature endows a
man with a vigorous personality and its usual accom-
paniment, an independent way of seeing things, she

2

18 INDEPENDENCE,

gives him at the same time powerful talents with which
to defend his own originality ; but in a smaU and an-
cient cit}'', where everj'thing is traditional, intellectual
force is of no avail, and learning is of no use. In such
a city, where the upper class is an exclusive caste
impenetrable b}' ideas, the eloquence of Mr. Gladstone
would be ineffectual, and if exercised at all would be
considered in bad taste. His learning, even, would
tend to' separate him from the unlearned local aris-
tocracy. The simple fact that he is in favor of par-
liamentary government, without any more detailed
information concerning his political opinions, would
put him be3'ond the pale, for parliamentan- government
is execrated b}^ the French rural aristocracy, who toler-
ate nothing short of a determined monarchical absolu-
tism. His religious views would be looked upon as those
of a low Dissenter, and it would be remembered against
him that his father was in trade. Such is the difference,
as a field for talent and originality, between London
and an aristocratic little French citj^, that those very
qualities which have raised our Prime Minister to a not
undeserved pre-eminence in the great place would have
kept him out of society in the small one. He might,
perhaps, have talked politics in some cafe with a few
shop-keepera and attorneys.

It maj^ be objected that Mr. Gladstone, as an Eng-
lish Liberal, would naturally be out of place in France
and little appreciated there,^ so I will take the cases of
a Frenchman in France and an Englishman in England.
A brave French officer, who was at the same time a
gentleman of ancient lineage and good estate, chose

INDEPENDENCE, 19

(for reasons of Ms own which had no connection with
social intercourse) to live upon a property that hap-
pened to be situated in a part of France where the
aristocracy was strongl}'^ Catholic and reactionary. He
then found himself excluded from " good societj'," be-
cause he was a Protestant and a friend to parliamentary
government. Reasons of this kind, or the counter-
reasons of Catholicism and disapprobation of parlia-
ments, would not exclude a polished and amiable
gentleman from society in London. I have read in a
biographical notice of Sidney Dobell that when he lived
at Cheltenham he was excluded from the society of the
place because his parents were Dissenters and he had
been in trade.

Iri cases of this kind, where exclusion is due to hard
prejudices of caste or of religion, a man who has all
the social gifts of good manners, kind-heartedness,
culture, and even wealth, may find himself outside the
pale if he lives in or near a small place where society
is a strong little clique well organized on definitely
understood piinciples. There are situations in which
exclusion of that kind means perfect solitude. It may
be argued that to escape solitude the victim has nothing
to do but associate with a lower class, but this is not
easy or natural, especially when, as in Dobell's case,
there is intellectual culture. Those who have refined
manners and tastes and *a love for intellectual pursuits,
usually' find themselves disqualified for entering with
any real heartiness and enjo3'ment into the social life
of classes where these tastes are undeveloped, and
where the thoughts flow in two channels, — the serious

20 INDEPENDENCE.

Obannel, stndded with anxieties about the means of
existence, and the humoroas channel, which is a diver-
sion from the other. Far be it from me to say any-
thing that might imply any shade of contempt or
disapprobation of the humorous spirit that is Nature's
own remedy for the evils of an anxious life. It does
more for the mental health of the middle classes than
could be done by the most sublimated culture ; and if
an3-thiDg concerning it is a subject for regret it is that
culture makes us incapable of enjoying poor jokes. It
is, however, a simple matter of fact that although men
of great culture may be humorists (Mr. Lowell is a
brilliant example) , their humor is both more profound
in the serious intention that lies under it, and vastly
more extensive in the field of its operations than the
trivial humor of the uneducated ; whence it follows
that although humor is the faculty by which different
classes ai*e brought most easily into cordial relations,
the humorist who has culture will probably find him-
self a Vetroit with humorists who have none, whilst
the cultured man who has no humor, or whose humor-
ous tendencies have been overpowered by serious
thought, is so terribly isolated in uneducated society
that he feels less alone in solitude. To realize this
truth in its full force, the reader has only to imagine
John Stuart Mill tiying to associate with one of those
middle-class families that Dickens loved to describe,
such as the Wardle family In Pickwick.

It follows from these considerations that unless a
man lives in London, or in some other great capital
dty, he may easily find himself so situated that he
must learn the art of being happy without society.

INDEPENDENCE. 21

As there is no pleasure in military life for a soldier
who fears death, so there ia no independence in civil
existence for the man who has an overpowering dread
of solitude.

There are two good reasons against the excessive
dread of solitude. The first is. that solitude is very
rarely so absolute as it appears from a distance ; and
the second is that when the evil is real, and almost
complete, thei^ are palliatives that may lessen it to
such a degree as to make it, at the worst, supportable,
and at the best for some natures even enjoj^able in a
rather sad and melancholy wa3\

Let us not deceive ourselves with conventional notions
on the subject. The world calls " solitude" that con-
dition in which a man lives outside of *' society," or,
in other words, the condition in which he does not pay
formal calls and is not invited to state dinners and
dances. Such a condition may be very lamentable,
and deserving of polite contempt, but it need not be
absolute solitude.

Absolute solitude would be the state of Crusoe on
the desert island, severed from human kind and never
hearing a human voice ; but this is not the condition of
any one in a civilized country who is out of a prison
cell. Suppose that I am travelling in a country where
I am a perfect stranger, and that I stay for some days
in a village where I do not know a soul. In a surpris-
ingl}' short time I shall have made acquaintances and
begun to acquire rather a home-like feeling in the place.
My new acquaintances may possibly not be rich and
fashionable : they may be the rural postman, the inn*

22 INDEPENDENCE.

keeper, the stone-breaker on the roadside, the radical
cobbler, and perhaps a mason or a joiner and a few
more or less untidy little children ; but every morning
their greeting becomes more friendly, and so I feel
myself connected still with that great human race to
which, whatever may be my sins against the narrow
laws of caste and class, I still unquestionably belong.
It is a positive advantage that our meetings should be
accidental and not so long as to involve any of the
embaiTassments of formal social intercourse, as I could
not promise mj'self that the attempt to spend a whole
evening with these humble friends might not cause
difficulties for me and for them. All I maintain is that
these little chance talks and greetings have a tendency
to keep me cheerful and preserve me from that moody
state of mind to which the quite lonely man exposes
himself As to the substance and quality of our con-
versations, I amuse m3'self by comparing them with
conversations between more genteel people, and do not
always perceive that the disparity is very wide. Poor
men often obsei*ve external facts with the greatest
shrewdness and accurac}', and have interesting things
to tell when the}' see that you set up no barrier of pride
against them. Perhaps they do not know much about
architecture and the graphic arts, but on these subjects
they are devoid of the false pretensions of the upper
classes, which is an unspeakable comfort and relief.
They teach us many things that are worth knowing.
Humble and poor people were amongst the best edu-
cators of Shakspeare, Scott, Dickens, Wordsworth,
George Eliot. Even old Homer learned from them

INDEPENDENCE, 28

touches of nature which have done as much for his
immortality as the fire of his wrathful kings.

Let me give the reader an example of this chance
intercourse just as it really occurred. I was drawing
architectural details in and about a certain foreign
cathedral, and had the usual accompaniment of 3'outhful
spectators who liked to watch me working, as greater
folks watch fashionable artists in their studios. Some-
times they rather incommoded me, but on my com-
plaining of the inconvenience, two of the bigger boj'S
acted as policemen to defend me, which they did with
stern authority and promptness. After that one highly
intelligent little boy brought paper and pencil from his,
father's house and set himself to draw what I was
drawing. The subject was far too diflacult for him, but
I gave him a simpler one, and in a very short time he
was a regular pupil. Inspired by his example, three
other little boys asked if the}^ might do likewise, so I
had a class of four. Their manner towards me was
perfect, — not a trace of rudeness nor of timiditj' either,
but absolute confidence at once friendly and respectful.
Every day when I went to the cathedral at the same
hour my four little friends greeted me with such frank
and visible gladness that it could neither have been
feigned nor mistaken. During our lessons they sur-
prised and interested me greatly by the keen observa-
tion the}'^ displayed ; and this was true more particularly
of the bright little leader and originator of the class.
The house he lived in was exactly opposite the rich
west front of the cathedral ; and I found that, young as
he was (a mere child), he had observed for himself

24 INDEPENDENCE.

almost all the details of its eeulpture. The statues^
groups, bas-reliefs, and other ornaments were all, fot
him, so many separate subjects, and not a confhsed
enrichment of labored stone-work as thej' so easily
might have been. He had notions, too, about chro*
nolog3% telling me the dates of some parts of the cathe*
dral and asking me about others. His mother treated
me with the utmost kindness and invited me to sketch
quietly from her windows. I took a photographer up
there, and set his big camera, and we got such a photo*
graph as had been deemed impossible before. Now in
all this does not the reader perceive that I was enjo3ang
human intercourse in a very delicate and exquisite way?
What could be more charming and refreshing to a soli-
tary student than this frank and heartj* friendship of
children who caused no perceptible hindrance to his
work, whilst they effectually dispelled sad thoughts?

Two other examples may be given from the expe-
rience of a man who has often been alone and seldom
felt himself in solitude.

I remember arriving, long ago, in the evening at the
head of a salt-water loch in Scotland, where in those
days there existed an exceedingl}^ small beginning of
a watering-place. Soon after landing I walked on the
beach with no companion but the beauty of nature and
the "long, long thoughts" of youth. In a short time
I became aware that a middle-aged Scotch gentleman
was taking exercise in the same solitary waj-. He
ispoke to me, and we were soon deep in a conversation
that began to be interesting to both of us. He was a
resident iu the place and invited me to his house, where

INDEPENDENCE. 28

our talk contlnaed far into the night I was obliged
to leave the little haven the next day, but mj' recoUec*'
tion of it now is like the memorandum of a conversa-
tion. I remember the wild romantic scenery and the
moon upon the water, and the steamer from Glasgow
at the pier ; but the real satisfaction of that day con-
sisted in hours of talk with a man who had seen much,
observed much, thought much, and was most kindly
and pleasantly communicative, — a man whom I had
never spoken to before, and have never seen or heard
of since that now distant but well-remembered evening.
The other instance is a conversation in the cabin of a
steamer. I was alone, in the depth of winter, making
a voyage by an unpopular route, and during a long,
dark night. It was a dead calm. We were only three
passengers, and we sat tc^ether by the bright cabin*
fire. One of us was a young officer in the British navy,
just of age ; another was an anxious-looking man of
thirty. Somehow the conversation turned to the sub-
ject of inevitable expenses ; and the sailor told us that
he had a certain private income, the amount of which
he mentioned. " I have exactlj^ the same income,**
said the man of thirty, *' but I married ver}' early and
have a wife and family to maintain ; '* and then — as we
did not know even his name, and he was not likely
to see us again — he seized the opportunit}^ (under the
belief that he was kindly warning the j'Oung sailor) of
telling the whole story of his anxieties in detail. The
point of his discourse was that he did not pretend to be
poor, or to claim sympathy, but he powerfully described
the exact nature of his position. What had been Ms

26 INDEPENDENCE.

private income had now become the public revenue of a
household. It all went in housekeeping, almost indepen-
dentl}' of his will and outside of his control. He had his
share in the food of the family, and he was just decently
clothed, but there was an end to personal enterprises.
The economy and the expenditure of a free and intelli-
gent bachelor had been alike replaced by a dull, me-
thodical, uncontrollable outgo; and the man himself,
though now called the head of a familj^ had discovered
that a new impersonal necessity was the real master,
and that he lived like a child in his own house. "This,"
he said, " is the fate of a gentleman who marries on
narrow means, unless he is cruelly selfish."

Frank and honest conversations of this kind often
come in the way of a man who travels by himself, and
the}'^ remain with him afterwards as a part of his knowl-
edge of life. This- informal intercourse that comes by
chance is greatly undervalued, especially by Englishmen,
who are seldom ver}^ much disposed to it except in the
humbler classes ; but it is one of the broadly scattered,
inestimable gifts of Nature, like the refreshment of air
and water. Many a healthy and happy mind has en-
joyed little other human intercourse than this. There
are millions who never get a formal invitation, and yet
in this accidental way they hear many a bit of enter-
taining or instructive talk. The greatest charm of it
is its consistency with the most absolute independence.
No abandonment of principle is required, nor any false
assumption. You stand simply on your elementary
right to consideration as a decent human being within
the great pale of civihzation.

INDEPENDENCE. 27

There is, however, another sense in which every
superior person is greatl}' exposed to the evil of soli-
tude if he lives outside of a great capital city.

Without misanthrop3% and without any unjust or
unkind contempt for our fellow-creatures, we still must
perceive that mankind in general have no other pur-
pose than to live in comfort with little mental exertion.
The desire for comfort is not wholly selfish, because
people want it for their families as much as for them-
selves, but it is a low motive in this senSe, that it is
scarcely compatible with the higher kinds of mental ex-
ertion, whilst it is entirel}'^ incompatible with devotion
to great causes. The object of common men is not to
do noble work by their own personal efforts, but so to
plot and contrive that others may be industrious for
their benefit, and not for their highest benefit, but in
order that they may have curtains and carpets.

Those for whom accumulated riches have already
provided these objects of desire seldom care greatly
for anything except amusements. If the}^ have ambi-
tion, it is for a higher social rank.

These three common pursuits, comfort, amusements,
rank, lie so much outside of the disciplinary studies
that a man of studious habits is likely to find himself
alone in a peculiar sense. As a human being he is not
alone, but as a serious thinker and worker he may find
himself in complete solitude.

Many readers will remember the well-known passage
in Stuart Mill's autobiographj-, in which he dealt with
this subject. It has often been quoted against him,
because he went so far as to say that " a person of high

28 INDEPENDENCE.

intellect should never go into unintellectual society,
unless he can enter it as an apostle," a passage nol
likely to make its. author beloved by society of thai
kind; yet Mill was not a misanthropist, he was only
Anxious to preserve what there is of high feeling and
high principle from deterioration by too much contact
with the common world. It was not so much that he
despised the common world, as that he knew the in-
finite preciousness, even to the common people them-
selves, of the few better and higlier minds. He knew
how difficult it is for such minds to " retain their higher
principles unimpaired," and how at least " with respect
to the persons and affairs of their own dajT^ they insen-
sibly adopt the modes of feeling and judgment in which
they can hope for sympathy from the company they
keep."

Perhaps I ma}^ do well to offer an illustration of this,
though from a department of culture that may not have
been in Mill's view when he wrote the passage.

I mj'self have known a certain painter (not belonging
to the English school) who had a severe and elevated
ideal of his art As his e^irnings were small he went
to live in the countrj' for econom3\ He then began to
associate intimately with people to whom all high aims
in painting were unintelligible. Gradually he himself
lost his interest in them and his nobler purposes were
abandoned. Finally, art itself was abandoned and he
became a coffee-house politician.

So it is with all rare and exceptional pursuits if once
we allow ourselves to take, in all respects, the color of
the common world. It is impossible to keep up a

INDEPENDENCE. 29

Ibreign language, an art, a science, if we are living
away fh)m other followers of our pursuit and cannot
endure solitude.

It follows from this that there are many situations in
which men have to learn that particular kind of inde-
pendence which consists in bearing isolation patiently
for the preservation of their better selves. In a world
of common-sense they have to keep a little place apart
for a kind of sense that is sound and rational but
not common.

This isolation would indeed be difficult to bear if it
were not mitigated by certain palliatives that enable
a superior mind to be healthy and active in its loneli-
ness. The first of these is reading, which is seldom
valued at its almost inestimable worth. B3' the variety
of its records and inventions, literature continually af-
fords the refreshment of change, not to speak of that
variet}'^ which may be had so easily by a change of lan-
guage when the reader knows several different tongues,
and the other marvellous variety due to difference in the
date of books. In fact, literature affords a far wider
variety than conversation itself, for we can talk only
with the living, but literature enables us to descend,
like Ulysses, into the shadowy kingdom of the dead.
There is but one defect in literature, — that the talk is
all on one side, so that we are listeners, as at a sermon
or a lecture, and not sharers in some antique sym-
posium, our own brows crowned with flowers, and our
own tongues loosened with wine. The exercise of the
tongue is wanting, and to some it is an imperious
need, so that they will talk to the most uncongenial*

80 INDEPENDENCE.

human beings, or even to parrots and dogs. If we
value books as the great palliative of solitude and
help to mental independence, let us not undervalue those
intelligent periodicals that keep our minds modern and
prevent us from living altogether in some other century
than our own. Peiiodicals are a kind of correspond-
ence more easily read than manuscript and involving
no obligation to answer. There is also the great pal-
liative of occasional direct correspondence with those
who understand our pursuits ; and here we have the
advantage of using our own tongues, not ph3*9icall3',
but at least in an imaginative waj'.

A powerful support to some minds is the constantly
changing beauty of the natural world, which becomes
like a great and ever-present companion. I am anxious
to avoid any exaggeration of this benefit, because I
know that to many it counts for nothing ; and an author
ought not to think only of those who have his own
mental constitution ; but although natural beaut^'^ is of
little use to one solitary mind, it ma}^ be like a living
friend to another. As a paragraph of real experience
is worth pages of speculation, I ma}^ sa}- that I have
alwa^'s found it possible to live happily in solitude, pro-
vided that the place was surrounded by varied, beauti-
ful, and changeful scener}', but that in ugly or even
monotonous places I have felt societj' to be as necessary
as it was welcome. Byron's expression, —
" I made me friends of mountains,"

and Wordsworth's,

*' Nature never did betray
The heart that loved her,"

INDEPENDENCE. 81

are not more than plain statements of the companion-
ship that some minds find in the beautj" of landscape.
They are often accused of affectation, but in truth I
believe that we who have that passion, instead of ex-
pressing more than we feel, have generally rather a
tendencj' to be reserved upon the subject, as we seldom
expect sympathj-. Many of us would rather live in
solitude and on small means at Como than on a great
income in Manchester. This ma}' be a foolish pref-
erence ; but let the reader remember the profound
utterance of Blake, that if the fool would but persevere /
in his folly he would become wise.

However powerful may be the aid of books and
natural scenery in enabling us to bear solitude, the
best help of all must be found in our occupations them-
selves. Steady workers do not need much company.
To be occupied with a task that is difficult and ardu-
ous, but that we know to be within our powers, and to
awake early every morning with the delightful feeling
that the whole daj^ can be given to it without fear of
interruption, is the perfection of happiness for one
who has the gift of throwing himself heartily into his
work. When night comes he will be a little weary,
and more disposed for tranquil deep than to " danser
jusqu' au jour chez Tambassadeur de France."

This is the best independence, — to have something
to do and something that can be done, and done most
perfectlj^ in solitude. Then ^ the lonely hours flow on
like smoothly gliding water, bearing one insensibly to
the evening. The workman says, ''Is my sight fail-
ing?" and lo the sun has set I

82 INDEPENDENCE.

There ia but oae objection to this absorption in
worthy toil. It is that as the day passes so passes
life itself, that succession of many days. The work-
man thinks of nothing but bis work, and finds the time
all too short. At length be suddenly perceives that he
is old, and wonders if life might not have been made
to seem a little longer, and if, after all, it has been
quite the best policy always to avoid ^/^w.

OF PASSIONATE LOVE. 88

ESSAY III

OP PASSIONATE LOVB.

'TPHE wonder of love is that, for the time being, it
•*• makes us ardently desire the presence of one per-
son and feel indifferent to all others of her sex It is
oommonl}' spoken of as a delusion, bat I do not see any
delusion here, for if the presence of the beloved person
satisfies his craving, the lover gets what he desires and
is not more the victim of a deception than one who
succeeds in satisf} ing any other want

Again, it is oilen said that men are blinded by love,
biit the fact that one sees certain qualities in a beloved
person need not imply blindness. If you are in love
with a little woman it is not a reason for supposing her
to be tail. I will even venture to affirm that you may
love a woman passionately and still be quite clearly
aware that her beauty is far inferior to that of another
whose coming thrills j'ou with no emotion, whose de-
parture leaves with you no regret.

The true nature of a profound passion is not to attrib-
ute every physical and mental quality to its object,
but rather to think, "Such as she is, with the endow-
ments that are really her own, I love her above all
women, though I know that she is not so beautiful
as some are, nor so learned as some others." The
only real deception to which a lover is exposed is that

3

34 OF PASSIONATE LOVE.

he may overestimate the strength of his own passion.
If he has not made this mistake he is not likelj^ to
make anj' other, since, whatever the iadifferent maj' see,
or fail to see, in the woman of his choice, he surely
finds in her the adequate reason for her attraction.

LoA'^e is commonly treated as if it belonged only to
the flowering of the spring-time of life, but strong and
health}' natures remain capable of feeling the passion
in great force long after thej^ are supposed to have left
it far behind them. It is, indeed, one of the signs of
a health}' nature to retain for many years the freshness
of the heart which makes one liable to fall in love, as
a healthy palate retains the natural early taste for deli-
cious fruits.

This freshness of the heart is lost far more surely by
debauchery than by years ; and for this reason worldly
parents are not altogether dissatisfied that their sons
should " sow their wild oats" in 3'outh, as they believe
that this kind of sowing is a preservative against the
dangers of pure love and an imprudent or unequal mar-
riage. The calculation is well founded. After a few
3'ears of indiscriminate debauchery a 3^oung man is
likely to be deadened to the sweet influences of love
and therefore able to conduct himself with steady world-
liness, either remaining in celibacy or marrying' for
position, exactly as his interests may dictate.

The case of Shelley is an apt illustration of this dan-
ger. He had at the same time a horror of debauchery
and an irresistible natural tendency to the passion of
love.

From the worldly point of view both his connections

OF PASSIONATE LOVE. 85

were degrading for a j'oiing gentleman of rank. Had
he followed the very common course of a real degrada-
tion and married a lady of rank after ten j-ears of indis-
criminate immorality, is it an unjust or an unlikely
supposition that he would have given less dissatisfac-
tion to his friends ?

As to the permanence of love, or its transitoriness,
the plain and candid answer is that there is no real
assurance either way. To predict that it will certainly
die after fruition is to shut one's eyes against the evi-
dent fact that men often remain in love with mistresses
or wives. On the other hand, to assume that love is
fixed and made permanent in a magical wa}^ by mar-
riage is to assume what would be desirable rather than
what really is. There are no magical incantations by
which Love may be retained, jet sometimes he will
rest and dwell with astonishing tenacity when there
seem to be the strongest reasons for his departure. If
there were any ceremon}', if any sacrifice could be made
at an altar, b}' which the capricious little deity jnight
be conciliated and won, the wisest might hasten to per-
form.that ceremony and offer that acceptable sacrifice ;
but he cares not for any of our rites. Sometimes he
stays, in spite of cruelty, misery, and wrong ; sometimes
he takes flight from the hearth where a woman sits and
grieves alone, with all the attractions of health, beauty,
gentleness, and refinement.

Boys and girls imagine that love in a poor cottage
or a bare garret would be more blissful than indiffer-
ence in a palace^ and the notion is thought foolish and
romantic by the wise people of the world ; but the boys

36 OF PASSIONATE LOVE.

and girls are right in their estimate of Love's great
power of cheering and brightening existence even in
the ver}' humblest situations. The possible error against
which they ought to be clearly- warned is that of sup-
posing that Love would alwajs remain contentedly in
the cottage or the garret. Not that he is any more
certain to remain in a mansion in Belgrave Square, not
that a garret with him is not better than the vast Vati-
can without him ; but when he has taken his flight, and
is simply absent, one would rather be left in comforta-
ble than in beggarly desolation.

The poets s[>eak habitually of love as if it were a
passion that could be safel}^ indulged, whereas the
whole experience of modern existence goes to show
that it is of all passions the most perilous to happiness
except in those rare cases where it can be followed by
marriage ; and even then the peril is not ended, for mar-
riage gives no certainty of the duration of love, but con-
stitutes of itself a new danger, as the natures most
disposed' to passion are at the same time the most im-
patient of restraint.

There is this peculiarity about love in a well-regu-
lated social state. It is the only passion that is quite
strictly liuiited in its indulgence. Of the intellectual
passions a man may indulge several different ones
either successively or together ; in the ordinauy physi-
cal enjoyments, such as the love of active sports or the
pleasures of the table, he may carrj^ his indulgence very
far and var}* it without blame ; but the master passion
of all has to be continually quelled, the satisfactions
that it asks for have to be continually refused to it,

OF PASSIONATE LOVE. 87

unless some opportunity occurs when the}' may be
granted without disturbing any^ one of many different
threads in the web of social existence ; and these
threads, to a lover's eye, seem entirely unconnected
with his hope.

In stating the fact of Uiese restraints I do not dispute
their necessity. On the contrary, it is evident that
infinite practical evil would result from libert}'. Those
who have broken through the social restraints and
allowed the passion of love to set up its stormy and
variable tjranny in their hearts have led unsettled
and unhappy lives. Even of love itself thej' have not
enjoyed the best except in those rare cases in which
the lovers have taken bonds upon themselves not less
durable than those of marriage ; and even these unions,
which give no more liberty than mania ge itself gives,
are accom[)anied by the unsettled feeling that belongs
to all irregular situations.

It is easy to distinguish in the conventional manner
between the lower and the higher kinds of love, but it
is not so easy to establish the real distinction. The
conv\2ntional difference is simph' between the passion
in marriage and out of it ; the rcat distinction would be
between different feelings ; but as these feelings are not
ascertainalile by one person in tlic mind or nerves of
another, and as in most cases they are probably much
blended, the distinction can seldom bo accurately made
in the cases of real persons, though it is marked trench-
antl}' enough in works of pure imagination.

The passion exists in an infinite variet}', and it is so
strongly influenced by elements of character which have

88 OF PASSIONATE LOVE,

apparently nothing to do with it, that its effects on con-
duct are to a great extent controlled by them. For
example, suppose the case of a man with strong pas-
sions combined with a selfish nature, and that of another
with passions equally strong, but a rooted aversion to
all personal satisfactions that might end in misery for
others. The first would ruin a girl with little hesita-
tion ; the second would rather suffer the entire privation
of her society b}^ quitting the neighborhood where she
lived.

The interference of qualities that lie outside of pas-
sion is shown verj^ curiously and remarkably in intellec-
tual persons in this wa3\ They may have a strong
temporary passion for somebody without intellect or
culture, but they are not likely to be held permanently
by such a person ; and even when under the influence of
the temporary desire they may be clearly aware of the
danger there would be in converting it into a permanent
relation, and so they ma}^ take counsel with themselves
and subdue the passion or fly from the temptation,
knowing that it would be sweet to yield, but that a
transient delight would be paid for by years of Weari-
ness in the future.

Those men of superior abilities who have bound
themselves for life to some woman who could not pos-
sibly understand them, have generally either broken
their bonds afterwards or else avoided as much as
possible the tiresomeness of a tete-a-tete^ and found
in general society the means of occasionally enduring
the dulness of their home. For short and transient
relations the principal charm in a woman is either

OF PASSIONATE LOVE. 89

beauty or a certaia sweetness, but for any permanent
relation the first necessity of all is that she be com-
panionable.

Passionate loA'^e is the principal subject of poets and
novelists, who usually avoid its greatest difficulties by
well-known means of escape. Either the passion fin-
ishes tragically by the death of one of the parties, or
else it comes to a natural culmination in their union,
whether according to social order or through & breach
of it. In real life the story is not always rounded oflf
so conveniently. It may happen, it probably often
dbes happen, that a passion establishes itself where it
has no possible chance of satisfaction, and where, instead
of being cut short by death, it persists through a con-
siderable part of life and embitters it. These cases are
the more unfortunate that hopeless desire gives an
imaginary" glory to its own object, and that, from the
circumstances of the case, this halo is not dissipated.

It is common amongst hard and narrow people, who
judge the feelings of others by their own want of them,
to treat all the painful side of passion with contempt-
uous levity. They say that people never die for love,
•and that such fancies may easil}' be chased away by
the exercise of a little resolution. The profounder
students of human nature take the subject more seri-
ously. Each of the great poets (including, of course,
the author of the " Bride of Lammermoor," in which
the poeticaJ elements are so abundant) has treated the
aching pain of love and the tragedy to which it may
lead, as in the deaths of Haidee, of Lucy Ashton, of
Juliet, of Margaret. In real life the powers of evil do

40 OF PASSIONATE LOVE.

not perceive any necessit}' for an artistic conclusion of
their work. A wrinkled old maid may still preserve
in the depths of her own heart, quite unsuspected by
the 3'oung and lively people about her, the unextin-
guished embers of a passion that first made her wretched
fift}' 3'ears before ; and in the long, solitary hours of a
dull old age she ma}^ live over and over again in mem-
ory the brief delirium of that wild and foolish hope
which was followed by years of self-repression.

Of all the painful situations occasioned by passionate
love, I know of none more lamentable than that of an
innocent and honorable woman who has been married
to an unsuitable husband and who afterwards makes
the discovery that she involuntarily loA'^es another. In
well-regulated, moral societies such passions are re-
pressed, but they cannot be repressed without suffering
which has to be endured in silence. The victim is
punished for no fault when none is committed ; but she
ma}' suffer from the forces of nature like one who hun-
igers and thirsts and sees a fair banquet provided, yet
is forbidden to eat or drink. It is difficult to suppress
the heart's regret, "Ah, if we had known eac^ other
earlier, in the days when I was free, and it was not
wrong to love ! " Then there is the haunting fear that
the woful secret may one day reveal itself to others.
Might it not be suddenly and unexpectedly betrayed
b}'^ a momentary absence of self-control? This has
sometimes happened, and then there is no safety but in
separation, immediate and decided. Suppose a case
like the following, which is said to have really occurred.
A perfectlj' honorable man goes to visit an intimate

/

OF PASSIONATE LOVE. 41

friend, walks quietly in the garden one afternoon with
bis friend's wife, and suddenly discovers that he is the
object of a passion which, until that moment, she has
steadil}'^ controlled. One outburat of shameful tears,
one pitiful confession of a life's unhappiness, and they
part forever! This is what happens when the friend
respects his friend and the wife her husband. What
happens when both are capable of treacherj^ is known
to the readers of English newspaper reports and French
fictions.

It seems as if, with regard to this passion, ci\alized
man were placed in a false position between Nature
on the one hand and civilization on the other. Nature
makes us capable of feeling it in very great strength
and intensity, at an age when marriage is notj to be
thought of, and when there is not much self-control.
The tendenc}' of high civilization is to retard the
time of marriage for men, but there is not an}- corre-
sponding postponement in the awakening of the pas-
sions. The least civilized classes marry early, the more
civilized later and later, and not often from passionate
love, "but from a cool and prudent calculation about
general chances of happiness, a calculation embracing
veiy various elements, and in itself as remote from
passion as the Proverbs of Solomon from the Song of
Songs. It consequently- happens that the great majority
of 3-oung gentlemen discover earlj- in life that passionate
love is a danger to be avoided, and so indeed it is ; but
it seems a peculiar misfortune for civilized man that so
natural an excitement, which is capable of giving such
a glow to all his faculties as nothing else can give, an

42 OF PASSIONATE LOVE.

excitement which exalts the imagination to poetry and
increases courage till it becomes heroic devotion, whilst
it gives a glamour of romance to the poorest and most
prosaic existence, — it seems, I say, a misfortune that
a passion with such unequalled powers as these should
have to be eliminated from wise and prudent life. The
explanation of its early and inconvenient appearance
may be that before the human race had attained a posi-
tion of any tranquillitj^ or comfort, the average life was
very short, and it was of the utmost importance that the
flame of existence should be passed on to another gen-
eration without delay. We inherit the rapid develop-
ment which saved the race in its perilous past, but we
are embarrassed by it, and instead of elevating us to a
more exalted life it often avenges itself for the refusal
of natural activitj^ by its own corruption, the corrup-
tion of the best into the worst, of the fire from heaven
into the filth of immoralit}'. The more this great pas-
sion is repressed and expelled, the more frequent does
immorality become.

Another verj^ remarkable result of the exclusion of
passionate love from ordinary existence is that the idea
of it takes possession of the imagination. The most
melodious poetr}-, the most absorbing fiction, are alike
celebrations of its mysteries. Even the wordless voice '
of music wails or languishes for love, and the audience
that seems only to hear flutes and violins is in reality
listening to that endless song of love which thrills
tlirough the passionate universe. Well may the rebels
against Nature revolt against the influence of Art ! It
is everywhere permeated by passion. The cold marble

OF PASSIONATE LOVE, 43

warms with it, the opaque pigments palpitate with it,
the dull actor has the tones of genius when he wins
access to its perennial inspiration. Even those forms
of art which seem remote from it do yet confess its
presence. You see a picture of solitude, and think that
passion cannot enter there, but everything suggests it.
The tree bends down to the calm water, the gentle
breeze caresses ever}' leaf, the white-pated old moun-
tain is visited by the short-lived summer clouds. If, in
the opening glade, the artist has sketched a pair of
lovers, you think they naturally complete the scene ; if
he has omitted them, it is still a place for lovers, or has
been, or will be on some sweet eve like this. What
have stars and winds and odors to do with love ? The
poets know all about it, and so let Shelley tell us : —

" I arise, from dreams of Thee
In the first sweet sleep of night,
Wlien the winds are breathing low
And the stars are shining bright :
I arise from dreams of thee,
And a spirit in my feet
Has led me — who knows how ? —
To thy chamber-window, Sweet 1
The wandering airs they faint
On the dark, the silent stream ;
The champak odors fail
Like sweet thoughts in a dream ;
The nightingale^s complaint
It dies upon her heart,
As I must niie on thine
beloved as thou art 1 "

44 COMPANIONSHIP IN MARRIAGE.

ESSAY IV.

COMPANIONSHIP IN MARRIAGE.

TF the reader has ever had for a travelling-companion
-■- some person totally unsuited to his nature and
quite unable to enter into the ideas that chiefly interest
him, unable, even, to see the things that he sees and
always disposed to treat negligently^ or contemptuously
the thoughts and preferences that are most his own, he
ma}' have some faint conception of what it must be to
find one's self tied to an unsuitable companion for the
tedious journey of this mortal life ; and if, on the other
hand, he has ever enjoyed the pleasure of wandering
through a countiy that interested liim along with a friend
who could understand his interest, and share it, and
whose society enhanced the charm of every prospect
and banished dulncss from the dreariest inns, he may in
some poor and imperfect degi*ee realize the happiness
of those wlio have chosen the life-companion wisely.

When, after an experiment of months or years, the
truth becomes plainly evident that a great mistake has
been committed, that there is really no companionship,
that there never will be, never cUn be, oxiy mental com-
munion between the two, but that life in common is to be
like a stiff morning call when the giver and the receiver
of the visit are beating their brains to find something to
say, and dread the gaps of silence, then in the blank and

COMPANIONSHIP IN MARRIAGE. 46

dreary outlook comes the idea of sepamtion, and some-
times, in the loneliness that follows, a wild rebellion
against social order, and a reckless attempt to find in
J, some more suitable union a compensation for the first

sad failure.

The world looks with more indulgence on these
attempts when it sees reason to believe that the desire
was for intellectual companionship tban when incon-
stant passions are presumed to have been the motives ;
and it has so happened that a few persons of great
eminence have set an example in this respect which
has had the unfortunate effect of weakening in a per-
ceptible degree the ancient social order. It is not
possible, of course, that there can be man}' cases like
that of George Eliot and Lewes, for the simple rea-
son that persons of their eminence are so rare ; but if
there were only a few more cases of that kind it is
evident that the laws of society would either be con-
fessedly powerless, or else it would be necessary to
modify them and biing them into harmony with new
conditions. The importance of the case alluded to
lies in the fact that the lady, though she was excluded
(or willingly excluded herself) from general society,
was still resi^ected and visited not only by men but by
ladies of blameless life. Nor was she generalh' re-
garded as an immoral person even b}- the outer world.
The feeling about her was one of regret that the faith-
ful companionship she gave to Lewes could not be
legally called a marriage, as it was apparently a model
of what the legal relation ought to be. The object* of
his existence was to give her every kind of help and to

46 COMPANIONSHIP IN MARRIAGE,

spare her every shadow of annoyance. He read to her,
wrote letters for her, advised her on everjlhing, and
whilst full of admiration for her talents was able to do
something for their most effectual employment. She,
on her part, rewarded him with that which he prized
above riches, the frank and affectionate companionship
of an intellect that it is needless to describe and of a
heart full of the most lively sympathy and ready for the
most romantic sacrifices.

In the preceding generation we have the well-known
instances of Shelle}'^, Byron, and Goethe, all of whom
sought companionship outside of social rule, and en-
joyed a sort of happiness probably not unembittered
by the false position in which it placed them. The
sad story of Shelley's first marriage, that with Harriett
Westbrook, is one of the best instances of a deplorable
but most natural mistake. She is said to have been
a charming person in man}^ waj's. "Harriett," says
Mr. Rossetti, " was not only delightful to look at but
altogether most agreeable. She dressed with exquisite
neatness and propriety ; her voice was pleasant and her
speech cordial ; her spirits were cheerful and her man-
ners good. She was well educated, a constant and
agi'eeable reader ; adequately accomplished in music."
But in spite of these qualities and talents, and even of
Harriett's willingness to learn, Shelley did not find her
to be companionable for him ; and he unfortunatelj' did
discover that another young lady, Mary Godwin, was
companionable in the supreme degree. That this latter
idea was not illusory is proved by his happy life after-
wards with Mary so far as a life could be happy that was

COMPANIONSHIP IN MARRIAGE. 47

poisoned by a tragic recollection.* Before that miser-
able ending, before the waters of the Serpentine had
closed over the wretched existence of Harriett, Shelle}'
said, " Every one who knows me must know that the
partner of my life should be one who can feel poetr}-
and understand philosophy. Harriett is a noble animal,
but she can do neither." Here we have a plain state-
ment of that great need for companionship which was
a part of Shelley's nature. It is often connected with
its apparent opposite, the love of solitude. Shelley was
a lover of solitude, which means that he liked full and
adequate human intercourse so much that the insuffi-
cient imitation of it was intolerable to him. Even that
sweetest solitude of all, when he wrote the " Revolt of
Islam " in summer shades, to the sound of rippling
waters, was willingly exchanged for the society of the
one dearest and best companion: —

" So now ray summer-task is ended, Mary,

And I return to thee, mine own heart's home ;
As to his Queen some victor Knight of Faery,
Earning bright spoils for her enchanted dome.
Nor thou disdain that, ere my fame beconfe
A star among the stars of*raortal night

(If it indeed may cleave its native gloom),
Its doubtful promise thus I would unite
With thy^ beloved name, thou child of love and light.

* The exact degree of blame due to Shelley is very diflacult to
determine. He had nothing to do with the suicide, though the
separation was the first in a train of circumstances that led to it.
It seems clear that Harriett did not desire the separation, and
clear also that she did nothing to assert her rights. Shelley ought
not to have left her, but he had not the patience to accept as per-
manent the consequences of a mistaken marriage.

48 COMPANIONSHIP IN MARRIAGE.

The toil which stole from thee so many an hour

Is ended, and the fruit is at thy feet.
No longer where the woods to frame a hower

With interlaced branches mix and meet.

Or wliere, with sound like many voices sweet.
Waterfalls leap among wild islands green

Which framed for my lone boat a lone retreat
Of moss-grown trees and weeds, sliall I be seen :
But beside thee, where still my heart has ever been."

It is not surprising that the companionship of con-
jugal life should be like other friendships in this, that
a first experiment may be a failure and a later experi-
ment a success. We are all so fallible that in matters
of which we have no experience we genQrally commit
great blunders. Marriage unites all the conditions that
make a blunder probable. Two joung people, with very
little conception of what an unsurmountable barrier a
difference of idiosyncrasy' ma}' be, are pleased with each
other's youth, health, natural gayety, and good looks,
and fancy that it would be delightful to live together.
They marry, and in many cases discover that somehow,
in spite of the most meritorious efforts, \\\Qy are not
companions. There is no ^fault on either side; they
try their best, but the invisible demon, incompatibility,
is too strong for them.

From all that we know of the characters of Lord and
Lady Byron it seems evident that they never were
likel}' to enjoy life together. He committed the mis-
take of marrying a lady on the strength of her excel-
lent reputation. '* JShe has talents and excellent
qualities," he said before marriage ; as if all the arts
and sciences and all the virtues put together could

COMPANIONSHIP IN MARRIAGE. 49

avail without the one quality that is never admired,
never understood b^^ others, — that of simple suitable-
ness. She was " a kind of pattern in the North," and
he " heard of nothing but her merits and her wonders."
He did not see that all these excellencies were dangers,
that the consciousness of them and the reputation for
them would set the lady up on a judgment seat of her
own, from which she would be continually observing the
errors, serious or trivial, of that faulty specimen of the
male sex that it was her lofty mission to correct or to
condemn. All this he found out in due time and ex-
pressed in the bitter lines, —

** Oil ! she was perfect past all parallel

Of any modern female saint's comparison

Perfect she was."

The story of his subsequent life is too well known
to need repetition here. All that concerns our pres-
ent subject is that ultimately'', in the Countess Guiccioli,
he found the woman who had, for him, that one qualit}',
suitableness, which outweighs all the perfections. She
did not read English, but, though ignorant alike of the
splendor and the tenderness of his verse, she knew the
nature of the man ; and he enjoyed in her society,
probably for the first time in his life, the most exquisite
pleasure the masculine mind can ever know, that of
being looked upon by a feminine intelligence with clear
«ight and devoted affection at the same time. The rela-
tion that existed between B^Ton and the Countess Guic-
cioli is one outside of our morality, a revenge of Nature
against a marriage system that could take a girl not

4

50 COMPANIONSHIP IN MARRIAGE.

N

yet sixteen and make her theiihird wife of a man more

than old enough to be her grandfather. In Italy this
revenge of Nature against a bad social sj'stem is ac-
cepted, within limits, and is an all but inevitable conse-
quence of marriages like that of Count Guiccioli, which,
however they may be approved by custom and conse-
crated by religious ceremonies, remain, nevertheless,
amongst the worst (because the most unnatural) im-
moralities. All that need be said in his young wife's
defence is that she followed the only rule habitually
acted upon by mankind, the custom of her country and
her class, and that she acted, from beginning to end,
with the most absolute personal abnegation. On BjTon
her influence was wholly beneficial. She raised him
from a mode of life that was deplored by all his true
friends, to the nearest imitation of a happy marriage
that was accessible to him ; but the irregularity of their
position brought upon them the usual Nemesis, and
after a broken intercourse, during which he never couM
feel her to be really his own, he went to Missolonghi
and wrote, under the shadow of Death, —

" The hope, the fear, the jealous care,
The exalted portion of the pain
And power of love, I cannot share,
But wear the chain."

The difference between Byron and Goethe in regard
to feminine companionship lies chiefly in this, — that
whilst Byron does not seem to have been very suscepti-
ble of romantic love (though he was often entangled in
liaisons more or less degi'ading), Goethe was con-
stantly in love and imaginative in his passions, as might

COMPANIONSHIP IN MARRIAGE. 51

be expected from a poet. He appears to have encour-
aged himself in amorous fancies till they became almost
or quite realities, as if to give himself that experience
of various feeling out of which he afterwards created
poems. He was himself clearlj^ conscious that his
poetry was a transformation of real experiences into
artistic forms. The knowledge that he came by his
poetry in this wa}' would naturally lead him to encour-
age rather than stifle the sentiments which gave him
his best materials. It is quite within the comprehensive
powers of a complex nature that a poet might lead a
dual life ; being at the same time a man, ardent, very
susceptible of all passionate emotions, and a poet, ob-
serving t^is passionate life and accumulating its results.
In all this there is very little of what occupies us just
now, the search for a satisfactory companionship. The
woman with whom he most enjoyed that was the Bar-
• oness von Stein, but even this friendship was not ulti-
mately satisfying and had not a permanent character.
It lasted ten or eleven 3'ears, till his return from the
Italian journey, when ' ' she thought him cold, and her
resource was — reproaches. The resource was more
feminine than felicitous. Instead of sympathizing with
him in his sorrow at leaving Italy, she felt the regret
as an offence ; and perhaps it was ; but a truer, nobler
nature would surely have known how to merge its own
pain in sympathy with the pain of one beloved. He
regretted Italy ; she was not a compensation to him ;
she saw this, and her self-love suffered." * And so it
ended. *' He offered friendship in vain ; he had wounded

1 Lewes's '* Life of Goethe."

52 COMPANIONSHIP IN MARRIAGE.

the self-love of a vain woman." Goethe^s longest con-
nection was with Christiane Vulpius, a woman quite
unequal to him in station and culture, and in that re-
spect imraeasurabl}^ inferior to the Baroness von Stein,
but superior to her in the power of affection, and able
to charm and retain the poet by her lively, pleasant
disposition and her perfect constancy. Gradually she
rose in his esteem, and every year increased her influ-
ence over him. From the precarious position of a
mistress out of his house she first attained that of a wife
in all but the legal title, as he received her under his
roof in defiance of all the good society of Weimar ; and
lastly she became his lawful wife, to the still greater
scandal of the polite world. It may even be said that
her promotion did not end here, for the final test of
love is death ; and when Christiane died she left behind
her the deep and lasting sorrow that is happiness still
to those who feel it, though happiness in its saddest -
form.

The misfortune of Goethe appears to have been that
he dreaded and avoided marriage in early life, perhaps
because he was instinctively aware of his own ten*
dency to form many attachments of limited duration ;
but his treatment of Christiane Vulpius, so much be-
yond any obligations which, according to the world's
code, he had incun'ed, is sufl3cient proof that there was
a power of constancy in bis nature ; and if he had mar-
ried early and suitably it is possible that this constancy
might have stayed and steadied him from the beginning.
It is easy to imagine that a marriage with a cultivated
woman of his own class would have given him, in

COMPANIONSHIP IN MARRIAGE. 63

course of time, hy matual adaptation, a much more
complete companionship thau either of those semi-asso-
ciations with the Frau von Stein and Christiane, each
of which only included a part of his great nature.
Christiane, however, had the better part, his heartfelt
affection.

The case of John Stuart Mill and the remarkable
woman by whose side he lies buried at Avignon, is the
most perfect instance of thorough companionship on
record; and it is remarkable especially because men
of great intellectual power, whose ways of thinking are
quite independent of custom, and whose knowledge is so
far outside the average as to carry their th6ughts con*
tinually beyond the common horizon, have an extreme
difficulty in associating themselves with women, who are
naturally attached to custom, and great lovers of what
is settled, fixed, limited, and clear. The ordinary dis^
position of women is to respect what is authorized much
more than what is original, and they willingly, in the
things of the mind, bow before anything that is re-
peated with circumstances of authority. An isolated
philosopher has no costume or surroundings to entitle
him to this kind of respect. He wears no vestment,
he is not magnified b}^ any architecture, he is not sup-
ported by superiors or deferred to by subordinates.
He stands simply on his abilities, his learning, and his
honesty. There is, however, this one ch9.nce in his
favor, that a certain natural sympathy may possibly
exist between him and some woman on the earth, — if
he could only find her, -»- and this woman would make
him independent Of all the rest. It was Stuart Mill's

54 COMPANIONSHIP IN MARRIAGE.

rare good-fortune to find this one woman, early in life,
in the person of Mrs. Taylor ; and as his nature was
intellectual and afiectionate rather than passionate, he
was able to rest contented with simple friendship for a
period of twenty j^ears. Indeed this friendship itself,
considered only as such, was of very gradual growth.
"To be admitted," he wrote, " into an}' degree of
mental intercourse with a being of these qualities, could
not but have a most beneficial influence on my develop-
ment; though the effect was only gradual, and many
years elapsed before her mental progress and mine .
went forward in the complete companionship they at
last attained. The benefit I received was far greater
than any I could hope to give. . . . What I owe, even
intellectually, to her, is in its detail almost infinite."

Mill speaks of his marriage, in 1851 (I use his words),
to the lad}'^ whose incomparable worth had made her
friendship the greatest source to him both of happiness
and of improvement during many years in which they
never expected to be in any closer relation to one an-
other. " For seven and a half years," he goes on to say,
'' that blessing was mine ; for seven and a half only ! I
can say nothing whicl^. could describe, even in the faint-
est manner, what that loss was and is. But because
I know that she would have wished it, I endeavor to
make the best of what life I have left and to work on
for her purposes with such diminished strength as can
be derived from thoughts of her and communion with
her memory. . . . Since then I have sought for such
alleviation as my state admitted of, by the mode of life
which most enabled me to feel her still near me. I

COMPANIONSHIP IN MARRIAGE. 65

bought a cottage as close as possible to the place where
she is buried, and there her daughter (my fellow-sufferer
and now my chief comfort) and I live constantly during
a great portion of the year. My objects in life are
solely those which were hers ; my pursuits and occupa-
tions those in which she shared, or sympathized, and
which are indissolubly associated with her. Her mem-
ory is to me a religion, and her approbation the stand-
ard by which, summing up as it does all worthiness,
I endeavor to regulate my life."

The examples that I haye selected (all purposely
from the real life of well-known persons) are not alto-
gether encouraging. They show the difficulty that
there is in finding the true companion. George Eliot
found hers at the cost of a rebellion against social order
to which, with her regulated mind and conservative
instincts, she must have been by nature little disposed.
Shelley succeeded only after a failure and whilst the
failure still had rights over his entire existence. His
life was like one of those pictures in which there is a
second work over a first, and the painter supposes the
first to be entirely concealed, which indeed it is for a
little time, but it reappears afterwards and spoils the
whole. Nothing could be more unsatisfactory than the
domestic arrangements of BjTon. He married a lady
from, a belief in her leaniing and virtue, only to find
that learning and virtue were hard stones in comparison
with the daily bread of sympathy. Then, after a vain
waste of 3'ears in error, he found true love at last, but
on terms which involved too heavy sacrifices from her
who gave it, and procured him no comfort, no peace.

56 COMPANIONSHIP IN MARRIAGE.

if indeed his nature was capable of any restfulness iu
love. Goethe, after a number of attachments that
ended in nothings gave himself to one woman by his
intelligence and to another by his affections, not belong-
ing with his whole nature to either, and never in his
long life knowing what it is to have equal companion-
ship in one's own house. Stuart Mill is contented, for
twenty years, to be the esteemed friend of a lady mar-
ried to another, without hope of any closer relation ;
and when his death permits them to think of marriage,
they have only seven years and a half before them, and
he is forty-five years old.

Cases of this kind would be discouraging in the
extreme degree, were it not that the difficulty is excep-
tional. High intellect is in itself a peculiarity, in a
certain sense it is really an eccentricity, even when so
thoroughly sane and rational as in the cases of George
Eliot, Goethe^ and Mill. It is an eccentricity in this
sense, that its mental centre does not coincide with
that of ordinary people. The mental centre of ordi-
nary people is simply the public opinion, the common
sense, of the class and locality in which they live, so
that, to them, the common sense of people in another
class, another locality, appears irrational or absurd.
The mental centre of a superior person is not that of
class and locality. Shelley did not belong to the Eng-
lish aristocracy, though he was born in it ; his mind did '
not centre itself in aristocratic ideas. George Eliot did
not belong to the middle class of the English midlands,
nor Stuart Mill to the London middle classes. So far
as Byron belonged to the aristocracy it was a mark of

COMPANIONSHIP IN MARRIAGE. 57

inferiority in him, owing to a touch of vulgarity in his
nature, the same vulgarity which made him believe
that he could not be a proper sort of lord without a
prodigal waste of money. Yet even Byron was not
centred in local ideas ; that which was best in him, his
enthusiasm for Greece, was not an essential part of
Nottingham^ire common sense. Goethe lived much
more in one locality, and even in a small place ; but if
anything is remarkable in him it is his complete inde-
pendence of Weimar ideas. It was the Duke, his
friend and master, not the public opinion of Weimai*,
that allowed Goethe to be himself. He refused even
to be classed intellectuall}', and did not recognize the
vulgar opinion that a poet cannot be scientific. In all
these cases the mental centre was not in any local com-
mon sense. It was a result of personal studies and
observations acting upon an individual idiosyncras3\

We may now perceive how infinitely easier it is for
ordinary people to meet and be companionable than
for these rare and superior minds. Ordinary people,
if bred in the same neighborhood and class, are sure
to have a great fund of ideas in common, all those
ideas that constitute the local common sense. If 3'ou
listen attentively to their conversations j'ou will find
that they hardly ever go outside of that. They men-
tion incidents and actions, and test them one after
another by a tacit reference to the public opinion of
the place. Therefore they have a good chance of
agreeing, of considering each other reasonable; and
this is why it is a generally received opinion that mar-
riages between people of the same locahty and the same

58 COMPANIONSHIP IN MARRIAGE,

class offer the greatest probability of happiness. So
they do, in ordinary eases, but if there is the least
touch of any original talent or genius in one of the par-
ties, it is sure to result in many ideas that will be out-
side of any local common sense, and then the other
party, living in thai sense, will consider those ideas
peculiar, and perhaps deplorable. Here, then, are ele-
ments of dissension lying quite ready like explosive
materials, and the merest accident may shatter in a
moment the whole fabric of affection. To prevent such
an accident an artificial kind of intercourse is adopted
which is not real companionship, or anything resem-
bling it.

The reader may imagine, and has probably observed
in real life, a marriage in which the husband is a man
of original power, able to think forcibly and profoundly,
and the wife a gentle being quite unable to enter into
any thought of that qualit3\ In cases of that kind the
husband may be affectionate and even tender, but he
is careful to utter nothing bej'ond the safest common-
places. In the presence of his wife he keeps his mind
quite within the circle of custom. He has, indeed, no
other resource. Custom and commonplace are the pro-
tection of the intelligent against misapprehension and
disapproval.

Marriages of this unequal kind are an imitation of
those equal marriages in which both parties live in the
local common sense ; but there is this vast difference
between them, that in the imitation the more intelligent
of the two parties has to stifle half his nature. An
intelligent man has to make up his mind in early life

COMPANIONSHIP IN MARRIAGE. 69

whether he has courage enough for such a sacrifice or
not. Let him try the experiment of associating for a
short time with people who cannot understand him,
and if he likes the feeling of repression that results
from it, if he is able to stop short alwa3^s at the right
moment, if he can put his knowledge on the shelf as
one puts a book in a librar}', then perhaps he may
safely undertake the long labor of companionship with
an unsuitable wife.

This is sometimes done in pure hopelessness of ever
finding a true mate. A man has no belief in any real
companionship, and therefore simply conforms to cus-
tom in his marriage, as Montaigne did, all3ang himself
with some j'oung lady who is considered in the neigh-
borhood to be a suitable match for him. This is the
mariage de C07ivenance, Its purposes are intelligible
and attainable. It may add considerably to the dignity
and convenience of life and to that particular kind of
happiness which results from satisfaction with our own
worldly prudence. There is also the probability that
by perfect courtesy, hy a scrupulous observance of the
rules of intercourse between highly civilized persons
who are not extremel}' intimate, the parties who con-
tract a marriage of this kind may give each other the
mild satisfactions that are the reward of the well-bred.
There is a certain pleasure in watching every movement
of an accomplished lady, and if she is your wife there
may also be a certain pride. She receives your guests
well ; she holds her place with perfect self-possession at
3'our table and in her drawing-room ; she never coimnita
a social solecism ; and 3'ou feel that you can trnst her

60 COMPANIONSHIP IN MARRIAGE.

absolutely. Her private income is a help in the main-
tenance of your establishment and so increases your
credit in the world. She gives you in this wa}'- a series
of satisfactions that may even, in course of time, pro-
duce rather affectionate feelings. If she died you
would certainly regret her loss, and think that life was,
on the whole, decidedly less agreeable without her.

But alas for the dreams of 3^outh if this is all that is
to be gained by marriage ! Where is the sweet friend
and companion who was to have accompanied us
through prosperous or adverse years, who was to
have charmed and consoled us, who was to have given
us the infinite happiness of being understood and loved
at the same time? "Were all those dreams delusions?
Is the best companionship a mere fiction of the fancy,
not existing anywhere upon the earth ?

I believe in the promises of Nature. I believe that
in every want there is the promise of a possible satis-
faction. If we are hungry there is food somewhere, if
we are thirsty there is drink. But in the things of the
world there is often an indication of order rather than
a realization of it, so that in the confusion of accidents
the hungry man may be starving in a beleaguered
city and the thirsty man parched in the Sahara. All
that the wants indicate is that their satisfaction is pos-
sible in nature. Let us believe that, for every one, the
true mate exists somewhere in the world. She is
worth seeking for at any cost of trouble or expense,
worth travelling round ihe globe to find, worth the
endurance of labor and paiu and piivation. Men
suffer all this for objects of far inferior importance;

COMPANIONSHIP IN MARRIAGE. 61

they risk life for the chance of a ribbon, and sacrifice
leisure and peace for the smallest increase of social
position. What are these vanities in comparison with
the priceless benefit, the continual blessing, of having
with jou always the one person whose presence can
deliver 3'ou from all the evils of solitude without im-
posing the constraints and hj^pocrisies of society?
With her you are free to be as much yourself as when
alone; you say what you think and she understands
you. Your silence does not offend her ; she only thinks
that there will be time enough to talk together after-
wards. You know that you can trust her love, which
is as unfailing as a law of nature. The differences of
idiosyncrasy that exist between you only add interest
to your intercourse by preventing her from becoming a
mere echo of yourself. She has her own ways, her own
thoughts that are not yours and yet are all open to you,
so that you no longer dwell in one intellect only but
have constant access to a second intellect, probably
more refined and elegant, richer in what is delicate and
beautiful. There you make unexpected discoveries ;
you find that the first instinctive preference is more
than justified by merits that you had not divined. You
had hoped and trusted vaguely that there were certain
qualities ; but as a painter who looks long at a natural
scene is constantly discovering new beauties whilst he
is painting it, so the long and loving observation of a
beautiful human mind reveals a thousand unexpected
excellences. Then come the trials of life, the sud-
den calamities, the long and wearing anxieties. Each
of these will only reveal more clearly the wonderful

62 COMPANIONSHIP IN MARRIAGE.

endurance, fidelity, and fortitude that there Is in every
noble feminine nature, and so build up on the founda-
tion of your early love an unshakable edifice of esteem
and respect and love commingled, for which in our
modern tongue we have no single term, but which our
forefathers called "worahip."

FAMILY TIES. 63

ESSAY Y.

FAMILY TIES.

/^NE of the most remarkable differences between
^^ the English and some of the Continental nations
is the comparative looseness of family ties in England.
The apparent difference is certainl}' very great ; the real
difference is possibly not so great. It may be that a good
deal of that warm family affection which we are con-
stantl}' hearing of in France is only make-believe, but the
keeping-up of a make-believe is often favorable to the
reality. In England a great deal of religion is mere out-
ward form ; but to be surrounded by the constant observ-
ance of outward form is a great practical convenience
to the genuine religious sentiment where it exists.

In boj'hood we suppose that all gentlemen of mature
age who happen to be brothers must naturally have
fraternal feelings ; in mature life we know the truth, hav-
ing discovered that there are many brothers between
whom no sentiment of fraternity exists. A foreigner
who knows England well, and has observed it more
carefully than we ourselves do, remarked to me that
the fraternal relationship is not generally a cause of
attachment in England, though there may be cases
of .exceptional affection. It certainly often happens
that brothers live contentedly apart and do not seem
to feel the need of intercourse, or that such intercourse

64 FAMILY TIES.

as they have has no appearance of cordiality. A very
common cause of estrangement is a natural difference
of class. One man is so constituted as to feel more at
ease in a higher class, and he rises ; his brother feels
more at ease in a lower class, adopts its manners, and
sinks. After a few years have passed the two will have
acquired such different habits, both of thinking and liv-
ing, that they will be disqualilBed for equal intercoqrse.
If one brother is a gentleman in tastes and manners
and the other not a gentleman, the vulgarity of the
coarser nature will be all the more offensive to the re-
fined one that there is the troublesome consciousness
of a very near relationship and of a sort of indefinite
responsibility.

The frequency of coolness between brothers surprises
us less when we observe how widety they may differ
from each other in mental and physical constitution.
One maj' be a sportsman, traveller, man of the world ;
another a religious recluse. One may have a sensitive,
imaginative nature and be keenly alive to the influences
of literature, painting, and music ; his brother may be
a hard, practical man of business, with a conviction that
an interest in literary and artistic pursuits is oxAy a
sign of weakness.

The extreme uncertainty that always exists about
what really constitutes suitableness is seen as much
between brothers as between other men ; for we some-
times see a beautifbl fraternal affection between broth-
ers who seem to have nothing whatever in oomnxon,
and sometimes an equal affection .appears to be founded
.upon likeness.

FAMILY TIES. 65

Jealousy in its various forms is especially likely to
arise between brothers, and between sisters also for the
same reason, which is that comparisons are constantly
suggested and even made with injudicious openness by
parents and teachers, and by talkative friends. The
development of the faculties in youth is always ex-
tremely interesting, and is a constant subject of obser-
vation and speculation. If it is interesting to on-lookers,
it is still more likely to be so to the j-oung persons
most concerned. Tljey feel as young race-horses might
be expected to feel towards each other if they could
understand the conversations of trainers, stud-owners,
and grooms.

If a full account of family life could be generally
accessible, if we could read autobiographies written by
the several members of the same family, giving a sin-
cere and independent account of their own j'outh, it
would probably be found in most cases that jealousies
were easily discoverable. They need not be very in-
tense to create a slight fissure of separation that may
be slowly widened afterwards.

If you listen attentively to the conversation of broth-
ers about brothers, of sisters about sisters, you will
probably detect such little jealousies without difiicult3\
*'My sister," said a lady in my hearing, "was very
much admired when she was young, hut she aged pre-
maturely,** Behind this it was eas}' to read the com-
parison with self, with a constitution less attractive to
others but more robust and durable, and there was a
faint reverberation of girlish jealousy about attentions
paid forty years before.

5

66 FAMILY TIES.

The jealousies of youth are too natural to deserve
any serious blame, but they may be a beginning of future
coolness, A boy will seem to praise the talents of his
brother with 4iie purpose of implying that the facilities
given by such talents make industry almost superfluous,
whilst his own more strenuous eflbrts are not appre-
ciated as they deserve. Instead of soothing and calm-
ing these natural jealousies some parents irritate and
inflame them. They make wounding remarks that
produce evil in after years. I have seen a sensitive
boy wince under cutting sarcasms that he will remem-
ber till his hair is gray.

If there are fraternal jealousies in boyhood, when
the material comforts and the outward show of exist
ence are the same for brothers, much more are these
jealousies likely to be accentuated in after-life, when
differences of worldlj'' success, or of inherited fortune,
establish distinctions so obvious as to be visjble to all.
The operation of the aristocratic custom by which eldest
sons are made ver}^ much richer than their brethren
can scarcely be in favor of fraternal intimacy. No
general rule can be established, because characters
differ so widely. An eldest brother may be so amiable,
so truly fraternal, that the cadets instead of feeling env}'
of his wealth may take a positive pride in it ; still, the
natural effect of creating such a vast inequality is to
separate the favored heir from the less-favored ymmger
sons. I leave the reader to think over instances that
may be known to him. Amongst those known to me
I find several cases of complete or partial suspension
of intercourse and others of manifest indifference and

FAMILY TIES. 67

coolness. One incident recurs to my memory after a
lapse of thirty years. I was present at the departure
of a young friend for India when his eldest brother was
too indifferent to get up a little earlier to see him off,
and said, ''Oh, 3'ou're going, are you? Well, goo<i-
b}', John I " through his bedroom door. The lad carried
a wound in his heart to the distant East.

There is nothing in the mere fact of fraternity to
establish friendship. The line of " In Memoriam," —

" More than my brothers are to me,"

is simply true of every real friend, unless friendship adds
itself to brotherhood, in which case the intimacy arising
from a thousand details of early life in common, from
the thorough knowledge of the same persons and places,
and from the memoiies of parental affection, must give
a rare completeness to friendship itself and make it in
these respects even superior to marriage, which has the
great defect that the associations of early life are not
the same. I remember a case of wonderfully strong
affection between two brothers who were daily compan-
ions till death separated them ; but they were 3'ounger
sons and their incomes were exactly alike ; their tastes,
too, and all their habits were the same. The only other
case that occurs to me as comparable to this one was
also of two younger sons, one of whom had an extraor-
dinary talent for business. They were partners in trade,
and no dissension ever arose between them, because
the superiority of the specially able man was affection-
ately recognized and deferred to by the other. If, how-
ever, they had not been partners it is possible that the

68 FAMILY TIES.

brilliant success of one brother might have created a
conta'ast and made intercourse more constrained.

The case of John Bright and his brother may be
mentioned, as he has made it public in one of his
most charming and interesting speeches. His political
Tvork has prevented him from laboring in his business,
l>iit his brother and partner has affectionately consid-
ered him an active member of the firm, so that Mr.
Blight has enjoyed an income sufficient for his political
independence. In this instance the comparativelj' ob-
BCiire brother has shown real nobility of nature. Free
from the jealous}^ and envy which would have vexed a
email mind in such a position he has taken pleasure in
the fame of the statesman. It is easy to imagine the
view that a mean mind would have taken of a similar
situation. Let us add that the statesman himself has
eliown true fraternal generosit}' of another kind, and
perhaps of a more difficult kind, for it is often easier
to confer an obligation than to accept it heartily.

It has often been a subject of astonishment to me
that between ver}' near relations a sensitive feeling
about pecuniary matters should be so lively as it is.
I remember an instance in the last generation of a rich
man in Cheshire who made a present of ten thousand
pounds to a lady nearl}- related to him. He was very
wealthy, she was not ; the sum would never be missed
b}' him, whilst to her it made a great difference. What
could be more reasonable than such a correction of the
inequalities of fortune? MsLXiy people would have re-
fused the present, out of pride, but it was much kinder
to accept it in the same good spirit that dictated the

FAMILY TIES. 69

offer. On the other hand, there are poor gentlefolks
whose only fault is a sense of independence, so fa-
rouche that nobody can get them to accept anything of
importance, and any good that is done to them has
to be plotted with consummate art.

A wonderful light is thrown upon family relations
when we' become acquainted with the real state of those
familj- pecuniary transactions that are not revealed to
the public. The strangest discovery is the widely
different wa3's in which pecuniar}- obligations are esti-
mated by different persons, especially by different
women. Men, I believe, take them rather more equally ;
but as women go by sentiment they have a tendency to
extremes, either exaggerating the importance of an
obligation when they like to feel very much obliged,
or else adopting the convenient theory that the gen-
erous person is fulfilling a simple duty, and that there
is no obligation whatever. One woman will go into
ecstasies of gratitude because a brother makes her a
present of a few pounds ; and another will never thank
a benefactor who allows her, j^ear by year, an annuity
far larger than is justified by bis precarious profes-
sional income. In one real case a lad}' lived for many
years on her brother's generosity and was openly hostile
to him all the time. After her death it was found that
she had insulted him in her will. In another case a
sister dependent on her brother's bounty never thanked
him or even acknowledged the receipt of a sum of
money, but if the money was not sent to the day she
would at once write a sharp letter full of bitter re-
proaches for his neglect. The marvel is the incredible

70 FAMILY TIES.

patience with which toiling men will go on sending the
fruits of their industry to relations who do not even
make a pretence of affection.

A frequent cause of hostility between very near rela-
tions is the restriction of generosity. So long as you
set no limit to your giving it is well, you are doing
your duty ; but the moment you fix a limit the case is
altered ; then all past sacrifices go for nothing, j^our
glory has set in gloom, and you will be considered as
more niggardly than if you had not begun to be gener-
ous. Here is a real case, out of many. A man makes
bad speculations, but conceals the full extent of his
losses, and by the influence of his wife obtains impor-
tant sums from a near relation of hers who half rijins
himself to "^ave her. When the full disaster is known
the relation stops short and declines to ruin himself
entirely ; she then bitterly reproaches him for his self-
ishness. A very short time before writing the present
Essay I was travelling, and met an old friend, a bachelor
of limited means but of a most generous disposition,
the kindest and most affectionate nature I ever knew in
the male sex. I asked for news about his brother.
*^I never see him now; a coldness has sprung up be-
tween us." — "It must be his fault, then, for I am sure it
did not originate with you." — " The truth is, he got into
money difficulties, so I gave him a thousand pounds.
He thought that under the circumstances I ought to
have done more and broke off all intercourse. I really
believe that if I had given him nothing we should have
been more friendly at this day."

The question how far we are bound to allow family

FAMILY TIES. 71

ties to regulate our intercourse is not easily treated in
general terms, though it seems plainer in particular
cases. Here is one for the reader's consideration.

Owing to natural refinement, and to certain circum-
stances of which he intelligently availed himself, one
member of a family is a cultivated gentleman, whose
habitual ways of thinking are of rather an elevated
kind, and whose manners and language are invariably
faultless. He is blessed with very near relations whose
principal characteristic is loud, confident, overwhelm-
ing vulgarit}'. He is always uncomfortable with these
relations. He knows that the wa3s of thinking and
speaking which are natural to him will seem cold and
uncongenial to them ; that not one of his thoughts can
be exactly understood by them ; that his deficiency in
what they consider heartiness is a defect he cannot get
over. On the other hand, he takes no interest in what
the}' say, because their opinions on all the subjects he
cares about are too crude, and their information too
scanty or erroneous. If he said what he felt impelled
to say, all his talk would be a perpetual correction of
their clumsy blunders. He has, therefore, no resource
but to repress himself and try to act a part, the part of
a pleased companion ; but this is wearisome, especially
if prolonged. The end is that he keeps out of their
way, and is set down as a proud, conceited person,
and an unkind relative. In reality he is simply refined
and has a diflficulty in accommodating himself to the
ways of all vulgar society whatever, whether composed
of his own relations or of strangers. Does he deserve
to be blamed for this? Certainly not. He has not the

72 FAMILY TIES.

flexibility, the dramatic power, to adapt himself to a
lower state of civilization ; that is his only fault. His
relations are persons with whom, if the}^ were not re-
lations, nobody would expect him to associate; but
because he and the}' happen to be descended from a
common ancestor he is to maintain an impossible inti-
macy. He wishes them no harm ; he is ready to make
sacrifices to help them ; his n^isfortune is that he does
not possess the humor of a Dickens that wonld have
enabled him to find amusement in their vulgarity, and
he prefers solitude to that infliction.

There is a French proverb, " Les cousins ne sont pas
parents." The exact tnith would appear to be rather
that cousins are relations or not just as it pleases them
to acknowledge the relationship, and according to the
natural possibilities of companionship between the
parties. If they are of the same class in society
(which does not always happen), and if they have
pursuits in common or can understand each other's
interests, and if there is that mysterious suitableness
which makes people like to be together, then the fact
of cousinship is seized upon as a convenient pretext
for making intercourse more frequent, more intimate,
and more affectionate ; but if there is nothing to attract
one cousin to another the relationship is scarcely ac-
knowledged. Cousins are, or are not, relations just as
they find it agreeable to themselves. It need hardly
be added that It is a general though not an invariable
rule that the relationship is better remembered on the
humbler side. The cousinly degree ma}' be felt to be
very dose under peculiar circumstances. An onl}'

FAMILY TIES. 73

child looks to his cousins for the brother!}' and sisterly
affection that fate has denied him at home, and he is
not always disappointed. Even distant cousins maj' be
truly fraternal, just as first cousins may happen to be
very distant, the relationship is so variable and elastic
in its nature.

Unmarried people have often a great vague dread oi
their future wife's relations, even when the lady has
not yet been fixed upon, and married people have some^
times found the realit\' more terrible even than their
gloomy anticipation. And 3'et it may happen that some
of these dreaded new relations will be unexpectedly
valuable and snjjply elements that were grievously want-
ing. They may bring new life into a dull house, they
may enliven the sluggish talk with wit and information,
the}' may take a too thoughtful and studious man out of
the wear}' round of his own ideas. They may even in
course of time win such a place in one's affection that
if they are taken away by death they will leave a great
void and an enduring sorrow. I write these lines from
a sweet and sad experience.^

Intellectual men are, more than others, liable to a
feeling of dissatisfaction with their relations because
they want intellectual sympathy and interest, which
relations hardly ever give. The reason is extremely
simple. Any special intellectual pursuit is understood
only by a small select class of its own, and our relations
are given us out of the general body of society without

1 Only a poet can write of his private sorrows. In prose one
eannot sing, —

** A dirge for ber, the doably dead, in that she died 80 young.'^

74 FAMILY TIES.

any selection, and they are not very numerous, so that
the chances against our finding intellectual sympathy
amongst them are calculably very great. As we grow
older we get accustomed to this absence of sj'mpathy
with our pursuits, and take it as a matter of course ;
but in 3'outh it seems strange that what we feel and
know to be so interesting should have no Interest for
those nearest to us. Authors sometimes feel a little
hurt that their nearest relations will not read their
books, and are but dimly aware that they have written
any books at all ; but do they read books of the same
class by other writers? As an author 3'ou are in the
same position that other authors occup}^ but with this
difference, which is against you, that familiarit}' has
made 3'ou a commonplace person in your own circle,
and that is a bad opening for the reception of your
higher thoughts. This want of intellectual sympathy
does not prevent affection, and we ought to appreciate
affection at its full value in spite of it. Your brother
or your cousin may be strongly attached to you per-
sonally, with an old love dating from your boyhood,
but he may separate you (the human creature that he
knows) from the author of 3'our books, and not feel
the slightest curiosit}^ about the books, believing that
he knows j^ou perfectl}' without them, and that they are
onl}' a sort of costume in which \'ou perform before the
public. A female relative who has given up her mind
to the keeping of some clergyman, may scrupulously
avoid 3^our literature in order that it ma3' not contami-
nate her soul, and 3'et she may love you still in a painful
wa}^ and be sincerel3' sorr3' that 3'ou have no other pros-
pect but that of eternal punishment.

FAMILY TIES. 75

I have sometimes heard the question proposed whether
relations or friends were the more valuable as a support
and consolation. Fate gives us our relations, whilst we
select our friends ; and therefore it would seem at first
sight that the friends must be better adapted for us ;
but it may happen that we have not selected with great
wisdom, or that we have not had good opportunities for
making a choice really answering to our deepest needs.
Still, there must have been mutual affinity of some kind
to make a friendship, whilst relations are all like tickets
in a lotter3\ It may therefore be argued that the more
relations we have, the better, because we are more
likely to meet with two or three to love us amongst
fifty than amongst five.

The peculiar peril of blood-relationship is that those
who are closely connected by it often permit themselves
an amount of mutual rudeness (especially in the middle
and lower classes) which they never would think of
inflicting upon a stranger. In some families people
really seem to suppose that it does not matter how
roughly the}^ treat each other. They utter unmeasured
reproaches about trifles not worth a moment's anger ;
they magnify small differences that only require to be
let alone and forgotten, or they relieve the monotony
of quarrels with an occasional fit of the sulks. Some-
times it is an irascible father who is always scolding,
sometimes a loud-tongued matron shrieks " in her fierce
volubility." Some children take up the note and fire
back broadside for broadside ; others wait for a cessa-
tion in contemptuous silence and calmly disregard the
thunder. Family life indeed! domestic peace and

76 FAMILY TIES,

bliss! Give me, rather, the bachelor's lonely hearth
with a noiseless lamp and a book! The manners of
the ill-mannered are never so odious, unbearable, ex-
asperating, as the}' are to their own nearest kindred.
How is a lad to enjo}^ the society of his mother if she
is perpetually "nagging" and "nattering" at him?
How is he to believe that his coarse father has a tender
anxiet}' for his welfare when eveiy thing that he does is
judged with unfatherly harshness? Those who are
condemned to live with people for whom scolding and
quarrelling are a necessary of existence must either be
rude in self-defence or take refuge in a sullen and
stubborn taciturnity. Young people who have to live
in these little domestic hells look forward to any change
as a desirable emancipation. The}^ are ready to go to
sea, to emigrate. I have heard of one who went into
domestic service under a feigned name that he might be
out of the range of his brutal father's tongue.

The misery of uncongenial relations is caused mainly
by the irksome consciousness that they are obliged to
live together. " To think that there is so much space
upon the earth, that there are so many houses, so man}'
rooms, and yet that I am so unfortunate as to be com-
pelled to live in the same lodging with this uncivilized,
ill-conditioned fellow ! To think that there are such
vast areas of tranquil silence, and 3'et that I am com-
pelled to hear the voice of that scolding woman I "
This is the feeling, and the relief would be temporary
separation. In this, as in almost everything that con-
cerns human intercourse, the rich have an immense
advantage, as they can take onl^' just so much of each

FAMILY TIES, 77

other's societj- as they find by experience to be agree-
able. They can quietly, and without rudeness, avoid
each other by living in different houses, and even in
the same house they can have different apartments and
be very little together. Imagine the difference be-
tween two rich brothers, each with his suite of rooms
in a separate tower of the paternal castle, and two
very poor ones, inconveniently occupying the same
narrow, uncomfortable bed, and unable to remain in the
wretched paternal tenement without being constantly
in each other's way. Between these extrem'es are a
thousand degrees of more or less inconvenient nearness.
Solitude is bad for us, but we need a margin of free
space. If we are to be crowded let it be as the stars
are crowded. They look as if they were huddled
together, but every one of them has his own clear
space in the illimitable ether.

78 FATHERS AND SONS.

ESSAY VI.

FATHERS AND SONS.

'T^HERE is a certain iinsatisfactoriness in this rela-
^ tion in our time which is felt bj^ fathers and often
avowed by thetn when they meet, though it does not
Of-cupy any conspicuous place in the literature of life
;uid manners. It has been fully treated b}- M. Legouve,
the French Academician, in his own livelj' and elegant
way ; but he gave it a volume, and I must here confine
myself to the few points which can be dealt with in the
limits of a short Essa}'.

We are in an interregnum between two systems.
The old system, founded on the stern authorit}^ of the
father, is felt to be out of harmonj^ with the amenity of
^cDcral social intercourse in modern times and also
^vith the increasing gentleness of political governors
and the freedom of the governed. It is therefore, by
common consent, abandoned. Some new S3^stem that
may be founded upon a clear intelligence of both the
pfiternal and the filial relations has yet to come into
force. Meanwhile, we are tr3'ing various experiments,
suggested by the different characters and circumstances
of fathers and sons, each father trying his own experi-
iiKnts, and we communicate to each other such results
tx^ we arrive at.

It is obvious that the defect here is the absence of a

FATHERS AND SONS. 79

settled public opinion to which both parties would feel
bound to defer. Under the old system the authority of
the father was efficiently maintained, not only by the
laws, but b}^ that general consensus of opinion which
is far more powerful than law. The new system, what-
ever it may be, will be founded on general opinion
again, but our present experimental condition is one
of anarchy.

This is the real cause of whatever may be felt as
unsatisfactory in the modern paternal and filial rela-
tions. It is not that fathers have become more unjust
or sons more rebellious.

The position of the father was in old times perfectl}-
defined. He was the commander, not only armed by
the law but by religion and custom. Disobedience to
his dictates was felt to be out of the question, unless
the insurgent was prepared to meet the consequences
of open mutiny. The maintenance of the father's au-
thority depended only on himself. If he abdicated it
through indolence or weakness he incurred moral repro-
bation not unmingled with contempt, whilst in the
present day reprobation would rather follow a new
attempt to vindicate the antique authority.

Besides this change in public opinion there is a new
condition of paternal feeling. The mbdern father, in
the most civilized nations and classes, has acquired a
sentiment that appears to have been absolutel}^ unknown
to his predecessors : he has acquired a dislike for com-
mand which increases with the age of the son ; so that
there is an unfortunate coincidence of increasing strength
of will on the son's part with decreasing disposition to

80 FATHERS AND SONS.

restrain it on the father's part. What a modem father
reall^^ desires is that a son should go right of his own
accord, and if not quite of his own accord, then in
consequence of a little affectionate persuasion. This
fi^L^ ling would make command unsatisfactorj^ to us, even
if it were followed by a military promptitude of obe-
diences* We do not wish to be like captains, and our
sous like privates in a company ; we care onl}^ to exer-
cise a certain beneficent influence over them, and we
fed that if we gave military orders we should destroy
thnt peculiar influence which is of the most fragile and
dt^licate nature.

Eiit now see the unexpected consequences of our
modern dislike to command ! It might be argued that
the re is a certain advantage on our side from the very
rarity of the commands we give, which endows them
with extraordinary force. Would it not be more accu-
rate to ssLy that as we give orders less and less our sons
become unaccustomed to receive orders from us, and
if ever the occasion arises when we must give them a
downright order it comes upon their feelings with a
hai shoess so excessive that they are likely to think us
tyiimnical, whereas if we had kept up the old habits
of command such orders would have seemed natural
an{l right, and would not have been less scrupulously
obeyed?

TJie paternal dislike to give orders personally has had
a peculiar eflTect upon education. We are not yet quite
imbc^cile enough to suppose that discipline can be en-
tirely dispensed with ; and as there is very little of it in
modem houses it has to be sought elsewhere, so boys

■»

FATHERS AND SONS. 81

are placed more and more completely under the author-
ity of schoolmasters, often living at such a distance
from the father of the family that for several months at
a time he can exercise no direct influence or authority
over his own children. Tliis leads to the establishment
of a peculiar bo3'ish code of justice. Bo3's come to
think it not unjust that the schoolmaster should exer-
cise authority, when if the father attempted to exercise
authority of equal rigor, or anything approaching it,
they would look upon him as an odious domestic tyrant,
entirel}' forgetting that any power to enforce obedience
which is possessed by the schoolmaster is held by him
vicariously as the father's representative and delegate.
From this we arrive at the curious and unforeseen con-
clusion that the modern father only exercises strong
authority through another person 'who is often a per-
fect stranger and whose interest in the boy's present
and future well-being is as nothing in comparison with
the father's anxious and continual solicitude.

The custom of placing the education of sons entirely
in the hands of strangers is so deadly a blow to
parental influence that some fathers have resolutely
rebelled against it and tried to become themselves the
educators of their children. James Mill is the most
conspicuous instance of this, both for persistence and
success. His way of educating his illustrious son has
often been coarsely misrepresented as a merciless s^'stem
of cram. The best answer to this is presented for us
in the words of the pupil himself. He said expressly :
*' Mine was not an education of cram," and that the
one cardinal point in it, the cause of the good it effected,

6

82 FATHERS AND SONS,

was that his father never permitted anj'thing he learnt
to degenerate into a mere exercise of memor3^ He
greatly valued the training he had received, and full}'^
appreciated its utility to him in after-life. " If I have
accomplished anything," he says, " I owe it, amongst
other fortunate circumstances, to the fact that through
the early training bestowed on me by my father I
started, I may fairly say, with an advantage of a quarter
of a century over my contemporaries."

But though in this case the pupil's feeling in after-
life was one of gratitude, it ma}^ be asked what were
his filial sentiments whilst this paternal education was
going forward. Tliis question also is clearl}^ and
frankl}" answered by Stuart Mill himself. He says
that his father was severe ; that his authority' was defi-
cient in the demonstration of tenderness, though proba-
bly not in the reality of it; that "he resembled most
Englishmen in being ashamed of the signs of feeling,
and by the absence of demonstration starving the feel-
ings themselves." Then the son goes on to sa}- that
it was " impossible not to feel true pity for a father
who did, and strove to do, so much for his children,
who would have so valued their affection, yet who must
have been constantly feeling that fear of him was dry-
ing it up at its source." And we probabty have the
exact truth about Stuart Mill's own sentiments when he
says tliat the younger children loved his father tenderl}',
" and if I cannot say so much of myself I was always
loyally devoted to him."

This contains the central difficulty about paternal
education. If the choice were left to boj's thej^ would

FATHERS AND SONS, 83

learn nothing, and you cannot make them work vigor-
ously " by the sole force of persuasion and soft words."
Therefore a severe discipline has to be established, and
this severity is incompatible with tenderness ; so that in
order to preserve the affection of his children the father
intrusts discipline to a delegate.

But if the objection to parental education is clear in
Mill's case, so are its advantages, and especially the one
inestimable advantage that the father was able to im-
press himself on his son's mind and to live afterwards
in his son's intellectual life. James Mill did not abdi-
cate^ as fathers generally do. He did not confine pa-
ternal duties to the simple one of signing checks. And
if it is not in our power to imitate him entirely,
if we have not his profound and accurate knowledge, if
we have not his marvellous patience, if it is not desir-
able that we should take upon ourselves alone that
immense responsibility which he accepted, may we not
imitate him to such a degree as to secure some intel-
lectual and moral influence over our own offspring and
not leave them entirely to the teaching of the school-
fellow (that most influential and most dangerous of all
teachers), the pedagogue, and the priest?

The only practical way in which this can be done is
for the father to act within fixed limits. May he not
reserve to himself some speciality? He can do this if
he is himself master of some language_pr science that
enters into the training of his son ; but here again cer-
tain difficulties present themselves.

By the one vigorous resolution to take the entire
burden upon his own shoulders James Mill escaped

84 FATHERS AND SONS,

minor embarrassments. It is the partial education by
the father that is difficult to carry out with steadiness
and consistency. First, as to place of residence. K
your son is far away during his months of work, and at
home only for vacation pleasures, what, pray, is your
hold upon him? He escapes from you in two direo^
tions, by work and by play. I have seen a Highland
gentleman who, to avoid this and do his duty to his sons,
quitted a beautiful residence in magnificent scenery to
go and live in the dull and ugly neighborhood of Rugby,
It is not convenient or possible for every father to make
the same sacrifice, but if you are able to do it other
difficulties remain. Any speciality that you msiy choose
will be regarded by your son as a trifling and unimpor-
tant accomplishment in comparison with Greek and
Latin, because that is the school estimate ; and if you
choose either Greek or Latin four scholarship will be
immediately pitted against the scholarship of profes-
sional teachers whose more recent and more perfect
methods will place you in a position of inferiority,
instantly perceived by your pupil, who will estimate you
accordingly. The onlj^ two cases I have ever person-
ally known in which a father taijght the classical lan-
guages failed in the object of increasing the son's
affection and respect, because, although the father had
been quite a first-rate scholar in his time, his ways of
teaching were not so economical of effort as are the
professional ways; and the boys perceived that they
were not taking the shortest cut to a degree.

If, to avoid this comparison, you choose something
outside the school cuniculum, the boy will probably

FATHERS AND SONS. 86

consider it an unfair addition to the burden of his work.
His view of education is not your view. You think it
a valuable training or acquirement ; he considers it all
task- work, like the making of bricks in Egj'pt ; and lois
notion of justice is that he ought not to be compelled
to make more 'bripks than his class-fellows, who are
happy in having fathers too indolent or too ignorant to
trouble them. If, therefore, you teach him something
outside of what his school-fellows do, he does not think,
" I get the advantage of a wider education than theirs ; "
but he thinks, '' Mj- father lays an imposition upon me,
and my school-fellows are lucky to escape it."

In some instances the father chooses a modern lan-
guage as the thing that he will teach ; but he finds that
as he cannot apply the school discipline (too harsh and
unpaternal for use at home), there is a quiet, passive
resistance that will ultimately defeat him unless he has
inexhaustible patience. He decrees, let us suppose,
that French shall be spoken at table ; but the chief
effect of his decree is to reveal great and unsuspected
powers of taciturnity. Who could be such a tjTant as
to find fault with a boy because he so modestly chooses
to be silent? Speecb may be of silver, but silence is
of gold, and it is especially beautiful and becoming in
the young.

Seeing that everything in the way of intellectual
training is looked upon by boys as an unfair addition to
school-work, some fathers abandon that altogether, and
try to win influence over their sons by initiating them
into sports and pastimes. Just at first these happy
projects appear to unite the useful with the agreeable ;

86 FATHERS AND SONS.

but as the youthful nature is much better fitted for
sports and pastimes than fiiiddle-age can pretend to be,
It follows that the pupil very soon excels the master in
tkesu things, and quite gets the upper hand of him and
oflbi^s him advice, or else dutifully (but with visible
constraint) condescends to accommodate himself to
tlitf elder man's inferiority ; so that perhaps upon the
wIiuIl! it ma}' be that sports and pastimes are not the
field of exertion in which paternal authority is most
iikoly to preserve a dignified preponderance.

It 19 complacentl}' assumed by men of fifty that over-
nyw maturity is the superior of adolescence ; but an
im partial balance of advantages shows that some very
bi illiant ones are on the side of youth. At fifty we
may bo wiser, richer, more famous than a clever boy ;
but lie does not care mucli for our wisdom, he thinks
that expenses are a matter of course, and our little
nisiilights of reputations are as nothing to the future
electric illumination of his own. In bodil}' activity we
am to boyhood what a domestic cow is to a wild ante-
lope ; and as boys rightly attach an immense value to
BLU'ti activity they generally look upon us, in their
secrut thoughts, as miserable old '* muffs.*' I distinctly
remember, when a boy, accompanying a middle-aged
getideman to a country railway station. We were a
little late, and the distance was long, but my companion
could not be induced to go beyond his regular pace.
At last we were within half a mile, and the steam of
the locomotive became visible. "Now let us run for
it,*' I cried, "and we shall catch the train!" Run? —
Ae run, indeed ! I might as well have asked the Pope

FATHERS AND SONS. 87

to run in the streets of Rome ! My friend kept in
silent solemnity to his own dignified method of motion,
and we were left behind. To this day I well remember
the feelings of contemptuous pity and disgust that filled
me as I looked upon that most respectable gentleman..
I said not a word ; my demeanor was outwardly deco-
rous ; but in my secret heart I despised m}^ unequal
companion with the unmitigated contempt of youth.

Even those physical exertions that elderly men are
equal to — the ten miles* walk, the ride on a docile
hunter, the quiet drive or sail — are so much below the
achievements of fiery 3'outh that they bring us no more
credit than sitting in a chair. Though our effoiiis seem
so respectable to ourselves that we take a modest pride
therein, a young man can only look upon them with
indulgence.

In the mental powers elderly men are inferior on the
very point that a young man looks to first. His notion
of cleverness, by which he estimates all his comrades,
is not depth of thought, nor wisdom, nor sagacity ; it is
simply rapidit}' in learning, and there his elders are
hopelessly behind him. They may extend or deepen
an old study, but they cannot attack a new one with
the conquering spirit of youth. Too late I too late I
too late! is inscribed, for them, on a hundred gates of
knowledge. The 3'oung man, with his powers of ac-
quisition urging him like unsatisfied appetites, sees the
gates all open and believes they are open for him. He
believes all knowledge to be his possible province,
knowing not yet the chilling, disheartening truth that
life is too short for success in any but a very few

88 FATHERS AND SONS.

directions. Confident in his powers, the young man
prepares himself for difficult examinations, and he
knows that we should be incapable of the same efforts.

Nut having succeeded very well with attempts to
create intercourse through studies and amusements,
the father next consoles himself with the idea that he
will convert his son into an intimate friend ; but shortly
discovers that there are certain diflSculties, of which a
few may be mentioned here.

Although the relationship between father and son is
a vLvy near relationship, it may happen that there is but
little likeness of inherited idios3'ncrasy, and therefore
that the two may have different and even opposite
tistea. By the law or accident of atavism a boy may
resemble one of his grandfathers or some remoter ances-
t<jr, or he may puzzle theorists about heredity by char-
acteristics for which there is no known precedent in his
family- Both his mental instincts and processes, and
tlKf conclusions to which they lead him, may be entirely
different from the habits and conclusions of his father;
and if the father is so utterly unphilosophical as to sup-
pose (what vulgar fathers constantlj^ do suppose) that
his own mental habits and conclusions are the right
ones, and all others wrong, then he will adopt a tone
of authority towards his son, on certain occasions,
wliieh the young man will excusably consider unbeara-
able and which he will avoid by shunning the paternal
society. Even a very mild attempt on the father's part
to iDiix)se his own tastes and opinions will be quietly
resented and felt as a reason for avoiding him, because
tlie son is well aware that he cannot argue on equal

FATHERS AND SONS. 89

terms with a man who, however amiable he chooses to
be for the moment, can at any time arm himself with
the formidable paternal dignity by simply taking the
trouble to assume it.

The mere difference of age is almost an insuperable
barrier to comradeship ; for though a middle-aged man
may be cheerful, his cheerfulness is "as water unto
wine" in comparison with the merriment of jo3'0U8
youth. So exuberant is that 3'outliful gayety that it
often needs to utter downright nonsense for the relief
of its own high spirits, and feels oppressed in sober
society where nonsense is not permitted. Any elderly
gentleman who reads this has only to consult his own
recollections, and ask himself whether in jouth he did
not often say and do utterly irrational things. If he
ne^^er did, he never was really 3'Oung. I hardly know
any author, except Shakspeare, who has ventured to
reproduce, in its perfect absurdity, the full flow of
3"0uthful nonsense. The criticism of our own age would
scarcely tolerate it in books, and might accuse the
author himself of being silly ; but the thing still exists
abundantly in real hfe, and the wonder is that it is
sometimes the most intelligent 3'oung men who enjoj'
the most witless nonsense of all. When we have lost
the high spirits that gave it a relish, it becomes very
wearisome if prolonged. Young men instinctively
know that we are past the appreciation of it.

Another very important reason wh}^ fathers and sons
have a difficulty in maintaining close friendships is the
steady divei^ence of their experience.

In childhood, the father's knowledge of places.

90 FATHERS AND SONS.

people, and things includes the child's knowledge, as
a large circle includes a little one drawn within it.
Afterwards the boy goes to school, and has comrades
and masters whom his father does not personally know.
Later on, he visits many places where his father has
never been.

The son's life may socially diverge so completely
from that of the father that he may reall}' come to
belong to a different class in society. His education,
habits, and associates may be different frotn those of
his father. If the family is gi^owing richer they are
likely to be (in the worldl}' sense) of a higher class ;
if it is becoming poorer they will probabl}^ be of a
lower class than the father was accustomed to in his
youth. The son may feel more at ease than his father
does in very refined society, or, on the other hand, he
may feel refined society to be a restraint, whilst he only
enjoys himself thoroughly and heartily amongst vulgar
people that his father would carefullj" avoid.

Divergence is canied to its utmost by difference of
professional training, and by the professional habit of
seeing things that follows from it. If a clergyman puts
his son into a solicitors office, he need not expect that
the son will long retain those views of the world that
prevail in the country parsonage where he was born.
He will acquire other views, other mental habits, and
he will very soon believe himself to possess a far greater
and more accurate knowledge of mankind, and of af-
fairs, than his father ever possessed.

Even if the son is in the father's own profession he
will have new views of it denved from the time at

FATHERS AND SONS, 91

which he learns it, and he is likely to consider his
father's ideas as not brought down to the latest date.
He will also have a tendency to look to strangers as
greater authorities than his father, even when they are
really on the same level, because they are not lowered
in his estimate by domestic intimacy and familiarity.
Their opinion will be especially valued by the young
man if it has to be paid for, it being an immense de-
preciation of the paternal counsel that it is alwa3's
given gi*atuitously.

If the father has bestowed upon his son what is con-
sidered a '' complete" education, and if he himself has
not received the same "complete" education in his
youth, the son is likely to accept the conventional esti-
mate of education because it is in his own favor, and
to estimate his father as an " uneducated" or a " half-
educated" man, without taking into much account the
possibility that his father may have developed his fac-
ulties by mental labor in other ways. The conven-
tional division between "educated" and "uneducated"
men is so definite that it is easily seen. The educated
are those who have taken a degree at one of the Uni-
versities; the rest are uneducated, whatever may be
their attainments in the sciences, in modern languages,
or in«the fine arts.

There are differences of education even more serious
than this, because more real. A man maj' be not only
conventionally uneducated, but he may be really and
trul}' uneducated, by which I mean that his faculties
may never have been drawn out b}' intellectual discipline
of any kind whatever. It is hard indeed for a well-

92 FATHERS AND SONS,

educated young man to live under the authority of a
father of that kind, because he has constantly to sup-
press reasons and motives for opinions and decisions
that such a father could not possiblj' enter into or un-
derstand. The relationship is equally hard for the
father, who must be aware, with the lively suspicion of
the ignomnt, that his son is not telling him all his
thought but only the portion of it which he thinks fit
to reveal, and that much more is kept in reserve. He
will ask, " Why this reserve towards me? " and then he
will either be profoundly hurt and grieved by it at times,
or else, if of another temper, he will be irritated, and
his irritation ma}' find harsh utterance in words.

An educated man can never rid himself of his educa-
tion. His views of the most ordinary things are differ-
ent from the views of the uneducated. If he were to
express them in his own language they would say,
*'Why., how he talks!'* and consider him *'a queer
chap ; " and if he keeps them to himself they say he is
ver}' '' close" and " shut up.'* There is no way out of
the dilemma except this, that kind and tender feelings
may exist between people who have nothing in common
intellectuall}' , but these are onl}' possible when all pre-
tence to paternal authoritj' is abandoned.

Our forefathers had an idea with regard to the opin-
ions of their children that in these da^'s we must be
content to give up. They thought^ that all opinions
were b}^ nature hereditarj^, and it was considered an act
of disloyalty to ancestors if a descendant ventured to
differ fVom them. The profession of any but the family
opinions was so rare as to be almost inconceivable ; and

FATHERS AND SONS. 93

If in some great crisis the head of a family took a new
departure in religion or politics the new faith substituted
itself for the old one as the hereditary faith of the family.
I remember hearing an old gentleman (who represented
old English feeling in great perfection) say that it was
totally unintelligible to him that a certain Member of
Parliament could sit on the Liberal side of the House of
Commons. *' I cannot understand it," he said; '' I knew
his father intimately, and he was always a good Tory."
The idea that the son might have opinions of his own
was unthinkable.

In our time we are beginning to perceive that opin-
ions cannot be imposed, and that the utmost that can be
obtained by brow-beating a son who differs ft'om our-
selves is that he shall make false professions to satisfy
us. Paternal influence may be better employed than
in encouraging habits of dissimulation.

M. Legouve attaches great imiwrtance to the relig-
ious question as a cause of division between fathers
and sotis because in the present day young men so fi-e-
quentl}' imbibe opinions which are not those of their
parents. It Is . not uncommon, in France, for Catholic
parents to have unbelieving sons ; and the converse is
also seen, but more frequentl}' in the case of daughters.
As opinions are ver}* freely expressed in France (except
where external conformity is an affair of caste), we find
many families In which Catholicism and Agnosticism
have each their open and convinced adherents; yet
fiamil}' aflection does not appear to suffer from the dif-
ference, or is, at least, powerful enough to overcome it.
In old times this would have been impossible. The

94 FATHERS AND SONS.

father would have resented a difference of opinion in the
son as an offence against himself.

A very common cause of division between father and
son, in old times, was the following.

The father expressed a desire of some kind, mildly
and kindly perhaps, yet with the full expectation that
it should be attended to; but the desire was of an
exorbitant nature, in this sense, that it involved some-
thing that would affect the whole course of the young
man's future life in a manner contrary to his natural
instincts. The father was then grievously hurt and
offended because the son did not see his way to the
fulfilment of the paternal desire.

The strongest cases of this kind were in relation to
profession and marriage. The father wished his son
to enter into some trade or profession for which he was
completely unsuited> or he desired him to many some
young lady for whom he had not the slightest natural
affinity. The son felt the inherent difficulties and re-
fused. Then the father thought, " I onl}' ask of my son
this one simple thing, and he denies me.'*

In these cases the father was not asking for one
thing, but for thousands of things. He was asking his
son to undertake many thousands of separate obliga-
tions, succeeding each other till the far-distant date of
his retirement from the distasteful profession, or his
release, b}'- his own death or hers, from the tedious
companionship of the unloved wife. Sometimes the
concession would have involved a long series of hypoc-
risies, as for example when a son was asked to take
holy orders, though with little faith and no vocation.

FATHERS AND SONS. 95

Peter the Great is the most conspicuous example in
history of a father whose idiosjncras}^ was not con-
tinued in his son, and who could not understand or tol-
erate the separateness of his son's personalit3\ They
were not only of independent, but even of opposite
natures. " Peter was active, curious, and enei^etic.
Alexis was contemplative and reflective. He was not
without intellectual ability, but he liked a quiet life.
He preferred reading and thinking. At the age when
Peter was making fireworks, building boats, and exer-
cising his comrades in mimic war, Alexis was ponder-
ing over the * Divine Manna,' reading the ' Wonders
of God,* reflecting on Thomas k Kempis's * Imitation
of Christ,' and making excerpts from Baronius. While
it sometimes seemed as if Peter was born too soon for
the age, Alexis was born too late. He belonged to the
past generation. Not only did he take no interest in
the work and plans of his father, Ifut he graduallj' came
to dislike and hate them. ... He would sometimes
even take medicine to make himself ill, so that he
might not be called upon to perform duties or to attend
to business. Once, when he was obliged to go to the
launch of a ship, he said to a friend, ' I would rather
be a galley-slave, or have a burning fever, than be
obliged to go there.' " ^

In this case one is sorry for both father and son.
Peter was a great intelligent barbarian of immense
muscular strength and rude cerebral energy. Alexis
was of the material from which civilization makes
priests and students, or quiet conventional kings, but
1 Schuyler's " Peter the Great."

96 FATHERS AND SONS,

be was even more uolike Peter than gentle Richard
Cromwell was unlike authoritative Oliver. The dis-
appointment to Peter, firmly convinoed, as all rude
natures are, of the perfection of his own personality,
and probably quite unable to appreciate a personality
of another tj'pe, must have been the more bitter tliat
his great plans for the future required a vigorous, prac-
tically minded innovator like himself. At length the
difference of nature so exasperated the Autocrat that
he had his son three times tortured, the third time in \xU
own presence and with a fatal result. This terrible inci-
dent is the strongest expression known to us of a father's
vexation because his son was not of his own kind.

Another painful case that will be long remembered,
though the character of the father is less known to us,
is that of the poet Shelley and Sir Timothy. The little,
that we do know amounts to this, that thei-e was a
total absence of sj^iapathy. Sir Timothy committed
the very greatest of paternal mistakes in depriving
himself of the means of direct influence over his son \

hy excluding him from his own home. Considering \

that the supreme grief of unhappy fathers is the feeble-
ness of their influence over their sons, they can but i
confirm and complete their sorrow by annihilating that
influence utterly and depriving themselves of all chance
of recovering and increasing it in the future. This Sir
Timothy did after the expulsion from Oxford. In his
position, a father possessing some skill and tact in the
management of young men at the most difficult and
wayward period of their lives would have determined
above all things to keep his son as much as possible

FATHERS AND SONS. 97

within the range of his own controL ' Although Shelley
afterwards returned to Field Place for a short time, the
scission had been made ; there was an end of real inter-
course between father and son ; the poet went his own
way, married Harriett Westbrook, and lived through
the rest of his short, unsatisfactory existence as a home-
less, wandering declasse.

This Essay has hitherto run upon the discouraging
side of the subject, so that it ought not to end without
the happier and more hopeful considerations.

Ever}'^ personality is separate from others, and ex-
pects its separateness to be acknowledged. When a
son avoids his father it is because he fears that the
rights of his own personality will be disregarded.
There are fathers who habituallj- treat their sons with
sneering contempt. I have myself seen a young man
of fair common abilities treated with constant and un-
disguised contempt by a clever, sardonic father who
went so far as to make brutal allusions to the shape
of the young man's skull ! He bore this treatment
with a.dmirable patience and unfailing gentleness, but
suffered from it silently-. Another used to laugh at his
son, and called him " Don Quixote" whenever the lad
gave expression to some sentiment above the low Phil-
istine level. A third, whom I knew well, had a dis-
agreeable way of putting down his son because he was
young, telling him that up to the age of forty a man
" might have impressions, but could not possibly have
opinions." " My father," said a kind-hearted English
gentleman to me, " was the most thoroughly unbearable
person I ever met with in my life,"

7

98 FATHERS AND SONS,

The frank recognition of separate personality, with
all its rights, would stop this brutality, at once. There
still remains the legitimate power of the father, which
he ought not to abdicate, and which is of itself enough
to prevent the freedom and equality necessary to per-
fect friendship. This reason, and the difference of age
and habits, make it impossible that 3'oung men and
their fathers should be comrades ; but a relation may
be established between them which, if rightly under-
stood, is one of the most agreeable in human existence.

To be satisfactory it must be founded, on the father's
side, on the idea that he is repaying to posterity what
ho has received from his own parents, and not on any
selfish hope that the descending stream of benefit will
flow upwards again to him. Then he must not count
tipon affection, nor lay himself out to win it, nor be
tiinidl3' afraid of losing it, but found his influence upon
the firmer ground of respect, and be determined to de-
serve and have that, along with as much unforced affec-
tion as the son is able naturally and easilj' to give. It is
not desirable that the affection between father and son
should be so tender, on either side, as to make separa-
tion a constant pain, for such is human destiny that the
two are generallj^ fated to see but little of each other.

The best satisfaction for a father is to deserve and
receive loyal and unfailing respect from his son.

No, this is not quite the best, not quite the supreme
satisfaction of paternit3\ Shall I reveal the secret that
lies in silence at the very bottom of the hearts of all
worthy and honorable fathers? Their profoundest hap-
piness is to be able themselves to respect their sons.

THE RIGHTS OF THE GUEST. 99

ESSAY VIL

THE RIGHTS OF THE GUEST.

TF hospitality were alw^aj's perfectly practised it would
•*• be the strongest of all infliteaces in favor of ra-
tional liberty, because the host would learn to respect
it in the pei*sons of his guests, and thence, by exten*
slon of habit, amongst others who could never be his
guests.

Hospitality educates us in respect for the rights of
others. This is the substantial benefit that the host
ought to derive from his trouble and his outlay, but the
instincts of uncivilized human nature are so powerful
that this education has usually been partial and incom*
plete. The best part of it has been systematically
evaded, in this way. People were aware that tolerance
and forbearance ought to be exercised towards guests,
and so, to avoid the hard necessity of exercising these
qualities when they were really difficult virtues, they
practised what is called exclusiveness. In other words,
they accepted as guests only those who agreed with
their own opinions and belonged to their own class.
By this arrangement they could be both hospitable and
intolerant at the same time.

If, in our day, the barrier of exclusiveness has been
in many places broken down, there is all the greater
need for us to remember the true principle of hospital-

100 THE RIGHTS OF THE GUEST.

ify. It might be forgotten with little inconvenience in
a VGi^ exclusive society, but if it were forgotten in a
society that is not exclusive the consequences would be
exjMitly the opposite of what everj^ friend of civilization
most cai-nestly desires. Social intercourse, in that case,
so Ihi- from being an education in respect for the rights
of others, would be an opportunity for violating them.
The violation might become habitual ; and if it were so
this strange result would follow, that society would not
be a softening and civilizing influence, but the contrary.
It would accustom people to treat each other with
disrt^gard, so that men would be hardened and bratal-
izcd by it as schoolboys are made ruder by the rough
habits of the plaj'ground, and urbanity would not
be cultivated in cities, but preserved, if at all, in
sulitnde.

Tlie two views concerning the rights of the guest may
be stated briefly as follows : —

1 , The guest is bound to conform in all things to the
tastes and customs of his host. He ought to find or
feigti enjoyment in everj'thing that his host imposes
iijion liim ; and if he is unwilling to do this in every
pnrtknlar it is a breach of good manners on his part,
and he must be made to suffer for it.

2, The guest should be left to be happy in his own
way, and the business of the host is to arrange things
ill such a manner that each guest may enjoy as much
as possible his own peculiar kind of happiness.

AVhen the first principle was applied in all its rigor,
as it often used to be applied, and as I have mjself
Bcen it applied, the sensation experienced by the guest

\

THE RIGHTS OF THE GUEST. 101

on going to stay in certain houses was that of entirely
losing the direction of himself. He was not even
allowed, in the middle classes, to have any control over
his own inside, but had to eat what his host ordered
him to eat, and to drink the quantity of wine and spirits
that his host had decided to be good for him. Resist-
ance to these dictates was taken as an offence, as a
crime against good fellowship, or as a reflection on the
quality of the good things provided ; and conversation
paused whilst the attention of the whole company was
attracted to the recalcitrant guest, who was intention-
ally placed in a situation of extreme annojance and
discomfort in order to compel him to obedience. The
victim was perhaps half an invalid, or at least a man
who could only keep well and happy on condition of
observing a certain strictness of regimen. He was
then laughed at for idle fears about his health, told that
he was a hypochondriac, and recommended to drink a
bottle of port every day to get rid of such idle non-
sense. If he declined to eat twice or three times as
much as he desired, the hostess expressed her bitter
regret that she had not been able to provide food and
cookery to his taste, thus placing him in such a position
that he must either eat more or seem to condemn her
arrangements. It was verj- common amongst old-
fashioned French bourgeois in the last generation for
the hostess herself to heap things on the guest's plate,
and to prevent this her poor persecuted neighbor had
to remove the plate or turn it upside down. The
whole habit of pressing was dictated by selfish feeling
in the hosts. They desired to see their guests devour

102 THE RIGHTS OF THE GUEST.

voraciously, in order that their own vanity might be
gratified by the seeming appreciation of their things*
Temperate men were disliked by a generation of topers
because their temperance had the appearance of a silent
protest or censure. The discomfort inflicted by these
odious usages was so great that many people either
injured their health in society or kept out of it in self-
defence, though they were not sulky and unsociable by
nature, but would have been hearty lovers of human
intercourse if they could have enjoyed it on less unac-
ceptable terms.

The wholesome modern rei^iction against these dread-
ful old customs has led some hosts into another error.
They sometimes fail to understand the great principle
that it is the guest alone who ought to be the judge
of the quantity that he shall eat and drink. The
old pressing hospitalit}' assumed that the guest was a
child, too shame-faced to take what it longed for unless
it was vigorousl^^ encoui'aged ; but the new hospitality,
if indeed it still in every case deserves that honored
name, does really sometimes appear to assume (I do
not say alwaj'^s, or often, but in extreme cases) that
the guest is a fool, who would eat and drink more than
is good for him if he were not carefull3' rationed. Such
hosts forget that excess is quite a relative teim, that
each constitution has its own needs. Beyond this, it
is well known that the exhilaration of social intercourse
enables people who meet convivially to digest and
asshnilate, without fatigue, a larger amount of nutri-
ment than they could in dull and perhaps dejected
dolitude. Hence it is a natural and long-established

THE RIGHTS OF THE QUEST. lOfe

habit to eat aiicl drink more when In company than
alone, and the guest shoald have the possibility ot
conforming to this not irrational old cnstom nntil, in
Homer's phrase, he has ^ pat from him the desire of
meat and drink."

Gnests have no right whatever to reqnire that the
host shoold himself eat and drink to keep them in
oonntenance. There nsed to be a belief (it lingers still
in the middle classes and in country places) that the
laws of hospitality required the host to set what wad
oonddered ^^ a good example,'* or, in other words, to
commit excesses himself that his friends might not
be too much ashamed of theirs. It is said that the
Emperor William of Germany never eats in public at
an, bat sits oat every banqaet before an empty plate.
This, though quite excusable in an old gentleman,
obliged to live by rule, must have rather a chilling
effect ; and yet I like it as a declaration of the one
great principle that no person at table, be he host or
guest, ought to be oompellcd to inflict the very slightest
Injury upon hia own health, or even comfort. The ra*
tional and civilized idea is that food and wines are
simply placed at the disposal of the people present to
be nsed, or abstained from, as they please.

It is clear that every invited gnest has a right to
expect some slight appearance of festivity in his honor.
In coarse and barbarous times the idea of festivity is
invariably expressed by abundance, especially by vast
quantities of butcher's meat and wine, as we always
find it in Homer, where princes and gentlemen stuff
themselves like savages; bat in refined times the notion

104 THE RIGHTS OF THE GUEST

of quantit}' has lost its attraction, and that of elegance
takes its place. In a highly civilized society nothing
convej's so much the idea of festivity as plenty of
light and flowers, with beautiful table-linen and plate
and glass. These, with some extra delicacy in cook-
ery and wines, are our modern way of expressing
welcome.

There is a certain kind of hospitality in which the
host visibly declines to make any effort either of trouble
or expense, but plainly shows by his negligence that
he only tolerates the guest. All that can be said of
such hospitalit3^ as this is that a guest who respects
himself may endure it silently for once, but would not
be likely to expose himself to it a second time.

There is even a kind of hospitality which seems to
find a satisfaction in letting the guest perceive that the
best in the house is not offered to him. He is lodged
in a poor little room, when there are noble bedchambers,
unused, in the same house ; or he is allowed to hire
a vehicle in the village, to make some excursion, when
there are horses in the stables plethoric from want of
exercise. In cases of this kind it is not the privation
of luxury that is hard to bear, but the indisposition to
give honor. The guest feels and knows that if a per-
son of very high rank came to the house everything
would be put at his disposal, and he resents the slight
put upon his own condition. A rich English lady,
long since dead, had a large mansion in the country
with fine bedrooms ; so she found a pleasure in keeping
those rooms empt}' and sending guests to sleep at the
top of the house in little bare and comfortless chambers

THE RIGHTS OF THE GUEST. 105

that the architect had intended for servants. I have
heard of a French house where there are fine state
apartments, and where all ordinary guests are poorly
lodged, and fed in a miserable salle a manger. An
aggi-avation is when the host treats himself better titan
his guest. Lady B. invited some friends to a country-
house ; and they drove to another countrj-house in tijo
neighborhood in two carriages, one containing Lady B.
and one friend, the other the remaining guests. Ihr
ladyship was timid and rather selfish, as timid peoi>Ie
often are ; so when they reached the avenue she bc^^an
to fancy that both carriages could not safely turn in tho
garden, and she despatched her footman to the second
carriage, with orders that her guests (amongst win >m
was a lady ver}' near her confinement) were to gut
out and walk to the house, whilst she drove up to the
door in state.

A guest has an absolute right to have his religious
and political opinions respected in his presence, aiul
this is not invariably done. The rule more generally
followed seems to be that class opinions only deseivo
respect and not individual opinions. The question is
too large to be treated in a paragi-aph, but I should say
that it is a clear breach of hospitality to utter anythiitg
in disparagement of any opinion whatever that is known
to be held by any one guest present, however humble
may be his rank. I have sometimes seen the knoT\'ii
opinions of a guest attacked rudely and directly, but
the more civilized method is to do it more artfully
through some other person who is not present. For
example, a guest is known to think, on important

106 THE RIGHTS OF THE GUEST.

subjects, very much as Mr. Herbert Spencer does ; then
the host will contrive to talk at him in talking about
Spencer. A guest ought not to bear this ungenerous
kind of attack. If such an occasion arises he should
declare his opinions plainly and with firmness, and
show his determination to have them respected whilst
he is there, whatever may be said against them in his
absence. If he cannot obtain this degree of courtesy,
which is his right, let him quit the house and satisfy his
hunger at some inn. The innkeeper will ask for a little
money, but he demands no mental submission.

It sometimes happens that the nationality of a foreign
guest is not respected as it ought to be. I remember
an example of this which is moderate enough to serve
as a kind of tj^pe, some attacks upon nationality being
much more direct and outrageous. An English lady
said at her own table that she would not allow her
daughter to be partially educated in a French school,
^'because she would have to associate with French girls,
which, }X>xi know, is undesirable." Amongst the guests
was a French lady, and the observation was loud enough
for everybody to hear it* I say nothing of the injustice
of the imputation. It was, indeed, most unjust, but
that is not the point. The point is that a foreigner
ought not to hear attacks upon his native land even
when they are perfectly well founded.

The host has a sort of judicial function in this way*
The guest has a right to look to him for protection on
certain occasions, and he is likely to be profoundly
grateful when it is given with tact and skill, because
the host can say things for him that he cannot even

THE RIGHTS OF THE GUEST, 107

hint at for himself. Suppose the case of a j^oung man
who is treated with easy and rather contemptuous famil-
iarity by another guest, simply on account of his 30uth«
He is nettled by the oiTencc, but as it is more in manner
than in words he cannot fix upon anything to answer.
The host perceives his annoyance, and kindly gives him
sbme degree of importance \yy alluding to some superi-
ority of his, and by treating him in a manner very
different from that which had vexed him.

A witty host is the most powerfVil ally against an
aggressor. I remember dining in a veiy well-known
house in Paris where a celebrated Frenchman repeated
the absurd old French calumny against English ladies,
— that they all drink. I was going to resent this seri-
ously when a clever Frenchwoman (who knew England
well) perceived the danger, and answered the man her-
self with great decision and ability. I then watched
for the first opportunity of making him ridiculous, and
seized upon a very delightftil one that he unwittingly
offered. Our host at once understood that my attack
was in revenge for an aggression that had been in bad
taste, and he supported me with a wit and pertinacity
that produced general merriment at the enemy's expense.
Now in that case I should say that the host was filling
one of the most important and most difficult functions
of a host.

This Essay has hitherto been written almost entirely
on the guest's side of the question, so that we have
still briefly to consider the limitations to his rights.

He has no right to impose any serious inconvenience
upon his host. He has no right to disturb the ordinary

108 THE RIGHTS OF THE GUEST.

arrangements of the house, or to inflict any serious
pecuniary cost, or to occupy the host's time to the
prejudice of his usual pursuits. He has no right to
intrude upon the privacy of his host.

A guest has no right to place the host in such a
dilemma that he must either commit a rudeness or put
up with an imposition. The very courtesy of an enter-
tainer places him at the mercy of a pushing and unscru-
pulous guest, and it is onlj'- when the provocation has
reached such a point as to have become perfectly in-
tolerable that a host will do anything so painful to
himself as to abandon his hospitable character and
make the guest understand that he must go.

It maj^ be said that difficulties of this kind never
occur in civilized society. No doubt they are rare, but
they happen just sufficientl3^ often to make it necessary
to be prepared for them. Suppose the case of a guest
who exceeds his invitation. He has been invited for
two nights, plainly and definitely ; but he stays a third,
fourth, fifth, and seems as if he would stay forever.
There are men of that kind in the world, and it is one
of their arts to disarm theu* victims by pleasantness, so
that it is not eas}' to be firm with them. The ladj' of
the house gives a gentle hint, the master follows with
broader hints, but the intruder is quite impervious to
any but the very plainest language. At last the host
has to sa}', *' Your train leaves at such an hour, and the
carriage will be ready to take you to the station half
an hour earlier." This, at any rate, is intelligible ;
and jet I have known one of those clinging limpets
whom even this proceeding failed to dislodge. At the

THE RIGHTS OF THE GUEST 109

approach of the appointed hour he was nowhere to be
found ! He had gone to hide himself in a wood with
no companion but his watch, and b}' its help he took
care to return when it was too late. That is some-
times one of the great uses of a watch.

110 THE DEATH OP FRIENDSHIP.

ESSAY VIIL

THE DEATH OP FRIENDSHIP.

A SAD subject, but worth analysis ; for if friendship
-^^- is of any value to us whilst it is alive, is it not
wortii while to inquire if there are any means of keeping
it iilivii ?

Tlici word "death" is correctly employed here, for
nobody has discovered the means by which a dead
frii lulship can be resuscitated. To hope for that would
be Yiiin indeed, and idle the waste of thought in such
a bootless quest.

Sluill we mourn over this death without hope, this
blank annihilation, this finis of intercourse once so
swoot, this dreary and ultimate conclusion?

Thft death of a fnendship is not 'the death of a per-
son ; we do not mourn for the absence of some beloved
person from the world. It is simply the termination
of a certain degree and kind of intercourse, not of
necessity the termination of all intercourse. We may
be grieved that the change has come ; we may be re-
TOorfioful if it has come thrpugh a fault of our own ; but
if it is due simply to natural causes there is small place
for any reasonable sorrow.

Friendship is a certain rapport between two minds
during one or more phases of their existence, and the
perfection of it is quite as dependent upon what is not

THE DEATH OF FRIENDSHIP. Ill

in the two mind^i as upon their positive acquirements
and possessions. Hence the extreme facility wiUi
which schoolboys form friendships which, for the time,
are real, true, and delightful. School friendships are
formed so easil}'^ because boys in the same class know
the same things ; and it rarelj' happens that in addition
to what they have in common either one party or the
other has any knowledge of importance that is not
in common.

Later in iiffe the pair of friends who were once com-
rades go into different professions that fill the mind
with special professional ideas and induce different
habits of thought. Each will be conscious, when they
meet, that there is a great range of ideas in the other's
mind from which he is excluded, and each will have a
diflSculty in keeping within the smaller range of ideas
that they have now in common ; so that thej^ will no
longer be able to let their whole minds play together as
they used to do, and they will probably feel more at
ease with mere acquaintances who have what is now
tiieir knowledge, what are now their mental habits,
than with the friend of theii* boyhood who is without
them.

This is strongly felt by men who go through a largo
experience at a distance from their early home and then
return for a while to the old place and old associates,
and find that it is only a part of themselves that is
acceptable. New growths of self have taken place in
distant regions, by travel, by study, by intercourse
with mankind ; and these new growths, though they
may be more valuable than any others, are of no

112 THE DEATH OF FRIENDSHIP.

practical use, of no social availableness, in the little
circle that has remained in the old ways.

Then there are changes of temper that result from
the fixing of the character by time. We tliink we re-
main the same, but that is one of our many illusions.
We change, and we do not always change in the same
way. One man becomes mellowed by advancing years,
but another is hardened by them; one man's temper
gains in sweetness and serenitj'^ as his intellect gains
in light, another becomes dogmatic, peremptory, and
bitter. Even when the change is the same for both, it
maj^ be unfavorable to their intercourse. Two meiTy
young hearts may enjo}'^ each other's companj^, when
they would find each other dull and flat if the sparkle
of the early efferv^escence were all spent.

I have not A'ct touched upon change of opinion as a
cause of the death of friendship, but it is one of the
most common causes. It would be a calumnj*^ on the
intelligence of the better part of mankind to say that
the}' alwaj's desire to hear repeated exactly what they
sa}^ themselves, though that is really the desire of the
unintelligent ; but the cleverest people like to hear new
and additional reasons in support of the opinions they
hold already; and the}^ do not like to hear reasons,
hitherto unsuspected, that go to the support of opin-
ions different from their own. Therefore a slow diver-
gence of opinion maj'' can*}' two friends farther and
farther apart by narrowing the subjects of their inter-
course, or a sudden intellectual revolution in one of
them ma}' effect an immediate and irreparable breach.

"If the character is formed," says Stuart Mill, "and

THE DEATH OF FRIENDSHIP. 113

fehe mind made up on the few cardinal points of human
opiiiion, agreement of conviction and feeling on these
has been felt at all times to be an essential requisite
of anything worthy the name of friendship in a really
earnest mind." I do not quote this in the belief that
it is absolutely true, but it expresses a general senti-
ment. We can only be guided by our own experience
in these matters. Mine has been that friendship is
possible with those whom I respect, however widely
the}' differ from me, and not possible with those whom
I am unable to respect, even when on the great matters
of opinion their views are identical with my own.

It is certain, however, that the change of opinion
itself has a tendency to separate men, even though the
difference would not have made friendship impossible
if it had existed from the first. Instances of this are
often found in biographies, especially in religious biogra-
phies, because religious people are more "pained" and
"wounded" b}" difference of opinion than others. We
read in such books of the profound distress with which
the hero found himself separated from his early friends
b}'^ his new conviction on this or that point of theology.
Political divergence produces the same effect in a minor
degree, and with more of imtation than distress. Even
divergence of opinion on artistic subjects is enough to
produce coolness. Artists and men of letters become
estranged from each other by modifications of their
critical doctrines.

Differences of prosperity do not prevent the forma-
tion of friendship if they have existed previously, and
can be taken as established facts ; but if they widen
8

114 THE DEATH OF FRIENDSHIP.

afterwards they have a tendency to diminish it. They
do so by altering the views of one of the parties about
ways of living and about the multitude of things involv-
ing questions of expense. If the enriched man lives
on a scale corresponding to his newly acquired wealth,
he may be regarded by the other as pretentious beyond
his station, whilst if he keeps to his old st^^le he may
be thought parsimonious. From delicacy he will cease
to talk to the other about his money matters, which he
spoke of with frankness when he was not so rich. If
he has social ambition he will fonn new alliances with
richer men, and the old friend may regard these with a
little unconscious jealousy.

It has been observed that 3'oung artists often have a
great esteem for the work of one of theu' number so
long as its qualities are not recognized and rewarded
by the public, but that so soon as the clever 3'oung man
wins the natural meed- of industry'' and ability his early
friendships die. They were often the result of a gener-
ous indignation against public injustice, so when that
injustice came to an end the kindness that was a protest
against it ceased at the same time. In jealous natures
it would no doubt be replaced by the conviction that
public favor had rewarded merit far beyond its deserts.

In the political life of democracies we see men en-
thusiasticallj' supported and really admired with sincer-
ity so long as they remain in opposition, and their
friends indulge the most favorable anticipations about
what the}' would do if they came to power ; but when
they accept office they soon lose many of these friends,
who are quite sure to be disappointed with the small

THE DEATH OF FRIENDSHIP. 115

degree in which their excessive hopes have been real-
ized. There is no country where this is seen more
frequently than in France, where Ministers are ofben
criticised with the most unrelenting and uncharitable
acerbity by the men and newspapers that helped to
raise them.

Changes of physical constitution ra^j be the death ol
friendship in this way, A friendship may be founded
upon some sport that one of the parties becomes unable
to follow. ' After that the two men cease to meet on the
particularly pleas?int occasions that every sport affords
for its real votaries, and they only meet on common
occasions, which are not the same because there is not
the same jovial and heart}^ temper. In like manner a
friendship may be weakened if one of the parties gives
up some indulgence that both used to enjo}' together.
Many a friendship has been cemented by the habit of
smoking, and weakened afterwards when one friend
gave up the habit, declined the cigars that the other
offered, and either did not accompany him to the
smoking-room or sat there in open and vexatious
nonconformity.

It is well known, so well known indeed as scarcely
to require mention here, that one of the most frequent
and powerful causes of the death of bachelor friend-
ships is marriage. One of the two friends takes a
wife, and the friendship is at once in peril. The main-
tenance of it depends upon the lady's taste and temper.
If not quite approved by her, it will languish for a little
while and then die, in spite of all painful and visible
efforts on the husband's part to compensate, by extra

116 THE DEATH OF FRIENDSHIP.

attention, for the coolness of his wife. I have visited
a Cnutuujntal city where it is always understood that
nil hatlic4or friendships are broken off by marriage.
Tins rule has at least the advantage of settling the
qnc&tioii nnequi vocally.

Siniijlc neglect is probably the most common of all
causes tieadlj' to friendship, — neglect arising either from
real intlifforence, from constitutional indolence, or from
cxccst:iivt^ devotion to business. Friendly feelings must
be ciUiL^r of extraordinarj- sinceritj^ or else strengthened
Ivy some extraneous motive of self-interest, to surmount
l^ctty inconveniences. The very slightest difficulty in
niaintLiiiiing^ intercourse is sufficient in most cases to
insure it^ total cessation in a short time. Your house is
somewhat difficult of access, — it is on a hill-side or at a
llttlG dustance from a railway station : only the most
eincure (Vicnds will be at the trouble to find 3'ou unless
your rank is so high that it is a glorj^ to visit 3'ou.

Poor friends often keep up intercourse with rich ones
by sheer force of determination long after it ought to
have been allowed to die its own natural death. When
thoy do this without having the courage to require
601110 approach to reciprocity they sink into the con-
dition of mere clients, whom the patron may indeed
treat with apparent kindness, but whom he regards
witli roal indifference, taking no trouble whatever to
tnaintiLiii tiie old connection between them.

iMjnality of rank and fortune is not at all necessary
to friendship, but a certain other kind of equality is.
A refil Hiendship can never be maintained unless there
is an equal readiness on both sides to be at some pains

THE DEATH OF FRIENDSHIP, 117

and trouble for its maintenance ; so if you perceive that
a person whom you once supposed to be your friend
will not put himself to any trouble on 3'our account,
the only course consistent with your dignitj'' is to take
exactly the same amount of pains to make yourself
agreeable to him. After you have done this for a little
time you will soon know if the friendship is reallj'
dead ; for he is sure to perceive your neglect if he does
not perceive his own, and he will either renew the
iiitercourse with some empresseme7it or else cease from
it altogether.

In early life the right rule is to accept kindness grate-
fully^ from one's elders and not to be sensitive about
omissions, because such omissions are then often con-
sistent with the most real and affectionate regard ; but
as a man advances towards middle-age it is right for
him to be somewhat careful of his dignity and to re-
quire from friends, whatever may be their station, a
certain general reciprocity. This should always be
understood in rather a large sense, and not exacted in
trifles. If he perceives that there is no reciprocity he
cannot do better than drop an acquaintance that is
but the phantom and simulacrum of Friendship's living
reaUt}-.

It is as natural that many friendships should die and
be replaced by others as that our old selves should be
replaced by our present selves. The fact seems mel-
ancholy when first perceived, but is afterwards accepted
as inevitable. There is, however, a death of friendship
which is so trulj^ sad and sorrowful as to cast its gloomy
shadow on all the 3-ears that remain to us. It is when

118 THE DEATH OP FRIENDSHIP.

we ourselvfjs, by some unhappy fault of temper that
might have been easily avoided, have wounded the
kind breast of our friend, and killed the gentle senti-
ment that was dwelling happil}*^ within. The only way
to be quite sure of avoiding this great and irretrievable
calamity is to remember how very delicate friendly
sentiments are and how easy it is to destroy them by
an inconsiderate or an ungentle word.

TH^ FLUX OF WEALTH. 119

ESSAY IX.

THE FLUX OF WEALTH.

WE become richer or poorer; we seldom remain
exactly as we were. If we have property, it
increases or diminishes in value ; if our income is fixod,
the value of money alters ; and if it increased projior-
tionally to the depreciation of monej', our position
would still be relatively altered by changes in the \\\v-
tunes of others. We many and have children ; tljeii
our wealth becomes less our own after every birth,
We win some honor or professional advancement Ihrit
seems a gain; but increased expenditure is the const*-
quence, and we are poorer than we were before. Amidst
all these fluctuations of wealth human intercourse elihcL'
continues under altered conditions or else it is broken
off because they are no longer favorable to its mainteu*
ance. I propose to consider, very briefly, how these
altered conditions operate.

We have to separate, in the first place, intercouisc
between individuals from intercourse between famili^.'s.
The distinction is of the utmost importance, because
the two are not under the same law.

Two men, of whom one is extremely rich and the
other almost penniless, have no difficulty in associalhig
together on terms agreeable to both when they possuss
intellectual interests in common, or even when there \^

120 THE FLUX OF WEALTH.

nothing more than an attraction of idiosj^ncrasy ; but
these conditions oiAy subsist between one individual
and another ; they are not likel}' to subsist between two
families. Intercourse between individuals depends on
something in intellect and culture that enables them to
understand each other, and upon something in char-
acter that makes them love or respect each other.
Intercourse between families depends chiefly on neigh-
borhood and similarity in style of living.

This is the reason why bachelors have so much easier
access to society than men with wives and families.
The bachelor is received for himself, for his genius,
information, manners ; but if he is married the question
is, "What sort of people are they?" This, being
interpreted, means, "What style do thej'^ live in?"
"How many sen- ants do they keep?"

Wliatever may be the variet}' of opinions concerning
the doctrines of the Church of Rome, there is but one
concerning her astuteness. There can be no doubt
that she is the most influential association of men that
has ever existed ; and she has decided for celibac}^, that
the priest might stand on his merits and on the power
of the Church, and be respected and admitted every-
where in spite of notorious povert3\

Mignet, the historian, was a most intimate and con-
staftt friend of Thiers. Mignet, though rich in reality,
as he knew how to live contentedlj^ on moderate means,
was poor in comparison with his friend. This inequal-
ity" did not affect their friendship in the least ; for both
were great workers, well qualified to understand each
other, though Thiers lived in a grand house, and Mignet

THE FLUX OF WEALTH, 121

in a barely furnished lodging high up in a house that
did not belong to him.

Mignet was a bachelor, and they were both child-
less men ; but imagine them with large families. One
family would have been bred in the greatest luxurj- , the
other in austere simplicity. Children are keenly alive
to these distinctions ; and even if there had been neither
pride in the rich house nor envy in the poorer one the
contrast would have been constantly felt. The histori-
cal studies that the fathers had in common would prob-
ably not have interested then- descendants, and unless
there had been some other powerful bond of sympathy
the two families would have lived in different worlds.
The rich family would have had rich fi-iends, the poorer
family would have attached itself to other families with
whom it could have exchanged hospitalitj' on more
equal terms. This would have happened even in Paris,
a cit3' where there is a remarkable absence of contempt
for poverty ; a city where the slightest reason for dis-
tinction will admit any well-bred man into society in
spite of narrow means and insure him immunity from
disdain. All the more certainly would it happen in
places where money is the onl}^ regulator of rank, the
only acknowledged claim to consideration.

I once knew an English merchant who was reputed
to be wealth}', and who, like a true Englishman as he
was, inhabited one of those great houses that are so
elaborately contrived for the exercise of hospitality.
He had a kind and friendlj' heart, and lived surrounded
by people who often did him the favor to drink his
excellent wines and sleep in his roomy bedchambers.

122 THE FLUX OF WEALTH,

On his death it turned out that he had never been
quite so rich as he appeared and that during his last
decade his fortune had rapidly dwindled. Being much
interested in everything that may confirm or invalidate
those views of hun;an nature that are current in ancient
and modern literature, I asked his son how those who
were formerly such frequent guests at the great house
had behaved to the impoverished family. ^' They
simply avoided us," he said; '? and some of them,
when they met me, would cut me openly in the
street"

It may be said with perfect truth that this was a good
riddance. It is certain that it was so ; it is undeniable
that the deliverance from a horde of false friends is
worth a considerable sum per head of them ; and that
in itself was only a subject of congratulation, but their
behavior was hard to bear because it was the evidence
of a fall. We like deference as a proof that we have
what others respect, quite independently of any real
affection on their part ; nay, we even enjoy the forced
deference of those who hate us, well knowing that they
would behave very differently if they dared. Besides
this, it is not certain that an impoverished famik will
find truer friends amongst the poor than it did formerly
amongst the rich. The relation may be the same as
it was before, and only the incomes of the parties
altered.

What concerns our present subject is simply that
changes of pecuniary situation have always a sti'oug
tendenc}^ to throw people amongst other associates ; and
as these changes are continually occurring, the result is

THE FLUX OF WEALTH, 128

that families very rarely preserve the same acquaint-
ances for more than a single generation. And now
comes the momentous issue. The influence of our iis-
sociates is so difficult to resist, in fact so complctt ly
irresistible in the long run, that people belong fax lus3
to the class they are descended from than to the chisa
in which they live. The j^oimger son of some perfectly
aristocratic family maiTies rather impinidently and ia
impoverished by family expenses. His son marries
imprudently again and goes into another class. Tlic
children of that second marriage will probably not haio
a trace of the peculiarly aristocratic civilization. They
will have neither the manners, nor the ideas, nor Ihc
unexpressed instincts of the real aristocrac}' from which
the}' sprang. In place of them^hey will have the ideas
of the lower middle class, and be in habits and maniuns
just as completely of that class as if their forefathirs
had always belonged to it.

I have in view two instances of this which are us-
pecially interesting to me because thej^ exemplif}- it iu
opposite ways. In one of these cases the man was vir-
tuous and religious, but though his ancestry was aris-
tocratic his virtues and his religion were exactly those
of the English middle class. He was a good Bible-
reading, Sabbath-observing, theatre- avoiding Evangt'li-
cal, inclined to think that dancing was rather sin In! ,
and in all those subtle points of difference that dlstla-
guish the middle-class Englishman from the aristocnitic
Englishman he followed the middle class, not seeruing
to have any unconscious reminiscence in his blood of
an ancestry with a freer and lordlier life. He cartid

124 THE FLUX OF WEALTH,

neither for the sports, nor the studies, nor the social
intercourse of the aristocracy. His time was divided,
as that of the topical good middle-class Englishman
generalh' is, between business and religion, except
when he read his newspaper. By a combination of
industry and good-fortune he recovered wealth, and
might have rejoined the aristocracy to which he be-
longed by right of descent; but middle-class habits
were too strong, and he remained contentedly to the
close of life both in that class and of it.

The other example I am thinking of is that of a man
still better descended, who followed a profession which,
though it offers a good field for energy and talent, is
seldom pursued by gentlemen. He acquired the habits
and ideas of an intelligent but dissipated working-man,
his vices were exactlj^ those of such a man, and so was
his particular kind of religious scepticism. I need not
go further into detail. Suppose the character of a very
clever but vicious and irreligious workman, such as
may be found in gi-eat numbers in the large English
towns, and you have the accurate portrait of this
particular declasse.

In mentioning these two cases I am anxious to avoid
misinterpretation. I have no particular respect for one
class more than another, and am especially disposed to
indulgence for the faults of those who bear the stress
of the labor of the world ; but I see that there are
classes, and that the fluctuations of fortune, more than
an}' other cause, bring people within the range of influ-
ence exercised by the habits of classes, and form them
in the mould, so that their virtues and vices afterwards,

THE FLUX OF WEALTH. 125

besides their smaller qualities and defects, belong to
the class they live in and not to the class they may
be descended from. In other words, men are more
strongly influenced by human intercourse than by
hereditj-.

The most remarkable effect of the fluctuation of
wealth is the extreme rapidity- with which the pros-
perous family gains refinement of manners, whilst the
impoverished family loses it. This change seems to be
more rapid in our own age and country than it has
ever been before. Nothing is more interesting than to
watch this double process ; and nothing in social studies
is more curious than the multiplicity of the minute
causes that bring it about. Every abridgment of cere-
mon}' has a tendencj^ to lower refinement by introducing
that sana-gene whicli is fatal to good manners. Cere-
mony is only compatible with leisure. It is abridged
hy haste ; haste is the result of poverty ; and so it
comes to pass that the loss of fortune induces people
to give up one little observance after another, for econ-
omy of time, till at last there are none remaining.
There is the excellent habit of dressing for the evening
meal. The mere cost of it is almost imperceptible,
except that it causes a small additional expenditure in
clean linen ; but, although the pecuniary tax is slight,
there is a tax on time which is not compatible with
hurry and irregularitj^ so it is only people of some
leisure who maintain it. Now consider the subtle influ-
ence, on manners, of the maintenance or abandonment
of this custom. Where it is kept up, gentlemen and
ladies meet in a drawing-room before dinner prepared

126 THE FLUX OF WEALTH.

by their toilet for the disciplined intercourse of well-
regulated social life. They are like officers in uniform,
or clei'gymen in canonicals : they wear a dress that is
not without its obligations. It is not the luxury of it
that does this, for the dress is alwa3's plain for men
and often simple for ladies, but the mere fact of taking
the trouble to dress is an act of deference to civiliza-
tion and disposes the mind to other observances. It
has the further advantage of separating us from the
occupations of the day and marking a new point of
departure for the gentler life of the evening. As peo-
ple become poorer they give up dressing except when
thej' have a party, and then they feel ill at ease from
the consciousness of a white tie. You have only to go
a little further in this direction to arrive at the people
who do not feel any inclination to wash their hands
before dinner, even when they visiblj' need it. Finally'
there are houses where the master will sit down to table
in his shirt-sleeves and without an^'thing round his
neck. People who live in this way have no social inter-
course whatever of a slightly ceremonious kind, and
therefore miss all the discipline in manners that rich
people go through everj^ d2iy. The higher society is a
school of manners that the poor have not leisure to
attend.

The downward couree of an impoverished family is
strongly aided by an element in many natures that the
discipline of high life either subdues or eliminates.
There are alwa^-s people, especially in the male sex,
who feel ill at ease under ceremonial restraints of any
kind, and who find the release from them an ineffably

THE FLUX OF WEALTH. 127

delightful emancipation. Such people hate dressing for
dinner, hate the forms of politeness, hate gloves and
visiting-cards, and all that such things remind them of.
To be rid of these things once for all, to be able to sit
and smoke a pipe in an old gray coat, seems to tbem
far greater and more substantial happiness than to
drink claret in a dining-room, napkin on knee. Once
out of society^ such men have no desire to enter it again,
and after a very short exclusion from it they belong to
a lower class from taste quite as much as fVom circniii*
stances. All those who have a tendenc^^ towards the
philosophy of Diogenes (and they are more numoi *
ous than we suppose) are of this manner of thinking.
Sometimes they have a taste for serious intellectual
pursuits which makes the nothings of society secra
frivolous, and also consoles their pride for an apparent
decheance.

If it were possible to get rid of the burdensome
superfluities of high life, most of which are useless en-
cumbrances, and live simply without an}- loss of refine-
ment, I should say that these philosophers would have
reason on their side. The complicated apparatus of
wealthy life is not in itself desirable. To convert the
simple act of satisfying hunger into the tedious ceremu-
nial of a state dinner may be a satisfaction of pnde, hiifc
it is assuredlj^ not an increase of pleasure. To receive
as guests people whom we do not care for in the least
(which is constantly done by rich people to maintain
their position) offers less of what is agreeable in human
intercourse than a chat with a real friend under a sliced
of tliatch. Nevertheless, to be totally excluded from

128 THE FLUX OF WEALTH,

the life of the wealthy is to miss a discipline in manners
that nothing ever replaces, and this is the real loss.
The cultivation of taste which results from leisure forms,
in course of time, amongst rich people a public opinion
that disciplines every member of an aristocratic society
far more severely than the more careless opinion of the
hurried classes ever disciplines them. To know the
value of such discipline we have only to observe so-
cieties from which it is absent. We have many oppor-
tunities for this in travelling, and one occurred to me
last 3'ear that I will describe as an example. I was
boating with two young friends on a French river, and
we spent a Sunday in a decent riverside inn, where we
had dejeuner in a corner of the public room. Several
men of the neighborhood, probablj' farmers and small
proprietors, sat in another corner plajing cards. They
had a very decent appearance, they were fine healthy-
looking men, quite the contrary of a degraded class,
and they were onh' amusing themselves temperately on
a Sunday morning. Well, from the beginning of their
game to the end of it (that is, during the whole time
of our meal), they did nothing but shout, yell, shriek,
and swear at each other loudly enough to be beard
across the broad river. They were not angry in the
least, but it was their habit to make a noise and to use
oaths and foul language continually. We, at our table,
could not hear each other's voices ; but this did not
occur to them. They had no notion that their noisy
kind of intercourse could be unpleasant to an3'body,
because delicacy of sense, fineness of nerve, had not
been developed in their class of society. Afterwards

THE FLUX OF WEALTH, 129

I asked them for some information, which the}^ gave
with a real anxiety to make themselves of use. Some
rich people came to the inn with a pretty carriage, and
I amused myself by noting the difference. Their man-
ners were perfectly quiet. Why are rich people quiet
and poorer ones noisy? Because the refinements of
wealthy^ life, its peace and tranquillity, its leisure, its
facilities for separation in different rooms, produce
delicacy of nerve, with the perception that noise is dis-
agreeable; and out of this delicacy, when it is general
amongst a whole class, springs a strong determination
so to discipline the members of the class that they shall
not make themselves disagreeable to the majorit}'.
Hence lovers of good manners have a preference for
the richer classes quite apart from a love of physical
luxury or a snobbish desire to be associated with people
of rank. For the same reason a lover of good manners
dreads poverty or semi-poverty for his children, because
even a moderate degree of poverty (not to speak of the
acute forms of it) may compel them to associate with the
undisciplined. What gentleman would like his son to
live habitually with the card-players I have described?

130 DIFFERENCES OP RANK AND WEALTH.

ESSAY X.

mFFERENCES OF RANK AND WEALTH.

'TPHE most remarkable peculiarity about the desire
■^ to establish distinctions of rank is not that there
should be definite gradations amongst people who have
titles, but that, when the desire is strong in a nation,
public opinion should go far beyond heralds and parch-
ments and gazettes, and establish the most minute
gradations amongst people who have nothing honorific
about them.

When once the rule is settled by a table of prece-
dence that an earl is greater than a baron, we simply
acquiesce in the arrangement, as we are ready to
believe that a mandarin with a 3^ellow jacket is a
much-to-be-honored sort of mandarin ; but what is the
power that strikes the nice balance of social advantages
in favor of Mr. Smith as compared with Mr. Jones,
when neither one nor the other has anj^ title, or ances-
try, or anything whatever to boast of ? Amongst the
many gifts that are to be admired in the fair sex this
seems one of the most mysterious, that ladies can so
decidedly fix the exact social position of every human
being. Men soon find themselves bewildered by con-
flicting considerations, but a woman goes to the point
at once, and settles in the most definite manner that
Smith is certainl}^ the superior of Jones.

DIFFERENCES OF RANK AND WEALTH. 131

This may bring upon me the imputation of being a
democrat and a leveller. No, I rather like a well-
defined social distinction when it has reality. Real
distinctions keep society picturesque and interesting;
what I fail to appreciate so completely are the ficti-
tious little distinctions that have no basis In reality,
and appear to be instituted merely for the sake of
establishing differences that do not naturallj^ exist. It
seems to be an unfortunate tendency that seeks unap-
parent differences, and it may have a bad effect on
character by forcing each man back upon the consid-
eration of his own claims that it would be better for
him to forget.

I once dined at a country-house in Scotland when
the host asked one of the guests this question, ''Are
you a land-owner?" in order to determine his prece-
dence. It did so happen that the guest owned a few
small farms, so he answered " Yes ; " but it struck me
that the distinction between a man who had a moder-
ate sum invested in land and one who had twice as
much in other investments was not clearly in favor of
the first. Could not the other buy land any day if he
liked? He who hath gold hath land, potentially. If
precedence is to be regulated by so material a consid-
eration as wealth, let it be done fairly and plainly.
The best and simplest plan would be to embroider the
amount of each gentleman's capital in gold thread on
the breast of his dress-coat. The metal would be
appropriate, the embroidery would be decorative, and
the practice would offer unequalled encouragement to
thrift.

132 DIFFERENCES OF RANK AND WEALTH,

Again, I have always understood in the most confused
manner the distinction, so clear to many, between
those who are in tra(ie and those who are not. I
think I see the only real objection to trade with the
help of M. Renan, who has stated it very clearly, but
my difficulty is to discover who are tradesmen, and, still
more, who are not tradesmen. Here is M. Benan's
account of the matter : —

" Our ideal can only be realized with a Government that
gives some eclai to those who are connected with it and
which creates distinctions outside of wealth. We feel an
antipathy to a society in which the merit of a man and hia
superiority to another can only be revealed under the form
of industry and commerce ; not that trade and industry are
not honest in our eyes, but because we see clearly that the
best things (such as the functions of the priest, the magis-
trate, the savant, the artist, and the serious man of letters)
are the inverse of the industrial and commercial spirit, the
first duty of those who follow them being not to try to enrich,
themselves,, and never to take into consideration the venal
value of what they do."

This I understand, provided that the priest, magis^
trate, savant^ artist, and serious man of letters are
faithful to this " first duty ; '* provided that they " never
take into consideration the venal value of what they
do ; " but there are tradesmen in the highest pix>fessions.
All that can be said against trade is that its objeot is
profit. Then it follows that ever}^ professioa followed
for profit has in it what is objectionable in trade, and
that the professions are not noble in themselves but
only if they are followed in a disinterested spirit. I
should say, then, that any attempt to ^x the di^ee

DIFFERENCES OF RANK AND WEALTH. 133

of nobleness of persons by the sapposed nobleness of
'their occupations must be founded upon an unreal
distinction. A yenftl clergyman who does not believe
the dogmaa that he defends for his endowment, a venal
banister, ready to prostitute his talents and his tongue
for a large income, seem to me to have in them far
more of what is objectionable in trade than a country
bookseller who keeps a little shop and sells note-paper
and sealing-wax over the counter ; yet it is assumed
that their occupations are noble Qocupations and that
his business is not noble, though I can see nothing what-
ever in it of which sLuy gentleman need be in the slight-
est degree ashamed.

Again^ there seem to be most unreal distinctions
of respectability in the trades themselves. The wine
trade has always been considered a gentlemanly busi-
ness ; but why is it more respectable to sell wine and
spirits than to sell bread, or cheese, or beef ? Are not
articles of food more useful to the community than alco-
holic drinks, and less likely to contribute to the general
sum of evil? As for the honesty of the dealers, no
doubt there are honest wine-merchants ; but what thing
that is sold for nKwiey has been more frequently adul-
terated, or more mendaciously labelled, or more un-
scrupulously charged for, than the produce of European
vintages ? ^

1 That valiant eneoc^y of fajtse pretensions, Mr. Punch, has often
done good service in throwing ridicule on unreal distinctions. In
" Punch's Almanack " for 1882 I find the following exquisite con-
versation beneath one of George Du Maurier's inimitable drawings :

Grigsby, Do yon knpw the Joneses %

Mrs, Drown. No, we — er— don't care to know BMsiness

134 DIFFERENCES OF RANK AND WEALTH.

Another wonderful unreality is the following. Peo-
ple desire the profits of trade, but are unwilling to lose
caste by engaging in it openly. In order to fill their
pockets and preserve their rank at the same time they
engage in business anonymously, either as members ot
some firm in which their names do not appear, or else
as share-holders in great trading enterprises. In both
these cases the investor of capital becomes just as really
and truly a tradesman as if he kept a shop, but if you
were to tell him that he was a tradesman he would
probably resent the imputation.

It is remarkable that the people who most despise
commerce are the very people who bow down most
readily before the accomplished results of commerce ;
for as they have an exaggerated sense of social dis-
tinctions, they are great adorers of wealth for the dis-
tinction that it confers. By their worship of wealth
thej^ acknowledge it to be most desirable ; but then
they worship rank also, and this other cultus goes with
the sentiment of contempt for humble and plodding
industry in all its forms.

The contempt for trade is inconsistent in anotfier
way. A man may be excluded from ''good society"
because he is in trade, and his grandson may be ad-
mitted because the grandfather was in trade, that is,

people, as a rule, although my husband 's in business ; but then
he 's in the Coffee business, — and they 're all Gentlemen in the
Coffee business, you know 1

Grigshy (who always suits himself to his company). Really,
now ! Why, that 's more than can be said of the Army, the Navy,
the Church, the Bar, or even the Home of Lords I I don't tconder
at your being rather exclusive !

DIFFERENCES OF RANK AND WEALTH. 135

through a fortune of commercial origin. The present
Prime Minister (Gladstone) and the Speaker of the
House of Commons (Mr. Arthur Peel) and many other
men of high position in both Houses may owe their
fame to their own distinguished abilities ; but thej^ owe
the leisure and opportunity for cultivating and display-
ing those abilities to the wits and industry of tradesmen
removed from them only by one or two generations.

Is there not a strange inconsistency in adoring wealth
as it is adored, and despising the particular kind of skill
and ability hy which it is usually acquired? For if
there be anything honorable about wealth it must surely
be as evidence of the intelligence and industry that are
necessary for the conquest of povert3% On the con-
trary, a narrowlj^ exclusive society despises the virtue
that is most creditable to the nouveau riche^ his in-
dustry, whilst it worships his wealth as soon as the
preservation of it is compatible with idleness.

There is a great deal of unreal distinction in the
matter of ancestry. Those who observe closely are well
aware that many undoubted and lineal descendants of
the oldest families are in humble social positions, simply
for want of money to make a display, whilst others
usurp their coats-of-arms and claim a descent that they
cannot reall}' prove. The whole subject is therefore
one of the most unsatisfactory that can be, and all that
remains to the real members of old families who have
not wealth enough to hold a place in the expensive
modern aristocracy, is to remember secretly the histor}^
of their ancestors if they are romantic and poetical
enough to retain the old-fashioned sentiment of birth,

136 DIFFERENCES OF RANK AND WEALTH.

and to forget it if they look only to the present and the
practical. There is, inSeed, so little of the romantic
sentiment left in the country, that even amongst the
descendants of old families themselves very few are
able to blazon their own. armorial bearings, or even
know what the verb "to blazon" means.

Amidst so great a confusion the simplest way would
be not to think about rank at all, and to take human
nature as it comes without reference to it ; but however
the ancient barriers of rank may be broken down, it is
only to erect new ones. English feeling has a d^ep
satisfaction in contemplating rank and wealth com-
bined. It is that which it likes, — the combination.
When wealth is gone It thinks that a man should lock
up his pedigree in his desk and forget that he has an-
cestors ; so it has been said that an English gentleman
in losing wealth loses his caste with it, whilst a French
or Italian gentleman may keep his caste, except in the
most abject poverty. On the other hand, when an
Englishman has a vast fortune it is thought right to
give him a title also, that the desirable combinaition
may be created afresh. Nothing is so striking in Eng-
land, considering that it is an old country, as the new-
ness of most of the great families. The aristocracy is
like London, that has the reputation of being a very
ancient city, \'et the houses are of recent date. An
aristocracy may be stronger and in better repair be-
cause of its newness ; it may also be more likely to
make a display of aristocratic superiorities, and expect
deference to be paid to them, than an easj'-going old
aristocracy would be.

DIFFERENCES OF RANK AND WEALTH, 137

What are the ^saperiorities, and what is the nature of
the deference ?

The superiority given by title depends on the intensity
of title-worship amongst the public. In England that
religion is in a very healthy and flourishing state, so
that titles are very valuable there ; in France the sense
of a social hierarchy is so much weakened that titles
are of infinitely less value. False ones are assumed
and borne with impunity on account of the general
indifference, whilst true and authentic titles are often
dropped as an encumbrance. The blundering igno-
rance of the French about our titles, which so astonishes
Englishmen, is due to a carelessness about the ^hole
subject that no inhabitant of the British Islands can
imagine.* In those islands title is of very g:^eat

^ I am often amused by the indignant feelings of English jour-
nalists on this matter. Some Frencb newspaper calls an English-
man a lord when he is not a lord, and our journalists are amazed
at the incorrigible ignorance of the French. If Englishmen
cared as little about titles they would be equally ignorant, and
two or three other things are to be said in defence of the French
journalist that English critics never take into account. They
suppose that because Gladstone is commonly called Mr. a French-
man ought to know that he cannot be a lord. That does not
follow. In France a man may be called Monsieur and be a baron
at the same time. A Frenchman may answer, " If Gladstone is
not a lord, why do you call him one 1 English almanacs not
only say that Gladstone is a lord, but that he is the yery First Lord
of the Treasury. Again, why am I not to speak of Sir Chamber- '
lain ? I have seen a printed letter to him beginning with * Sir,'
which is plain evidence that your * Sir * is the equivalent of our
Monsieur." A Frenchman is surely not to be severely blamed if
he is not aware that the First Lord of the Treasury is not a lord
at all, and that a man who is called a " Sir " inside every letter
addressed to him has no right to that title on the envelope.

138 DIFFERENCES OF RANK AND WEALTH,

importance because the people have such a strong con-
sciousness of its existence. In England, if there is
a lord in the room everj^body is aware of it.

Superiority of famil}- , without title, is merely local ;
it is not understood far from the ancestral home.
Superiority of title is national ; it is imperfectly appre-
ciated in foreign countries. But superiority^ of wealth
has the immense advantage over these that it is re-
spected everywhere and can display itself everywhere
with the utmost ostentation under pretext of custom
and pleasure. It commands the homage of foolish and
frivolous people by possibilities of vain display, and
at the same time it appears desirable to the wise be-
cause it makes the gathering of experience easy ^nd
human intercourse convenient.

The rich man has access to an immense range of
varied situations ; and if he has energy to profit by this
facility and put himself in those situations where he
may learn the most, he may become far more experi-
enced at thirt3'-five than a poor man can be at seventy.
A poor man has a taste for boating, so he builds a little
boat with his own hands, and paints it green and white,
with its name, the " Cock-Kobin," in yellow. Mean-
while his good wife, in spite of all the work she has to
do, has a kindly indulgence for her poor Tom's hobby,
thinks he deserves a little amusement, and stitches the
sail for him in the evenings. He sails five or six miles
up and down the river. Sir Thomas Brassey has ex-
actl}' the same tastes : he builds the " Sunbeam ; " and
whilst the •' Cock-Kobin" has been doing its little trips,
the '' Sunbeam" has gone round the world ; and instead

DIFFERENCES OF RANK AND- WEALTH. 139

of stitching the sails, the kind wife has accompanied the
mariner, and written the story of his voyage. If after
that you talk with the owners of the two vessels you
may be interested for a few minutes — deeply interested
and touched if you have the divine gift of sympathy'
— with the poor man's account of his doings ; but his
experience is small and soon told; whilst the owner of
the " Sunbeam '* has traversed all the oceans and could
tell 3^ou a thousand things. So it naturally follows in
most cases, though the rule has exceptions, that rich '
men are more interesting people to know than poor
men of equal ability.

I remember being forcibly reminded of the narrow
experience of the poor on one of those occasions that
often happen to those who live in the country and
know their poorer neighbors. A friend of mine, with
his children, had come to stay with me ; and there was
a poor woman, living in a very out-of-the-way hamlet
on a hill, who had made me promise that I would take
my friend and his children to see her, because she had
known their mother, who was dead, and had felt for
her one of those strong and constant affections that
often dwell in humble and faithful hearts. We have a
great respect for this poor woman, who is in all ways
a thoroughl}- dutiful person, and she has borne severe
trials with great patience. Well, she was delighted to
see m}' friend and his children, delighted to see how
well thej^ looked, how much they had grown, and so on ;
and then she spoke of her own little ones, and showed
us the books they were learning in, and described their
dispositions, and said that her husband was in full

140 DIFFERENCES OF RANK AND WEALTH.

work and went every day to the schist mine, and was
^uch steadier than he used to be, and made her much
happier. After that she began again, saying exactly
the same things all over again, and she said them a
third time, and a fourth time. When we had left, we
noticed this repetition, and we agreed that the poor
woman, instead of being deficient in intelligence, was
naturally above the average, but that the extreme
narrowness of her experience, the total want of variety
in her life, made it impossible for her mind to get out
of that little domestic groove^- She had about half-a-
dozen ideas, and she lived in them, as a person in a
small house lives in a very few rooms.

Now, however mudi esteeia, respect, arid affection
you may have for a person of that kind, 3'ou will find it
impossible to enjoy such society because conversation
has no aliment. This is the one great reason why
cultivated people seem to avoid the poor, even wh^i
they do not despise them in the least.

The greater experience of the rich is united to an
incomparably greater power of pleasant reception, be-
cause in their homes conversation is not interfered with
by the multitude of petty domestic difficulties and incon-
veniences. I go to spend the day with a very poor
friend, and this is what is likely to happen. He and
I can only talk without interruption when we are out
of the housa Inside it his children break in upon us
constantly. His wife finds me in the wa}^ and wishes
I had not come, because she has not been able to
provide things exactly as she desired. At dinner her
mind is not in the conversation ; she is really occupied

DIFFERENCES OF RANK AND WEALTH. 141

with petty household cares. I, on my part, have the
uncomfortable feeling that 1 am creating inconvenience ;
and it requires incessant attention to soothe the watch-
ful sensitiveness of a hostess who is so painfully alive
to the deficiencies of her small establishment. If I
have a robust appetite, it is well ; but woe to me if my
appetite is small, and I must overeat to prove that the
cookery is good ! If I accept a bed the sacrifice of a
toom will cause crowding elsewhere, besides which I
shall be a nuisance in the early morning hours when
notiiing in the menace is fit for the public ey«. Whilst
creating all this inconvenience to others, I suffer the
great one of being stopped in my usual pursuits. If I
want a few quiet hours for reading and writing there
is oidy one way : I must go privatelj^ to some hotel and
bir6 a sitting-room for myself

Now Consider the difference when I go to visit a rich
friend! The first delightful feeling is that I do not
occasion the very sligljtest inconvenience. His ar-
rangements for the reception of guests are permanent
and perfect. My arrival will scarcely cost his wife
a thought ; she has simply given orders in the morning
for a room to be got ready and a cover to be laid at
table. Her mind is free to think about any subject
that su^ests itself. Her conversation, from long piac-
tice, is as easy as the style of a good writer. All
causes of interruption are carefull}'^ kept in the back-
ground. The household details are attended to by a
regiment of domestics under their own officers. The
children are in rooms of their own with their governesses
and servants, and we see just enough of them to be

142 DIFFERENCES OF RANK AND WEALTH.

agreeable. If I desire privacy, nolhing is more easily
obtained. On the slightest hint a room is placed at
my disposal. I remember one house where that room
used to be a splendid library, full of the books which
at that time I most wanted to consult ; and the only
interruption in the mornings was the noiseless entrance
of the dear lady of the house, always at eleven o'clock
preciselj', with a glass of wine and a biscuit on a httle
silver tray. It is not the material luxur}^ of rich men's
houses that a wise man would desire; but he must
thorough^ appreciate their convenience and the varied
food for the mind that they afford, — the books, the pic-
tures, the curiosities. In one there is a museum of
antiquities that a large town might envy, in another
a collection of drawings, in a third a magnificent ar-
mory. In one private house in Paris * there used to be
fourteen noble saloons containing the arts of two hun-
dred years. You go to stay in ten rich houses and find
them all different ; 3^ou enjoy the difference, and in a
certain sense 3'ou possess the different things. The
houses of the poor are all alike, or if they differ it is
not by variety of artistic or intellectual interest. By
the habit of stajing in each other*s houses the rich
multiply their riches to infinity. In a certain way of
their own (it is not exactly the way of the early Chris-
tians) they have their goods in common.

There are, no doubt, many guests in the houses of

the rich who care little for the people they visit, but

much for the variety and accommodation, — guests who

visit the place rather than the owner ; guests who enjoy

1 That of M. Leopold Double.

DIFFERENCES OF RANK AND WEALTH. 143

tlie cookery, the wines, the shooting, and who wrtuld
go to the house if the owner were changed, exactly as
they continue to patronize some pleasantly situated
and well-managed hotel, after a change of masters. I
hardly know how to describe these people in a woid,
but it is easy to characterize their entertainers. They
are unpaid innkeepers.

Tliere are also people, apparently hospitable, wlio
care little for the persons they invite, — so very little,
indeed, that we do not easily discover what motive
they have for inviting them. The answer maj'- be tliat
the}^ dislike solitude so much that any guest is accept-
able, or else that they want admirers for the beautiful
arrangements and furniture of their houses ; for what
is the use of having beautiful things if there is nobody
to appreciate them? Hosts of this class are amateur
exhibitors, or they are like amateur actors who want
an audience, and who will invite people to come autl
listen, not because they care for the people, but because
it is discouraging to play to emptj^ benches.

These two classes of guests and hosts cannot exist
without riches. The desire to be entertained ceases
at once when it is known that the entertainment will
be of a poor quality ; and the desire to exhibit the inter-
nal arrangements of our houses ceases when we are too
poor to do justice to the refinement of our taste.

The story of the rich man who had many friends and
saw them fall away from him when he became poor,
which, under various forms, reappears in every age and
is common to all literatures, is explained hy these con-
siderations. Bucklaw does not find Lord Ravenswood

4

144 DIFFERENCES OF RANK AND WEALTH,

a valuable gratuitous innkeeper ; and Ravenswood is not
anxious to exhibit to Bucklaw the housekeeping at
Wolfs Crag.

But quite outside of parasite guests and exhibiting
cntertainei-s, there still remains the undeniable fact that
if you like a rich man and a poor one equally well,, yoxi
will prefer the rich man's hospitalit}" for its greater con-
Tculence. Nay, more, you will rightly and excusably
prefer the rich man's hospitality even if you like the
poor man better, but find his household, arrangements
disagreeable, his wife fagged, worn, irritable, and un-
gracious, his children iU-bred, obtrusive, and dirty,, him-
self unable to talk about anjiiblng rational on account
of family interruptions, and scarcely his own better
and higher self at all in the midst of his domestic
plngues.^

There is no nation in the world that has so acute a
sense of the value, almost the necessifty, of wealth for
human intercourse as the English nation. Whilst in
otlier countries people think " Wealth is peace of mmd,
wealth is convenience, wealth is la vie eUgantCy** in
England they silently accept the maxim, " A large in-
come is a necessary of life ; " and Wx^y class each other
according to the scale of their establishments, looking
up with unfeigned reverence to those who have many

^ I need hardly say that this is not intended as a description of
poor men's hospitality generally, but only of the eflects of poverty
ou hospitaUt^y in certain cases. The point of the contrast lies in
tlie difference between this uncomfortable hospitality, which a
lover of pleasant human intercourse avoids, with the easy and
agreeable hospitality that the very same people would probably
have offered if they had possessed the conveniences of wealth.

DIFFERENCES OF RANK AND WEALTH. 145

servants, many horses, and! gigantic houses where a
great hospitality is dispensed. An ordinary English-
man thinks he has failed in life, and his fneods are of
the same opinion, if he does not arrive at the abiliU^ to
imitate this style and state, at least in a minor degree.
I have given the best reasons why it is desired ; [un-
derstand and appreciate them; but at the same Liiae
I think it deeply to be deplored that an expend! Iiirti
far bej'ond what can be met by the physical or intel-
lectual labor of ordinary workers should be th^juglit
necessary in order that people may meet and talk in
comfort. The big English house is a machine that nms
with unrivalled smoothness; but it masters its miU^Ler,
it possesses its nominal possessor. Geoi^e Borrow
had the deepest sense of the Ei^lishman's slavery to
his big, well-ordered dwelling, and saw in it the cause
of unnumbered anxieties, often ending in heart-dif^casc,
paralysis, bankruptcy,^ and in minor cases sacrificiuj; all
chance of leisure and quiet happiness. Many a land-
owner has crippled himself by erecting a great hou^e ijii
his estate, — one of those huge, tasteless buiMing^ tlmt
express nothing but pompous pride. What wisdom
there is in the excellent old Frendi adage, *' A petite
terre, petite maison " !

The reader may remember Herbert Spencer*s idea
that the display of wealth is intended to subjugate.
Royal palaces are made very vast and magnificent to
subjugate those who approach the sovereign ; and nil
rich and powerful people use the same means, for the
same purpose, though in minor degrees. This leads iia
to the price that has to be paid for intercourse with
10

146 DIFFERENCES OF RANK AND WEALTH,

persons of great rank and wealth. Ma}^ we not sus-
pect that there is a heavy price of some kind, since
many of the best and noblest minds in the world either
avoid it altogether or else accept it cautiously and onl}-
with a very few rich men whom they esteem independ-
ently of their riches ?

Tho answer is that wealth and rank expect deference,
not so nuich humble and slavish manners as that in-
tellectual deference which a thinker can never willingly
give. The higher the rank of the personage the more
it 13 considered ill-bred to contradict him, or even to
have an opinion of j'our own in his presence. This,
to a thuiker, is unendurable. He does not see that
because q. person is rich and noble his views on everj-
tliing muat be the best and soundest views.

You, my dear Aristophilus, who by your pleasing
manners are so well fitted for the very best society,
could gi\ e interesting answers to the following ques-
tions : Have you never found it advisable to keep
silence when j'our wealthy host was saying things
against which j^ou inwardly protested ? Have you not
Bometimcs gone a step further, and given a kind of
assent to some opinion that was not your own? Have
you not, by practice, attained the power of giving a
still stronger and heartier assent to what seemed doubt-
ful propositions ?

There is one form of this assent which is deeply
damaging to character. Some great person, a great
lady perhaps, unjustly condemns, in your presence, a
public man for whom j^ou have a sincere respect. In-
stead of boldly defending him, you remain silent and

DIFFERENCES OF RANK AND WEALTH. 147

acquiescent. You are afraid to offend, afraid to lose
favor, afraid that if i you spoke openly you would not
be invited to the great house any more.

Sometimes not a single individual but a class is
attacked. at once. A great lady is reported to have
said that she " had a deep objection to French litera-
ture in all its branches." Observe that this expression
of opinion contains a severe censure on dU French
authors and on all readers of French literature. Would
you have ventured to say a word in their defence?
Would you have dared to hint, for example, that a seri-
ous mind might be none the worse for some acquaint-
ance with Montesquieu and De Tocqueville? No, sir,
you would have bowed your head and put on a shocked
expression of countenance.

In this way, little by little, by successive abandon-
ments of what we think, and abdications of what we
know, we may arrive at a state of habitual and inane
concession that softens every fibre of the mind.

148 THE OBSTACLE OF LANGUAGE.

ESSAY XL

THE OBSTACLE OF LANGUAGE.

'T^nE greatest impediment to free intercourse be-
-*- tween nations is neither distance nor the differ-
ences of mental habits, nor the opposition of national
Id te rests ; it is simply the imperfect manner in which
languages are usually acquired, and the lazy content-
ment of mankind with a low degree of attainment in
a foreign tongue when a much higher degree of attain-
ment would be necessary to any efficient interchange
of ideas.

It seems probable that much of the fhture happiness of
humanity will depend upon a determination to learn for-
eign languages more thoroughly. International ill-will
is the parent of innumerable evils. From the intellect-
ual point of view it is a great evil, because it narrows
our range of ideas and deprives us of light from foreign
tbinlveia. From the commercial point of view it is an
evil, because it leads a nation to deny itself conveniences
in order to avoid the dreaded result of doing good to
another country. From the political point of view it
is an enormous evil, because it leads nations to make
war upon each other and to inflict and endure all the
horrors, the miseries, the impoverishment of war rather
than make some little concession on one side or on both
sides that would have been made with little difficulty

THE OBSTACLE OF LANGUAGE. 149

if the spirit of the two countries had been more friendly.
May we not believe that a more general spirit of friend-
liness woald result from more personal intercourse, and
that this would be the consequence of more thorough
linguistic acquirement?

It has always seemed to me an inexpressible mis-
fortune to the French that they should not be better
acquainted with English literature ; and this not simply
from the literary point of view, but because on so many
questions that interest active minds in France it would
be such an advantage to those minds to be able to see
how those questions have appeared to men bred in a
different and a calmer atmosphere. If the French read
Ikiglish easily they might often avoid (without ceasing
to be national) many of those errors that result from
seeing things only from a single point of view. I know a
few intelligent Frenchmen who do read our most thought-
ful writers in the original, and I can see what a gain
this enlarged experience has been to them. On the other
hand, it is certain that good French literature may have
an excellent effect on the literary training of an English-
man. The careful study of that clear, concise, and
moderate French writing which is the most perfect
flower of the cultivated national mind has been most
beneficial to some English writers, by making them less
clumsy, less tedious, less verbose.

Of commercial affairs it would be presumptuous in
me to say much, but no one disputes that international
commerce is a benefit, and that it would not be possible
without a class of men who are acquainted with foreign
languages. On this class of men, be they merchants

150 THE. OBSTACLE OF LANGUAGE.

or corresponding clerks, the commercial intercourse
between uations must depend. I find it stated by for-
eign tradi^siuen that if they were better acquainted with
the English language much trade that now escapes them
might he made to pass through their hands. I have
myself often observed, on a small scale,that transactions
of an international character have taken place because
one of tlie parties happened to know the language of
the other, when they would certainly not have taken
place if it had been necessary to make them through an
agent or an interpreter.

With regard to peace and war, can it be doubted that
the main roason for our peaceful relations with the
United States lies in the fact of our common language?
We may have newspaper quarrels, but the newspapers
themselves help to make every question understood.
It is far harder to gain acceptance for English ideas in
France, jet even our relations with France are practi-
cally more peaceful than of old, and though there is
intense jealousy between the two countries, they under-
stand each other better, so that differences which would
certainly ha^c produced bloodshed in the days of Pitt,
cause nothing worse than inkshed in the days of Glad-
stone- Tliia happy result may be attributed in great
part to the English habit of learning French and going
to Paria or to the south of France. We need not ex-
pect any really cordial understanding between the two
countries T though it would be an incalculable benefit to
both. That is too much to be hoped for ; their jealousy,
on both sides, is too irritable and too often inflamed
afresh by new incidents, for neither of them can stir

THE OBSTACLE OF LANGUAGE. 151

a foot without putting the other out of temper ; but we
may hope that through the quietly and constantly ex-
erted influence of those who know both languages, war
may be often, though perhaps not always, avoided.

Unfortunately an imperfect knowledge of a foreign
language is of little use, as it does not give any real
freedom of intercourse. Foreigners do not open their
minds to one who blunders about their meaning ; they
consider him to be a sort of child, and address to him
" easy things to understand." Their confidence is only
to be won by a demonstration of something like equality
in intelligence, and nobody can give proof of this un-
less he has the means of making his thoughts intelli-
gible, and even of assuming, when the occasion presents
itself, a somewhat bold and authoritative tone. People
of mature and superior intellect, but imperfect linguistic
acquirements, are liable to be treated with a kind of con-
descending indulgence when out of their own country,
as if they were as 3'oung in years and as feeble in
power of thought as they are in their knowledge of
foreign languages.

The extreme rarity of that degree of attainment in
a foreign language which deserves to be called mastery
is well known to the very few who are competent to
judge. At a meeting of French professors Lord
Houghton said that the wife of a French ambassador
had told him that she knew only three Englishmen who
could speak French. One of these was Sir Alexander
Cockburn, another the Duke of Bedford, and we may
presume the third to have been Lord Houghton himself.
Amongst men of letters Lord Houghton only knew one,

162 THE OBSTACLE OF LANGUAGE,

Henry Reeve, the editor of the ''Edinburgh Review"
and translator of the works of De Tocqueville. He
mentioned Lord Arthur Russell as an example of ac-
complishment, but he is *' quasi French by Pesprit,
education, and maniage."

On reading the report of Lord Houghton's speech,
I asked a cultivated Parisian lady (who knows English
rctnarkably well and has often been in England) what
her own experience had been. After a little hesitation
she said it had been exactlj^ that of the French ambas-
jsadresa. She, also, had met with three Englishmen
who spolce French, and she named them. I .suggested
several others, and amongst them some very learned
Bcholai s^ merely to hear what she would say, but . her
answer was that their inadequate power of expression
compelled them to talk far below the level of their
abilities, so that when they spoke French nobody would
suppose them to be clever men. She also affirmed that
they did not catch the shades of French expression, so
that in speaking French to them one was never sure of .
beiog quite accurately understood.

I myself have known many French people who have
studied English more or less, including several who
read English authors with praiseworthy industry, but
I have only met with one or two who can be said to
have mastered the language. I am told that M. Bel-
jame, the learned Professor of English Literature at the
Sorbonoe, has a wonderful mastery of our tongue.
Many French professors of English have considerable
historical and grammatical knowledge of it, but that is
not practical mastery. In general, the knowledge of

THE OBSTACLE OF LANGUAGE, 158

English attained by French people (not withont more
labor than the result would show) is so poor and insuffi-
cient as to be almost useless.

I remember an accidental circumstance that put into
my hands some curious materials for judging of the
attainments of a former generation. A Belgian lady,
for a reason that has no concern with our present sub-
ject, lent me for perusal an important packet of letters
in the French language written by English ladies of great
social distinction about the date of Waterloo. They
showed a rough familiarity with French, but no knowl-
edge of its finer shades, and they abounded in glaring
errors. The effect of this correspondence on my mind
was that the writers had certainly used (or abused) the
language, but that they had never condescended to
learn it.

These and other experiences have led me to divide
progress in langaages into several stages, which I place
at the reader's disposal in the belief that they may be
convenient to him as they have been convenient to me-

The first stage in learning a language is when every
sentence is a puzzle and exercises the mind like a
charade or a conundrum. There are people to whom
this kind of exercise is a sport. They enjoy the puzzle
for its own sake and without any reference to the
literary value of the sentence or its preciousness as an
utterance of wisdom. Such people are much better
adapted to the early stage of linguistic acquirement
than those who like reading and dislike enigmas.

The excessive slowness with which one works in this
early stage is a cause of irritation when the student

154 THE OBSTACLE OF LANGUAGE.

interests himself in the thoughts or the narrative, be-
cause what comes into his mind in a given time is so
small a matter that it seems not worth while to go on
working for such a little intellectual income. There-
fore in tliis early stage it is a positive disadvantage to
have eager literary desires.

In the second stage the student can push along with
tiie helij of a translation and a dictionary ; but this is
not rmdmg^ it is only aided construing. It is disagree-
able to a reader, though it may be endured by one who
ts indifferent to reading. This may be made clear by
reference to other pursuits. A man who loves rowing,
and who knows what rowing is, does not like to pull a
slow and heavy boat, such as an ordinary Scottish
Highlander pulls with perfect contentment. So a man
who loves reading, and knows what reading is, does not
like the heavy work of laborious translation. This
espkiDS the fact which is often so unintelligible to
parents, that boys who are extremely fond of reading
often dislike their classical studies. Grammar, prosody,
philology, BO far as they are the subjects of conscious
atte'niion (which they are with all pedagogues) , are the
rivals of literature, and so it happens that pedagogy is
unfavoraljle to literary arL It is only when the sciences
of dissection are forgotten that we can enjoy the arts
of poetr^^ and prose.

If, then, the first stage of language-learning requires
rather a taste for solving puzzles than a taste for liter-
ature, sQ I should say that the second stage requires
rather a turn for grammatical and philological con-
siderations than an interest in the ideas or an apprecia-

I

THE OBSTACLE OF LANGUAGE. 155

tion of the style of great authors. The most favorable
state of mind for progress in this stage is that of a
philologist ; and if a man has literary tastes in great
strength, and philological tastes in a minor degree, he
will do well, in this stage, to encourage the philologUt
in himself and keep his love of literature in abeyance.

In the third stage the vocabulary has become rich
enough to make references to the dictionary lesa fre-
quent, and the student can read with some degree ot
literai7 enjoyment There is, however, this remaining
obstacle, that even when the reader knows the words
and can constnie well, the foreign manner of saying,
things still appears unnatural, I have made m;ujy
inquiries concerning this stage of acquirement and tiiid
it to be very common. Men of fair scholarship in Latin
tell me that the Roman way of writing does not seem
to be really a natural way. I find that even those
Latin works which were most familiar to me in yoiitlij
such as the Odes of Horace, for example, seem unnatu-
ral still, though I may know the meaning of every word,
and I do not believe that any amount of labor would
ever rid me of this feeling. This is a great obsL'icle,
and not the less that it is of such a subtle and intangible
nature.^

In the fourth stage the mode -of expression seems
natural, and the words are perfectly known, but the
sense of the paragraph is not apparent at a glancto.
There is the feeling of a slight obstacle, of something
that has to be overcome; and there is a remarkaMe
counter-feeling which always comes after the paragraph
1 Italian, to me, seems Latin made natural.

156 THE OBSTACLE OF LANGUAGE.

is mastered. The reader then wonders that such an
obviously intelligible page can have offered any opposl^
tion whatever. What surprises us is that this fourth
stage can last so long as it does. It seems as if it
would be so easily paiaaed, and yet, in fact, it is for
moBt persons Impassable.

The fiftJi stage is that of perfection in reading. It
is not reached by everybody even in the native lan-
guage itselJ\ The reader who has attained it sees the
eonlcnts of a page and catches their meaning at a glance
even before he has had time to read the sentences.

This condition of extreme lucidity in a language
comae, when It comes at all, long after the mere acqui-
sition of it. I have said that it does not always come
even In the native tongue. Some educated people take
a much longer time than others to make themselves
acquainted with the contents of a newspaper. A clever
newspaper reader sees in one minute if there is any-
thing of luiportauec. He knows what articles and
telegi^ms are worth i-eading before he separates the
words.

These five stages refer only to reading, because edu-
cated people learn to read first and to speak afterwards.
Uu educated people learn foreign languages by ear in a
most confused and blundering way. I need not add
that they never master them, as only the educated ever
master tbejr native tongue. It is unnecessary to go
through the stages of progress in conversation, as they
are in a great degree dependent upon reading, though
they lag behind it ; but I will say briefly that the great-
est of all difficulties in using foreign languages is to

THE OBSTACLE OF LANGUAGE, 167

become really insensible to the absurdities that they
contain. All languages, I believe, abound in absurd ex-
pressions ; and a foreigner, with his inconveniently fresh
perceptions, can hardly avoid being tickled by them.
He cannot use the language seriously without having first
become unconscious of these things, and it is inexpres-
sibly difficult to become unconscious of something that
has once provoked us to laughter. Again, it is most
difficult to arrive at that stage when foreign expressioDs
of politeness strike us no more and no less than they
strike the native ; or, in other words, it is most difficult
for us to attach to them the exact value which they
have in the country where they prevail. French forms
seem absurdly ceremonious to Englishmen ; in reahtj^
they are only convenient, but the difficulty for an Eng-
lishman is to feel that they are convenient. There are
in every foreign tongue two classes of absurdities, —
the real inherent absurdities to which the natives ari3
blinded by habit, though they are seen at once to be
comical when attention is directed to them, and the
expressions that are not absm-d in themselves but only
seem so to us because they are not like our own.

The difficulty of becoming insensible to these things
must be especially great for humorous people, who are
constantly on the look-out for subjects of odd remarkis.
I have a dear friend who is gifted with a delightful
genius for humor, and he knows a little French. All
that he has acquired of that language is used by him
habitually as material for fun, and as he is quite inca-
pable of regarding the language as anything but a funny
way of talking, he cannot make any progress in it. If

158 THE OBSTACLE OF LANGUAGE.

he were asked to read prayers in French the idea would
seem to him incongruous, a mingling of frivolous with
sacred things. Another friend is serious in French
because he knows it well, and therefore has become
un conscious of its real or apparent absurdities, but
when he is in a merry mood he talks Italian, with
which he is much less intimately acquainted, so that
it gtill Bcems droll and amusing.

Many readers will be already' familiar with the idea
of a nuiversal language, which has often been the sub-
ject of speculation in recent times, and has even been
discussed in a sort of informal congress connected with
one of the universal exhibitions. Nobody now looks
forward to anything so unlikely, or so undesirable, as
the abandonment of all the languages in the world
except one. What is considered practicable is the se-
lection of one language as the recognized international
medium^ and the teaching of that language everywhere
in addition to the mother tongue, so that no two edu-
cated men could ever meet without possessing the
meana of communication. To a certain degree we
have this already in French, but French is not known
so generally, or so perfectl}', as to make it answer the
purpose. It is proposed to adopt modern Greek, which
has several great advantages. The first is that the old
education has familiarized us sufficiently with ancient
Greek to take away the first sense of strangeness in
the same language under its modern form. The second
is that everything about modern arts and sciences, and
political life, and trade, can be said easily in the Greek
of the present day, whilst it has its own peculiar interest

i^

THE OBSTACLE OF LANGUAGE. 159

for scholars. The third reason is of great practical
importance. Greece is a small State, and therefore
does not awaken those keen international jealousies
that would be inevitably aroused by proposing the lan-
guage of a powerful State to be learned, without reci-
procity, by the youth of the other powerful States. It
may be some time before the Governments of great
nations agree to promote the study of modern Greek, or
any other living language, amongst their peoples ; but
if all who feel the immense -desirableness of a common
language for international intercourse would agree to
prepare the way for its adoption, the time might not
be very far distant when statesmen would begin to con-
sider the question within the horizon of the practical.
Let us try to imagine the diflference between the present
Babel-confusion of tongues, which makes it a mere
chance whether we shall be able to communicate with
a foreigner or not, and the sudden facility that would
result from the possession of a common medium of
intercourse! If it were once agreed by a union of
nations (of which the present Postal Union may be
the forerunner) that the learning of the universal lan-
guage should be encouraged, that language would be
learned with a zest and eagerness of which our present
languid Hnguistic attempts give but a faint idea. There
would be such powerful reasons for learning it ! All
those studies that interest men in different nations
would lead to intercommunication in the common
tongue. Many books would be written in it, to be cir-
culated everywhere, without being enfeebled and falsi-
fied by translation. International commerce would be

160 THE OBSTACLE OF LANGUAGE.

transacted by its means. Travelling would be enor- I

mously facilitated. There would be such a gain to hu- '

man inteTcourse by language that it might be preferred, (l

in many cases, to the old-fashioned international inter- |
course by means of bayonets and cannon-balls.

k^

THE OBSTACLE OF RELIGION. 161

ESSAY XII.

THE OBSTACLE OF RELIGION.
•
T TUMAN intercourse, on equal terms, is diifficult or
-■- •*■ impossible for those who do not belong to that
religion which is dominant in the country where they
live. The tendency has always been either to exclude
such persons from human intercourse altogether (a fate
so hard to bear during a whole life-time that they have
often compromised the matter by outward conformity),
or else to maintain some degree of intercourse with
them in placing them at a social disadvantage. In
barbarous times such persons, when obstinate, are
removed by taking awaj^ their lives ; or if somewhat
less obstinate they are effectuallj^ deterred from the
profession of heretical opinions by threats of the most
pitiless punishments. In semi-barbarous times they
are paralyzed, so far as public action is concerned, by
political disabilities expressly created for their incon-
venience. In times which pride themselves on having
completely emerged from barbarism political disabilities
are almost entirely removed, but certain class-exclusions
still persist, by which it is arranged (whilst avoiding
all appearance of persecution) that although heretics
are no longer banished from their native land they ma}^
be excluded from their native class, and either deprived
11

162 THE OBSTACLE OF RELIGION.

or liuinan intercourse altogether, or left to seek it in
classes inferior to their own.

The religious obstacle differs from all other obsta-
cles in one remarkable characteristic. It is maintained
only against honest and truth-speaking persons. Ex-
emption from its operation has always been, and is
still, uniformly pronounced in favor of all heretics who
will consent to lie. The honorable unbeliever has
always been treated harshly; the unbeliever who had
no sens^ of honor has been freely permitted, in every
ago, to make the best use of his^ abilities for his own
social advancement. For him the religious obstacle
la simply non-existent He has exactly the same
chaiices of preferment as the most orthodox Christian.
In Pagan times, when public religious functions were a
part of the rank of great laymen, unbelief in the gods
of Olympus did not hinder them from seeking and ex-
ercising those functions. Since the establishment of
Christianity as a State religion, the most stringently
framed oaths have never prevented an unscrupulous
infidel from attaining any position that lay within reach
of his wits and his opportunities. He has sat in the
most orthodox Parliaments, he has been admitted to
Cabinet councils, he has worn roj^al crowns, he has
even received the mitre, the Cardinal's hat, and the
Papal tiara. We can never sufficiently admire the
beautiful order of society by which heretic-plus-liar is
so graciously admitted everywhere, and heretic-plus-
honest roan is so cautiously and ingeniously kept out.
It is, indeed, even more advantageous to the dishonest
unbeliever than at first sight appears ; for not only does

THE OBSTACLE OF RELIGION, 163

it open to him all positions accessible to the orthodox,
but it even gives him a noteworthy advantage over
honest orthodoxy itself by training him daily and
hourly in dissimulation. To be kept constantly in the
habit of dissimulation on one subject is an excellent
discipline in the most serviceable of social arts. An
atheist who reads prayers with a pious intonation, and
is exemplar}' in his attendance at church, and who
never betraj's his real opinions by an unguarded word
or look, though alwa3's preserving the appearance of
the simplest candor, the most perfect openness, is, we
may be sure, a much more formidable person to con-
tend with in the affairs of this world than an honest
Christian who has never had occasion to train himself
in habitual imposture. Yet good Christians willingly
admit these dangerous, unscrupulous rivals, and timidly
exclude those truthful heretics who are onl}- honest,
simple people like themselves.

After religious liberty has been nominally established
in a countr}'^ by its lawgivers, its enemies do not con-
sider themselves defeated, but try to recover, through
the unwritten law of social customs and obseiTances,
the ground thc}^ have lost in formal legislation. Hence
we are never sure that religious liberty will exist
within the confines of a class even when it is loudly
proclaimed in a nation as one of the most glorious con-
quests of the age. It is often enjoyed very imperfectly,
or at a great cost of social and even pecuniar}' sacrifice.
In its perfection it is the liberty to profess openly, and
in th^ir full force, those opinions on religious subjects
which a man holds in his own conscience, and without

164 THE OBSTACLE OP RELIGION.

incQrring any kind of punishment or privation on ac-
count of them, legal or social. For example, a really
sincere member of the Church of England enjoj's perfect
religious liberty in England.* He can openly say what
he thinks, openly take part in religious services that his
conscience approves, and without incurring the slight-
est legal or social penalty for so doing. He meets with
no hindrance, no obstacle, placed in the path of hid
worldly life on account of his religious views. True
liberty is not that which is attainable at some cost,
some sacrifice, but that which we can enjoy without
being made to suffer for it in any way. It is always
enjoyed, to the full, by every one whose sincere con-
victions are heartily on the side of authority. Sincere
Roman Catholics enjoyed perfect religious liberty in
Spain under Ferdinand and Isabella, and in England
under Mary Tudor. Even a Trappist who loves the

1 So ftu* as the State and society generally are concerned ; but
there are private situations in which even a member of the State
Church does not enjoy perfect religious liberty. Suppose the
case (I am describing a real case) of a lady left a widow and in
poverty. Her relations are wealthy Dissenters. They oflEer to
provide for her handsomely if she will renounce the Church of
England and join their own sect. Does she enjoy religious liberty ?
The answer depends upon the question whether she is able to
earn her own living or not. If she is, she can secure religious
freedom by incessant labor ; if she is unable to earn her living she
will have no religious freedom, although she belongs, in con-
science, to the most powerful religion in the State. In the case
I am thinking of, the lady had the honorable courage to open a
little shop, and so remained a member of the Church of England ;
but her freedom was bought by labor and was therefore not
the same thing as the best freedom, which is imembittered by
sacrifice.

THE OBSTACLE OF RELIGION. 1G5

rule of bis order enjoys the best kind of liberty within
the walls of his monastery. He is not allowed to neg-
lect the prescribed services and other obligations ; but
as he feels no desire to neglect them he is a free agent,
as free as if he dwelt in the Abbaje de Theleme of
Eabelais, with its one rule, "Fay ce que vouldras."
We may go farther, and say that not only are people
whose convictions are on the side of authoritj' perfectly
free aigents, but, like successful artists, they are re-
warded for doing what they themselves prefer. They
are alwa3's rewarded by the aj^roval of their superiors
and very frequently by opportunities for social advance-
ment that are denied to those who think differently
from persons in authority.

There are cases in which liberty is less complete than
this, yet is still spoken of as liberty. A man is free to
be a Dissenter in England and a Protestant in France.
By thi» we mean that he will incur no legal disqualifica-
tion for his opinions ; but does he incur no social penalty' ?
The common answer to this question is that the penalty
is so slight that there is nothing to complain of. This
depends upon the particular situation of the Dissenter,
because the penalty is applied very differently in dif-
ferent cases, and may vary between an unperceived
hindrance to an undeveloped ambition and an insur-
mountable obstacle to an eager and aspiring one. To
understand this thoroughly, let us ask whether there are
any positions in which a member of the Church of Eng-
land would incur a penalty for leaving it. Are there
any positions that are socially' considered to be incom-
patible with the religious profession of a Dissenter?

166 TEE OBSTACLE OF RELIGION,

It will be generally admitted that royal personages
do not enjoy any religious liberty at all. A royal per-
sonage must profess the State religion of his country,
and it is so well understood that this is obligatory and
has nothing to do with the convictions of the conscience
that such personages are hardly expected to have any
conscience in the matter. They take up a religion as
part of their situation in the world. A princess may
abjure lier faith for that of an imperial lover, and if he
dies before marriage she may abjure her adopted faith ;
and if she is asked again in marriage she may abjure
the religion of her girlhood a second time without ex-
citing comment, because it is well understood that her
private convictions may remain undisturbed by such
changes, and that she submits to them as a necessity
for whicli she has no personal responsibility.^ And
whilst princes ai-e compelled to take up the religion
which best sails their worldly interests, they are not
allowed simply to bear the name of the State Church but
must also coufoi m to its services with diligent regularit3\
In many cases they probably have no objection to this,
as they may be reall}" conscientious members of the State
Cbnvcb, or tbey may accept it in a general way as an
expression of duty towards God (without going into

1 The phrase adopted by Court journalists in speaking of such
a con version ii, '* The Princess has received instruction in the
religion which she wiU adopt on her marriage," or words to that
effect, just as if different and mutually hostile religions were not
more contradictory of each other than sciences, and as if a person
coiiiti pass from one religion to another with no more twisting
and wrencLiing of previous beliefs than he would incur in passing
from botany to geology.

THE OBSTACLE OF RELIGION, 167

dogmatic details) , or they ma}'^ be ready and willing to
conform to it for political reasons, as the best means of
conciliating public opinion ; but however this may be^
all human fellowship, so far as religion is concerned,
must, for them, be founded on deference to the State
religion and a conciliatory attitude towards its ministers.
The Court. circulars of different countries register the suc-
cessive acts of outward conformity by which the prince
acknowledges the power of the national priesthood, and
it would be impossible for him to suspend these acts of
conformity for any reason except illness. The daily
account of the life of a French sovereign during the
hunting season used to be, " His Majesty heard mass ;
His Majesty went out to hunt." Louis XVIII. had to
hear mass like his ancestors ; but after the long High
Mass which he was compelled to listen to on Sundays,
and which he found extremely wearisome, he enjoyed
a compensation and a consolation in talking impiously
to^his courtiers, and was maliciously pleased in shock-
ing pious people and in forcing them to laugh against
their conscience, as by courtly duty bound, at the
blasphemous royal jests. This is one of the great
evils of a compulsory conformity. It drives the victim
into a reaction against the religion that tyrannizes over
him, and makes him a/^«^-religious, when without pres-
sure he would have been simply and inoffensively non-
religious. To understand the pressure that weighs
upon royal personages in this respect, we have only to
remember that there is not a sovereign in the whole
world who could venture to say openly that he was a
conscientious Unitarian, and would attend a Unitarian

16S THE OBSTACLE OF RELIGION.

place of worship. If a Blng of England held Unitar
rian opinions, and was at the same time scrupulously
honest, he would have no resource but abdication,
for not only is the King a member of the Anglican
Chiuxh, but he is its living head. The sacerdotal
position of the Emperor of Russia is still more
marked, and he can no more avoid taking part in Hie
fatiguing ceremonies of the orthodox Greek religion
than he can avoid sitting on horseback and reviewing
troops.

The religious slavery of princes is, however, exclu-
Bively in ceremonial acts and verbal professions. With
regaid to the moral side of religion, with regard to
every religious doctrine that is practically favorable
to good conduct, exalted personages have always en-
joyed an astonishing amount of liberty. They are not
free to hold themselves aloof from public ceremonies,
but the}'^ are free to give themselves up to every kind
of private self-indulgence, including flagrant sexual im-
moialities, which are readily foi^iven them by a loyal
priesthood and an admiring populace, if onl}' they show
ao aifable condescension in their manners. Surely
morality is a part of Christianity; surely it is as un-
christian an act to commit adultery as to walk out
diiriug service-time on Sunday morning; yet adultery
is far more readily forgiven in a prince, and far easier
for him, than the merely negative religious sin of absti-
nence from church-going. Amongst the great criminal
sovereigns of the world, the Tudors, Bourbons, Bona-
parte s, there has never been any neglect of ceremo-
nies, but they have treated the entire moral code of

THE OBSTACLE OF RELIGION. 169

Christianity as if it were not binding on persons of
their degree.

Every hardship is softened, at least in some measure,
by a compensation ; and when in modern times a man
is so situated that he has no outward religious liberty
it is perfectly understood that his conformity is official,
like that of a soldier who is ordered to give the Host
a military salute without regard for his private opinion
about transubstantiation. This being understood, the
religious slavery of a royal personage is far from being
tiie hardest of such slaveries. The hardest cases are
those in which there is every appearance of liberty,
whilst some subtle secret force compels the slave to acts
that have the appearance of the most voluntary sub-
mission. There are many positions of this kind in the
world. They abound in countries where the right of
private judgment is loudly proclaimed, where a man is
told that he may act in religious matters quite freely
according to the dictates of his conscience, whilst he
well knows, at the same time, that unless his con-
science happens to be in unison with the opinions of
the majority, he will incur some kind of disability,
some social paralysis, for having obeyed it.

The rule concerning the ceremonial part of religion
appears to be that a man's liberty is in inverse propor-
tion to his rank. A roj'al personage has none ; he must
conform to the State Church. An English nobleman
has two churches to choose from : he may belong to the
Church of England or the Church of Rome. A simple
private gentleman, a man of good family and moderate
independent fortune, living in a country where the laws

170 THE OBSTACLE OF RELIGION,

are so liberal as they are in England, and where on the
whole tliere is so little bitterness of religious hatred,
migbt be supposed to enjoy perfect religious liberty,
but he finds, in a practical way, that it is scarcely pos-
sible for him to do otherwise than the nobility. He has
the choice between Anglicanism and Romanism, be-
cause, though untitled, he is still a member of the
aristocracy.

As we go down lower in the social scale, to the
middle classes, and particularly to the lower middle
classes, we find a broader liberty, because in these
cksBCB the principle is admitted that a man may be
a gootl Christian bej'ond the pale of the State Churches.
The libert}" here is real, so far as it goes, for although
these persons are not obliged by their own class opinion
to be members of a State Church, as the aristocracy
are, they are not compelled, on the other hapd, to be
DLssctiters. They may be good Churchmen, if they
like J and still be middle-class Englishmen, or they
may be good Methodists, Baptists, Independents, and
still be respectable middle-class Englishmen. This
permits a considerable degree of freedom, yet it is still
by no means unlimited freedom. The middle-class
Englishman allows dissent, but lie does not encourage
honesty in unbelief.

There is, however, a class in English society in
which for some time past religious liberty has been as
nearly as possible absolute, — I mean the working popu-
lation m the large towns. A working-man may belong
to the Church of England, or to any one of the dissent-
ing communities ; or, if he does not believe in Christian-

\

THE OBSTACLE OF RELIGION. 171

ity, he may say so and abstain from religious hypocrisy
of all kinds. Whatever his opinions, he will not be
regarded very coldly on account of them by persons
of his own class, nor prevented from marrjdng, nor
hindered from pursuing his trade.

We find, therefore, that amongst the various classes
of society, from the highest to the humblest, religious
liberty increases as we go lower. The royal family is
bound to conform to whatever may be the dominant
religion for the time being ; the nobility and gentr}^ have
the choice between the present dominant faith and its
predecessor; the middle class has, in addition, the
libert}^ of dissent ; the lower class has the liberty, not
only of dissent, but also of abstinence and negation.
And in each case the increase of liberty is real ; it is
not that illusor}' kind of extension which loses in one
direction the freedom that it wins in another. All the
churches are open to the plebeian secularist if he
should ever wish to enter them.

We have said that religious liberty increases as we
go lower in the social scale. Let us consider, now,
how it is affected by locality. The rule may be stated
at once. Iteligious liberty diminishes with the num-
ber of inhabitants in a place.

However humble may be the position of the dweller
in a small village at a distance from a town, he must
attend the dominant church because no other will be
represented in the place. He may be in heart a Dis-
senter, but his dissent has no opportunity of expressing
itself by a different form of worship. The laws of his
country may be as liberal as j^ou please ; their liberality

172 THE OBSTACLE OF RELIGION,

-^

is of no practical service in such a case as this because
religious profession requires public worship, and au
isolated family cannot institute a cult.

If J indeed, there were the liberty of abstinence the
evil would not be so great. The liberty of rejection
is a gi'cat and valuable liberty. If a particular kind
of food is unsuited to my constitution, and only that
kind of food is ojQfered m^, the permission to fast is
the safeguard of my health and comfort. The loss of
this negative liberty is terrible in convivial customs^
when the victim is compelled to drink against his
wUl.

The Dissenter in the country can be forced to con-
form by his emploj'er or by public opinion, acting
indirectly. The master may avoid sa3T[ng, *'I expect
you to go to Church," but he may say, " I expect you
to attend a place of worship," which attains precisely
the same end with an appearance of greater liberality.
Public opinion may be really liberal enough to tolerate
many diflferent forms of religion, but if it does not
tolerate abstinence from public services the Dissenter
has to conform to the dominant worship in places where
there is no other. In England it may seem that there
is not very much hardship in this, as the Church is not
extreme in doctrine and is remarkablj'^ tolerant of
variety, 3^et even in England a conscientious Unitarian
might feel some difficulty about creeds and prayers
which were never intended for him. There are, how-
ever, harder cases than those of a Dissenter forced to
conform to the Church of England. The Church of
Rome is far more extreme and authoritative, far more

THE OBSTACLE OF RELIGION. VIZ

sternly repressive of^umaji reason; yet there are
thousands of rural places on the Continent where relig^
ions toleration is supposed to exist, and where, never-
theless, the inhabi^nts are compelled to hear mass to
avoid the imputation of absolute irreiigion. A man
like Wesley or Bunyan would, in such a position, have
to choose between apparent Romanism and apparent
Atheism, if indeed the village opinion did not take
good care that he should have no choice in the matter.

It may be said that people should live in places
where their own form of worship is publicly practised.
No doubt many do so. I remember an Englishman
belonging to a Eoman Catholic familj^ who would not
spend a Sunday in an out-of-the-way place in Scotland
J>ecause he could not hear mass> Such a person, hav^-
ing the means to choose his place of residence, and a
faith so strong that religious considerations always
came first with him, would compel ever3'thing to give
way to the necessit}' for having mass every Sunday,
but this is a very exceptional case. Ordinary people
are the victims of circumstances and not their masters.

If a villager has little religix)us freedom he does not
greatly enlarge it when he becomes a soldier. He has
the choice between the Church of England and the
Church of Rome. In some counties even this very
moderate degree of liberty is denied. Within the pres-
ent century Roman Catholic soldiers were compelled to
attend Protestant services in Prussia. The truth is
that the genuine military spirit is strongly opposed to
individual opinion in matters of religion. Its ideal is
that every detail in a soldier's existence should be

174 THE OBSTACLE OF RELIGION.

settled by the military authorities, his religious belief
amongst the rest.

What may be truly said about military authority in
religions matters is that as the force employed is per-
ffictly well known, — as it is perfectly well known that
soldiers take part in religious services under compul-
sioQi — there is no hypocrisy in their case, especially
whei^ the conscription exists, and therefore but slight
moral hardship. Certainly the greatest hardship of
all 13 to- be compelled to perform acts of conformity
with all the appearance of free choice. The tradesman
who must go to mass to have customers is in a harder
position than the soldier. For this reason, it is better for
the moral health of a nation, when there is to be compul-
sion of some kind, that it should be boldly and openly
tyrannical ; that its work should be done in the face of
day ; that it should be outspoken, uncompromising, com-
plete* To tyranny of that kind a man may give way
without any loss of self-respect, he yields to force
majeure ; but to that viler and meaner kind of tj^ranny
which keeps a man in constant alann about the means
of earning his living, about the maintenance of some
wi"etehod little peddling position in society, he yields
will J a sense of far deeper humiliation, with a feeling
of contempt for the social power that uses such miser-
able means, and of contempt for himself also.

PRIESTS AND WOMEN. 175

ESSAY XIIL

»

PRIESTS AND WOMEN.

Part I. — Sympathy.

"1 T 70MEN iiate the Inexorable. They like a condi-
^^ tion of things in which nothing is so surel}'^
fixed but that the rule may be broken in their favor, or
the hard decision reversed. They like concession for
concession's sake, even when the matter is of slight
importance. A woman will ask a favor from a person
in authority when a man will shrink from the attempt j
and if the woman gains her point by entreaty she will
have a keen and peculiar feminine satisfaction in hav-
ing successfully exercised what she feels to be her own
especial power, to which the strong, rough creature,
man, may often be made to yield. A woman will go
forth on the most hopeless errands of intercession and
persuasion, and in spite of the most adverse circum-
stances will not infrequently succeed. Scott made
admirable use of this feminine tendency in the " Heart
of Mid-Lothian." Jeanie Deans, with a woman's feel-
ings and perseverance, had a woman's reliance on her
own persuasive powers, and the result proved that she
was right. All things in a woman combine to make
her mighty in persuasion. Her very weakness aids
her; she can assume a pitiful, childlike tenderness.

176 PRIESTS AND WOMEN.

Her ignorance aids her, as she seems never to know
that a decision can be fixed and final; then she has
tears, and besides these pathetic influences she has
generally some magnetism of sex, some charm or at-
traction, at least, it. voice or manner, and sometimes
she has that marvellous — that all but irresistible —
gift of beauty which has ruled and ruined the masters
of the world.

Having constantly used these powers of persuasion
with the strongest being on this planet, and used them
with such wonderful success that it is even now doubt-
ful whether the occult feminine government is not
mightier than the open masculine government, whilst
it is not a matter of doubt at all, but of assured fact,
that society is ruled by queens and ladies and not by
kings and lords, — with all these evidences of their in-
fluence in this world, it is intelligible that women should
willingly listen to those who tell them that they have
similar influence over supernatural powers, and, through
them, on the destinies of the universe. Far less will-
ingly would they listen to some hard scientific teacher
who should say, "No, you have no influence beyond
this planet, and that which j-ou exercise upon its sur-
face is limited by the force that you are able t6 set in
motion. The Empress Eugenie had no supernatural
influence through the Virgin Mary, but she had great
and dangerous natural influence through her husband ;
and it may be true, what is asserted, that she caused
in this way a disastrous war." An exclusively origi-
nating Intelligence, acting at the beginning of Evolu-
tion, — a setter-in-motion of a prodigious self-acting

PEIESTS AND WOMEN. 177

machinery of cause prpducing eflS^ct, And effects in their
turn becoming a new complexity of causes, — an Intel-
ligence that we cannot persuade because we are bom
millions of years too late for the first impulse tiiat
started all things, -^ this may be the God of the future,
but it will be a distant future before the world of women
will acknowledge him.

There is another element in tho feminine nature that
urges women in the same direction. They have a con-
stant sei^e of dependence in a degree hardly ever
experienced by men except in debilitating illftess ; and
as this sense of dependence is continual with them
and only occasional with us, it becomes, from habit,
inseparable from their mental action, whereas even in
sickness a man looks forward to the time when he will
act again freety for himself Men choose a course of
action; women choose an adviser. They feel them-
selves unable to continue the long conflict without help,
and in spite of their great patience and courage they
are easily saddened by solitude, and in their distress of
mind they feel an imperious need for support and con-
solation- " Our valors are our best gods," is a purely
masculine sentiment, and to a woman such self-reliance
seems scarcely distinguishable from impiet3\ The fem-
inine counterpart of that would be, " In our weakness
we seek refuge in Thy strength, O Lord ! "

A woman is not satisfied with merely getting a small
share in a vast bount}^ for the general good ; she is
kind and aflectionate herself, she is personally attentive
to the wants of children and animals, and cares for each
of them separately, and she desires to be eared for in
12

178 PRIESTS AND WOMEN.

the same way. The philosopher does not give her any
assurance of this whatever ; but the priest, on the con-
trary, gives it in the most positive form. It is not
merely one of the doctrines of religion, but the central
doctriJiG, the motive for all religious exercises, that
God cares for every one of us individually ; that he
knows Jane Smith by name, and what she is earning
a wcekj and how much of it she devotes to keeping her
poor paralyzed old mother. The philosopher says, " If
you are [jrudent and skilful in your conformity to the
laws of life you will probably secure that amount of
mental and physical satisfaction which is attainable by
a person of j^our organization." There is nothing in
this about personal interest or affection; it is a bare
statement of natural cause and consequence. The
priest holds a very different language ; the use of the
one word love gives warmth and color to his discourse.
The priest says, " If you love God with all your soul
and with all your strength He will love and cherish 3^ou
in retnni, and be your own true and tender Father.
He will watch over every detail and every minute of
your existence, guard 3'ou from all real evil, and at
last, when this earthly pilgrimage shall be over, He
will welcome j^ou in His eternal kingdom." But this
is not all ; God may still seem at too unapproachable
a distance. The priest then says that means have
been divinely appointed to bridge over that vast abj'ss.
*^ The Father has given us the Son, and Christ has
instituted the Church, and the Church has appointed
me as her representative in this place, — me, to whom
you maj^ come always for guidance and consolation that
will never be refused vou."

PRIESTS AND WOMEN. 179

This is the language for which the ears of a womaix
thirst as parched flowers thirst for the summer rain.
Instead of a great, blank universe with fixed laws,
interesting to savans but not to her, she is told of
love and affection that she thoroughly understands-
She is told of an affectionate Creator, of His beloved
and loving Son, of the tender care of the materaal
Church that He instituted ; and finally all this chain of
affectionate interest ends close to her in a living link,
— a man with sofb, engaging manners, with kind and
gentle voice, who takes her hand, talks to her about
all that she really cares for, and overflows with the
readiest sympathy for all her anxieties. This man is
so different from common men, so very much better
and purer, and, above all, so much more accessible,
communicative, and consolatory! He seems to have
had so much spiritual experience, to know so well what
trouble and sorrow are, to sympathize so completely
with the troubles and sorrows of a woman ! With him,
the burden of life is ten times easier to bear ; without
his precious fellowship, that burden would be heavy
indeed !

It may be objected to this, that the clergy do not
entirely teach a religion of love ; that, in fact, they curse
as well as bless, and foretell eternal punishment for the
majority. All this, it may be thought, must be as pain-
ful to the feelings of women as Divine kindness and
human felicity must be agreeable to them. Whoever
made this objection would show that he had not quite
understood the feminine nature. It is at the same
time kinder and tenderer than the masculine nature,

180 PRIESTS AND WOMEN.

and more absolute in vindictiveness. Women do not
generallj^ like the infliction of pain that they believe
to be undeserved ; ^ they are not generally advocates
for vivisection ; but as their feelings of indignation
against evil-doers are very easily aroused, and as they
are very easily persuaded that severe punishments are
jastj they have often heartily assented to them even
when most horrible. In these cases their satisfaction,
though it seems to us ferocious, may arise from feeling
themselves God's willing allies against the wicked.
When heretics were burnt in Spain the great ladies
gazed calmly from their windows and balconies on the
grotesque procession of miserable morituri with flames
daubed on their tabards, so soon to be exchanged for
the fieiy reality. With the influence that women pos-
sess they could have stopped those horrors ; but they
countenanced them ; and yet there is no reason to be-
lieve that they were not gentle, tender, affectionate.
The most relentless persecutor who .ever sat on the
throne of England was a woman. Nor is it only in
ages of fierce and cruel persecution that women readily
believe God to be on the side of the oppressor. Other
ages succeed in which human injustice is not so bold
and bloodthirsty, not so candid and honest, but more
stealthily pursues its end by hampering and paralyzing
the victim that it dares not openly destroy. It places

5 The word "gooerally" is inserted here because women do
apparently aorxietimes enjoy the infliction of undeserved pain on
other creatures. Tliey grace bull-fights with their presence, and
will see horges disembowelled with apparent satisfaction. It may
be doubted, too, whether the Empress of Austria has any com-
po^Blou &r the iufferings of a fox.

PRIESTS AND WOMEN. 181

a thousand little obstacles in his way, the well-calcu-
lated eflfect of which is to keep him alive in impotent
insignificance. In those ages of weaker malevolence
the heretic is quietly but carefully excluded from the
best educational and social advantages, from public
office, from political power. Wherever he turns, what-
ever he desires to do, he feels the presence of a mys-
terious Invisible force that quietly pushes him aside or
keeps him in shadow. Well, in this milder, more coldly
cruel form of wrong, vast numbers of the gentlest and
most amiable women have always been ready to
acquiesce.^

I willingly pass from this part of the subject, but it

^ I have purposely omitted from the text another cause for
feminine indifference to the work of persecutors, but it may be
mentioned incidentally. At certain times those women whose
influence on persons in authority might have been effectively
employed in favor of the oppressed were too frivolous or even
too licentious for their thoughts to turn themselves to any such
serious matter. This was the case in England under Charles IL
The contrast between the occupations of such women as these
and the sufferings of an earnest man has been aptly presented by
Macaulay : —

" The ribaldry of Etherege and Wycherley was, in the presence and
under the special sanction of the head of the Church, publicly recited by
female lips in female ears, while the author of the * Pilgrim*s Progress *
languished in a dungeon, for the crime of proclaiming the gospel to the
poor.'*

This is deplorable enough ; but on the whole I do not think
that the frivolity of light-minded women has been so harmful to
noble causes as the readiness with which serious women place
their immense influence at the service of constituted authorities,
however wrongfully those authorities may act. Ecclesiastical
authorities especially may quietly count upon this kind of support,
and they always do so.

182 PRIESTS AND WOMEN.

was impossible not to make one sad reference to it, for
of all the sorrowful things in the history of the world
I see none more sorrowful than this, — that the enor-
mous inflaence of women should not have been more
on the side of justice. It is perhaps too much to expect
that they should have placed themselves in advance of
tibeir age, but they have been innocent abettors and per-
petuatora of the worst abuses, and all from their prone-
Beas to support any authority, however corrupt, if only
it can succeed in confounding itself with goodness*

As the representatives of a Deity who tenderly cares
for every one of His creatures, the clergy themselves
are bound to cultivate all their own powers and gifts of
sympathy. The best of them do this with the impor-
tant result that after some years spent in the exercise
of their profession they become really and unaffectedly
more sympathetic than laymen generally are. The
power of S3^mpathy is a great power everywhere, but
it is so particularly in those countries where the laity
are not much in the habit of cultivating the sj-mpa-
thetic feelings, and timidly shrink from the expression
of them even when the}^ exist. I remember going with
a French gentleman to visit a lady who had very re-
cently lost her father ; and my friend made her a little
speeeli in which he said no more than what he felt, but
he said it so elegantly, so delicately, so appropriately,
and in such feeling terms, that I envied him the talent
of expressing condolence in that way. I never knew
an English layman who could have got through such
an expression of feeling, but I have known English
clergj'men who could have done it. Here is a very

PRIESTS ANR WOMEN. 188

great and real superiority over us, and especially with
women, because women are exquisitely alive to every-
thing in which the feelings are concerned, and we often
seem to them dead in feeling when we are only awk-
ward, and dumb by reason of our awkwardness.

I think it probable that most readers of this page
will find, on consulting their own recollections, that they
have received warmer and kinder expressions of sym-
pathy from clerical friends than from laymen. It is
certainl}^ so in my own case. On looking back to the
expressions of sympathy that have been addressed to
me on mournful occasions, and of rejoicing on happy
ones, I find that the clearest and most ample and hearty
utterances of these feelings have generally come either
from clergymen of the Church of England, or priests
of the Church of Rome.

The power of s\-mpathy in clergj-men is greatly in-
creased by their easy access to all classes of societ3\
They are received everj'where on terms which may be
correctly defined as easily respectful; for their sacred
character gives them a status of their own, which is
neither raised by association with rich people nor de-
graded by friendliness with the poor or with that lower
middle class which, of all classes, is the most perilous
to the social position of a laj-man. They enter into
the joya and sorrows of the most different orders of
parishioners, and in this way, if there is any natural
gift of sympathy in the mind of a clerg3'man, it is likely
to be developed and brought to perfection.

Partly bj' arrangements condciousl}^ devised by ecclesi-
astical authorities, and partly by the natural force of

184 PRIESTS AND WOMEN.

ctr c II m stances, the work of the Church is so ordered that
her representatives are sure to be present on the most
important occasions in human life. This gives them
some influence over men, but that which they gain by
it over women is immeasurably greater, because the
minds of women are far more closely and exclusively
bound up in domestic interests and events.

Of these the most visibly important is marriage.
Here the priest has his assured place and conspicuous
function, and the wonderful thing is that this function
seems to survive the religious beliefs on which it was
originally founded* It seems to be not impossible that
a Church might still survive for an indefinite length of
time in the midst of surrounding scepticism simply for
the purpose of performing marriage and funeral rites.
The strength of the clerical position with regard to mar-
riage is so great, even on the Continent, that, although
a woman may have scarcely a shred of faith in the doc-
trines of the Church, it is almost certain that she will
desire the aervlees of a priest, and not feel herself to
be really married without them. Although the civil
cetemonj^ may be the only one recognized b}^ the law,
the woman openly despises it, and reserves all her feel-
ings and emotions for the pompous ceremony at the
church, On such occasions women laugh at the law,
and will even sometimes declare that the law itself is
not legal. I once happened to sa}' that civil marriage
was obligatory in France, but only legal in England ;
on which an English lady attacked me vehemently, and
stoutly denied that civil marriage was legal in England
at all- I asked if she had never heard of marriages

PRIESTS AND WOMEN. 185

in a Eegistrar's office. "Yes, I have," she answered,
with a shocked expression of countenance, "but they
are not legal. The Church of England does not recog-
nize them, and that is the legal church."

As soon as a child is born the mother begins to Uiiuk
about its baptism ; and at a tinae of life when the furaiit
is treated by lajTnen as a little being whose impoTtaiice
lies entirely in the future the clerg3'raan gives it conse-
quence in the present b}- admitting it, with solemn ei^re-
mony, to membership in the Church of Christ. It is
not possible to imagine anything more likel}^ to gratify
the feelings of a mother than this early admission of
her unconscious offspring to the privileges of a great
religious community. Before this great initiation it
was alone in the world, loved only b}' her, and with
all its prospects darkened by original sin ; now it is
purified, blessed, admitted into the fellowship of the
holy and the wise. A certain relationship of a pcculijir
kind is henceforth established between priest and in-
fant. In after years he prepares it for confirmation,
another ceremony touching to the heart of a Tnotlier
when she sees her son gravely taking upon himself the
responsibilities of a thinking being. The marriage of
a son or daughter renews in the mother all those feel-
ings towards the friendly, consecrating power of tlic
Church which were excited at her own marriage.

Then come those anxious occasions when the malady
of one member of the family casts a shadow oi) tliii
happiness of all. In these cases any clergyman \^'ho
unites natural kindness of heart with the peculiar
training and experience of his profession can offer

186 PBIESTS AND WOMEN,

oonsolatioQ incomparftbly l>etter than a layman ; he is
more aucustotried to it, more authorized, A friendly
physician is a great help and a great stay so long as
the disease is not alarming, but when he begins to look
very gi^ave (the reader knows that look), and says that
recoi^ery is not probaljle, by which physicians mean that
deiith is certain and iniiainent, the clergj-man says
there is hope still, and speaks of a life beyond the
grave in which human existence will be delivered from
the evils that afflict it here. When death has come,
the priest treats the dead bodj' with respect and the
survivors witlfc sytiipathy, and when it is laid in the
ground he is there to the last moment with the majesty
of an ancient and touching form of words already pro-
no ti need over the graves of milhons who have gone to
their everlasting rest.^

1 Since this Eaaay waa written I have met with the following
pnasagti in tier Majesty's Gmry, which so accurately describes the
eotiflolrttury infliieni:e of clcrtrymen, and the natural desire of
women for the conaolatmn gWen by them, that I cannot refrain
from tiuothiff it* The Queen la speaking of her last interview
with Dr. Nprmiin Mac lead :■ —

'* llc! chTtlt then, fiH nhvaj?, un (he love and goodness of God, and on
])i^ euiivictiofi itmt God would give us, in another life, the means to per-
fect ourHilvps nnd Ut improve, ijittdually. No one ever felt so convinced,
aXiiX so ail X ion a as he to com ince others, that God was a loving Father
who wished all to come to limit aod to preach of a living personal
Savioufj One who lorurj its m u Uiiother and a friend, to whom all could
fliKl she II 111 come with trust and confidence. No one ever raised and
Btrenf^thfiricd one*a fuitli mmc tbitii Dr. Macleod. His own faith was so
Btroii^r his heart ^o br^jc, thiit :»11 — high and low, weak and strong, the
ernn^ and I he guod — cautti alike ^nd sympathy^ help^ and consolation
from, Aim.*'

"//oiff / httd to ifjlk to him, to ash his advice, to speak to him of my
sorrows am/ ansii^kx,*'

PRIESTS AND WOMEN. 187

Pabt II. Aet.
I HAVE not yet by any means exhausted the advan-
tages of the priestly position in its influence opon
women. If the reader will reflect upon the feminine
nature as be has known it, especially in women of
the best kind, he will at once admit that not only ate
women more readil}^ moved b}^ the expression of sym-
pathy than men, and mwe grateful for it, but they are
also more alive to poetical and artistic influences. In
our sex the aesthetic instinct is occasionally pn'sent
in great strength, but more frequently it is altogether
absent ; in the female sex it seldom reaches much crea-
tive force, but it is almost invariably present in minor
degi'ees. Almost all women take an interest in fur-
niture and dress; most of them in the comfortable

A little farther on in the same diary Her Majesty speaks of Dr.
Maeleod's beneficial influence upon another lady : —

"He had likewise a marvellous power of winning people of all Idiids,
and of sympathizing with the highest and with the humblest, ancl of
soothing and comforting the sick, the dying, the afflicted, the ening^,
and the doubting. A friend of mine told me that if sh^ were in fjyint
trouble, orson'oWf or anxiety ^ Dr. Norman Macleod wai the person sAe
would wish to (JO toy

The two points to be noted in these extracts are: first, the faiUh
in a loving God who cares for each of His creatures individually
/not acting only by general laws); and, secondly, the way in which
the woman goes to the clergyman (whether in formal confes^ii^n or
confidential conversation) to hear consolatory doctrine from his
lips in application to her own personal needs. The faith aad the
tendency are both so natural in women that they could only cease
in consequence of the general and most improbable acceptance by
women of the scientific doctrine that the Eternal Energy is iuTa-
riably regular in its operations and inexorable, and that the prieut
has no clearer knowledge of its inscrutable nature than the lay riiE^n.

188 PRIESTS AND WOMEN,

classes liave some knowledge of music; drawing has
been leaincd fis an accomplishment more frequently
hy girls t\mn by boys. The clergy have a strong hold
upon tbe feminine nature by its aesthetic side. All the
external details of public worship are profoundly inter-
esting to women. When there is any splendor in ritual
the details of vestments and altar decorations are a
constant occojjation for their thoughts, and the}^ fre-
quently bestow infinite labor and pains to produce
beautiful things with their own hands to be used in
the service of the Church. In cases where the service
itself is too austere and plain to afford much scope for
this affectionate industry, the slightest pretext is seized
upon with avidity. See how eagerly ladies will deco-
rate a churcli at Christmas, and how they will work to
get up an ecclesiastical bazaar ! Even in that Church
which most encourages or pennits aesthetic industry,
the zeal of ladies sometimes goes beyond the desires
of the clei'gy, and has to be more or less decidedly-
repressed, Wc all can see from the outside how fond
women generally are of flowers, though I believe it is
impossible for us to realize all that flowers are to them,
as there are no inanimate objects that men love with
such affectionate and even tender solicitude. However,
we see that women surround themselves with flowers,
in gardens, in conservatories, and in their rooms ; we
see that they wear artificial flowers in their dress, and
that they paint flowers in water-color and on china.
Now obser^'e how the Church of Rome and the Ritual-
ists in England show sympathy- with this feminine taste !
Innumerable millions of flowers are emploj-ed annually

PRIESTS AND WOMEN. 189

in the churches on the Continent ; they are also used
in England, though in less lavish profusion, and a scr*
mon on flowers is preached annually in London, when
every pew is full of them.

It is well known that women take an unfailing interest
in dress. The attention they give to it is close, constant,
and sj'stematic, like an orderly man's attention to o] dur-
Women are easily affected by official costumes, and Hicy
read what great people have worn at levees and drawing-
rooms. The clergy possess, in ecclesiastical vestments,
a very powerful help to their influence. That many of
them are clearly aware of this is proved b}^ their hokh
ness and perseverance in resuming ornamental vest-
ments ; and (as might be expected) that Church which
has the most influence over women is at the same time
the one whose vestments are most gorgeous and most
elaborate. Splendor, however, is not required to mako
a costume impressive. It is enough that it be strikhiy^ly
peculiar, even in simplicity, like the white robe of the
Dominican friars.

Costume naturally leads our minds to architecture.
I am not the first to remark that a house is only a
cloak of a larger size. The gradation is insensible
from a coat to a cathedral: first, the soldier's hvavy
cloak which enabled' the Prussians to dispense with tlie
little tent, then the tent, hut, cottage, house, chureli,
cathedral, heavier and larger as we ascend the scule.
"He has clothed himself with his church," says Miilt-
elet of the priest; "he has wrapped himself in this
glorious mantle, and in it he stands in triumphant stiite.
The crowd comes, sees, admires. Assuredly, if wc

190 PRIESTS AND WOMEN,

judge the man by his covering, he who clothes himself
with a Notre Dame de Paria^ or with a Cologne
Cathodtal, is, to all appearance, the giant of the spirit-
ual world. What a dwelling such an edifice is, and
how vast the inhabitant must be! All proportions
change ; the eye is deceived and deceives itself again.
SuLIirac lights, powerful shadows, all help the illusion.
The man who in the street looked like a village school-
master is a prophet in this place. He is transfigured
by these magnificent surroundings; his heaviness be-
cornea power and majesty; his voice has formidable
echoes. Women and children are overawed."

To a mind that does not analyze but simply receives
impressions, magnificent architecture is a convincing
proof that the words of the preacher are true. It
appears inconceivable that such substantial glories, so
many thousands of tons of masonry, such forests of
timber, such acres of lead and glass, all united in one
harmonious work on which men lavished wealth and
toil for generations, — it appears inconceivable that
such a monument can perpetuate an error or a dream.
The echoing vaults bear witness. Responses come from
storied wiiitlow and multitudinous imagery. When the
old cosmogony is proclaimed to be true in York Minster,
the scientists sink into insignificance in their modern
ordinary rooms ; when the acolyte rings his bell in
Rouen Catlicdral, and the Host is hfted up, and the
crowd kneels in silent adoration on the pavement, who
is to deny the Real Presence? Does not every massive
pillar stand there to afl^m sturdily that it is true ; and
do not tlie towers outside announce it to field and river,
and to the very winds of heaven?

PRIESTS AND WOMEN. 191

The musical ailture of women finds its own special
interest in the vocal and instrumental parts of the
church service. Women have a direct influence on
this part of the ritual, and sometimes take an active
share in it. Of all the arts music is the most closely
connected with religion, and it is the only one that tlic
blessed are believed to practise in a future state. A
suggestion that angels might paint or carve is so un-
accustomed that it seems incongruous ; ^^et the object ian
to these arts cannot be that they employ matter, since
both poets and painters give musical instruments to the
angels, —

** And angels meeting us shall sing
To their citherns and citoles/'

Worship naturally becomes musical as it passes from
the prayer that asks for benefits to the expressir>n of
joyful praise; and though the austerity of estiemo
Protestantism has excluded instruments and cnccmr.
aged reading instead of chanting, I am not aware that
it has ever gone so far as to forbid the singing of
hymns.

I have not yet touched upon pulpit eloquence as one
of the means by which the clergy gain a great aaccud-
ency over women. The truth is that the pulpit is quite
the most advantageous of all places for any one who
has the gift of public speaking. He is placed there far
more favorably than a Member of Parliament in bis
place in the House, where he is subject to constant ami
contemptuous interruptions from hearers lounging Kith
their hats on. The chief advantage is that no one
present is allowed either to interrupt or to reply ; and

192 PRIESTS AND WOMEN,

this is one reason wiry some men will not go to church,
as they say, ^' Wc may hear our principles misrepre-
sented and not be permitted to defend them." A
Bishop, in my heartng, touched upon this very point.
** People aaj," he remarked, " that a preacher is much
at his ease because no one is allowed to answer him ;
but I invite discussion. If any one here present has
doubts about the soundness of my reasoning, I invite
him to come to me at the Episcopal Palace, and we
will argue the question together in m}^ stud3\" This
sounded unusually liberal, but how the advantages were
stiil on the side of the Bishop ! His attack on heresy
was public. It was uttered with long- practised profes-
sional eloquence, it was backed b}^ a loft}' social position,
aided by a peculiar and dignified costume, and mightily
aided also by the architecture of a magnificent cathe-
dral. The doubter was invited to answer, but not on
equal terms. The attack was public, the answer was
to be private, and the heretic was to meet the Bishop
ia the Episcopal Palace, where, again, the power of
rank and surroundings would be all in the prelate's
favor.

Not only are clergymen privileged speakers, in being
as secure from present contradiction as a sovereign on
the throne, but they have the grandest of all imaginable
subjects. In a word, they have the subject of Dante,
— they speak to us del Inferno^ del Purgatorio^ del
Paraduo. If Ihcy have any gift of genius, any power
of imagination, such a subject becomes a tremendous
engine in their hands. Imagine the diflerence between
a preacher solemnly warning his hearers that the con-

PRIESTS AND WOMEN. 193

sequences of inattention may be everlasting torment,
and a politician warning the Government that inatten-
tion may lead to a deficit ! The truth is, that however
terrible may be the earthly consequences of imprudence
and of sin, the^^sink into complete insignificance btfoie
the menaces of the Church ; nor is there, on the other
hand, any worldly success that can be proposed as a
motive comparable to the permanent happiness of
Paradise. The good and the bad things of this world
have alike the fatal defect, as subjects for eloquence,
that they equally end in death ; and as death is near
to all of us, we see the end to both. The secular
preacher, is like a man who predicts a more or less
comfortable journey, which comes to the same end in
any case. A philosophic hearer is not very greatly
elated by the promise of comforts so soon to be titkea
away, nor is he overwhelmed by the threat of ei its
that can but be temporary. Hence, in all mfitters
belonging to this world onlj', the tone of quiet adviee
is the reasonable and appropriate tone, and it is tluit
of the doctor and lawj-er ; but in matters of such tre-
mendous import as eternal happiness and misery the
utmost energy of eloquence can never be too great for
the occasion ; so that if a preacher can threaten like
peals of thunder, and appal like flashes of lightning, he
may use such terrible gifts without any dispropoitionate
excess. On the other hand, if he has any charm of
language, any brilliancy of imagination, there is noth-
ing to prevent him from alluring his hearers to the
paths of virtue by the most lavish and seductive prom-
ises. In short, his opportunities in both directions are
13

194 rniEBTS AND WOMEN.

of finch a Dature tliai esaggeration is impossible ; and
all hb power, oU Lis charm, are as free to do their
utmost as an oceaa wave in a tempest or the nightingale
in the summer wooils.

I cxuiuot quit Ibc sabject of clerical oratory without
notieiDg one of its marked characteristics. The priest
is not in a posilion of disinterested impartialit}', like a
man of science, who is ready to I'enounce any doctrine
when he finds cTidouce against it The priest is an
advocate whose lifi?-lo[ig pleading must be in favor of
the Church as be Cuds her, and in opposition to her
adversjirics. To attiick adversaries is therefore one of
the rccogiilzed duties of his profession ; and if he is not
a mail of uncommoti fairness, if he has not an inborn
love of justice which is rare in hnman natnre, he will
not ouly attack his adversaries but misrepresent tiiem.
There is even a worse danger than simple misrepresen-
tation. A priest may possibly be a man of a coarse
temper, and if he is so he will employ the weapons of
outrage and vituperation, knowing that he can do so
with imiHinity. One would imagine that these methods
must inevitably repel and displease women, but there
is a ver^' peeuliar reason why they seldom have this
effect, A highly principled woman is usually so ex-
tremely eager to be on the side of what is right that
suspension of judgment is most diflBcult for her. Any
condemnation uttered by a person she is accustomed
to trust has her approval on the instant. She cannot
endure to wait until the crime is proved, but her feel-
ings of indignation are at once aroused against the
supposed criminal on the ground that there must be

PRIESTS AND WOMEN. 195

clear distinctions between right and wrong. The priest,
for her, is the good man, — the man on the side of God
and virtue ; and those whom he condemns are the had
men, — the men on the side of the Devil and vice.
This being so, he may deal with such men as roughly
as he pleases. Nor have these men the faintest chance
of setting themselves right in her opinion. She quietly
closes the avenues of her mind against them ; she de-
clines to read their books ; she will not listen to their
arguments. Even if one of them is a near relation
whose opinions inflict upon her what she calls ''the
deepest distress of mind," she will positively prefer to
go on suffering such distress until she dies, rather than
allow him to remove it by a candid exposition of his
views. She prefers the hostile misrepresentation that
makes her miserable, to an authentic account of the
matter that would relieve her anguish.

Part III. — Association.

The association of clergymen with ladies in works of
charity affords continual opportunities for the exercise
of. clerical influence over women. A partnership in
good works is set up which establishes interesting and
cordial relations, and when the lady has accomplished
sime charitable purpose she remembers for long after-
wards the clergj^man without whose active assistance
her project might have fallen to the ground. She sees
in the clergyman a reflection of her own goodness, and
she feels grateful to him for lending his masculine
sense and larger experience to the realization of her

196 PRIESTS AND WOMEN,

ideas. There are other cases of a different nature in
which the self-esteem of the lady is deeply gratified
when she is selected by the clergyman as being more
capable of devoted effort in a sacred cause than women
of inferior piety and strength of mind. This kind of
clerical selection is believed to be very influential in
furthering clerical marriages. The lady is told that
she will serve the highest of all causes by lending a
willing ear to her admirer. Every reader will remem-
ber how thoroughly this idea is worked out in "Jane
Eyre," where St. John urges Jane to marr}^ him on the
plain ground that she ivould be a valuable fellow-worker
with a missionary. Charlotte Bronte was, indeed, so
strongly impressed with this aspect of clerical influence
that she injured the best and strongest of her novels
by an almost wearisome development of that episode.

Clerical influence is immensely aided by the posses-
sion of leisure. Without underrating the self-devotion
of hard-working clergymen (which is all the more honor-
able to them that they might take life more easily if they
chose) , we see a wide distinction, in point of industry,
between the average clergyman and the average solicit
tor, for example. The clergyman has leisure to pay
calls, to accept many invitations, and to talk in full
detail about the interests that he has in common with
his female friends. The solicitor is kept to his ofl3ce
b}'^ strictly professional work requiring very close appli-
cation and allowing no libert}'^ of mind.

Much might be said about the effect of clerical lei-
sure on clerical manners. Without leisure it is diflScult
to have such quiet and pleasant manners as the cleigy

PRIESTS AND WOMEN, 197

generally have. Very busy men generally seem pre-
occupied with some idea of their own which is not
what you are talking about, but a leisurely man will
give hospitality to your thought. A busy man wants
to get away, and fidgets you ; a man of leisure dwells
with you, for the time, completely. Ladies are exqui-
sitely sensitive to these differences, and besides, they
are generally themselves persons of leisure. Over-
worked people often confound leisure with indolence^
which is a great mistake. Leisure is highly favorable
to intelligence and good manners ; indolence is stupid,
from its dislike to mental effort, and iU-bred, from the
habit of inattention.

The feeling of women towards custom draws them
strongly to the clergy, because a priesthood is the in-
stinctive upholder of ancient customs and ceremonies,
and steadily maintains external decorum. Women are
naturally more attracted by custom than we are. A
few men have an affectionate regard for the sanctities
of usage, but most men only submit to them from an
idea that they are generally helpful to the *' mainten-
ance of order ; " and if women could be supposed absent
from a nation for a time, it is probable that external
observances of all kinds would be greatl}^ relaxed.
Women do not merely submit passively to custom;
they uphold it actively and energetical^, with a degree
of faith in the perfect reasonableness of it which gives
them great decision in its defence. It seems to them
the ultimate reason from which there is no appeal.
Now, in the life of every organized Church there is
much to gratify this instinct, especially in those which

198 PRIESTS AND WOMEN,

have been long established. The recurrence of holy
seasons, the customary repetition of certain forms of
words, the observance at stated intervals of the same
ceremonies, the adherence to certain prescribed decen-
cies or splendors of dress, the reservation of sacred
days on which labor ia suspended, give to the religious
life a charm of customariness which is deeply gratify-
ing to good, order-loving women. It is said that every
poet has sometliing feminine in his nature ; and it is
certainly observable that poets, like women, are ten-
derly' affected by the recurrence of holy seasons, and
the observance of fixed religious rites. I will only
allude to Keble's "Christian Year," because in this
instance it might be objected that the poet was second-
ary to the Christian ; but the reader wiU find instances
of the same sentiment in Tennyson, as, for example,
in the profoundly affecting allusions to the return of
Christmas in "In Memoriam." I could not name an-
other occupation so closely and visibly bound up with
custom as the clerical profession, but for the sake of
contrast I may mention one or two others that are
completely disconnected from it. The profession of
painting is an example, and so is that of literature.
An artist, a writer, has simply nothing whatever to do
with custom, except as a private man. He may be an
excellent and a famous workman without knowing
Sunday from week-day or Easter from Lent. A man
of science is equally unconnected with traditional
observances.

It may be a question whether a celibate or a married
dergy has the greater influence over women«

PRIESTS AND WOMEN. 199

There are two sides to this question. The Church of
Rome is, from the worldl}^ point of view, the most astute
body of men who have ever leagued themselves together
in a corporation ; and that Church has decided for celi-
bacy, rejecting thereby all the advantages to be derived
from rich marriages and good connections. In a celi-
bate church the priest has a position of secure dignity
and independence. It is known from the first that he
will not marry, so there is no idle and damaging gossip
about his supposed aspirations after fortune, or tender
feelings towards beauty. Women can treat him with
greater confidence than if he were a possible suitor,
and then can confess to him, which is felt to be diflScult
with a married or a marriageable clergy. By being
decidedly celibate the clergy avoid the possible loss of .
dignity which might result from allying themselves with
families in a low social position. They are simply
priests, and escape all other classification. A married
man is, as it were, made responsible for the decent
appearance, the good manners, and the proper conduct
of three (JifTerent sets of people. There is the family
he springs from, there is his wife's family, and, lastly,
there is the family in his own house. Any one of these
may drag a man down socially with almost irresistible
force. The celibate priest is only affected b}^ the family
he springs from, and is generally at a distance from that.
He escapes the invasion of his house by a wife's rela-
tions, who might possibly be vulgar, and, above all, he
escapes the permanent degradation of a coarse and
ill-dressed family of his own. No doubt, from the
Christian point of view, poverty is as honorable as

200 PRIESTS AND WOMEN.

wealth ; but from the worldly point of view its visible
imperfections are mean, despicable, and even ridiculous.
In the early days of English Protestants the liberty to
marry was ruinous to the social position of the clergy.
They generally espoused servant-girls or *' a ladj's
maid whose character had been blown upon, and who
was therefore forced to give up all hope of catching
the steward." ^ Queen Elizabeth issued '* special orders
that no clergyman should presume to marry a servant-
girl without the <jonsent of the master or mistress."
^* One of the lessons most earnestly inculcated on
GVQry girl of honorable family was to give no encour-
agement to a lover in orders ; and if any young lady
forgot this precept she was almost as much disgraced
as by an illicit amour." The cause of these low mar-
riages was simply poverty, and it is needless to add
that they increased the evil. ''As children multiplied
and grew, the household of the priest became more and
more beggarly. Holes appeared more and more
plainly in the thatch of his parsonage and in his single
cassock. His boys followed the plough, and his girls
went out to service."

When clergymen can maintain appearances they gain
one advantage from marriage which increases their in-
fluence with women. The clergyman's wife is almost
herself in holy orders, and his daughter often takes an
equally keen interest in ecclesiastical matters. These
'^ clergj'women," as they have been called, are valuable
allieSj through whom much may be done that cannot

^ These quotations (I need hardly say) are from Macaulay's
Hktory, Chapter III.

PRIESTS AND WOMEN. . 201

be effected directly. This is the only advantage on
the side of marriage, and it is but relative ; for a celi-
bate clergy has also its female allies who are scarcely
less devoted ; and in the Church of Kome there are
great organized associations of women entirely under
the control of ecclesiastics. Again, there is a lay
element in a clergyman's family which brings the world
into his own house, to the detriment of its religious
character. The sons of the clergy are often anything
but clerical in feeling. They are often strongly laic,
and even sceptical, b}' a natural reaction from ecclesi-
asticism. On the whole, therefore, it seems certain
that an unmarried clergy more easily maintains both
its own dignity and the distinction between itself and
the laity.

Auricular confession is so well known as a means of
influencing women that I need scarcely do more than
mention it ; but there is one characteristic of it which
is little understood by Protestants. They fancy (judg-
ing from Protestant feelings of antagonism) that con-
fession must be felt as a tyranny. A Roman Catholic
woman does not feel it to be an infliction that the
Church imposes, but a relief that she affords. "Women
are not naturally silent sufferers. They like to talk
about their anxieties and interests, especially to a
patient and sympathetic listener of the other sex who
will give them valuable advice. ^ There is reason to
believe that a good deal of informal confession is done
by Protestant ladies ; in the Church of Rome it is more
systematic and leads to a formal absolution. The sub-
ject which the speaker has to talk about is that most

202 . PRIESTS AND WOMEN.

interesting of all subjects, self. In any other place
tlian a couf<a3sional to talk about self at any length
is an eiTor ; in the confessional it is a virtue. The ti-uth
is that pious Roman Catholic women find happiness in
the confessional and try the patience of the priests by
minute accounts of trifling or imaginary sins: No
doubt confusaion places an immense power in the hands
of the Church, but at an Incalculable cost of patience.
It is not f(?lt to weigh unfairly on the laity, because
the priest who to-day has forgiven your faults will to-
morrow kneel in penitence and ask forgiveness for his
own. I do not see, in the confessional so much an
oppressive institution as a convenience for both parties.
The woman gets what she wants, — an opportunity of
talliing coDfidentially about herself; and the priest gets
what ho wants, — an opportunity of learning the secrets
of the household.

Nothing has so powerfully awakened the jealousy of
la3'men as this institution of the confessional. The
reasons have been so fully treated by Michelet and
others, and are in fact so obvious, that I need not
repeat them-

The dislike for priests that is felt by many Conti-
nental laymen is increased by a cause that helps to win
the confidence of women. *' Observe," the laymen
say, ' * with what art the priest dresses so as to make
women feel that he is without sex, in order that they
may confess to him more willingly. He removes every
trace of hair from his face, his dress is half feminine,
he hides his legs in petticoats, his shoulders under a
tippet, and in the higher ranks he wears jewelry and

PRIESTS AND WOMEN. 203

silk and lace. A woman would never confess to a
man dressed as we are, so the wolf puts on sheep's
clothing."

Where confession is not the rule the layman's jcal-
ousy is less acrid and pungent in its expression, but
it often manifests itself in milder foims. The pen tliat
so clearly delineated the Rev. Charles Honeymaii was
impelled by a laj'man's natural and pardonable jeal-
ousy. A feeling of this kind is often strong in laymen
of mature 3'ears. They will say to 3'ou in confiikiiee,
'* Here is a man about the age of one of my sons, who
knows no more concerning the mysteries of life aud
death than I do, who gets what he thinks he knows out
of a book which is as accessible to me as it is to him,
and 3'et who assumes a superiority over me which would
only be justifiable if I were ignorant and he enlightened.
He calls ine one pf his sheep. I am not a sheep rela-
tively to him. I am at least his equal in knowledge,
and greatly his superior in experience. Nobody but a
parson would venture to compare me to an animal (sncb
a stupid animal too !) and himself to that animal's mas-
ter. His one real and effective superiority is that he
has all the women on his side."

You poor, doubting, hesitating la^^man, not half so
convinced as the ladies of your family, who and what
are you in the presence of a man who comes clothed
with the authority of the Church? If you. simply reiieat
what he says, you are a mere echo, a feeble repetition
of a great original, like the copy of a famous pietiirc.
If you try to take refuge in philosophic indifference,
in silent patience, you will be blamed for moral and

204 PRIESTS AND WOMEN.

religioas inertia. If j^ou venture to oppose anci discuss,
3-0U will be the Lad man against the good man, and as
Bure of condemnation as a murderer when the judge
is puttiDg on the black cap. There is no resource for
jou but one, and that does not oflfer a very cheering
or hopeful prosi>ect. By the exercise of angelic pa-
tience, and of all the other virtues that have been
preached by good men from Socrates downwards, you
may in twenty or thirty j^eara acquire some credit for
a sort of inferior goodness of jour own, — a pinchbeck
goodness, better than nothing, but not in any way
comparable to the. pure golden goodness of the priest;
and when you come to die, the best that can be hoped
for your disembodied soul will be mercy, clemency, in-
dulgence ; not aj^probation, welcome, or reward.

APPARENTLY LESS RELIGIOUS. 205

ESSAY XIV.

WHY WE ARE APPARENTLY BECOMING LESS
RELIGIOUS.

TT has happened to me on more than one occasion to
•*■ have to examine papers left by ladies belonging to
the last generation, who had lived in the manner most
esteemed and respected by the general opinion of their
time, and who might, without much risk of error, be
taken for almost perfect models of English gentlewomen
as they existed before the present scientific age. Tbe
papers left by these ladies consisted either of memo-
randa of their private thoughts, or of thoughts by others
which seemed to have had an especial interest for them.
I found that all these papers arranged themselves natu-
rally and inevitafbly under two heads : either they cou^
cerned family interests and affections, or they were
distinctly religious in character, like the religious medi-
tations we find in books of devotion.

There may be nothing extraordinary in this. Tboii-
sands of other ladies may have left religious memoranda ;
but consider what a preponderance of religious ideas is
implied when written thoughts are entirely confined to
them ! The ladies in question lived in the first half of
the nineteenth century, a period of great intellectniil
ferment, of the most important political and sociiU
changes, and of wonderful material progress ; but they

206 WHY WE ARE APPARENTLY

did not seem to have taken any real interest in these
moveiiients. The Bible and the commentaries of the
clerg}' satisfied not only their spiritual but also their in-
tellectiifll needs. They seem to have desired no knowl-
edge of the universe, or of the probable origin and future
of the human race, which the Bible did not supply. They
seem to have cared for no example of human character
and conduct other than the scriptural examples.

This rcstf Illness in Biblical history and philosophy,
this substitution of the Bible for the world as a subject
of study and contemplation, this absence of desire to
penetrate the secrets of the world itself, this want of
aspiration after any ideal more recent than the earlier
ages of Christianity, permitted a much more constant
and uuiutermpted dwelling with what are considered to
be religious ideas than is possible to any active and
inquiring mind of the present day. Let it be supposed,
for example 3 that a person to whom the Bible was every-
liing desired information about the origin of the globe,
and of life upon it ; he would refer to the Book of Gene-
sis as the only authority, and this reference would have
the character of a religious act, and he would get credit
for piety on account of it ; whilst a modern scientific
student would refer to some great modern paleontolo-
gist, and liis reference would not have the character of
a religious act, nor bring him any credit for piety ; yet
the prompting curiosity, the desire to know about the
remote past, would be exactly the same in both cases.
And 1 think it may be easily shown that if the modern
scientific student appears to be less religious than others
think he ought to be, it is often because he possesses

BECOMING LESS RELIGIOUS. 207

and uses more abundant sources of information thnu
those which were accessible to the ancient Jews. It ib
not his fault if knowledge has increased ; he cannot be
blamed if he goes where information is most copious
and most exact ; yet his preference for such information
gives an unsanctified aspect to his studies. The study
of the most ancient knowledge wears a religious aspect,
but the study of modern knowledge appears to be nou-
religious.

Again, when we come to the cultivation of the ideal-
izing faculties, of the faculties which do not seek inf< n-
mation merely, but some kind of perfection, we find tbat
the very complexity of modern life, and the diversity
of the ideal pleasures and perfections that we modem
men desire, have a constant tendency to take us outside
pf strictly religious ideals. As long as the writings
which are held to be sacred supply all that our idealizing
faculties need, so long will our imaginative powers exei -
cise themselves in what is considered to be a religious
manner, and we shall get credit for piety; but when
our minds imagine what the sacred writers could not or
did not conceive, and when we seek help for our imagi-
native faculty in profane writers, we appear to be less
religious. So it is with the desire to study and imitate
high examples of conduct and character. There is no
nobler or more fruitful instinct in man than a deairu
like this, which is possible only to those who are at
once humble and aspiring. An ancient Jew who hail
this noble instinct could satisfy it by reading the sacred
books of the Hebrews, and so his aspiration appeared
to be wholly religious. It is not so with an active-

208 WHY WE ARE APPARENTLY

minded young Englishman of the present day. He
cannot find the most inspmting models amongst the
ancient Hebrews, for the reason that their life was alto-
gether so much simpler and more primitive than ours.
They had nothing that can seriously be called science ;
they hnd not any organized industry; they had little
art, and hardly an}' secular literature, so that in these
du'eetions they offer us no examples to follow. Our
groat inspiriting examples in these directions are to be
found cither in the Kenaissance or in recent times, and
therefore in profane biography. From this it follows
that an active ni'odern mind seems to studj- and follow
u on -religious examples, and so to differ widely, and for
the worse, from the simpler minds of old time, who were
satis Qcd with the examples they found in their Bibles.
This appearance is misleading ; it is merely on the sur-
face ; for if we go deeper and do not let ourselves be
deceived by the words '* sacred" and "profane," we
shall find that when a simple mind chooses a model
from a primitive people, and a cultivated one chooses
a model from an advanced people, and from the most
advanced class in it, they are both reallj'^ doing the
same thing, namely, seeking ideal help of the kind
which is best for each. Both of them are pursuing the
same object, — a mental discipline and elevation which
may be comprised under the general term virtue ; the
only difTerence being that one is studying examples of
virtue in the history of the ancient Jews, whilst the
otlier finds examples of virtue more to his own special
purpose in the lives of energetic Englishmen, French-
men, or Germans.

BECOMING LESS RELIGIOUS. 209

• A hundred such examples might be mentioned, for
every occupation worth following has its own saints
and heroes ; but I will confine myself to two. The iirst
shall be a French gentleman of the eighteenth century,
to whom life offered in the richest profusion everything
that can tempt a man to what is considered an excusa-
ble and even a . respectable form of idleness. He had
an independent fortune, excellent health, a good social
position, and easy access to the most lively, the most
entertaining, the most amiable society that ever was,
namely, that of the intelligent French nobility before
the Revolution. There is no merit in renouncing what
we do not enjoy ; but he enjoyed all pleasant things ^ and
yet renounced them for a higher and a harder life. At
the age of thirtj^-two he retired to the country, made a
rule of early rising and kept it, sallied forth from his
house every morning at five, went and shut himself np
in an old tower with a piece of bread and a glass of
water for his breakfast, worked altogether eleven or
twelve hours a day in two sittings, and went to btMl at
nine. This for eight months in the year, regulMiI}^,
the remaining four being employed in scientific und
administrative work at the Jardin des Plantes. lie
went on working in this way for forty years, and in
the whole course of that time never let pass an ill-
considered page or an ill-constructed sentence, but
always did his best, and tried to make himself able to
do better.

Such was the great life of Bufibn ; and in our own
time another great life has come to its close, infc^rior
to that of Buffon only in this, that as it did not begin

14

210 WHY WE ARE APPARENTLY

in luxury, tLe first renunciation was not so difflcultsto
make. Yet, however austere his beginnings, it is not a
liglit or easy tiling for a man to become the greatest
intelleetual worker of his time, so that one of his days
(inclu<liug eight houi-s of steady nocturnal labor) was
equivalent to two or more of our days. No man of his
time in Europe had so vast a knowledge of literature
and science in eoiubination ; yet this knowledge was
accompanied by perfect modesty and by a complete
indillV.'rerice to vulgar distinctions and vain successes.
For miuiy 3 cars he was the butt of coarse and mahg*
nant iriisrepresentaLion on the part of enemies who
easily made him otlious to a shallow society; but he
bore it with i^erfeet dignit}', and retained unimpaired
the tolerance ttnd eliarity of his nature. His way of
living was plai[i and frugal ; he even contented himself
Willi ruirri>;v tl well 1 rigs, though the want of space must
have oceasioncd fn.^quent inconvenience to a man of
liis pursiiits. He scrupulously fulfilled his domestic
duties, and made use of his medical education in min-
istering gratuitout^ly to the poor. Such was his cour-
age thnt wluni already advanced in life he undertook
a gigantic tuiaK^, requiring twenty 3'ears of incessant
labor ; and such were his industry and perseverance
that be Ijrougljt it to a splendidly successful issue. At
lengtli, ai'Un' a long life of duty and patience, after
bearhig calumny ^iiid ridicule, he was called to endure
another kind uf ifiuffering, — that of incessant physical
pain. Tlii:^ lie boro with perfect fortitude, retaining
to the last Lis mental serenity, his interest in learning,
and n high-miniled patriotic thoughtfulness for his

BECOMING LESS RELIGIOUS, 211

country and its future, finding means in the midst of
suffering to dictate long letters to his fellow-citizens
on political subjects, which, in their calm wisdom, stood
in the strongest possible contrast to the violent party
writing of the hour.

Such was the great life of Littr^ ; and now consider
whether he who studies lives like these, and wins vir-
tue from their austere example, does not occupy his
thoughts with what would have been considered relig-
ious aspirations^ if these two men, instead of being
Frenchmen of the e^hteenth and nineteenth centuries,
had happened to be ancient Jews, If it had been pos-
sible for so primitive a nation as the Jewish to produce
men of such steady industry and so large a culture, we
should have read the story of their lives in the Jewish
sacred books, and then it would have been a part of
the popular religion to study them, whereas now the
study of such biography is held to be non-religious, if
not (at least in the case of Littre) positively irreligious.
Yet surely when we think of the virtues which made
these lives so fruitful, our minds are occupied in a kind
of religious thought ; for are we not thinking of tem-
perance, self-discipline, diligence, perseverance, pa-
tience, charity, courage, hope? Were not these men
distinguished by their aspiration after higher perfection,
by a constant desire to use their talents well, and by
a vigilant care in the employment of their time? And
are not these virtues and these aspirations held to be
parts of a civilized man's religion, and the best parts ?

The necessity for an intellectual expansion beyond
the limits of the Bible was felt very strongly at the

212 WHY WE ARE APPARENTLY

time of the Renaissance, and found ample satisfaction
in the stud}- of the Greek and Latin classics. There
are many reasons why women appear to be more relig-
ious than men j and one of them is because women
study only one collection of ancient writings, whilst
men have been accustomed to study three; conse-
quently that which women study (if such a word is
applicaMe to devotional, uncritical reading) occupies
their minds far more exclusively than it occupies the
mind of a classical scholar. But, though the intellect-
mil energies of men were for a time satisfied with clas-
fcfieal literature, they came at length to look outside of
that as their fathers had looked outside of the Bible.
Classical literature was itself a kind of religion, having
its own sacred books ; and it had also its heretics, — the
students of nature, — who found nature more interesting
thau tlie opinions of the Greeks and Romans. Then
came the second great expansion of the human mind,
in tlie midst of which we ourselves are living. The
Renaissance opened for it a world of mental activity
which had the inappreciable intellectual advantage of
lying well outside of the popular beliefs and ideas, so
that cultivated men found in it an escape from the
pressure of the uneducated; but the new scientific
expansion offers us a region governed by laws of a
kind peculiar to itself, which protect those who conform
to them against every assailant. It is a region in-
which authority is unknown, for, however illustrious
any great man may appear in it, every statement that
he makes is subject to verification. Here the knowl-
edge of ancient writers is continually superseded by

^.^fex:-^'-

BECOMING LESS RELIGIOUS. 213

the better and more accurate knowledge of their suc-
cessors ; so that whereas in religion and learning the
most ancient writings are the most esteemed, in science
it is often the most recent, and even these have no
authority which may not be called in question freely
by any student. The new scientific culture is thus
encouraging a habit of mind different from old habits,
and which in our time has caused such a degree of
separation that the most important and the most inter-
esting of all topics are those upon which we scarcely
dare to venture for fear of being misunderstood.

If I had to condense in a short space the various
reasons why we are apparently becoming less religious,
I should say that it is because knowledge and feeling,
embodied or expressed in the sciences and arts, are
now too fully and too variously developed to remain
within the limits of what is considered sacred knowl-
edge or religious emotion. It was possible for them to
remain well within those limits in ancient times, and it
is still possible for a mind of very limited activity and
range to dwell almost entirel}^ in what was known or
felt at the time of Christ ; but this is not possible for
an energetic and inquiring mind, and the consequence
is that the energetic mind will seem to the other, by
contrast, to be negligent of holy things, and too much
occupied with purely secular interests and concerns.
A great misunderstanding arises from this, which has
often had a lamentable effect on intercourse between
relations and friends. Pious ladies, to whom theologi-
cal writings appear to contain almost everything that
it is desirable to know, often look with secret misgiving

214 APPARENTLY LESS RELIGIOUS.

or suspicion on youug men of vigorous intellect who
cannot rest eatisfiecl with the old knowledge, and what
such ladies vaguely hear of the speculations of the
famouB seientiilc leaders inspires them with profound
alarm. They think that we are becoming less religious
because theological writings do not occupy the same
space in our time and thoughts as they do in theirs ;
whereas, if such a matter could be put to any kind of
positive test, it would probably be found that we know
more, even of their own theology, than they do, and
that^ instead of being indifferent to the great problems
of the universe, we have given to such problems an
amount of cai^ful thought far suipassing, in mental
effort, their own ainiple acquiescence. The opinions
of a thoughtful aud studious man in the present day
have never been lightly come by ; and if he is supposed
to bo less religious than his father or his grandfather it
may be that his religion is different from theirs, with-
out being either less earnest or less enlightened.
There is, howeverT one point of immense importance
on which I believe that we really are becoming less
religious, indeed on that point we seem to be rapidly
abandoning the religious principle altogether ; but the
subject is of too much consequence to be treated at
the end of an Essay.

REALIY LEJ^S RELIGIOUS. 215

ESSAY XV.

HOW WE ARE REALLY BECOMING LESS RELIGIOUS.

T^HE reader may remember how, after the lon^^ ami
-*• unsuccessful siege of Syracuse, the AthcTiiaii
general Nikias, seeing his discouraged troops ill with
the fever from the marshes, determined to raise the
siege ; and that, when his soldiers were preimiing to
retreat, and striking their tents for the marcli, there
occurred an eclipse of the moon. Nikias, in his anx*
iety to know what the gods meant by this with reference
to him and his army, at once consulted a soothsayer,
who told him that he would incur the Divine niigtr if
he did not remain where he was for three tiini's nine
daj's. He remained, doing nothing, allowing his troops
to perish and his ships to be shut up by a line of the
enemy's vessels chained together acix>ss the out ranee
of the port. At length the three times nine ilaj s eame
to an end, and what was left of the Athenian army had
to get out of a situation that had become infinitely more
difficult during its inaction. The ships tried to gtt out
in vain; the army was able to retreat by lantl, but
only to be harassed by the enemy, and finally placed
in such distress that it was compelled to surrender.
Most of the remnant died miserably in the old qnar*
ries of Syracuse.
The conduct of Nikias throughout these events was

216 HOW WE ARE REALLY

in the highest degree religious. He was fully con-
vinced that the gods concerned themselves about him
and iiis doings, that they were watching over him, and
that the ti el ipse was a communication from them not
to be neglected without a breach of religious duty. He,
therefore, in the spirit of the most perfect religious
fuith, which we are compelled to admire for its sin-
cerity and thoroughness, shut his eyes resolutely to all
the visible facts of a situation more disastrous everj^
day, and attended only to the invisible action of the
iLivisible gods, of which nothing could be really known
by him* For twent3''-seven days he went on quietly-
sacrifieing his soldiers to his faith, and only moved at
last when he believed that the gods allowed it.

In contrast with this, let us ask what we think of an
eclipse ourselves, and how far any religious emotion,
determinant of action or of inaction, is connected with
tlie phenomenon in our experience. We know, in the
first place, that eclipses belong to the natural order,
and we do not feel either grateful to the supernatural
powers, or ungrateful, with regard to them. Even the
idea tbat eclipses demonstrate the power of God is
hardly likely to occur to us, for we constantly see
tt^rrestrial objects eclipsed by cast shadows; and the
mere failing of a shadow is to us only the natural in-
terruption of light by the inter^'^ention of any opaque
object. In the true theory of eclipses there is abso-
lutely no ground whatever for religious emotion, and
aceoidiiigly the phenomenon is now entirely discon-
nected from religious ideas. The consequence is that
where the Athenian general had a strong motive for

BECOMING LESS RELIGIOUS. 217

religious emotion, a motive so strong that he sacrificGd
his army to the supposed will of Heaven, a modern
general in the same situation would feel no emotion
and make no sacrifice.

If this process stopped at eclipses the result would
be of little importance, as eclipses of the celestiril )jrKlies
are not frequently visible, and to lose the 0|>iJortinulT
of emotion which they present is not a very bcusiIjIc
loss. But so far is the process from stopping tit eclipse!^,
that exactly the same process is going on witli rcgani
to thousands of other phenomena which are one by one,
yet with increasing rapiditj', ceasing to be rt'^unk^d as
special manifestations of Divine will, and bcfi:inuing to
be regarded as a part of that order of u Lit are with
which, to quote Professor Huxley's significant language,
' ' nothing interferes." Everj^ one of these transfci^rcncea
from supernatural government to natural orcltr CiL4>iivi^s
the religious sentiment of one special cause or laoti^o
for its own peculiar kind of emotion, so that wo are
becoming less and less accustomed to such emotion ( as
the opportunities for it become less frequent) , anJ moix>
and more accustomed to accept events and pLencuDGna
of all kinds as in that order of nature ''with wliieli
nothing interferes."

This single mental conception of the unfailing rejj;n-
larity of nature is doing more in our time to nfi'evt the
religious condition of thoughtful people than ceaikl be
effected by many less comprehensive conceptions.

It has often been said, not untruly, that merely nega-
tive arguments have little permanent influence over the
opinions of men, and that institutions which have Itecn

218 HOW WE ARE REALLY

temporarily overthrown by negation will shortly be set
up again, nnd flourish in their old vigor, unless some-
thing i^sltivc can be found to supply their place. But
hiMv is a doctrine of a most positive kind. " The order
of n fit me Is invariably according to regular sequences."
It is a doctrine* which cannot be proved, for we cannot
follow all tLiG changes which have ever taken place in
Uie univ( rse \ hut, although incapable of demonstration,
it may bo accepted until something happens to disprove
it ; and it is atcepted, with the most absolute faith, by
a cony til ntl^^' increasing number of adherents.

To show liow this doctrine acts in diminishing re-
ligions emotion by taking awa}' the opportunity for it,
let me narrate an incident which really occun^d on a
French line of railway in the winter of 1882. The line,
on which I had travelled a few days before, passes
between a fiver and a hill. The river has a rocky bed
and i^ torrcntiid in winter; the hill is densely covered
with a pine fort^st coming down to the side of the line.
The year 1HS2 had been the rainiest known in France
for two ccntnnea, and the roots of the trees on the edge
of this ])int* forest had been much loosened by the rain.
In conseqnence of this, two large pine-trees fell across
the raihvay early one morning, and soon afterwards a
train approaclied the spot by the dim light of early
dawn. There was a curve just before the engine
reached the tree«, and it had come rapidly for seveml
miles down a decline. The driver reversed his steam,
tbe engine and tender leaped over the trees, and then
went over the embankment to a place within six feet
of the rapid river. The carriages remained on the line.

BECOMING LESS RELIGIOUS. 219

but were much broken. Nobody was killed ; nobody
was seriously injured. The remarkable escape of the
passengers was accounted for as follows by the religious
people in the neighborhood. There happened to be a
priest in the train, and at the time when the shock took
place he made what is called "a pious ejaculation/*
This, it was said, had saved the lives of the passengers.
In the ages of faith this explanation would have been
received without question; but the notion of natural
sequences — Professor Huxley's *' order with which
nothing interferes " — had obtained such firm hold on
the minds of the townsmen generally that they said the
priest was trying to make ecclesiastical capital out of
an occurrence easily explicable by natural causi?^.
They saw nothing supernatural either in the produo
tion of the accident or its comparative harmlessneaa.
The trickling of much water had denuded the roots of
the trees, which fell because they could not stand with
insufficient roothold ; the lives of the passengers weie
saved because they did not happen to be in the most
shattered carriage ; and the men on the engine escaped
because they fell on soft ground, made softer still by
the rain. It was probable, too, they said, that if any
beneficent supernatural interference had taken place it
would have maintained the trees in an erect position, by
preventive miracle, and so spared the slight injuries
which really were inflicted, and which, though treated
very lightly by others because there were neither deaths
nor amputations, still caused suffering to those who hatl
to bear them.
Now if we go a little farther into the eflfects of this

220 HOW WE ARE BE ALLY

accident on the iniiids of the people who shared in it,
or whose friends had been imperilled by it, we shall
see very plainly the effect of the modern belief in the
regiilarit^^ of natural sequences. Those who believed
in supernatural intervention would offer thanksgivings
when they got home, and probably go through some
Bijccial religious thanksgiving .services for many days
afterwards ; those who believed in the regularity of
natural sequences would simply feel glad to have es-
caped, without any especial sense of gratitude to super-
natural powers. So much for the effect as far as
thanksgiving is concerned ; but there is another side
of the matter at least equally important from the re-
ligious point of view, — that of praj'er. The believers
in snpematural interference would probably, in all their
future railway journeys, pray to be supernatUrally pro-
tected in case of accident, as they had been in 1882 ;
but the believers in the regularity of natural sequences
would only hope that no trees had fallen across the
line, and feel more than usually anxious after long sea-
sons of rainy weather. Can there be a doubt that the
priest's opinion, that he had won safety by a pious
ojaeulation, was highly favorable to his religious activity
afterwards, whilst the opinion of the believers in " the
natural order with which nothing interferes" was un-
favorable both to prayer and thanksgiving in connec-
tion with railway travelling?

Examples of this kind might easily be multiplied, for
there is hai'dly any enterprise that men undertake, how-
ever appai"ently unimportant, which cannot be regarded
both from the poiuts of view of naturaUsm and super-

BECOMING LESS RELIGIOUS. 221

naturalism; and in every case the naturalist manner
of regarding the enterprise leads men to aiudy the
probable influence of natural causes, whilst the supei-
naturalist opinion leads them to propitiate supeinntnial
powers. Now, although some new sense may coine to
be attached to the word " religion" in future agG?^, so
that it may come to mean scientific thoroughness^ inti^l-
lectual ingenuousness, or some other virtue that may bo
possessed by a pure naturalist, the word has idwuys
been understood, down to the present time, to ivuply
a constant dependence upon the supernatural ; and iv in u
I say that we are becoming less religious, I meaEi that
from our increasing tendency to refer everything to
natural causes the notion of the supernatural is mnch
less frequently present in our minds than it was in ihe
minds of oiir forefathers. Even the clergy the missives
seem to be following the laity towards the belief in
natural law, at least so far as matter is concerned.
The Bishop of Melbourne, in 1882, declined to oi tlor
prayers for rain, and gave his reason honestly, Avliieli
was that material phenomena were under the control
of natural law, and would not be changed in ans^v er to
prayer. The Bishop added that prayer should be con-
fined to spiritual blessings. Without disputiEg the
soundness of this opinion, we cannot help perceiving
that if it were generally received it would put lui end
to one half of the religious activity of the human race ;
for half the prayers and half the thanksgivings^ atl-
dressed to the supernatural powers are for malt liid
benefits only. It is possible that, in the futnrr, re-
ligious people will cease to pray for health, biiL tulcc

222 HOW WE ARE REALLY

practical precautions to preserve it ; that they will cease
to pray for prosperity, but study the natural laws which
govern the wealth of nations ; that they will no longer
pray for the national fleets and armies, but see that they
arc well supplied and intelligently commanded. All
this and much more is possible ; but when it comes to
pass the world will be less religious than it was when
men believed that every pestilence, every famine, every
defeat, was a chastisement specially, directly, and in*
tentionally inflicted by an angry Deity^. Even now,
what an immense step has been made in this direction !
In the fearful description of the pestilence at Florence,
given with so much detail by Boccaccio, he speaks of
'* lira di Dio a punire la iniquity degli uomini con
quella pestilenza ; " and he specially implies that those
wlio sought to avoid the plague by going to healthier
places in the country deceived tiiemselves in supposing
that the wrath of God w^ould not follow them whither-
soever they went. That is the old belief expressing
itself in prayers and humiliations. It is still recognized
officially. If the plague could occur in a town on tl^e
wliolc so well cared for as modern London, the language
of Boccaccio would still be used in the official public
prayers ; but the active-minded practical citizens would
be thinking how to destroy the germs, how to purify
air and water. An instance of this divei^nce occurred
after the Egyptian war of 1882. The Archbishop of
York, after the battle of TeUel-Kebir, ordered thanks-
givings to be oflfered in the churches, on the ground that
God was in Sir Garnet Wolseley's camp and fought
with him against the Egyptians, which was a survival

BECOMING LESS RELIGIOUS. 223

of the antique idea that national deities fought witb the

national annies. On this a Member of Parliaoieiit,

Mr. George Palmer, said to his constituents in a iJiiblic

meeting at Reading, " At the same time I cannot ngreu

with the prayers that have been made in chmxlios.

Though I respect the consciences of other men, I must

say that it was not by Divine interference, but from Djc

stuff of which our army was made and our great imn-

clads, that victory was achieved." I do not quot<^ this

opinion for any originality in itself, as theixi have

always been men who held that victory was a necessary

result of superior military efflcienc}^, but I quote; it us

a valuable test of the change in general opinion. It is

possible that such views may have been expressed in

private in all ages of the world ; but I doubt if in au}^

age preceding ours a public man, at the very time vr\m\

he was cultivating the good graces of his electors, \\o\M

have refused to the national Deity a special shartf in a

militaiy triumph. To an audience imbrued with the

old conception of incessant supernatural interfercuee;?,

the doctrine that a victory was a natural result ^^ oiiM

have sounded impious ; and such an audience, if any

one had ventured to say what Mr. Palmer said, would

have received him with a burst of indignation. Eut

Mr. Palmer knew the tendencies of the present ngi?,

and was quite correct in thinking that he might sidL'Iy

express his views. His hearers were not indigiuuit,

they were not even grave and silent, as Englishmen are

when they simply disapprove, but they listened will-

inglj^ and marked their approbation by laughter aud

cheers* Even a clergyman may hold Mr. Palmei*s

2M HOW WE ARE REALLY

opinion. Soon after his speech at Reading the Rev. H.
R. Haweia said the same thing in the pulpit. " Few
people,'* he sftid, " really doubt that we have conquered
the Egyptians, not because we were in the right and
they were in the wi'ong, but because we had the heav-
iest hand." The preacher went on to say that the idea
of God fighting on one side more than another in par-
ticular battles seemed to him to be a Pagan or at most
a Jewish one. How different was the old sentiment as
expressed b}^ Macaula}^ in the stirring ballad of Ivry !
''We of the religion" had no doubt about tfee Divine
interference in the battle,

" Far our God hath crushed the tyrant, our God hath raised the
slave.
And mocked the counsel of the wise, and the valor of the brave ;
Then glory t(J his holy name from whom all glories are,
And glory to our Sovereign Lord, King Henry of Navarre! "

The way in which the great mental movement of our
age towards a more complete recognition of natural
order is affecting human intercourse ma}'' be defined in
a few words. If the movement were at an equal rate
of advance for all civilized people they would be per-
fectly agreed amongst themselves at any one point of
time) as it would be settled which events were natural
in tlieir origin and which were due to the interposition
of Divine or diabolical agency. Living people would
dUffer in opinion from their predecessors, but they would
not diff'er from each other. The change, however,
though visible and important, is not by any means
uniform, so that a guest sitting at dinner may have on
his right hand a lady who sees supernatural interfer-

BECOMING LESS RELIGIOUS, 225

ences in many things, and on his left a student of
science who is firmly convinced that there are no super-
natural interferences In the present, and that there
never have been any in the past. Private opinion, out
of which public opinion slowly and gradually forms
itself, is in our time in a state of complete anarcbj , be-
cause two opposite doctrines are held loosely, and one
or the other is taken up as it happens to seem apijm-
priate. The interpositions of Providence are recognized
or rejected according to political or personal bias. The
French Imperialists saw the Divine vengeance in the
death of Gambetta, whilst in their view the death of
Napoleon III. was the natural termination of liis tUs-
ease, and that of the Prince Imperial a simple accident ,
due to the carelessness of his English companions*
Personal bias shows itself in the belief, often helil bj
men occupying positions of importance, that they iiie
necessary, at least for a time, to fulfil the inteuLiona
of Providence. Napoleon III. said In a moment of
emotion, " So long as I am needed I am invulnerable ;
but when my hour comes I shall be broken like gla^s [ "
Even in private life a man will sometimes think, ' ' I
am so necessary to my wife and family that Providence
will not remove me," though every newspaper reports
the deaths of fathers who leave their families destitute'
Sometimes men believe that Providence takes the sauie
view of their enterprises that they themselves take ; and
when a great enterprise is drawing near to its temii na-
tion they feel assured that supernatural power will pro-
tect them till it is quite concluded, but they btlit^ve
that the enterprises of other men are exposed to all
15

226 HOW WE ARE REALLY

the natural risks. When Mr. Gifford Palgrave was
wrecked in the sea of Oman, he was for some time in
an open boat, and thus describes his situation: "AH
depended on the steerage, and on the balance and sup-
port aflforded by the oars, and even more still on the
ProYidence of Him who made the deep ; nor indeed
could I get myself to think that He had brought me thus
far to let me drown just at the end of my journey, and
in so very unsatisfactory a way too ; for had we then
gone down, what news of the event off Sowadah would
ever have reached home, or when? — so that altogether
I felt confident of getting somehow or other on shore,
though by what means I did not exactly know." Here
the writer thinks of his own enterprise as deserving
Diviue solicitude, but does not attach the same impor-
tance to the humbler enterprises of the six passengers
who went down with the vessel. I cannot help think-
ing, too, of the poor passenger Ibraheem, who swam to
the boat and begged so piteously to be taken in, when
a sailor "loosened his grasp by main force and flung
him back into the sea, where he disappeared forever."
Neither can I forget the four who imprudently plunged
from the boat and perished. We may well believe that
these lost ones would have been unable to write such
a delightful and instructive book as Mr. Palgrave's
" Travels in Arabia," yet they must have had their own
humble interests in life, their own little objects and
enterprises.

The calculation that Providence would spare a trav-
eller towards the close of a long journey may be mis-
taken, but it is pious ; it affords an opportunity for the

BECOMING LESS RELIGIOUS. 227

exercise of devout emotion which the scientific thinker
Would miss. If Mr. Herbert Spencer had been placed
in the same situation he would, no doubt, have felt the
most perfect confidence that the order of nature would
not be disturbed, that even in such a turmoil of winds
and waters the laws of buoyancy and stability would be
observed in every motion of the boat to the millionth
of an inch ; but he would not have considered himself
likely to escape death on account of the important
nature of his undertakings.. Mr. Spencer's way of
judging the situation as one of equal peril for himself
and his humble companions would have been more
reasonable, but at the same time he would have lost
that opportunity for special and personal gratitude
which Mr. Palgrave enjoyed when he believed himself
to be supernaturally protected. The curious incon-
sistency of the common French expression, *' C'est un
hasard providentiel " is another example of the present
state of thought on the question. A Frenchman is
upset from a carriage, breaks no bones, and stands up,
exclaiming, as he dusts himself, ** It was un hasard
vraiment providentiel that I was not lamed for life."
It is plain that if his escape was providential it could
not be accidental at the same time, yet in spite of the
obvious inconsistency of his expression there is piety
in his choice of an adjective.

The distinction, as it has usually been understood
hitherto, between religious and non-religious explana-
tions of what happens, is that the religious person be-
lieves that events happen by supernatural direction,
and he is only thinking religiously so long as he

IKIS HOW WE ARE REALLY

tbinlcs in that manner ; whilst the non-religious theory
IS that e^^eiits happen by natural sequence, and so long
as a person thinks in this manner, his mind is acting
non-religiously, whatever may be his religious profes-
sion. ** To study the universe as it is manifested to
ns ; to ascertain b}^ patient inquiry the order of the
manifesto tians ; to discover that the manifestations are
connected with one another after regular ways in time
and space ; and, after repeated failures, to give up as
futile the attempt to understand the power manifested,
is condemned as irreligious. And meanwhile the~char-
acter of religious is claimed by those who figure to
themselves a Creator moved by motives like their own ;
who conceive themselves as seeing through His designs,
and v; bo even speak of Him as though He laid plans to
outwit the Devil ! "

Yes, this is a true account of the wa}^ in which the
words irreligious and religious have alwaj's been used,
and thei^ does not appear to be any necessity for alter-
ing their signification. Every event which is trans-
ferred , in hnraan opinion, from supernatural to natural
action is transferred from the domain of religion
to tliat of science ; and it is because such transfer-
rences have been so frequent in our time that we are
becoming so much less religious than our forefathers
were. In how many things is the modern man per-
fectl^" irreligious ! He is so in everything that relates
to applied science, to steam, telegraphy, photography,
metalturg}-j agriculture, manufactures. He has not
the slightest belief in spiritual intervention, either for
or agjiinst him, in these material processes. He is

BECOMING LESS RELIGIOUS. 229

beginning to be equally irreligious in govemmenti
Modern politicians have been accused of thinking that
God cannot govern, but that is not a tnie account
of their opinion. What they really think is that
government is an application of science to the direc-
tion of national life, in which no invisible powers mil
either thwart a ruler in that which he does wisely, or
shield him from the evil consequences of his errors-

But though we are less religious than our ancestors
because we believe less in the interferences of the siii>c^r-
natural, do we deserve censure for our wa}'^ of unilor-
standing the world? Certainly not. Was Nikias a
proper object of praise because the eclipse seen by him
at Syracuse seemed a warning from the gods ; and was
Wolseley a proper object of blame because the comet
seen by him on the Egyptian plain was without a Divine
message? Both these opinions are quite outside of
merit, although the older opinion was in the highest
degree religious, and the later one is not religious in the
least. Such changes simply indicate a gradual revolu-
tion in man's conception of the universe, which la the
result of more accurate knowledge. So why not accept
the fact, why not admit that we have really become
less religious? Possibly we have a compensation, n
gain equivalent to our loss. If the gods do not speak
to us by signs in the heavens ; if the entrails of victims
and the flight of birds no longer tell us when to maich
to battle and where to remain inactive in our tents ; if
the oracle is silent at Delos, and the ark lost to Jeru-
salem ; if we are pilgrims to no shrine ; if we drink of
no sacred fountain and plunge into no holy stream ; if

230 HOW WE ARE REALLY

all the special sanctities once reverenced by humanity
are unable any longer to awaken our dead enthusiasm,
have we gained nothing in exchange for the many
religious excitements that we have lost? Yes, we have
gained a keener interest in the natural order, and a
knowledge of it at once more accurate and more exten-
sive, a gain that Greek and Jew might well have
envied us, and which a few of their keener spirits most
ardently desired. Our passion for natural knowledge
is not a devout emotion, and therefore it is not religious ;
but it is a noble and a fruitful passion nevertheless, and
by it our eyes are opened. The good Saint Bernard
had his own saintly qualities ; but for us the qualities
of a Dc Saussure are not without their worth. Saint
Bernard, in the perfection of ancient piety, travelling
a whole day by the lake of Geneva without seeing it,
too nnich absorbed by devout meditation to perceive
anything terrestrial, was blinded by his piety, and might
with equal profit have stayed in his monastic cell, De
Saussure was a man of our own time. Never, in his
writings, do 3'ou meet with any allusion to supernatural
interferences (except once or twice in pity for popular
superstitions) ; but fanc}'' De Saussure passing the lake
of Geneva, or any other work of nature, without seeing
it ! His life was spent in ihe continual study of the
natural world ; and this study was to him so vigorous
an exercise for the mind, and so strict a discipline, that
he found in it a means of moral and even of physical
improvement. There is no trace in his writings of what
is called devout emotion, but the bright light of intelli-
gent admiration illumines every page; and when he

BECOMING LESS RELtGIOUS. 281

came to die, if he could not look back, like Saint Ber-
nard, upon what is especially supposed to be a religious
life, he could look back upon many years wisely and
well spent in the §tudy of that nature of which Saint
Bernard scarcely knew more than the mule that carried
himi

232 UNRECOGNIZED UNTRUTH.

''/

ESSAY XVL .

ON AN UNRECOGNIZED FORM OF UNTRUTH.

TN the art of painting there are two opposite ways of
^ dealing with natural color. It may be intensified,
or it may be translated by tints of inferior chromatic
force. In either case the picture may be perfectly
harmonious, provided only that the same principle of
interpretation be consistently followed throughout.

The first time that I became acquainted with the
first of these two methods of interpretation was in my
youth, when I met with a Scottish painter who has since
become eminent in his art. He was painting studies
from nature ; and I poticed that whenever in the natural
object there was a trace of dull gold, as in some lichen,
he made it a brighter gold, and whenever there was a
little rusty red he made it a more vivid red. So it was
with every other tint. His eye seemed to become ex-
cited by every hue, and he translated it by one of
greater intensity and power.

Now that is a kind of exaggeratioa which is very
commonly recognized as a departure from the sober
truth. People complain that the sky is too blue, the
fields too green, and so on.

Afterwards I saw French painters at work, and I
noticed that they (in those days) interpreted natural
color by an intentional lowering of the chromatic force.

MitisL.^

UNRECOGNIZED UNTRUTH, 233

When they had to deal with the splendors of autumnal
woods against a blue sky they interpreted the azure by
a blue-gray, and the flaming gold by a dull russet.
They even refused themselves the more quiet bright-
ness of an ordinary wheat-field, and translated the
yellow of the wheat by an earthy brown.

Unlike falsehood by exaggeration, this other kind of
falsehood (by diminution) is very seldom recognized as
a departure from the truth. Such coloring as this
French coloring excited but few protests, and indeed
was often praised for being " modest" and " subdued."

Both systems are equally permissible in the fine arts,
if consistently followed, because in art the unity and
harmony of the work are of greater importance than
the exact imitation of nature. It is not as an art-critic
that I should have any fault to find with a well-under-
stood and thoroughly consistent conventionalism in the
inteipretation of nature ; but the two kinds of falsity
we have noticed are constantly found in action outside
of the fine arts, and yet only one of them is recognized
in its true character, the other being esteemed as a proof
of modesty and moderation.

The general opinion, in our own countr}", condemns
falsehood by exaggeration, but it does not blame false-
hood by diminution. Overstatement is regarded as a
vice, and understatement as a sort of modest virtue,
whilst in fact they are both untruthful, exactly in the
degree of their departure from perfect accuracy.

If a man states his income as being larger than it
really is, if he adopts a degree of ostentation which
(though he may be able to pay for it) conveys the idea

234 UNRECOGNIZED UNTRUTH.

of more ample means than he really possesses, and if
WG find out afterwards what his income actually is, we
condemn him as an untruthful pereon ; but lying by
diminution with reference to money matters is looked
upon Bimply as modesty.

I remember a most respectable English family who
bad tUia modesty in perfection. It was their great
pleasure to represent themselves as being much less
rich than they really were. Whenever they heard of
anybody with moderate or even narrow means, they
pretcDcled to think that he had quite an ample income.
If you mentioned a man with a family, struggling on
a pittance, they would say he was " very comfortably
provided for," and if you spoke of another whose ex-
penses were the ordinary expenses of gentlemen, they
wondered by what inventions of extravagance he could
get through so much money. They themselves pre-
tended to spend much less than they really spent, and
they always affected astonishment when they heard
how much it cost other people to live exactly in their
own way. They considered that this was modesty ; but
was it not just as untruthful as the commoner vice of
assuming a style more showy than the means warrant?

In France and Italy the departure from the truth is
almost iji variably in the direction of overstatement, un-
less the speaker has some distinct puipose to serve by
adopting the opposite method, as when he desires to
depreciate the importance of an enemy. In England
people habitually understate, and the remarkable tlung
is that they believe themselves to be strictly truthful in
doing so* The word *'l}ing" is too harsh a term to

UNRECOGNIZED UNTRUTH. 285

be applied either to the English or the Continental
habit in this matter; 'but it is quite fair to say that
both of them miss the truth, one in falling short of it^
the other in going beyond it.

An English family has seen the Alps for the first
time. A young lady saj's Switzerland is '*nice;'* a
young gentleman has decided that it is "jolly." This
is what the habit of understatement may bring us down
to, — absolute inadequacy. The Alps are not "nice,"
and they are not "jolly;" far more powerful adjec-
tives are only the precise truth in this instance. The
Alps are stupendous, overwhelming, magnificent, sub-
lime. A Frenchman in similar circumstances will be
embarrassed, not by any timidity about using a sufil-
dently forcible expression, but because he is eager to
exaggerate ; and one scarcel}'^ knows how to exaggerate
the tremendous grandeur of the finest Alpine scenery.
He will have recourse to eloquent phraseology, to loud-
ness of voice, and finally, when he feels that these are
still inadequate, he will em^jloy energetic gesture. I
met a Frenchman who tried to make me comprehend
how many English people there were at Cannes in
winter. " II y en a — des Anglais — il y en a," — then
he hesitated, whilst seeking for an adequate expression.
At last, throwing out both his arms, he cried, ^^ My efi
a plus qu'en AngUterre I "

The English love of understatement is even more
visible in moral than in material things. If an Eng-
lishman has to describe any person or action that is
particularl}' admirable on moral grounds, he will gen-
ierally renounce the attempt to be true, and substitute

286 UNRECOGNIZED UNTRUTH.

for the high and inspiring truth some quiet little con-
ventional expression that will deliver him from what
be most dreads, — the appearance of any noble enthu-
siasm. It does not occur to him that this inadequacy,
this insufficiency of expression, is one of the forms of
untruth ; that to describe noble and admirable conduct
in commonplace and non-appreciative language is to
pay tribute of a kind especially acceptable to the Fa-
ther of Lies. If we suppose the existence of a modern
Mephistopheles watching the people of our own time and
pleased with every kind of moral evil, we may readily
imagine how gratified he must be to observe the moral
indiirerence which uses exactly the same terms for ordi-
naiy uud heroic virtue, which never rises with the occa-
sion, and which alwaj's seems to take it for granted
that there are neither noble natures nor high purposes
in the world. The dead mediocrity of common talk,
too timid and too indolent for any expression equiva-?
lent either to the glory of external nature or the intel-
lectual and moral grandeur of great and excellent men,
has diiven mau}^ of our best minds from conversation
into literature, because in literature it is not thought
extraoi-duiary for a man to express himself with a de-
gree of force and clearness equivalent to the energy of
his fe(-4iiigs, the accuracy of his knowledge, and the
iniporUiiice of his subject. The habit of using inade-
quate expression in conversation has led to the strange
result that if an Englishman has any power of thought,
any living interest in the great problems of human des-
tiny, 3^0 u will know hardly anything of the real action
of his mind unless he becomes an author. He dares

UNRECOGNIZED UNTRUTH. 237

not express any high feelings in conversation, because
he dreads what Stuart Mill called the '^sneering de-
preciation" of them; and if such feelings are strong
enough in him to make expression an imperative want,
he has to utter them on paper. By a strange result
of conventionalism, a man is admired for using lan-
guage of the utmost clearness and force in literature,
whilst if he talked as vigorously as he wrote (except,
perhaps, in extreme privac}' and even secrecj' with one
or two confidential companions) he would be looked
upon as scarcely civilized. This may be one of the
reasons why English literature, including the peri-
odical, is so abundant in quantity and so full of energ}'.
It is a mental outlet, a derivatif.

The kind of untruthfulness which may be called wn-
truthfuhiesa by inadequacy causes many strong and
earnest minds to keep aloof from general societ}', which
seems to them insipid. They find frank and clear ex-
pression in books, they find it even in newspapers and
reviews, but the}' do not find it in social intercourse.
This deficiency drives many of the more intelligent of
our countrjTnen into the strange and perfectly unnatural
position of receiving ideas almost exclusively through
the medium of print, and of communicating them only
by writing. I remember an Englishman of great learn-
ing and ability who lived almost entirely in that manner.
He received his ideas through books and the learned
journals, and whenever any thought occuiTed to him
he wrote it immediately on a slip of paper. In society
he was extremely absent, and when he spoke it was in
an apologetic and timidly suggestive manner, as if he

'■^??^?^

238 UNRECOGNIZED UNTRUTH.

were always afraid that what he had to say might not
be interesting to the hearer, or might even appear ob-
jectionable, and as if he were quite ready to withdraw
it. lie was far too anxious to be well-behaved ever to
venture on any forcible expression of opinion or to
utter any noble sentiment ; and yet his convictions on
all important subjects were very serious, and had been
arrived at after deep thought, and he was capable of
real elevation of mind. His writings are the strongest
possible contrast to his oral expression of himself.
They are bold in opinion, very clear and decided in
gtatementj and full of well-ascertained knowledge.

}

■iffi

AN ENGLISH JPECULIARITY. 239

ESSAY XVIL

ON A EEMARKABLE ENGLISH PECULIARITY.

IN De Tocqueville's admirable book on ''Democracy
in America" there is an interesting chapter on the
behavior of Englishmen to each other when they meet
in a foreign country ; —

*< Two Englishmen meet by diance at the antipodes; ibey
are surrounded by foreigners whose language and mode of
life are hardly known to them.

" These two men begin by studying each other very curi-
ously and with a kind of secret uneasiness; they then iurn
away, or, if they meet, they are careful to speak only with a
constrained and absent air, and to say things of littk itiipor-
tance.

"And yet they know nothing of each other; they have
never met, and suppose each other to be perfectly hononible.
Why, then, do they take such pains to avoid intercourse? "

De Tocqneville was a very close observer, m\\\ I
hardly know a single instance in which his faculty of
observation shows itself in greater perfection- In \n^
terse style of writing every word tells ; and even in my
translation, unavoidably inferior to the original, you
actually see the two Englishmen and the minute details
of their behavior.

Let me now introduce the reader to a little scene at
a foreign table d!hote^ as described with great skill and

240 AN ENGLISH PECULIARITY.

tnith by a well-known English novelist, Miss Betham-
Edwards i —

'*1'he time, September; the scene, a table d^hote dinner
in a much-frequented French town. For the most part
nothing can be more prosaic than these daily assemblies of
Eng^lish tourists bound for Switzerland and the South, and a
sliglit sprinlding of foreigners, the two elements seldom or
never blending; a visitant from another planet might, indeed,
suppose that between English and French-speaking people
lay such a gulf as divides the blond New Englander from
the swarth African, so icy the distance, so unbroken the
reserve. Nor is there anything like cordiality between the
English themselves. Our imaginary visitant from Jupiteif
would liere find matter for wonder also, and would ask him-
self the reason of this freezing reticence among the English
fellowship. What deadly feud of blood, caste, or religion
could thus keep them apart? Whilst the little knot of Gal-
lic ti-avellei's at the farther end of the table straightway fall
into f j'lendliest talk, the long rows of Britons of both sexes
and all ages speak only in subdued voices and to the mem-
bers of their own family."

Kext, let me give an account of a personal experi-
ence in a Parisian hotel. It was a little, unpretending
establisbment that I liked for its quiet and for the hon-
est cookeiy. There was a table d^hote, frequented by
a few French people, generally from the provinces, and
once there came some English visitors who had found
out the merits of the little place. It happened that I
had been on the Continent a long time without revisit-
ing England, so when my fellow-countrymen arrived I
had foolish feelings of pleasure on finding myself
amongst them, and spoke to them in our common
English tongue. The effect of this bold expei'iment

AN ENGLISH PECULIARITY. 241

was extremely carious, and to me, at the time, almost
inexplicable, as I had forgotten that chapter by De
Tocqueville. The new-comers wer^ two or three joung
men and one in middle life. The 3'oung men seemed
to be reserved more from timidity than pride. They
were quite startled and frightened when spoken to, and
made answer with grave brevity, as if apprehensive of
committing themselves to some compromising state-
ment. With an audacit}^ acquired by habits of inter-
course with foreigners, I spoke to the older Englishman.
His way of putting me down would have been a charm-
ing study for a novelist. His manner resembled noth-
ing so much as that of a dignified English minister, —
Mr. Gladstone for example, when he is questioned in
the House by some young and presumptuous member
of the Opposition. A few brief words were vouchsafed
to me, accompanied by an expression of countenance
which, if not positively stern, was intentionally divested
of everything like interest or sympathy. It then began
to dawn upon me that perhaps this Englishman was
conscious of some august social superiority; that he
might even know a lord ; and I thought, " If he does
really know a lord we are very likely to hear his lord-
ship's name." My expectation was not fulfilled to the
letter, but it was quite fiilfilled in spirit ; for in talking
to a Frenchman (for me to hear) our Englishman
shortly boasted that he knew an English duchess,
giving her name and place of abode. " One day when

I was at House I said to the Duchess of ,"

and he repeated what he had said to Her Grace ; but
it would have no Interest for the reader, as it probably
16

aiSi AN ENGLISH PECULIARITY.

had none for the great lady herself. Shade of Thack-
eray ! T7hy wast thou not there to add a paragraph to
the ^^ Book of Snobs"?

The next day came another Englishman of about
fifty, who distinguished himself in another way. He
did not know a duchess, or, if he did, we were not
informed of his good fortune ; but he assumed a won-
derful au' of superiority to his temporary surroundings,
that filled me, I must say, with the deepest respect and
awe. The impression he desired to produce was that
be bad never before been in so poor a little place, and
that our society was far beneath what he was accus-
tomed to. He criticised things disdainfully, and when
I ventured to speak to him he condescended, it is true,
to enter into conversation, but in a manner that seemed
to eay, "Who and what are you that you dare to speak
to a gentleman like me, who am, as you must perceive,
a person of wealth and consideration?"

This account of our English visitors is certainly not
exaggerated by any excessive sensitiveness on my part.
Paris is not the Desert ; and one who has known it for
thirty years is not dependent for society on a chance
Brrival from bej'ond the sea. For me these English-
men were but actors in a play, and perhaps they af-
forded me more amusement with their own peculiar
manners than if they had been pleasant and amiable.
One result, however, was inevitable. I had been full
of kindly feeling towards my fellow-countrymen when
they came, but this soon gave place to indifference ; and
their departure was rather a relief. When they had
left Paris, there arrived a rich French widow from the

AN ENGLISH PECULIARITY. 243

soutli with her son and a priest, who seemed to be tutor
and chaplain. The three lived at our table d^hote;
and we found them most agreeable, alwaj's ready to
take their share in conversation, and, although far too
well-bred to commit the slightest infraction of the best
French social usages, either through ignorance or care-
lessness, thej^ were at the same time perfectly open
and easy in their manners. They set up no pretensions,
they gave themselves no airs, and when they returned
to their own southern sunshine we felt their departure
as a loss.

The foreign idea of social intercourse under such con-
ditions (that is, of intercourse between strangers who
are thrown together accidentally) is simply that it is
better to pass an hour agreeably than in dreary isola-
tion. People may not have much to sa}'' that is of any
profound interest, but they enjo}'' the free play of the
mind ; and it sometimes happens, in touching on all sorts
of subjects, that unexpected lights are thrown upon
them. Some of the most interesting conversations I
have ever heard have taken place at foreign tables
d^hote^ between people who had probably never met be-
fore and who would separate forever in a week. If by
accident they meet again, such acquaintances recognize
each other bj^ a bow, but there is none of that intini-
siveness which the Englishman so greatly dreads.

Besides these transient acquaintanceships which,
however brief, are by no means without their value to
one's experience and culture, the foreign way of under-
standing a table d^hote includes the daily and habit-
ual meeting of regular subscribers, a meeting looked

;^:t.-i-;5r^j

244 AN ENGLISH PECULIARITY.

forward to with pleasure as a break in the labors of
the day, or a mental refreshment when the}' are over.
Nothing affords such relief from the pressure of work
as a lice and animated conversation on other subjects.
Of this more permanent kind of table d'hote^ Mr. Lewes
gai G a lively description in his biograph}' of Goethe : —

^^ The English student, clerk, or bachelor, who dines at
an e 11 ting-house, chop-house, or hotel, goes there simply to
get his dinner, and perhaps look at the * Times.' Of the
ofclier diners he knows nothing, cares little. It is rare that
a word is interchanged between him and his neighbor.
Quite otherwise in Germany. There the same society is
generally to be found at the same table. The table d^kote
13 composed of a circle of habitues, varied by occasional visi-
tors who in time become, perhaps, members of the circle.
Even with strangers conversation is freely interchanged ; and
in a little while friendships are formed over these dinner-
tables, according as natural tastes and likings assimilate,
■which » extending beyond the mere hour of dinner, are car-
ried into the current of life. Germans do not rise so hastily
from the table as we, for time with them is not so precious ;
life ifj not so crowded ; time can be found for quiet after-
dinner talk. The cigars and coffee, which appear before
tlie cloth is removed, keep the company together ; and in
that fifcate of suffused comfort which quiet digestion creates,
they hear without anger the opinions of antagonists."

In this account of German habits we see the repast
made use of as an opportunity for human intercourse,
which the Englishman avoids except with persons al-
ready known to him or known to a private host. The
reader has noticed the line I have italicized, — " Even
with strangers conversation is freely interchanged.'*
The consequence is that the stranger does not feel

AN ENGLISH PECULIARITY. 245

himself to be isolated, and if he is not an Englishman
he does not take ofifence at being treated like an intelli-
gent human being, but readily accepts the welcome that
is offered to him.

The English peculiarity in this respect does not,
however, consist so much in avoiding intercourse with
foreigners as in shunning other English people. It is
true that in the description of a table (Thote by Miss
Betham-Edwards, the English and foreign elements are
represented as separated by an icy distance, and the
description is strikingly accurate ; but this shyness and
timidity as regards foreigners may be suflOiciently ac-
counted for by want of skill and ease in speaking their
language. Most English people of education know a
little French and German, but few speak those lan-
guages freely, fluently, and correctly. When it does
happen that an Englishman has mastered a foreign
tongue, he will generally talk more readily and unre-
servedly with a foreigner than with one of his own
countrymen. This is the notable thing, that if English
people do not really dislike and distrust one another,
if there is not really " a deadly feud of blood, caste, or
religion" to separate them, they expose themselves to
the accusation of John Stuart Mill, that " everybody
acts as if everybody else was either an enemy or a
bore."

This English avoidance of English people is so re-
markable and exceptional a characteristic that it could
not but greatlj' interest and exercise so observant a
mind as that of De Tocqueville. We have seen how
accurately he noticed it ; how exactly the conduct of

.'^T'^^

246 AN ENGLISH PECULIARITY.

shy Englishmen had fixed iteelf in his memory. Let
us now see how he accounted for it.

Is it a mark of aristocracy? Is it because our race
IS more aristocratic than other races ?

Do Tocqueville's theory was, that it is not the mark
of an aristocratic society, because, in a society classed
by birth, although people of different castes hold little
com muni cation with each other, they talk easily when
they meet, without either fearing or desiring social
fusion* ^' Their intercourse is not founded on equality,
but it is free from constraint."

This view of the subiect is confirmed by all that I
know, through personal li-adition, of the really aristo-
cratic time in France that preceded the Revolution.
The old-fashioned facility and directness of communi-
cation between ranks that were separated by wide social
distances would surprise and almost scandalize a modern
aspirant to false aristocracy, who has assumed the <fe,
and makes up in morgite what is wanting to him in
antiquity of descent. I believe, too, that when Eng-
land was a far more aristocratic country than it is at
present^ manners were less distant and not so Cold and

BUSpiCIOUB.

If the blame is not to be laid on the spirit of aristoc-
racy, what is the real cause of the indisputable fact that
an Englishman avoids an Englishman ? De Tocqueville
believed that the cause was to be found in the uncer-
tainty of a transition state from aristocratic to pluto-
cratic ideas ; that there is still the notion of a strict
classification ; and yet that this classification is no longer
determined by blood, but by money, which has taken its

AN ENGLISH PECULIARITY. 247

place, so that although the ranks exist still, as if the
country were reallj" aristocratic, it is not easy to Bce
clearl}'', and at the first glance, who occupies them.
Hence there is a guerre sourde between all tlu- rili-
zens. .Some try by a thousand artifices to edge tlit^r
way in reality or apparently- amongst those above them ;
others fight without ceasing to repel the usuri>f.i'3 of
their rights ; or rather, the same person does botii ; and
whilst he struggles to introduce himself into the iqiper
region he perpetuall}'^ endeavors to put down asp i runts
who are still beneath him,

^' The pride of aristocracy," said De Tocqiirville,
" being still very great with the English, and the limits
of aristocracy having become doubtful, everj^ one fears
that he may be surprised at any moment into uikIc sir-
able familiarity. Not being able to judge at first slglit
of the social position of those they meet, the English
prudently avoid contact. They fear, in rendering little
services, to form in spite of themselves an ill-as^oru^d
friendship ; the}' dread receiving attention from others ;
and they withdraw themselves from the indiscreet grati-
tude of an unknown fellow-countryman as carefully as
they would avoid his hatred."

This, no doubt, is the true explanation, but something
may be added to it. An Englishman dreads acqiiriiiit-
ances from the apprehension that they ma}' euil by
coming to his house ; a Frenchman is perfectly at tiis
ease on that point by reason of the greater dieejoLum
of French habits. It is perfectly understood, in Frnnecs
that you may meet a man at a cafe for years, autl tMi
to him with the utmost freedom, and yet he will not

248 AN ENGLISH PECULIARITY.

come near your private residence unless you ask him ;
and when he meets you in the street he will not stop
yau^ but will simplj' lift his hat, — a customary salutation
fi-om all who know your name, which does not compro-
mise you in any way. It might perhaps be an exag-
geration to say that in France there is absolutely no
straggling after a higher social position b}'' means of
acquaintances, but there is certainly very little of it.
The great majority of French people live in the most
serene indifference as regards those who are a little
above them socially. They hardly even know their
titles ; and when they do know them they do not care
about tliem in the least. ^

It may not be surprising that the conduct of Ameri-
cans should differ from that of Englishmen, as Americans
have no titles ; but if they have not titles they have vast
ineqaalities of wealth, and Englishmen can be repellent
without titles. Yet, in spite of pecuniary differences
between Americans, and notwithstanding the English
blood in their veins, they do not avoid one another.

> The dI:SQrence of interest as regards people of rank may be
seen hy a comparison of French and English newspapers. In an
ETigHsIi paper, even on the Liberal side, you constantly meet with
tittlo para^aphs informing you that one titled person has gone to
fitay with another titled person; that some old titled lady is in
poor health, or some young one going to be married ; or that some
geiuJenian of title has gone out in his yacht, or entertained friends
to shoot grouse, — the reason heing that English people like to hear
about jieraona of title, however insignificant the news may be in
itself. If paragraphs of the same kind were inserted in any
serious Frt'neli newspaper the subscribers would wonder how they
got there, and what possible interest for the public there could be
ii> tho Qiuvements of mediocrities, who had nothing but titles to
distiiigulah them«

AN ENGLISH PECULIARITY. 249

«'If thej meet by accident," sajs De Tocqueville,
'' they neither seek nor avoid one another ; their way of
meeting is natural, frank, and open ; it is evident that
they hope or fear scarcely anything from each othtr,
and that they neither try to exhibit nor to conceal tLie
station they occupy. If their manner is often cold nud
serious, it is never either haughty or stiff; and wljon
they do not speak it is because they are not in the
humor for conversation, and not because they believe
it their interest to be silent. In a foreign country two
Americans are fiiends at once, simply because they iwq
Americans. They are separated by no prejudice, aurl
their common country draws them together. In tiig
case of two Englishmen the same blood is not enougli ;
there must be also Identity of rank."

The English habit strikes foreigners by contrast > and
it strikes Englishmen in the same way when thej^ luive
lived much in foreign countries. Charles Lever hud
lived abroad, and was evidently as much strtitk by
this as De Tocqueville himself. Many readers will
remember his brilliant story, " That Boy of Norcott's/'
and how the young hero, after finding himself deliglit-
fully at ease with a society of noble Hungarians, at the
Schloss Hunyadi, is suddenly chilled and alarmed Th-
the inteUigence that an Enghsh lord is expectt^d.
"When they shall see," he saj's, "how my titled
countryman will treat me, — the distance at which he
will hold me, and the measured firmness with which
he will repel, not my familiarities, for I should not
dare them, but simply the ease of my manner^ — the
foreigners will be driven to regard me as some ignuLlu

^'^'^^r^

250 AN ENGLISH PECULIARITY.

upstart who has no pretension whatever to be amongst
thcra."

Lever also noted that a foreigner would have had a
better chance of civil treatment than an Englishman.
*' 111 my lather's house I had often had occasion to
remark that while Englishmen freely admitted the ad-
vances of a foreigner and accepted his acquaintance
with a courteous readiness, with each other the}^ main-
tained a cold and studied reserve, as though no differ-
ence of place or circumstance was to obliterate that
instilar code which defines class, and limits each man
to the exact rank he belongs to."

These readings and experiences, and many others too
long to quote or narrate, have led me to the conclusion
that it IS scared}'' possible to attempt any other manner
with EngUyli people than that which the very peculiar
and exceptional state of national feeling appears to
autboriiie. The reason is that in the present state of
feeling the innovator is almost sure to be misunder-
stood, lie may be perfectly contented with his own
social position ; his mind ma}^ be utterly devoid of any
de&ire to raise himself in society ; the extent of his
present wisbes may be to wile away the tedium of a
journey or a repast with a little intelligent conversation ;
jet if lie breaks down the barrier of English reseiTe
be is likely to be taken for a pushing and intrusive per-
son who is eager to lift himself in the world. Every
friendly expression on his part, even in a look or the
tone of his voice, "simply the ease of his manner,"
may be repelled as an impertinence. In the face of
»ach a probable misinterpretation one feels that it is

AN ENGLISH PECULIARITY. 251

hardly possible to be too distant or too cold, Wlien
two men meet it is the colder and more reserved m4aii
who always has the advantage. He is the iTjek ; tlie
other is the wave that comes against the rock and falls

r

shattered at its foot.

It would be wrong to conclude this Essay wit bout n
word of reference to the exceptional EnglishmL\n ivlio
can pass an hour intelligently with a stranger, and is not
constantly preoccupied with the idea that the stranger
is plotting how to make some ulterior use of him.
Such Englishmen are usually men of ripe experience,
who have travelled much and seen much of the woiltl,
so that they have lost our insular distrust. I have met
with a few of them, — they are not very numerous. —
and I wish that I could meet the same fellow-eomilry-
men by some happy accident again. There is nnthirig
stranger in life than those very short friendships that
are fonned in an hour between two people born to
understand each other, and cut short forever the next
day, or the next week, by an inevitable separation. *

1 Since this Essay was written I have come upon a iKis^^gt?
quoted from Henry Knyghton by Augustin Thierry in liis '' His-
tory of the Norman Conquest:" —

"It is not to be wondered at if the difference of nationality {botwren
the Norman and Saxon races) produces a difference of con(lSii<inH, or
that there should result from it an excessive distrust of n:iti:rul h^ve;
and that the separateness of blood should produce a broken tmiliitunkc
in mutual trust and affection.'*

Now, the question suggests itself, whether the rcn^^tin why
Englishman shuns Englishman to-day may not be traceuble, ulti-
mately, to the state of feeling described by Knyghton as a ri^BuIt
of the Norman Conquest. We must remember that tli(? nvmA-
ance of English by English is quite peculiar to us; no other ruce

252 AN ENGLISH PECULIARITY,

exiiibitis the same peculiarity. It is therefore probably due to
aoTiie vtjry ejcceptional fact in English history. The Nonnan
Coiiqvieiit If as exactly the exceptional fact we are in search of.
Tbe rcHiUts of it may be traceable as follows: —

h Norn bin and Saxon shun each other.

2, Kc) nil tin has become aristocrat.

B. Wotild Le aristocrat (present representative of Norman) shuns
possible plebeian (present representative of Saxon).

OF GENTEEL IGNORANCE. 258

ESSAY XVIIL

OF GENTEEL IGNORANCE.

A LL virtue has its negative as well as its positive
•^^^ side, and every ideal includes not having as well
as having. Gentility, for those who aspire to it and
value it, is an ideal condition of humanity, a superior
state which is maintained by selection amongst the
things that life offers to a man who has the power to
choose. He is judged by his selection. The genteel per-
son selects in his own waj^, not only amongst things that
can be seen and handled, such as the material adjuncts of
a high state of civilization, but also amongst the things
of the mind, including all the varieties of knowledge.

That a selection of this kind should be one of the
marks of gentility is in itself no more than a natural
consequence of the idealizing process as we see it con-
tinually exercised in the fine arts. Every work of fine
art is a result of selection. The artist does not give ub
the natural truth as it is, but he purposely omits very
much of it, and alters that which he recognizes. The
genteel person is himself a work of art, and, as such,
contains only partial truth.

This is the central fact about gentility, that it is a
narrow ideal, impoverishing the mind by the rejection
of truth as much as it adorns it b}- elegance ; and it is
for this reason that gentility is disliked and refused hy

254 OF GENTEEL IGNORANCE.

all powerful and inquiring intellects. The}'^ look upon
it as a mental condition with which the}- have nothing
to do, and they pursue their labors without the slightest
deference or condescension to it. They ma}', however,
profitably study it as one of the states of human life,
and a state towards which a certain portion of humanity,
aided by wealth, appears to tend inevitably.

The misfortune of the genteel mind is that it is
carried by its own idealism so far awa}' from the truth
of nature that it becomes divorced from fact and unable
to see the movement of the actual world ; so that gen-
teel people, with their narrow and erroneous ideas, are
sure to find themselves thrust aside b}' men of robust
intelligence, who are not genteel, but who have a stronger
grip upon reality. There is, consequently, a pathetic
element in gentility, with its fallacious hopes, its ceiiAin
disappointments, so easily foreseen by all whom it has
not blinded, and its immense, its amazing, its ever
invincible ignorance.

There is not a country in Europe more favorable
than France for the study of the genteel condition of
mind. There you have it in its perfection in the class
qui rCa rien appria et Hen oublie, and in the numer-
ous aspirants to social position who desire to mix them-
selves and become confounded with that class. It has
been in the highest degree fashionable, since the estab-
lishment of the Republic, to be ignorant of the real
course of events. In spite of overwhelming evidence
to the contrary, genteel people either really believed
or universally professed to believe during the lifetime
of the Count de Chambord, that his restoration was

OF GENTEEL IGNORANCE, 255

not only probable but imminent. No belief could htive
been more destitute of foundation in fact ; and if genteel
people bad not been compelled by gentility to shut
their eyes against what was obvious to everybody else,
they might have ascertained the truth with the utmost
facility. The truth was simply this, that the country
was going away further and further from divine right
every day, and from every sort of real monarchy, or
one-man government, and was becoming more and
more attached to representative institutions and an
elective system everywhere ; and what made this truth
glaringly evident was not only the steadily increasing
number of republican elections, but the repeated return
to power of the very ministers whom the party of
divine right most bitterly execrated. The same class
of genteel French people affected to believe that the
end of the temporal power of the Papac}" by the founda-
tion of the Italian kingdom was but a temporary crisis,
probably of short duration ; though the process which
had brought the Papacy to nothing as a temporal sover-
eignty had been slow, gradual, and natural, — the pro-
gressive enfeeblement of a theocracy unable to defend
itself against its own subjects, and dependent on foreign
soldiers for every hour of its artificial survival. Such
is genteel ignorance in political matters. It is a polite
shutting of the eyes against all facts and tendencies
that are disagreeable to people of fashion. It is un-
pleasant to people of fashion to be told that the France
of the future is more likely to be governed by men
of business than by kings and cardinals ; it is disagree-
able to them to hear that the Pope is not to do what

256 OF GENTEEL IGNORANCE,

he likes with the Roman people ; and so, to please them,
we are to pretend that we do not understand the course
of recent histor}^, which is obvious to everybody who
thinks. The course of events has always proved the
blindness of the genteel world, its incapacity to under-
stand the present and forecast the future ; yet still it
goes on in the old waj', shutting its eyes resolutel}^
against surrounding facts, and making predictions that
arc sure to be falsified by the event. Such a state of
mind is unintelligent to the last degree, but then it is
genteel ; and there is always, in every country, a large
class of persons who would rather be gentlemanly than
wise.

In religion, genteel ignorance is not less remarkable
than in politics. Here the mark of gentility is to ignore
the unfashionable churches, and generally to underesti-
mate aU those forces of opinion that are not on the
side of the particular form of orthodoxy which is pro-
fessed hj the upper class. In France it is one of the
marks of high breeding not to know anything about
Protestantism. The fact that there are such people
as Protestants is admitted, and it is believed that some
of thera are decent and respectable people in their line
of life, who may follow an erroneous religion with an
assiduity praiseworthy in itself, but the nature of their
opinions is not known, and it is thought better not to
inquire into them.

In England the gentry know hardly anything about
Dissenters. As to the organization of dissenting com-
munities, nobody ever hears of any of them having
bishops J and so it is supposed that they must have some

OF GENTEEL IGNORANCE, 257

sort of democratic system. Genteel knowledge of dis-
senting faith and practice is confined to a very few
points, — thiat Unitarians do not believe in the Trinity,
that Baptists have some unusual practice about baptism,
and that Methodists are fond of singing hymns. This
is all, and more than enough ; as it is inconceivable that
an aristocratic person can-have anything to do with
Dissent, unless he wants the Nonconformist vot<! in
politics. If Dissenters are to be spoken of at all, it
should be in a condescending tone, as good people In
their way, who may be decent members of the mitldle
and lower classes, of some use in withstanding the tido
of infidelity.

I remember a lady who condemned some eminent
man as an atheist, on which I ventured to object that
he was a deist only. "It is exactly the same thing,"'
she replied. Being at that time young and argumenta-
tive, I maintained that there existed a distinction : that
a deist believed in God, and an atheist had not that
belief. "That is of no consequence," she rejoined^
" what concerns us is that we should know as little
as possible about such people." When this dialogue
took place the lady seemed to me unreasonable and
unjust, but now I perceive that she was genteel. She
desired to keep her soul pure from the knowledge
which gentiUty did not recognize ; she wanted to know
nothing about the shades and colors of heresy.

There is a delightful touch of determined ignoivanee
in the answer of the Russian prelates to Mr. William
Palmer, who went to Russia in 1840 with a view to
bring about a recognition of Anglicanism by Oriental

17

258 OF GENTEEL IGNORANCE.

orthodoxy. In substance, according to Cardinal New-
man, it amounted to this: "We know of no true
Church besides our own. We are the only Church in
the world- The Latins are heretics, or all but heretics ;
yoH are worse; we do not even know your name,'*
It would be difficult to excel this last touch ; it is the
perfectton of uncontaminated orthodoxy, of the pure
Russian religious comme il faut. We, the holy, the
unclefiled, the separate from heretics and from those
lost ones, worse than heretics, into whose aberrations
we nCTer inquire, ^^ we do not even know your name"
Of all examples of genteel ignorance, there are none
more frequent than the ignorance of those necessities
which arc occasioned by a limited income. I am not,
at present, alluding to downright poverty. It is genteel
to be aware that the poor exist ; it is genteel, even, to
have poor people of one's own to pet and patronize ;
and it is pleasant to be kind to such poor people when
they receive our kindness in a properly submissive
spiLifc, with a due sense of the immense distance be-
tween us, and read the tracts we give them, and Hsten
respectfully to our advice. It is genteel to have to do
with poor people in this way, and even to know some-
thing about them ; the real genteel ignorance consists
in not recognizing the existence of those impediments
that are fainiUar to people of limited means. " I can-
not understand," said an English lady, *' why people
complain about the difficulties of housekeeping. Such
difficulties may almost alwaj's be included under one
head, — insufficiency of servants ; people have only to
take more servants, and the difficulties disappear." Of

OF GENTEEL IGNORANCE. 259

course the cost of maintaining a tr up of domestics is
too trifling to be taken into consideration. A French
lad}'^, in m}- hearing, asked what fortune had such a
family. The answer was simple and decided, they had
no fortune at all. " No fortune at all! then how can
they possibly live? How can people live who have no
fortune?" This lady's genteel ignorance was enlight-
ened by the explanation that when there is no fortiuic
in a family it is generally supported by the labor of one
or more of its members. " I cannot understand," said
a rich Englishman to one of my friends, ** why men are
so imprudent as to allow themselves to sink into money
embarrassments. There is a simple rule that I follow
myself, and that I have always found a great safe-
guard, — it is, never to let one^s balance at the banker's
fall below five thousand pounds. By strictly adhering
to this rule one is always sure to be able to meet any
unexpected and immediate necessity." Why, indeed,
do we not all follow a rule so evidently wise? It may
be especially recommended to struggling professiouul
men with large families. If only they can be persuaded
to act upon it they will find it an unspeakable relief
from anxiety, and the present volume will not have
been penned in vain.

Genteel ignorance of pecuniary diflSculties ia con-
spicuous in the case of amusements. It is supposed,
if you are inclined to amuse yourself in a certain liinited
way, that you are stupid for not doing it on a intich
more expensive scale, Charles Lever wrote a charming
paper for one of the early numbers of the " Cornhill
Magazine," in which he gave an account of the dangers

260 OF GENTEEL IGNORANCE.

and diflSculties he had encountered in riding and boating,
simply because he had set limits to his expenditure on
those pastimes, an economy that seemed unaccountably
foolish to his genteel acquaintances. '^ Lever will ride
such screws 1 Why won't he give a proper price for
a horse ? It 's the stupidest thing in the world to be
under-horsed; and bad economy besides." These re-
marks, Lever said, were not sarcasms on his skill or
sneers at his horsemanship, but they were far worse,
they were harsh judgments on himself expressed in a
manner that made reply impossible. So with his boat-
ing. Lever had a passion for boating, for that real
boating which is perfectly distinct from yachting and
incomparably less costly ; but richer acquaintances in-
sisted on the superior advantages of the more expen-
sive amusement. *' These cockle-shells, sir, must go
over ; they have no bearings, they lee over, and there
you are, — jou fill and go down. Have a good decked
boat, -^ I should say five-and-thirty or fort}^ tons; get
a clever skipper and a lively crew" Is not this exactly
like the lady who thought people stupid for not having
an adequate establishment of servants ?

Another form of genteel ignorance consists in being
so completely blinded by^ conventionalism as not to be
able to perceive the essential identity of two modes of
life or habits of action when one of them happens to be
in what is called " good form," whilst the other is not
accepted b}^ polite society. My own tastes and pur-
suits have often led me to do things for the sake of
stud}" or pleasure which in realit}' differ but ver^
slightly from what genteel people often do ; yet, at the"

. OF GENTEEL IGNORANCE, 261

same time, this slight difference is sufficient to prevent
them from seeing any resemblance whatever between
my practice and theirs. When a J'oung man, I found
a wooden hut extremely convenient for painting from
nature, and when at a distance from other lodging I
slept in it. This was unfashionable ; and genteel peo-
ple expressed much wonder at it, being especially sur-
prised that I could be so imprudent as to risk health
by sleeping in a little wooden house. Conventionalism
made them perfectly ignorant of the fact that they
occasionally slept in little wooden houses themselves.
A railway carriage is simply a wooden hut on wheels,
generally very ill- ventilated, and presenting the alter-
native of foul air or a strong draught, with vibration
that makes sleep difficult to some and to others abso-
lutely impossible. I have passed many nights in those
public wooden huts on wheels, but have never slept in
them so pleasantl}' as in my own private one.^ Gen-
teel people also use wooden dwellings that float on
water. A yacht's cabin is nothing but a hut of a
peculiar shape with its own special inconveniences.
On land a hut will remain steady ; at sea it inclines in
every direction, and is tossed about like Gulliver's large
box. An Italian nobleman who liked travel, but had
no taste for dirty Southern inns, had four vans that
formed a square at night, with a little courtyard in the
middle that was covered with canvas and served as a
spacious dining-room. The arrangement was excellent,

^ It 80 happens that I am writing this Essay in a rough wooden
hut of my own, which is in reality a most comfortable little build-
ing, though ** stuffy luxury " is rigorously excluded.

262 OF GENTEEL IGNORANCE, .

but he was considered hopelessl}' eccentric ; yet how
slight was thq difference between his vans and- a. train
of saloon carriages for the railway! He simply had
ealpon carriages that were adapted for common roads.

It is difficult to see what advantage there can be in
genteel ignorance to compensate for its evident disad-
vantages. Not to be acquainted with unfashionable
opinions, not to be able to imagine unfashionable ne-
cessities, not to be able to perceive the real likeness
between fashionable and unfashionable modes of life
on account of some external and superficial difference,
is like living in a house with closed shutters. Surely
a man, or a woman either, might have as .good man-
ners, and be as highly civilized in all respects, with
accurate notions of things as with a head fuU, of illu-
sions. To understand' the world as it really is, to see
the direction in which humanity is travelling, ought
to be the purpose of every strong and healthy intellect,
even though such knowledge may take it out of gen-
tility altogether.

The effect of genteel ignorance on human intercourse
is such a deduction from the interest of it that men of
ability often avoid genteel society altogether, and either
devote themselves to solitary labors, cheered princi-
pally by the companionship of books, or else keep to
intimate friends of their own order. In Continental
countries the public drinking-places are often fre-
quented by men of culture, not because they want to
drink, but because they can talk freely about what they
think and what they know without being paralyzed by
the determined ignorance of the genteel. In England,

OF GENTEEL IGNORANCE. 26S

no doubt, there is more information ; and yet Stuart
Mill said that *' general society as now carried on in
England is so insipid an affair, even to the persons who
make it what it is, that it is kept up for any reason
rather than the pleasure it affords. All serious discus-
sion on matters in which opinions differ being consid-
ered ill-bred, and the national deficiency in liveliness
and sociability having prevented the cultivation of the
art of talking agreeably on tiifles, the sole attraction
of what is called society to those who are not at the
top of the tree is the hope of being aided to climb a
little higher. To a person of any but a very common
order in thought or feeling, such society, unless he has
personal objects to serve by it, must be supremely an-
attractive ; and most people in the present day of any
really high class of intellect make their contact with it
so slight and at such long intervals as to be almost
considered as retiring from it altogether." The lose
here is distinctly to the genteel persons themselves.
They may not feel it, they may be completely insensi-
ble of it, but by making society insipid they eliminnto
from it the very men who might have been its most
valuable elements, and who, whether working in soli-
tude or living with a few congenial spirits, are really
the salt of the earth.

264 PATRIOTIC IGNORANCE.

ESSAY XIX.

PATRIOTIC IGNORANCE.

■JATRIOTIC ignorance is maintained by the satis-
•*- faction that we feel in ignoring what is favorable
to another nation. It is a voluntary closing of the
mind against the disagreeable truth that another nation
may be on certain points equal to our own, or even,
though inferior, in some degree comparable to our own.
The effect of patriotic ignorance as concerning human
intercourse is to place any one who knows the exact
truth in the unpleasant dilemma of having either to
correct mistakes which are strongly preferred to truth,
or else to give assent to them against his sense of jus-
tice. International intercourse is made almost impos-
sible by patriotic ignorance, except amongst a few
highl}^ cultivated persons who are superior to it. Notli-
ing is more difficult than to speak about one's own
country with foreigners who are perpetually putting
forward the eiTors which they have imbibed all their
lives, and to which they cling with such tenacity that it
seems as if those errors were, in some mysterious way,
essential to their mental comfort and well-being. K,
on the other Jiand, we have any really intimate knowl-
edge of a foreign country, gained by long residence in
it and studious observation of the inhabitants, then we
find a corresponding diflSculty in talking reasonably

PATRIOTIC IGNORANCE. 265

about it and them with our own countrymen, because
they, too, have their patriotic ignorance which they
prize and value as foreigners value theirs.

At the risk of turning this Essay into a string of
anecdotes, I intend to give a few examples of patriotic
ignorance, in order to show to what an astonishing
degree of 'perfection it may attain. When we full}' un-
derstand this we shall also understand how those who
possess such a treasure should be anxious for its pres-
ervation. Their anxiety is the more reasonable that
in these days there is a difficulty in keeping things when
they are easily injured by light.

A French lady who possessed this treasure in its
perfection gave, in my hearing, as a reason why French
people seldom visited England, that there were no works
of art there, no collections, no architecture, nothing to
gratify the artistic sense or the intelligence ; and that it
was only people specially interested in trade and manu-
factures who went to England, as the country had
nothing to show but factories and industrial products.
On hearing this statement, there suddenly passed be-
fore m}^ mind's eye a rapid vision of the great wprks
of architecture, sculpture, and painting that I had seen
in England, and a confused recollection of many minor
examples of these arts not quite unworthy of a studious
man's attention. It is impossible to contradict a lady ;
and any statement of the simple truth would, in this
instance, have been a direct and crushing contradiction.
I ventured on a faint remonstrance, but without effect ;
and my fair enemy triumphed. There were no works of
art in England. Thus she settled the question.

266 PATRIOTIC IGNORANCE.

This little incident led me to take note of French
\deas about England with reference to patriotic igno-
rance ; and I discovered that there existed a very general
belief that there was no intellectual light of any kind
in England. Paris was the light of the world, and
only so far as Parisian rays might penetrate the mental
fog of the British Islands was there a chance of its
becoming even faintly luminous. It was settled that
the speciality of England was trade and manufacture,
that we were all of us either merchants or cotton-
spinners, and I discovered that we had no learned
societies, no British Museum, no Royal Academy of
Arts.'

An English painter, who for many years had exhibited
on the line of the Royal Academy, happened to be men-
tioned in my presence and in that of a French artist.
I was asked by some French people who knew him
personall}' whether the English painter had a good pro-
fessional standing. I answered that he had a fair
though not a brilliant reputation ; meanwhile the French
artist showed signs of uneasiness, and at length ex-
ploded with a vigorous protest against the inadmissible
idea that a painter could be anything whatever who
was not known at the French Salon, " II n'est pas
connu au Salon de Paris, done, il n'existe pas — il
n'existe pas. Les reputations dans les beaux-arts se
font au Salon de Paris et pas ailleurs." This French-
man had no conception whatever of the simple fact
that artistic reputations are made in every capital of
the civilized world. That was a truth which his patriot-
ism could not tolerate for a moment.

PATRIOTIC IGNORANCE, 267

A French gentleman expressed his surprise that I
did not have my books translated into French, '> be-
cause/' said he, *' no literary reputation can be con-
sidered established until it has received the consecration
of Parisian approval." To his unfeigned astonishment
I answered that London and not Paris was the capital
city of English literature, and that English authors had
not yet fallen so low as to care for the opinion of critics
ignorant of their language.

I then asked mj'self why this intense French patiiotic
ignorance should continue so persistently ; and the an-
swer appeared to be that there was something pro-
foundly agreeable to French patriotic sentiment in the
belief that England had no place in the artistic and
intellectual world. Until quite recently the very exist-
ence of an English school of painting was denied by
all patriotic Frenchmen, and English art was rigorously
excluded from tbe Louvre.^ Even now a French writer
upon art can scarcely mention English painting without
treating it de haid en bas, as if his Gallic nationality
gave him a natural right to treat uncivilized islanders
w^ith lofty disdain or condescending patronage.

My next example has no reference to literature or
the fine arts. A young French gentleman of superior
education and manners, and with the instincts of a
sportsman, said in my hearing, " There is no game in
England." His tone was that of a man who utters
a truth universally acknowledged.

1 At present it ia most inadequately represented by a few un-
important gifts. The donors have desired to break the rule of
exclusion, and have succeeded so far, but that is alL

268 PATRIOTIC IGNORANCE.

It might be a matter of little consequence, as toaching
our national pride, whether there was game in England
or not. I have no doubt that some philosophers would
consider, and perhaps with reason, that the non-exisfc-
ence of game, where it can only be maintained by an
army of keepers and a penal code of its own, would
be the sign of an advancing social state ; but my j-oung
Frenchman was not much of a philosopher, and no
doubt he considered the non-existence of game in Eng-
land a mark of inferiority to France. There is some-
thing in the masculine mind, inherited perhaps from
ancestors who lived by the chase, which makes it look
upon an abundance of wild things that can be shot at,
or run after with horses and dogs, as a reason for the
gi'eatest pride and glorification. On reflection, it will
be found that there is more in the matter than at first
sight appears. As there is no game in England, of
course there are no sportsmen in that country. The
absence of game means the absence of shooters and
huntsmen, and consequently an inferiority in manly
exercises to the French, thousands of whom take shoot-
ing licenses and enjoy the invigorating excitement of
the chase. For this reason it is agreeable to French
patriotic sentiment to be perfectly certain that there
is no game in England. When I inquired what reason
my 3'oung friend had for holding his conviction on the
subject, he told me that in a country like England, so
full of trade and manufactures, there could not be any
room for game.

One of the most popular of French songs is that
charming one by Pierre Dupont in praise of his vine.

_-*.

PATRIOTIC IGNORANCE. 269

Every Frenchman who knows anything knows that
song, and believes that he also knows the tune. The
consequence is that when one of them begins to sing it
his companions join in the refrain or chorus, which is
as follows : — '

" Bons Fran9ai8, quand je vois mon verre
Flem de ce vin couleur de feu
Je songe en remerciant Dieu
Qu'ils n'en ont pas dans TAngleterre ! **

The singers repeat *' qu'ils n'en ont pas," and besides
this the whole of the last line is repeated with trium-
phant emphasis.

We need not feel hurt by this little outburst of
patriotism. There is no real hatred of England at
the bottom of it, only a little " malice '* of a harmless
kind, and the song is sometimes sung good-humoredly
in the presence of Englishmen. It is, however, really
connected with patriotic ignorance. The common
French belief is that as vines are not grown in Eng-
land, we have no wine in our cellars, so that English
people hardly know the taste of wine ; and this belief
is too pleasing to the French mind to be readily aban-
doned by those who hold it. They feel that it enhances
the delightfulness of every glass they drink. The case
is precisel}^ the same with fruit. The French enjoy
plentj' of excellent fruit, and they enjoy it all the more
heartily from a firm conviction that there is no fruit
of any kind in England. "Pas un fruit," said a
countr3'man of Pierre Dupont in writing about our un-
favored island, " pas un fruit ne murit dans ce pays."
What, not even a gooseberry? Were the plums, pears.

270 PATRIOTIC IGNORANCE.

strawberries, apples, aprieots, that we consumed in
omnivorous boyhood every one of them unripe ? It is
lamentable to think how miserably the English live.
They have no game, no wine, no fruit (it appears to
be doubtful, too, whether thdy have any vegetables),
and they dwell in a perpetual fog where sunshine is
totally unknown. It is believed, also, that there is no
landscape-beauty in England, — nothing but a gi-een
field with a hedge, and then another green field with
another hedge, till you come to the bare chalk cliflEs and
the dreary northern sea. The English have no Devon-
shire, no valley of the Severn, no country of the Lakes.
The Thames is a foul ditch, without a trace of natural
beauty anywhere.^

It would be easy to give many more examples of \h&
patriotism of our neighbors, but perhaps for the sake
of variety it may be desirable to turn the glass in tbe
opposite direction and see what English patriotism has
to say about France. We shall find the same principle
at work, the same determination to believe that the
foreign country is totally destitute of many things on
which we greatly pride ourselves. I do not know that
there is any reason to be proud of having mountains,
as they are excessively inconvenient objects that greatly
impede agriculture and communication ; however, in
some parts of Great Britain it is considered, somehow,
a glory for a nation to have mountains j and there used

1 These, of course, are only examples of vulgar patriotic igno-
rance. A few Frenchmen who have really seen what is best in
English landscape are delighted with it ; but the common impres-
sion about England is that it is an ugly country covered with
usines, and on which the sun never shines.

PATRIOTIC IGNORANCE. 271

to be a firm belief that French landscape was almost
destitute of .mountainous grandeur. There were the
Highlands of Scotland, but who had ever heard of the
Highlands of France? Was not France a wearisome,
tame country that unfortunately had to be traversed
before one could get to Switzerland and Italy ? Nobody
seemed to have any conception that France was rich
in mountain scenery of the very grandest kind. Switz-
erland was understood to be the place for mountains,
and there was a settled but erroneous conviction that
Mont Blanc was situated in that country. As for
the.Grand-Pelvoux, the Pointe des Ecrins, the Mont
Olan, the Pic d'Arsine, and the Trois Ellions, no-
body had ever heard of them. K you had told any
average Scotchman that the most famous Bens would
be lost and nameless in the mountainous departments
of France, the news would have greatly surprised him.
He would have been astonished to hear that the area
of mountainous France exceeded the area of Scotland,
and that the height of its loftiest summits attained three
times the elevation of Ben Nevis.

It may be excusable to feel proud of mountains, as
they are noble objects in spite of their inconvenience,
but it seems less reasonable to be patriotic about hedges,
which, make us pay dearly for any beauty they may
possess by hiding the perspective of the land. A hedge
six feet high easily masks as many miles of distance.
However, there is a pride in English hedges, accom-
panied by a belief that there are no such things in
France. The truth is that regions of larg% extent are
divided by hedges in France as they are in England.

272 PATRIOTIC IGNORANCE,

Another belief is that there is little or no wood in
France, though wood is the principal fuel, and vast
forests are reserved for its suppl3^ I have heard an
Englishman proudly congratulating himself, in the spirit
of Dupont's song, on the supposed fact that the French
had neither coal nor iron ; and yet I have visited a vast
establishment at the Creuzot, where ten thousand work-
men are continually employed in making engines,
bridges, armor-plates, and other things from iron found
close at hand, by the help of coal fetched from a very
little distance. I have read in an English newspaper
that there were no singing birds in France ; and by^ay
of commentary a hundred little French songsters kept
up a meny din that would have gladdened the soul of
Chaucer. It happened, too, to be the time of the year
for nightingales, which filled the woods with their music
in the moonlight.

Patriotic ignorance often gets hold of some partial
truth unfavorable to another countr}^, and then applies
it in such an absolute manner that it is truth no longer.
It is quite true, for example, that athletic exercises are
not so much cultivated in France, nor held in such high
esteem, as they are in England, but it is not true that
all young Frenchmen are inactive. They are often
both good swimmers and good pedestrians, andf though
they do not play cricket, man}'' of them take a practical
interest in gj'mnastics and are skilful on the bar and
the trapeze. The French learn military drill in their
boyhood, and in early manhood they are inured to
fatigue in Ac army, besides which great numbers of
them learn fencing on their own account, that they

PATRIOTIC IGNORANCE. 273

may hold their own in a duel. Patriotic ignorance likes
to shut its eyes to all inconvenient facts of this kind,
and to dwell on what is unfavorable. A man may
like a glass of absinthe in a cafe and still be as ener-
getic as if he drank port wine at home. I know an
old French officer who never misses his daily visit to
the cafe^ and so might serve as a text for moralizing,
but at the same time he walks twenty kilometres every
day. Patriotic ignorance has its opportunity in every
difference of habit. What can be apparently more
indolent, for an hour or two after dejeuner^ than a
prosperous man of business in Paris? Ver}' possibly
he may be caught playing cards or dominoes in the
middle of the day, and severely blamed b}^ a foreign
censor. The difference between him and his equal in
London is simply in the Arrangement of time. The
Frenchman has been at his work earlj', and divides his
day into two parts, with hours of idleness between them.
Many examples of those numerous international criti-
cisms that originate in patriotic ignorance are connected
with the employment of words that are apparentl}' com-
mon to different nations, 3'et vary in their signification.
One that has given rise to frequent patriotic criticisms
is the French word univers. French writers often say
of some famous author, such as Victor Hugo, "Sa
renommee remplit Tunivers ; " or of some gi'cat warrior,
like Napoleon, " II inquieta Tunivers." English critics
take up these expressions and then say, *' Behold how
bombastic these French writers are, with their absurd
exaggerations, as if Victor Hugo and Napoleon as-
tonished the universe, as if they were ever heard of

18

274 PATRIOTIC IGNORANCE,

beyond our own little planet!" Such criticism onlj-
displaj's patriotic ignorance of a foreign language.
The French expression is perfectly correct, and not in
the least exaggerated. Napoleon did not disquiet the
universe, but he disquieted Vunivers. Victor Hugo is
not known beyond the terrestrial globe, but he is known,
by name at least, throughout Vnnivers. The persistent
ignorance of English writers on this point would be
inexplicable if it were not patriotic ; if it did not afford
an opportunity for deriding the vanity of foreigners.
It is the more remarkable that the deriders themselves
constantly use the word in the same restricted sense
as an adjective or an adverb. I open Mr. Stanford's
atlas, and find that it is called " The London Atlas of
Universal Geography," though it does not contain a
single map of any planet but our own, not even one of
the visible hemisphere of the moon, which might easily
have been given. I take a newspaper, and I find that
the late President of the Royal Society died universaMy
respected, though he was known only to the cultivated
inhabitants of a single planet. Such is the power of
patriotic ignorance that it is able to prevent men from
understanding a foreign word when they themselves
employ a nearly related word in identicallj^ the same
sense.^

1 The French word univers has three or four distinct senses. It
may mean all that exists, or it may mean the solar system, or it
may mean the earth's surface, in whole or in part. Voltaire said
that Columhus, by simply looking at a map of our univers^ had
guessed that there must be another, that, is, the western hemi-
sphere. " Paris est la plus belle yille de runirers " means simply
that Paris is the most beautiful city in the world.

PATRIOTIC IGNORANCE, 275

The word univers reminds me of universities, and
the}' recall a striking example of patriotic ignorance in
my own countrymen.^ I wonder how many Englishmen
there are who know anything about the University of
France. I never expect an Englishman to know any-
thing about it ; and, what is more, I am always prepared
to find him impervious to any information on the sub-
ject. As the organization of the University of France
differs essetitially from that of English universities, each
of which is localized in one place, and can be seen in its
entiret}' from the top of a tower, the Englishman hears
with contemptuous inattention any attempt to make
him understand an institution without a parallel in his
own country. Besides this, the Universities of Oxford
and Cambridge are venerable and wealthy institutions,
visibly beautiful, whilst the University of France is of
comparatively recent origin ; and, though large sums
are expended in its service, the result does not strike
the eye because the expenditure is distributed over the
country. I remember having occasion to mention the
Academy of L3"on8 to a learned doctor of Oxford who
was travelling in France, and I found that he had never
heard of the Academy of Lyons, and knew nothing
about the organization of the national university of
which that academy forms a part. From a French
point of view this is quite as remarkable an example of
patriotic ignorance as if some foreigner had never heard
of the diocese of York, or the episcopal organization
of the Church of England. Every Frenchman who has
any education at all knows the functions of academies
in the university, and which of the principal cities are
the seats of those learned bodies.

276 PATRIOTIC IGNORANCE,

As Englishmen ignore the University of France, they
naturally at the same time ignore the degrees that it
confers. They never know what a Zdcencie is, they
have no conception of the Agregation^ or of the severe
ordeal of competitive examination through which an
Agreg^ must have passed. Therefore, if a Frenchman
has attained either of these grades, his title is unintel-
ligible to an Englishman.

There is, no doubt, great ignorance in France on the
subject of the English universities, but it is neither in
the same degree nor of the same kind. I should
hardly call French ignorance of the classes at Oxford
patriotic ignorance, because it does not proceed from
the belief that a foreign university is unworthy of a
Frenchman's attention. I should call French igno-
rance of the Royal Academy, for example, genuine
patriotic ignorance, because it proceeds from a con-
viction that English art is unworthy of notice, and that
the Fi'ench Salon is the onlj^ exhibition that can inter-
est an enlightened lover of art. That is the essence of
patriotism in ignorance, — to be ignorant of what is
done in another nation, because we believe our own to
be first and the rest nowhere ; and so the English
ignorance of the Universit}'' of France is genuine pa-
triotic ignorance. It is caused by the existence of
Oxford and Cambridge, as the French ignorance of the
Royal Academy is caused by the French Salon.

Patriotic ignorance is one of the most serious impedi-
ments to conversation between people of different na-
tionality, because occasions are continuallj' arising when
the national sentiments of the one are hurt by the

.A^g^^

PATRIOTIC IGNORANCE, 277

ignorance of the other. But we may also wound the
feelings of a foreigner by assuming a more complete
degree of ignorance on his part than that which is
really his. This is sometimes done by English people
towards Americans, when English people forget that
their national literature is the common possession of
the two countries. A story is told by Mr. Grant
White of an English lady who informed him that a
novel (which she advised him to read) had been
written about Kenilworth, by Sir Walter Scott; and
he expected her to recommend a perusal of the works
of William Shakespeare. Having lived much abroad,
I am myself occasionally the grateful recipient of val-
uable information from English friends. For example,
I remember an Englishman who kindly and quite seri-
ously informed me that Eton College, was a public
school where many sons of the English aristocracy
were educated.

There is a verj' serious side to patriotic ignorance
in relation to war. There can be no doubt that many
of the most foolish, costly, and disastrous wars ever
undertaken were either directly due to patriotic igno-
rance, or made possible only by the existence of such
ignorance in the - nation that afterwards suffered by
them. The way in which patriotic ignorance directly
tends to produce war is readil}^ intelligible. A nation
sees its own soldiers, its own cannons, its own ships,
and becomes so proud of them as to remain contentedl}'
and even wilfully ignorant of the military strength and
eflSciency of its neighbors. The war of 1870-71, so
disastrous to France, was the direct result of patriotic

278 PATRIOTIC IGNORANCE,

ignorance. The country and even the Emperor him-
self were patriotically ignorant of their own inferior
miUtaiy condition and of the superior Prussian organi-
zation. One or two isolated voices were raised in
warning, but it was considered patriotic not t9 listen
to them. The war between Turkey and Russia, which
cost Turkey Bulgaria and all but expelled her from
Europe, might easily have been avoided by the Sultan ;
but he was placed in a false position by the patriotic
ignorance of his own subjects, who believed him to be
far more powerful than he reall}" was, and who would
have probably dethroned or murdered him if he had
acted rationally, that is to say, in accordance with the
degree of strength that he possessed. In almost every
instance that I am able to remember, the nations that
have undertaken imprudent and easily avoidable wars
have done so because they were blinded by patriotic
ignorance, and therefore either impelled their rulers
into a foolish course against their better knowledge, or
else were themselves easily led into peril by the temer-
ity of a rash master, who would risk the well-being of
all his subjects that he might attain some personal and
private end. The French have been cured of their
most dangerous patriotic ignorance, — that concerning
the military strength of the country, — by the war of
1870, but the cure was of a costly nature.

Patriotism has been so commonly associated with a
wilful closing of the eyes against unpleasant facts, that
those who prefer truth to illusion are often considered
unpatriotic. Yet surely ignorance has not the immense
advantage over knowledge of having all patriotism on

PATRIOTIC IGNORANCE, 279

her side. There is a far higher and better patriotism
than that of ignorance ; there is a love of country that
shows itself in anxiety for its best welfare, and does
not remain satisfied with the vain delusion of a fancied
superiority in everything. It is the interest of England
as a nation to be accurately informed about all that
concerns her position in the world, and it is impossible
for her to receive this information if a stupid national
vanity is always ready to take offence when it is
offered. It is desirable for England to know exactly
in what degree she is a military power, and also how
she stands with reference to the naval armaments of
other nations, not as they existed in the days of Nelson,
but as they will exist next year. It is the interest of
England to know by what tenure she holds India, just
as in the reign of George the Third it would have been
very much the interest of England to know accurately
both the rights of the American colonists and their
strength. I cannot imagine any circumstances that
might make ignorance more desirable for a free peo-
ple than knowledge. With enslaved peoples the case
is different : the less they know and the greater, per-
haps, are their chances of enjoying the dull kind of
somnolent happiness which alone is attainable by them ;
but this is a kind of happiness that no citizen of a free
country would desire.

280 CONFUSIONS.

ESSAY XX.

CONFUSIONS.

OURELY the analytical facult}'^ must be very rare, or
^^ we should not so commonly*find people confound-
ing together things essentially distinct. Any one who
possesses that faculty naturallj', and has followed some
occupation which strengthens it, must be continually
amused if he has a humorous turn, or irritated if he is
irascible, by the astounding mental confusions in which
men contentedly pass their lives. To be just, this ac-
count ought to include both sexes, for women indulge
in confusions even more frequently than men, and are
less disposed to separate things when they have once
been jumbled together.

A confusion of ideas in politics which is not uncom-
mon amongst the enemies of all change is to believe
that whoever desires the reform of some law wants to
do something that is not legal, and has a rebellious,
subversive spirit. Yet the reformer is not a rebel ; it
is indeed the peculiar distinction of his position not to
be a rebel, for there has never been a real reformer (as
distinguished from a revolutionist) who wished to do
anything illegal. He desires, certainlj^, to do some-
thing which is not legal just at present, but he does
not wish to do it so long as it remains in the condi-
tion of illegality. He wishes first to make it legal by

CONFUSIONS. 2Bl

obtaining legislative sanction for his proposal, and then
to do it when it shall have become as legal as anything
else, and when all the most conservative people in the
kingdom will be strenuous in its defence as '' part and
parcel of the law of the land."

Another confusion in political matters which has
always been extremely common is that between pri-
vate and public liberty. Suppose that a law were
enacted to the effect that each British subject without
exception should go to Mass every Sunday morning,
on pain o^ death, and should take the Roman Catholic
Sacrament of Holy Communion, involving auricular
confession, at Easter; such a law would not be an
infringement of the sensible liberty of Roman Catho-
lics, because thej'^ do these things already. Then they
might say, " People talk of the tyranny of the law,
yet the law is not tyrannical at all ; we enjoy perfect
liberty in England, and it is most unreasonable to say
that we do not." The Protestant part of the commu-
nity would exclaim that such a law was an intolerable
infringement of liberty, and would rush to arms to get
rid of it. This is the distinction between private and
public libert3^ There is private liberty when some men
are not interfered with in the ordinary habits of their
existence ; and there has always been much of such pri-
vate liberty under the worst of despotisms ; but there is
not public liberty until everj' man in the country may
live according to his own habits, so long as he does not
interfere with the rights of others. Here is a distinc-
tion plain enough to be evident to a very commonplace
understanding; yet the admirers of tyrants are often

282 CONFUSIONS.

successful in producing a confusion between the two
things, and in persuading people that there was ''am-
ple liberty'* under some foreign despot, because they
themselves, when they visited the country that lay
prostrate under his iiresistible power, were allowed to
eat good dinners, and drive about unmolested, and
amuse themselves by day and by night according to
every suggestion of their fancy.

Many confusions have been intentionally maintained
by political enemies in order to cast odium on their
adversaries ; so that it becomes of great importance to
a political cause tiiat it should not bear a name with
two meanings, or to which it may be possible to give
another meaning than that which was originally in-
tended. The word "Radical" is an instance of this.
According to the enemies of radicalism it has always
meant a political principle that strikes at the root of
the constitution; but it was not that meaning of the
word which induced the first Radicals to commit the
imprudence of adopting it. The term referred to agri-
culture rather than tree-felling, the original idea being
to uproot abuses as a gardener pulls weeds up by the
roots. I distinctly remember my first boyish notion of
. the Radicals. I saw them in a sort of sylvan picture^ —
violent savage men armed with sharp axes, and hewing
away at the foot of a majestic oak that stood for the
glory of England. Since then I have become ac-
quainted with another instance of the unfortunate
adoption of a word which may be plausibly perverteA
from its meaning. The French republican motto is
Jjiberte, Egalite^ Fratemite^ and to this day there is

fe

CONFUSIONS. 283

hardly an English newspaper that does not from time
to time sneer at the French Kepublieans for aspiring to
equality, as if equality were not impossible in the na-
ture of things, and as if, supposing an unnatural equal-
ity to be established to-day, the operation of natural
causes would not bring about inequality to-morrow.
We are told that some men would be stronger, or
cleverer, or more industrious than others, and earn
more and make themselves leaders ; that children of
the same parents, starting in life with the same for-
tunes, never rdhiain in precisely the same positions ;
and much more to the same purpose. All this trite
and familiar reasoning -is without application here.
The word JEgalite in the motto means something which
can be attained, and which, though it did not exist in
France before the Revolution, is now almost a per-
fect reality there, — it means equality before the law ;
it means that there shall not be privileged classes
exempt from paying taxes, and favored with such
scandalous partiality that all posts of importance in
the government, the army, the magisti-acy, and the
church are habituallj- reserved for them. If it meant
absolute equalitj^ no Republican could aim at wealth,
which is the creation of inequality in his own favor ;
neither would any Republican labor for intellectual
reputation, or accept honors. There would not even
be a Republican in the gymnastic societies, where every
member strives to become stronger and more agile
than his fellows, and knows that, whether in his favor
or against him, the most striking inequalities will be
manifested in every public contest. There would be no

284 CONFUSIONS.

Republicans in the University, for has it not a hierar-
chy with the most marked gradations of title, and
difference? of consideration and authority? Yet the
University is so full of Republicans that it is scarcely
too much to say that it is entirely composed of them.
I am aware that there are dreamers in the working
classes, both in France and elsewhere, who look for-
ward to a social state when all men will work for the
same wages, — when the Meissonier of the day will be
paid like a sign-painter, and the sign-painter like a
white-washer, and all three perform each other's tasks
by turns for equality of agreeableness in the work ; but
these dreams are only possible in extreme ignorance,
and lie quite outside of any theories to be seriously
considered.

Religious intolerance, when quite sincere and not
mixed up with social contempt or political hatred, is
founded upon a remarkable confusion of ideas, which is
this. The persecutor assumes that the heretic know-
ingly and maliciously resists the will of God in reject-
ing the theology which he knows that God desires him
to receive. This i^ a confusion between the mental
states of the believer and the unbeliever, and it does
not accurately describe either, for the believer of course
accepts the doctrine, and the unbeliever does not reject
it as coming from God, but precisely because he is con-
vinced that it has a purely human origin.

'' Are you a Puseyite? " was a question put to a lady
in my hearing ; and she at once answered, " Certainly
not, I should be ashamed of being a Puseyite." Here
was a confusion between her present mental state and

CONFUSIONS. 285

her supposed possible mental state as a Puseyite ; for it
is impossible to be a real Puseyite and at the same
time to think of one's belief with an inward sense of
shame. . A believer always thinks that his belief is
simply the truth, and nobody feels ashamed of believ-
ing what is true. Even concealment of a belief does
not imply shame ; and those who have been compelled,
in self-defence, to hide their real opinions, have been
ashamed, if at all, of hiding and not of having them.

A confusion common to all who do not think, and
avoided only with the greatest difficulty by those who
do, is that between their own knowledge and the knowl-
edge possessed by another person who has different
tastes, different receptive powers, and other opportuni-
ties. They cannot imagine that the world does not
appear the same to him that it appears to them. They
do not really believe that he can feel quite differently
from themselves and still be in every respect as sound
in mind and as intelligent as they are. The incapacity
to imagine a different mental condition is strikingly
manifested in what we call the Philistine mind, and is
one of its strongest characteristics. The true Philistine
thinks that every form of culture which opens out a
world that is closed against himself leaves the votarj'^
exactly where he was before. " I cannot imagine why
3'ou live in Italy," said a Philistine to an acquaintance ;
" nothing could induce me to live in Italy." He did
not take into accouut the difference of gifts and culture,
but supposed the person he addressed to have just his
own mental condition, the only one that he was able to
conceive, whereas, in fact, that person was so endowed

286 CONFUSIONS.

and so educated as to enjoy Italy in the sapreme degree.
He spoke the purest Italian with perfect ease ; he had a
considerable knowledge of Italian literature and an-
tiquities; his love of natural beauty amounted to an
insatiable passion ; and from his youth he had delighted
in architecture and painting. Of these gifts, tastes,
and acquirements the Philistine was simply destitute.
For him Italy could have had no meaning. Where the
other found unfailing interest he would have suffered
from unrelieved ennui, and would have been continually
looking back, with the intolerable longing of nostalgia,
to the occupations of his English home. In the same
spirit a French bourgeois once complained in my hear-
ing that too much space was given to foreign affairs in
the newspapers, " car, vous comprenez, cela n'interesse
pas." This was simply an attribution of his personal
apathy to everybody else. Certainly, as a nation, the
French take less interest in foreign affairs than we do,
but they do take some interest, and the degree of it is
exactly reflected by the importance given to foreign
affairs in their journals, always greatest in the best of
them. An Englishman said, also in my hearing, that
to have a library was a mistake, as a library was of no
use ; he admitted that a few books might be useful if
the owner read them through. Here, again, is the
attribution of one person's experience to all cases.
This man had never himself felt the need of a library,
and did not know how to use one. He could not realize
the fact that a few books only allow you to read, whilst
a library allows you to pursue a study. He could not
at all imagine what the word "library" means to a

CONFUSIONS, 287

scholar, — that it means the not being stopped at every
turn for want of light, the not being exposed to seorn-
fal correction by men of inferior ability and inferior
industry, whose only superiority is the great and terrible
one of living within a cabfare of the British Museum.
I remember reading an account of the establishment
of a Greek professorship in. a provincial town, and it
was wisely proposed, by one who understood the diffi-
culties of a scholar remote from the great libraries, that
provision should be made for the accumulation of books
for the use of the future occupants of the chair, but
the trustees (honest men of business, who had no idea
of a scholar's wants and necessities) said that each
professor must provide his own librar}', just as road
commissioners advertised that a surveyor must have his
own horse.

One of the most serious reasons why it is imprudent
to associate with people whose opinions you do not wish
to be made responsible for is that others will confound
you with them. There is an old Latin proverb, and
also a French one, to the effect that if a man knows
what your friends are, he knows what j^ou are yourself.
These proverbs are not true, but they well express the
popular confusion between having something in common
and having everjiihing in common. If you are on
fiiendly terms with clerg3'men, it is inferred that you
have a clerical mind ; when the reason may be that you
are a scholar living in the country, and can find no
scholarship in your neighborhood except in the parson-
age houses. You associate with foreigners, and are
supposed to be unpatriotic ; when in truth you are as

CONFUSIONS.

patriotic as any rational and well-informed creature
can be, but have a faculty for languages that you like
to exercise in conversation. This kind of confusion
takes no account of the indisputable fact that men con-
stantly associate together on the ground of a single
pursuit that they have in common, often a mere amuse-
ment, or because, in spite of every imaginable di/Fer-
ence, they are drawn together by one of those mysterious
natural affinities which are so obscure in their origin
and action that no human intelligence can explain
them.

Not only are a man's tastes liable to be confounded
with those of his personal acquaintances, but he may
find some trade attributed to him, by a perfectly iiTa-
tional association of ideas, because it happens to be
prevalent in the country where he lives. I have known
instances of men supposed to have been in the cotton
trade simply because they had lived in Lancashire, and
of others supposed to be in the mineral oil trade for no
other reason than because they had lived in a part of
France where mineral oil is found.

Professional men are usually very much alive to the
danger of confusion as affecting their success in life. If
you are known to do two things, a confusion gets estab-
lished between the two, and you are no longer classed
with that ease and decision which the world finds to be
convenient. It therefore becomes a part of worldly
wisdom to keep one of the occupations in obscurity,
and if that is not altogether possible, then to profess
as loudly and as frequently' as you can that it is entirely
secondary and only a refreshment after more serious

CONFUSIONS, 289

toils. Man}^ years ago a well-known surgeon published
a set of etchings, and the merit of them was so danger-
ously conspicuous, so superior, in fact, to the average
of professional work, that he felt constrained to keep
those too clever children in their places by a quotation

from Horace, —

" laborum
Dulce lenimen ! "

To present one's self to the world always in one char-
acter is a great help to success, and maintains the
stability of a position. The kings in the story-books
and on playing cards who have always their crowns on
their heads and sceptres in their hands, appear to enjoy
a decided advantage over modern royalty, which dresses
like other people and enters into common interests and
pursuits. Literary men admire the prudent self-control
of our literary sovereign, Tennyson, who by his rigorous
abstinence from prose takes care never to appear in
public without his singing robes and his crown of laurel.
Had he carelessly and familiarly employed the commoner
vehicle of expression, there would have been a confusion
of two Tennj'sons in the popular idea, whilst at present
his name is as exclusively associated with the exquisite
music of his verse as that of Mozart with another kind
of melody.

The great evil of confusions, as they affect conversa-
tion, is that they constantly place a man of accurate
mental habits in such trying situations that, unless he
exercises the most watchful self-control, he is sure to
commit the sin of contradiction. We have all of us
met with the lady who does not think it necessary to

19

290 CONFUSIONS.

distinguish between one person and another, who will
tell a story of some adventure as having happened to
A, when in reality it happened to B ; who will attribute
sa3ings and opinions to C, when they properly belong to
D ; and deliberately maintain that it is of no conse-
quence whatever, when some suffering lover of accuracy
undertakes to set her right. It is in vain to argue that
there really does exist, in the order of the universe, a
distinction between one person and another, though
both belong to the human race ; and that organisms are
generally isolated, though there has been an exception
in the case of the Siamese twins. The death of the
wonderful swimmer who attempted to descend the
rapids of Niagara afforded an excellent opportunity
for confoupders. In France they all confounded him
with Captain Boy ton, who swam with an apparatus ; and
when poor Webb was sucked under the whirlpool the}^
said, ''You see that, after all, his inflated dress was of
no avail." Fame of a higher kind does not escape
from similar confusions. On the death of George Eliot,
French readers of English novels lamented that they
would have nothing more from the pen that wrote
"John Halifax," and a cultivated Frenchman ex-
pressed his regret for the author of "Adam Bede"
and " Uncle Tom's Cabin." ^

Men who have trained themselves in habits of accu-
rate observation often have a difficulty in realizing the
confused mental condition of those who simply receive

1 A French critic recently observed that his countrymen knew
little of the tragedy of " Macbeth " except the familiar line " To be
or not to be, that is the question I '*

CONFUSIONS. 291

impressions without comparison and classification. A
fine field for confused toarists is architecture. They go
to France and Italy, they talk about what they have
seen, and leave you in bewilderment, until you make the
discovery that they have substituted one building for
another, or, better still, mixed two different edifices
inextricably together. Foreigners of this class are
quite unable to establish any distinction between the
Houses of Parliament and Westminster Abbey, because
both have towers ; and they are not clear about the
difierence between the British Museum and the National
Gallery, because theref are columns in the fronts of
both.^ English tourists will stay some time in Paris,
and afterwards not be able to distinguish between
photographs of the Louvre and the Hotel de Ville.
We need not be surprised that people who have never
studied architecture at all should not be sure whether
St. Paul's is a Gothic building or not, but the wonder
is that they seem to retain no impressions received
merely by the eye. One would think that the eye
alone, without knowledge, would be enough to estab-
lish a distinction between one building and another
altogether different from it ; yet it is not so.
I cannot close this chapter without some allusion to

1 I never make a statement of this kind without remembering
instances, even when it does not seem worth while to mention
them particularly. It is not of much use to quote what one has
heard in conversation, but here are two instances in print. Beclus,
the French geographer, in "La Terre k Vol d'Oiseau," gives a
woodcut of the Houses of Parliament and calls it ** L'Abbaye de
Westminster.'' The same error has even occurred in a French
art periodical.

292 CONFUSIONS.

a crafty employment of words only too well understood
already by those who influence the popular mind. There
is such a natural tendency to confusion in all ordinary
human beings that if you repeatedly present to them two
totally distinct things at the same time, they will, before
long, associate them so closely as to consider them in-
separable by their very nature. This is the reason why
all those branches of education that train the mind in
analj'sis are so valuable. To be able to distinguish
between accidental connections of things or characteris-
tics and necessary connections, is one of the best powers
that education bestows upon us. By far the greater
number of erroneous popular notions are due simply to
the inability to make this distinction which belongs to
all undisciplined minds. Calumnies, that have great in-
fluence over such minds, must lose their power as the
habit of analysis enables people to separate ideas which
the uncultivated mingle together.

Insufficient analysis leads to a yevy common sort of
confusion between the defectiveness of a part onlj- and
a defect pervading the whole. An invention (as often
happens) does not visibl}^ succeed on the first trial, and
then the whole of the common public will at once de-
clare the invention to be bad, when, in reality, it may
be a good invention with a local defect, easily remedi-
able. Suppose that a yacht misses stays, the common
sort of criticism would be to sa}^ that she was a bad
boat, when, in fact, her hull and everything else might
be thoroughly well made, and the defect be due only to
a miscalculation in the placing of her canvas. I havo
myself seen a small steel boat sink at her anchorage,

'f.

CONFUSIONS. 293

and a crowd laugh at her as badly contrived, when
her only defect was the unobserved starting of a rivet.
The boat was fished up, the rivet replaced, and she
leaked and sank no more. When Stephenson's loco-
motive did not go because its wheels slid on the rails,
the vulgar spectators were delighted Vith the supposed
failure of a benefactor of the human species, and set
up a noise of jubilant derision. The invention, they
had decided, was of no good, and they sang their own
foolish gaudeamua igitur. Stephenson at once per-
ceived that the only defect was want of weight, and he
immediately^ proceeded to remedy it by loading the
machine with ballast. So it is in thousands of cases.
The common mind, untrained in anatysis, condemns
the whole as a failure, when the defect lies in some
small part which the specialist, trained in analysis,
seeks for and discovers.

I have not touched upon the confusions due to the
decline of the intellectual powers. In that case the
reason is to be sought for in the condition of the brain,
and there is, I believe, no remedy. In healthy people,
enjoying the complete vigor of their faculties, confusions
are simply the result of carelessness and indolence, and
are proper subjects for sarcasm. With senile confusions
the case is very different. To treat them with hard,
sharp, decided correction, as is so often done by people
of vigorous intellect, is a most cruel abuse of power.
Yet it is difficult to say what ought to be done when an
old person falls into manifest errors of this kind. Simple
acquiescence is in this case a pardonable abandonment
of truth, but there are situations in which it is not

294 CONFUSIONS.

possible. Then you find yourself compelled to show
where the confusion lies. You do it as gently as may
be, but you fail to convince, and awaken that tenacious,
unyielding opposition which is a characteristic of de-
cime In its earlier stages. All that can be said is, that
when once it has- become evident that confusions are
not careless but senile, they ought to be passed over if
possible, and if not, then treated with the very utmost
delicacy and gentleness.

THE NOBLE BOHEMIANISM. 295

ESSAY XXL

THE NOBLE BOHEMIANISM.

A MONGST the common injustices of the world
"^^ there have been few more complete than its
reprobation of the state of mind and manner of life
that have been called Bohemianism ; and so closely is
that reprobation attached to the word that I would
gladly have substituted some other term for the better
Bohemianism had the English language provided me
with one. It may, however, be a gain to justice itself
that we should be compelled to use the same expres-
sion, qualified only by an adjective, for two states of
existence that are the good and the - bad conditions of
the same, as it will tend to make us more charitable to
those whom we must always blame, and 3^et may blame
with a more or less perfect understanding of the causes
that led them into error.

The lower forms of Bohemianism are associated with
several kinds of vice, and are therefore justl}^ disliked
by people who know the value of a well-regulated life,
and, when at the worst, regarded by them with feel-
ings of positive abhorrence. The vices connected with
these forms of Bohemianism are idleness, irregularity,
extravagance, drunkenness, and immorality; and be-
sides these vices the worst Bohemianism is associated
with many repulsive faults that may not be exactly

296 THE NOBLE BOHEMIANISM.

vices, and yet are almost as much disliked by decent
people. These faults are slovenliness, dirt, a degree
of carelessness in matters of business, often scarcelj'
to be distinguished from dishonesty, and habitual neg-
lect of the decorous observances that are inseparable
from a high state of civilization.

After such an account of the worst Bohemianism, in
whicb^ us the reader perceives, I have extenuated noth-
ing, it may seem almost an act of temerity to advance
the theory that this is only the bad side of a state of
miud and feeling that has its good and perfectly
respectable side also. If this seems difficult to be-
lieve, the reader has only to consider how certain
other instincts of humanity have also their good and
bad developments. The religious and the sexual in-
stincts, in their best action, are on the side of national
and domestic order, but in their worst action they pro-
duce sanguinary quarrels, ferocious persecutions, and
the excesses of the most degrading sensuality. It is
therefore by no means a new theory that a human
instinct may have a happy or an unfortunate develop-
mentj and it is not a reason for rejecting Bohemianism,
without unprejudiced examination, that the worst forms
of it are associated with evil.

Again, before going to the raison d^etre of Bohemi-
anism j let me point to one consideration of great impor-
tance to us if we desire to think quite justly. It Is,
and has always been, a characteristic of Bohemianism
to be extremely careless of appearances, and to live
outside the shelter of hypocris}'; so its vices are far
more visible than the same vices when practised by

THE NOBLE BOHEMIANISM. 297

men of the world, and incomparaibly more offensive to
persons with a strong sense of what is called " pro-
priety." At the time when the worst form of Bohemi-
anism was more common than it is now, its most
serious vices were also the vices of the best society.
If the Bohemian drank to excess, so did the nobility
and gentry ; if the Bohemian had a mistress, so had
the most exalted personages. The Bohemian was not
so much blamed for being a sepulchre as for being an
ill-kept sepulchre, and not a whited sepulchre like the
rest. It was far more his slovenliness and poverty than
his graver vices that made him offensive to a corrupt
society with fine clothes and ceremonious manners.

Bohemianism and Philistinism are the terms by
which, for want of better, we designate two opposite
waj^s of estimating wealth and culture. There are two
categories of advantages in wealth, — the intellect-
ual and the material. The intellectual advantages are
leisure to think and read, travel, and intelligent con-
versation. The material advantages are large and
comfortable houses, tables well served and abundant,
good coats, clean linen, fine dresses and diamonds,
horses, carriages, servants, hot-houses, wine-cellars,
shootings. Evidently the most perfect condition of
wealth would unite both classes of advantages; but
this is not always, or often, possible, and it so hap-
pens that in most situations a choice has to be made
between them. The Bohemian is the man who with
small means desires and contrives to obtain the intel-
lectual advantages of wealth, which he considers to
be leisure to think and read, travel, and intelligent

298 THE NOBLE BOBEMIANISM.

conversation. The Philistine is the man who, whether
his means are small or large, devotes himself wholly
to the attainment of the other set of advantages, — a
'large house, good food and wine, clothes, horses, and
servants.

The Philistine gratifies his passion for comfort to a
wonderful extent, and thousands of ingenious people
are incessantly laboring to make his existence more
iX)mfortable still, so that the one great inconvenience
lie is threatened with is the super-multiplication of con-
veniences. Now there is a certain noble Bohemianism
which perceives that the Philistine life is not really so
rich as it appears, that it has only some of the advan-
ts^es which ought to belong to riches, and these not
quite the best advantages; and this noble Bohemian-
ism makes the best advantages its first aim, being con-
tented with such a small measure of riches as, when
ingeniously and skilfully employed, may secure them.

A highly developed material luxury, such as that
which fills our modern universal exhibitions and is the
great pride of our age, has in itself so much the appear-
ance of absolute civilization that any proposal to do
without it may seem like a return to savagery; and
Bohemianism is iexposed to the accusation of discour*
aging arts and manufactures. There is a physical side
to Bohemianism to be considered later ; and there may,
indeed, be some connection between Bohemianism and
the life of a red Indian who roams in his woods and
contents himself with a low standard of physical well-
being* The fair statement of the case between Bohe-
mianism and the civilization of arts and manufactures

THE NOBLE BOHEMIANISM, 299

is as follows: the intelligent Bohenuan does not der
spise them ; on the contrary, when he can afford it,
he encourages them and often surrounds himself with
beautiful things; but he will not barter his mental
liberty in exchange for them, as the Philistine does
so readily. If the Bohemian simply prefers sordid
idleness to the comfort which is the reward of indus-
try, he has no part in the higher Bohemianism, but
combines the Philistine fault of intellectual apathy
with the Bohemian fault of Standing aloof from indus-
trial civilization. If a man abstains from furthering
the industrial civilization of his country he is only
excusable if he pursues some object of at least equal
importance. Intellectual civilization really is such an
object, and the noble Bohemianism is excusable for
serving it rather than that other civilization of arts
and manufactures which has such numerous servants
of its own. If the Bohemian does not redeem his
negligence of material things by superior intellectual
brightness, he is half a Philistine, he is destitute of
what is best in Bohemianism (I had nearly written of
all that is worth having in it), and his contempt for
material perfection has no longer any charm, because
it is not the sacrifice of a lower merit to a higher, but
the blank absence of the lower merit not compensated
or condoned by the presence of anything nobler or
better.

Bohemianism and Philistinism are alike in combin-
ing self-indulgence with lisceticism, but they are ascetic
or self-indulgent in opposite directions. Bohemianism
includes a certain self-indulgence, on the intellectual

800 THE NOBLE BOHEMIANISM,

side, in the pleasures of thought and observation and
in the exercise of the imaginative faculties, combining
this with a certain degree of asceticism on the physical
side, not a severe religious asceticism, but a disposi-
tion, like that of a thorough soldier or traveller, to do ^
without luxury and comfort, and take the absence of
them gayly when they are not to be had. The self-
indulgence of Philistinism is in bodily comfort, of
which it has never enough ; its asceticism consists in
denying itself leisure to read and think, and opportu-
nities for observation.

The best way of describing the two principles will be
to give an account of two human lives that exemplified
them. These shall not be described from imagination,
but from accurate memory ; and I will not have recourse
to the easy artifice of selecting an unfavorable example
of the class with which I happen to have a minor degree
of personal sympath}'. My Philistine shall be one whom
I sincerely loved and heartily respected. He was an
admirable example of everything that is best and most
worthy in the Philistine civilization ; and I believe that
nobody who ever came into contact with him, or had
dealings with him, received any other impression than
this, that he had a natural right to the perfect respect
which surrounded him. The younger son of a poor
gentleman, he began life with narrow means, and fol-
lowed a profession in a smajl provincial town. By
close attention and industry he saved a considerable
sum of money, which he lost entirely through the dis-
honesty of a trusted but untrust worth}' acquaintance.
He had other mishaps, which but little disturbed his

THE NOBLE BOHEMIANISM. 301

serenity, and he patiently amassed enough to make
himself independent. In every relation of life he was
not only above reproach, he was much more than that :
he was a model of what men ought to be, yet seldom
are, in their conduct towards others. He was kind to
every one, generous to those who needed his generosity,
and, though strict with himself, tolerant towards aber-
rations that must have seemed to him strangely unrea-
sonable. He had great natural dignity, and was a
gentleman in all his ways, with an old-fashioned grace
and courtesy. He had no vanity ; there may have been
some pride as an ingredient in his character, but if so
it was of a kind that could hurt nobody, for he was as
simple and straightforward in his intercourse with the
poor as he was at ease with the rich.

After this description (which is so far from being
overcharged that I have omitted, for the sake of brev-
ity, man}' admirable characteristics), the reader may
ask in what could possibly consist the Philistinism of a
nature that had attained such excellence. The answer
is that it consisted in the perfect willingness with which
he remained outside of every intellectual movement,
and in the restriction of his mental activity to riches
and religion. He used to say that "a man must be
contentedly ignorant of many things," and he lived in
this contented ignorance. He knew nothing of the
subjects that awaken the passionate interest of in-
tellectual men. He knew no language but his own,
bought no books, knew nothing about the fine arts,
never travelled, and remained satisfied with the life
of his little provincial town. Totally ignorant of all

302 THE NOBLE BOHEMIANISM.

foreign literatures, ancient or modern, he was at the
same time so slightly acquainted with that of his own
country that he had not read, and scarcety even knew
by name, the most famous authors of his own genera-
tion. His little bookcase was filled almost exclusively
with evangelical sermons and commentaries. This is
Philistinism on the intellectual side, the jnental inert-
ness that remains "contentedly ignorant" of almost
everything that a superior intellect cares for. But,
besides this, there is also a Philistinism on the physical
side, a physical inertness ; and in this, too, my friend
was a real Philistine. In spite of great natural strength,
he remained inexpert in all manly exercises, and so
had not enjoyed life on that side, as he might have
done, and as the Bohemian generally contrives to do.
He belonged to that class of men who, as soon as they
reach middle age, are scarcely more active than the
chairs they sit upon, the men who would fall from a
horse if it were lively, upset a boat if it were light, and
be drowned if they fell into the water. Such men can
walk a little on a road, or they can sit in a carriage
and be dragged about by horses. By this physical
inertia my friend was deprived of One set of impres-
sions, as he was deprived by his intellectual inertia of
another. He could not enjoy that close intimacy with
nature which a Bohemian generally finds to be an im-
portant part of existence.

I wonder if it ever occurred to him to reflect, in thQ
tedious hours of too tranquil age, how much of what is
best in the world had been simply missed by him ; how
he had missed all the variety and interest of travel, the

THE NOBLE BOHEMIANISM. 303

cbarm of intellectual society, the influences of genius,
and even the phywcal excitements of healthj^ out-door
amusements. When I think what a magnificent world
it is that we inhabit, how much natural beauty there is
in it, how much admirable human work in literature and
the fine arts, how many living men and women there are
in each generation whose acquaintance a wise man would
travel far to seek, and value infinitely when he had found
it, I cannot avoid the conclusion that my friend might
have lived as he did in a planet far less richly endowed
than ours, and that after a long life he went out of the
world without having really known it.

I have said that the intelligent Bohemian is generally
a man of small or moderate means, whose object is to
enjoy the best advantages (not the most visible) of
riches. In his view these advantages are leisure, travel,
reading, and conversation. His estimate is different
from that of the Philistine, who sets his heart on the
lower advantages of riches, sacrificing leisure, travel,
reading, and conversation, in order to have a larger
house and more servants. But how, without riches, is
the Bohemian to secure the advantages that he desires,
for they also belong to riches ? There lies the diflSiculty ,
and the Bohemian's way of overcoming it constitutes
the romance of his existence. In absolute destitution
the intelligent Bohemian life is not possible. A little
money is necessary for it, and the art and craft of
Bohemianism is to get for that small amount of money
such an amount of leisure, reading, travel, and good
conversation as may suffice to make life interesting.
The way in which an old-fashioned Bohemian usually

304 THE NOBLE BOHEMIANISM.

set about it was this : he treated material comfort and
outward appearances as matters of no consequence,
accepting them when they came in his way, but endur-
ing the privation of them gaj^y. He learned the art of
living on a little.

'' Jc fiuia pauvre, tres pauvre, et vis pourtant fort bien
C*cfii parce que je vis comme les gens de rien."i

He spent the little that he had, first for what was
teally necessary, and next for what reall}^ gave him
pleasure, but he spent hardly anything in deference to
the usages of society. In this way he got what he
wanted. His books were second-hand and ill bound,
but he had books and read them ; his clothes were
shabby, yefc still they kept him warm ; he travelled in
all sorts of cheap waj^s and frequently on foot ; he lived
a good deul in some unfashionable quarters in a capital
city, and saw much of art, nature, and humanity.

To exemplify the true theory of Bohemianism let me
describe from memory two rooms, one of them inhabited
by an English lady, not at all Bohemian, the other by a
German of the coarser sex who was essentially and
thoroughly Bohemian. The lady's room was not a
drawing room, being a reasonable sort of sitting-room
without any exasperating inutilities, but it was extremely,
excessively comfortable. Half hidden amongst its ma-
terial comforts might be found a little rosewood book-
case containing a number of pretty volumes in purple
morocco that were seldom, if ever, opened. My German
Bohemian was a steady reader in six languages ; and if

1 Rodolphe, in "L'Honneur et I'Argent."

t

THE NOBLE BOHEMIANISM. 305

he had seen ^ such a room as that he would probably
have criticised it as follows. He would have said, '' It
is rich in superfluities, but has not what is necessary.
The carpet is superfluous ; plain boards are quite com-
fortable enough. One or two cheap chairs and tables
might replace this costly furniture. That pretty rose-
wood bookcase holds the smallest number of books at
the greatest cost, and is therefore contrary to true
economy; give me, rather, a sufl3ciency of long deal
shelves all innocent of paint. What is the use of fine
bindings and gilt edges? This little library is miserably
poor. It is all in one language, and does not represent
even English literature adequately; there are a few
novels, books of poems, and travels, but I find neither
science nor philosophy. Such a room as that, with all
its comfort, would seem to me like a prison. My mind
needs wider pastures." I remember his own room, a
place to make a rich Englishman shudder. One climbed
up to it by a stone corkscrew-stair, half-ruinous, in an
old mediaeval house. It was a large room, with a bed in
one corner, and it was wholly destitute of anything re-
sembling a carpet or a curtain. The remaining furniture
consisted of two or three rush-bottomed chairs, one large
cheap lounging-chair, and two large plain tables. There
were plenty of shelves (common deal, unpainted) , and on
them an immense litter of books in different languages,
most of them in paper covers, and bought second-
hand, but in readable editions. In the way of material
luxury there was a pot of tobacco ; and if a friend
dropped in for an evening a jug of ale would make its
appearance. My Bohemian was shabby in his dress,
20

806 THE NOBLE BOHEMIANISM.

and unfashionable ; but he had seen more, read more,
and {tossed more hours in intelligent conversation than
many who considered themselves his superiors. The
entire material side of life had been sjstematicallj
neglected, in his case, in order that the intellectual
side might flourish. It is hardly necessar}'' to observe
that any attempt at luxury or visible comfort, an}'^ con-
formity to fashion, would have been incompatible, on
small means, with the intellectual existence that this
German scholar enjoyed.

Long ago I knew an EngHsh Bohemian who had &
email income that came to him very irregularly. He
bad begun life in a profession, but had quitted it that
he might travel and see the world, which he did in the
oddest, most original fashion, often enduring privation,
but never ceasing to enjoy life deeply in his own way,
and to accumulate a mass of observations which would
have been quite invaluable to an author. In him the
two activities, physical and mental, were alike so ener-
getic that they might have led to great results had they
been consistently directed to some private or public end ;
but unfortunately he remained satisfied with the exist-
ence of an observant wanderer who has no purpose
beyond the healthy exercise of his faculties. In use-
fulness to others he was not to be compared with my
good and admirable Philistine, but in the art of getting
for himself what is best in the world he was by far the
more accomplished of the two. He fully enjoyed botii
the physical and the intellectual life ; he could live al-
most like a red Indian, and yet at the same time carry
in his mind the most recent results of European thought

THE NOBLE BOHEMIANISM. 807

and science. His distinguishing characteristic was a
heroic contempt for comfort, in which he rather re-
sembled a soldier in war-time than any self-indulgent
civilian. He would sleep anywhere, — in his boat un-
der a sail, in a hayloft, under a hedge if belated, and
he would go for days together without any regular
meal. He dressed roughly, and his clothes became old
before he renewed them. He kept no servant, and
lived in cheap lodgings in towns, or hired one or two
empty rooms and adorned them with a little portable
furniture. In the country he contnved to make very
economical arrangements in farmhouses, by which he
was fed and lodged quite as well as he ever cared to
be. It would be difficult to excel him in simple manli-
ness, in the quiet courage that accepts a disagreeable
situation or faces a dangerous one; and he had the
manliness of the mind as well as that of the body ; he
estimated the world for what it is worth, and cared
nothing for its transient fashions either in appearances
or opinion. I am sorry that he was a useless member
of society, — if, indeed, such an eccentric is to be called
a member of society at all, — but if uselessness is blam-
able he shares the blame, or ought in justice to share
it, with a multitude of most respectable gentlemen and
ladies who receive nothing but approbation from the
world.

Except this fault of uselessness there was nothing to
blame in this man's manner of life, but his want of pur-
pose and discipline made his fine qualities seem almost
without value. And now comes the question whether
the fine qualities of the useless Bohemian may not be

308 THE NOBLE BOHEMIANISM.- -

of some value in a life of a higher kind. I think it is
evident that they may, for if the Bohemian can cheer-
fully sacrifice luxury for some mental gain he has made
a great step in the direction of the higher life, and only
requires a purpose and a discipline to attain it. Com-
mon men are completelj^ enslaved by their love of com-
forts and whoever has emancipated himself from this
thraldom has gained the first and most necessary vic-
tory. The use that he will make of it depends upon
himself. If he has high purposes, his Bohemianism
will be ennobled by them, and will become a most pre-
cious clement in his character ; and if his purposes are
laot of the highest, the Bohemian element may still be
very valuable if accompanied by self-discipline. Na-
poleon cannot be said to have had high purposes, but^
his Bohemianism was admirable. A man who, having
attained success, with boundless riches at his disposal,
could quit the luxury of his palaces and sleep any-
where, in any poor fannhouse, or under the stars by
the fire of a bivouac, and be satisfied with poor meals
at the most irregular hours, showed that, however he
may have estimated luxury, he was at least entirely
independent of it. The model monarch in this respect
was Cluirles XII. of Sweden, who studied his own per-
sonal eomfort as little as if he had been a private soldier.
Some royal commanders have carried luxury into war
itself, but not to their advantage. When Napoleon III.
went in Ms catnage to meet his fate at Sedan the roads
were so encumbered by wagons belonging to the Im-
perial household as to impede the movements of the
troops.

THE NOBLE BOHEMIANISM. 809

There is often an element of Bohemianism where we
should least expect to find it. There is something of
it in our English aristocracy, though it is not called
Bohemianism here because it* is not accompanied by
poverty ; but the spirit that sacrifices luxury to rough
travelling is, so far, the true Bohemian spirit. In the
aristocracy, however, such sacrifices are only tempo-
rary ; and a rough life accepted for a few weeks or
months gives the charm of a restored freshness to
luxury on returning to it. The class in which the
higher Bohemianism has most steadily flourished is
the artistic and literary class, and here it is visible
and recognizable because there is often poverty enough
to compel the choice between the objects of the in-
telligent Bohemian and those of ordinary men. The
early life of Goldsmith, for example, was that of a
genuine Bohemian. He had scarcely any money,
and yet he contrived to get for himself what the
intelligent Bohemian always desires, namely, leisure
to read and think, ti*avel, and interesting conversation.
When penniless and unknown he lounged about the
world thinking and observing ; he travelled in Holland,
France, Switzerland, and Italy, not as people do in
railway carriages, but in leisurely intercourse with the
inhabitants. Notwithstanding his poverty he was re-
ceived by the learned in different European cities, and,
notably, heard Voltaire and Diderot talk till three
o'clock in the morning. So long as he remained faithful
to the true principles of Bohemianism he was happy
in his own strange and eccentric way, and all the
anxieties, all the slavery of his later years were due

310 THE NOBLE BOHEMIANISM.

to his apostasy from those principles. He no longer
estimated leisure at its true value when he allowed him-
self to be placed in such a situation that he was com-
pelled to toil like a slave in order to clear off work that
had been already paid for, such advances having been
rendered necessary by expenditure on Philistine luxu-
ries. He no longer enjoyed humble travel ; but on his
later tour in France with Mrs. Horneck and lier two
beautiful daughters, instead of enjoying the country in
his own old simple innocent way, he allowed his mind
to be poisoned with Philistine ideas, and constantly
complained of the want of physical comfort, though
he lived far more expensively than in his youth. The
new apartments, taken on the success of the ''Good-
natured Man," consisted, saj's Irving, " of three rooms,
which he furnished with mahogany sofas, card-tables,
and bookcases; with curtains, mirrors, and Wilton
carpets." At the same time he went even beyond the
precept of Polonius, for his garments were costlier
than his purse could bu}^ and his entertainments were
80 extravagant as to give pain to his acquaintances.
AH this is a desertion of real Bohemian principles.
Goldsmith ought to have protected his own leisure,
which, from the Bohemian point of view, was incompara-
bly more precious to himself than Wilton carpets and
coats "of Tyrian bloom."

Corot, the French landscape-painter, was a model
of consistent Bohemianism of the best kind. When
his father said, " You shall have £80 a year, your
plate at my table, and be a, painter ; or you shall have
£4,000 to start with if you will be a shop-keeper," his

THE NOBLE BOHEMIANISM. 311

choice was made at once. He remained always faith-
ful to true Bohemian principles, fully understanding
the value of leisure, and protecting his artistic inde-
pendence by the extreme simplicit}' of his living. He
never gave way to the modern rage for luxuries, but
in his latter years, when enriched by tard}^ professional
success and hereditary fortune, he employed his money
in acts of fraternal generosity to enable others to lead
the intelligent Bohemian life.

Wordsworth had in him a very strong element of
Bohemianism. His long pedestrian rambles, his inter-
est in humble life and familiar intercourse with the
poor, his passion for wild nature, and preference of
natural beauty to fine society, his simple and economi-
cal habits, are enough to reveal the tendency. His
"plain living and high thinking" is a thoroughly Bohe-
mian idea, in striking opposition to the Philistine pas-
sion for rich living and low thinking. There is a story
that he was seen at a breakfast-table to cut open a
new volume with a greasy butter-knife. To every lover
of books this must seem honibly barbarous, 3'et at the
same time it was Bohemian, in that Wordsworth valued
the thought only and cared nothing for the material
condition of the volume. I have observed a like in-
difference to the material condition of books in other
Bohemians, who took the most livel}^ interest in their
contents. I have also seen "bibliophiles" who had
beautiful libraries in excellent preservation, and who
loved to fondle fine copies of books that they never
read. That is Philistine, it is the preference of mate-
rial perfection to intellectual values.

312 THE NOBLE BOHEMIANISM.

The reader is, I hope, fully persuaded by this time
that the higher Bohemianism is compatible with every
quality that deserves respect, and that it is not of ne-
cessity connected with any fault or failing. I may
therefore mention as an example of it one of the purest
and best characters whom it was ever my happiness to
know. There was a strong element of noble Bohe-
mianism in Samuel Palmer, the landscape-painter.
'' From time to time," according to his son, " he for-
sook his easel, and travelled far away from London
smoke to cull the beauties of some favorite countr}^
side. His painting apparatus was complete, but singu-
larly simple, his dress and other bodily requirements
simpler still; so he could walk from village to hamlet
easily canying all, he wanted, and utterly indifferent
to luxury. With a good constitution it mattered little
to him how humble were his quarters or how remote
from so-called civilization. ' In exploring wild coun-
try,' he writes, ' I have been for a fortnight together,
uncertain each da}' whether I should get a bed under
cover at night; and about midsummer I have repeat-
edly been walking all night to watch the mystic phenom-
ena of the silent hours.' He enjoyed to the full this
rough but not uncomfortable mode of travelling, and
was better pleased to take his place, after a hard day's
work, in some old chimney corner — joining on equal
terms the village gossip — than to mope in the dull
grandeur of a private room."

Here are two of my Bohemian elements, — the love of
travel and the love of conversation. As for the other
element, —^ the love gf leisure to think and read, — it

THE NOBLE BOHEMIANISM, 313

is not visible in this extract (though the kind of travd
described is leisurelj') , but it was alwaj's present in the
man. During the quiet, solitary progress by day and
night there were ample opportunities for thinking,
and as for reading we know that Palmer never stirred
without a favorite author in his pocket, most frequently
Milton or Virgil. To complete the Bohemian we only
require one other characteristic, — contentment with a
simple material existence; and we are told that "the
painting apparatus was singularly simple, the dress and
other bodily requirements simpler still." So here we
have the intelligent Bohemian in his perfection.

All this is the exact opposite of Philistine " common
sense." A Philistine would not have exposed himself,
voluntaril}', to the certainty of poor accommodation.
A Philistine would not have remained out all night " to
watch the mystic phenomena of the silent hours." In
the absence of a railway he would have hired a carriage,
and got through the wild country rapidly to arrive at
a good dinner. Lastly, a Phihstine would not have
carried either Milton or Virgil in his pocket ; he would
have had a newspaper.

Some practical experience of the higher Bohemianism
is a valuable part of education. It enables us to esti-
mate things at their true worth, and to extract happiness
from situations in which the Philistine is both dull and
miserable. A true Bohemian, of the best kind, knows
the value of mere shelter, of food enough to satisfy
hunger, of plain clothes that will keep him sufficiently
warm ; and in the things of the mind he values the
liberty to use his own faculties as a kind of happiness

314 THE NOBLE BOHEMIANrSM.

in itself. His philosophy leads him to take an interest
in talking with human beings of all sorts and conditions,
and in different countries. He does not despise the
poor, for, whether poor or rich in his own person, he
understands simplicity of life, and if the poor man lives
in a small cottage, he, too, has probably been lodged
leas Bpaciously still in some small hut or tent. He has
lived often, in rough travel, as the poor live every day,
I maintain that such tastes and experiences are val-
uable both in prosperity and in adversity. If we are
prosperous they enhance our appreciation of the things
around us, and yet at the same time make us really
know that thej^ are not indispensable, as so many be-
lieve them to be ; if we fall into adversity they prepare
us to accept lightl}' and cheerfully what would be de-
pressing privations to others. I know a painter who
in consequence of some change in the public taste fell
into adversity at a time when he had every reason to
hope for increased success. Very fortunately for him,
he hadr been a Bohemian in early lifcf — a respectable
Bohemian, be it understood, — and a gi^eat traveller, so
that he could easily dispense with luxuries. "To be
still permitted to follow art is enough," he said ; so he
reduced his expenses to the very lowest scale consistent
with that pursuit, and lived as he had done before in
the old Bohemian times. He made his old clothes last
on, he slung a hammock in a ver}^ simple painting-room,
and cooked his own dinner on the stove. With the
canvas on his easel and a few books on a shelf he found
that if existence was no longer luxurious it had not yet
ceased to be interesting.

EPISTOLARY COMMUNICATION. 815

ESSAY XXIL

OF COURTESY IN EPISTOLARY COMMUNICATION.

'TpHE universal principle of courtesy is that the cour-
-*• teous person manifests a disposition to sacrifice
something in favor of the person whom he desires to
honor ; the opposite principle shows itself in a disposi-
tion to regard our own convenience as paramount over
every other consideration.

Courtesy lives by a multitude of little sacrifices, not
by sacrifices of suflScient importance to impose any
burdensome sense of obligation. These little sacrifices
may be both of time and money, but more of time, and
the money sacrifice should be just perceptible, never
ostentatious.

The tendency of a hurried age, in which men under-
take more work or more pleasure (hardest work of all !)
than they are able properly to accomplish, is to abridge
all forms of courtesy because they take time, and to
replace them by forms, if any forms survive, which cost
as little time as possible. This wounds and injures
couii-esj' itself in its most vital part, for the essence of
it is the willingness to incur that very sacrifice which
modern huny avoids.

The first courtesy in epistolary communication is the
mere writing of the letter. Except in cases where the
letter itself is an offence or an intrusion, the mere

816 EPISTOLARY COMMUNICATION.

making of it is an act of courtesy towards the receiver.
The writer sacrifices his time and a trifle of money in
order that the receiver may have some kind of news.

It has ever been the custom to commence a letter
with some expression of respect, affection, or good will.
This is graceful in itself, and reasonable, being nothing
more than the salutation with which a man enters the
house of his friend, or his more ceremonious act of
deference in entering that of a stranger or a superior.
In times and seasons where courtesy has not given way
to hurry, or a selfish dread of unnecessary exertion, the
opening form is maintained with a certain amplitude,
and the substance of the letter is not reached in the first
lines, which gently induce the reader to proceed. After-
wards these forms are felt to involve an inconvenient
sacrifice of time, and are ruthlessly docked.

In justice to modern poverty in forms it is fair to take
into consideration the simple truth, so easily overlooked,
that we have to write thirty letters where our ancestors
wrote one ; but the principle of sacnfice in courtesy
always remains essentially the same; and if of our
more precious and more occupied time we consecrate a
smaller portion to forms, it is still essential that there
should be no appearance of a desire to escape from the
kind of obligation which we acknowledge.

The most essentially modern element of courtesy in
letter- writing is the promptitude of our replies. This
promptitude was not only unknown to our remote ances-
tors, but even to our immediate predecessors. They
would postpone answering a letter for daj's or weeks,
in the pure spirit of procrastination, when they already

EPISTOLARY COMMUNICATION. 317

possessed all the materials necessary for the answer.
Such a habit would try our patience very severely, but
our fathers seem to have considered it a part of their
dignity to move slowly in correspondence. This tem-
per even yet survives in oflScial correspondence be-
tween sovereigns, who still notif}' to each other tl^eir
domestic events long after the publication of them in
the newspapers.

A prompt answer equally serves the purpose of the
sender and the receiver. It is a great economy of time
to answer promptl}^, because the receiver of the letter is
so much gratified by the promptitude itself that he
readily pardons brevity in consideration of it An
extremely short but prompt letter, that would look curt
without its promptitude, is more polite than a much
longer one written a few days later.

Prompt correspondents save all the time that others
waste in excuses. I remember an author and editor
whose sj'stem imposed upon him the tax of perpetual
apologizing. He always postponed writing until the
delay had put his correspondent out of temper, so that
when at last he did write, which somehow happened
ultimately, the first page was entirely occupied with
apologies for his delay, as he felt that the necessity had
arisen for soothing the ruffled feelings of his friend.
It never occurred to him that the same amount of pen
work which these apologies cost him would, if given
earlier, have suflSced for a complete answer. A letter-
writer of this sort must naturallj^ be a bad man of busi-
ness, and this gentleman was so. though he had excellent
qualities of another order.

318 EPISTOLARY COMMUNICATION,

I remember receiving a most extraordinary answer
from a correspondent of this stamp. I wrote to him
about a matter which was causing me some anxiety, and
did not receive an answer for several weeks. At last
the reply came, with the strange excuse that as he knew
I had guests in my house he had delayed writing from
a belief that I should not be able to attend to anything
until after their departure. If such were always the
effect of entertaining friends, what incalculable pertur-
bation would be caused by hospitality in all private and
public affairs !

The reader may, perhaps, have met with a collection
of letters called the " Plumpton Correspondence," which
was published by the Camden Society in 1839. I have
always been interested in this for family reasons, and
also because the manuscript volume was found in the
neighborhood where I lived in 3'outh;^ but it does
not require anj' blood connection with the now extinct
house of Plumpton of Plumpton to take an interest in
a collection of letters which gives so clear an insight
into tliG epistolary customs of England in the fifteenth
and sixteenth centuries. The first peculiarity^ that
strikes the modern reader is the extreme care of almost
all the writers, even when near relations, to avoid a
curt and dry style, destitute of the ambages which were
ill those daj's esteemed an essential part of politeness.
The only exception is a plain, straightforward gentleman,
Willian) Gascoyne, who heads his letters, "To my
Uncle Plumpton be these delivered," or " To my Uncle
Plumpton this letter be delivered in hast." He begins,
1 In the library at Towneley Hall in Lancashire.

EPISTOLARY COMMUNICATION. 319

" Uncle Plumpton, I lecommend me uoto you," and
finishes, "Your nephew," simply, or still more laconi-
cally, " Your." Such plainness is strikingly rare. The
rule was, to be deliberately perfect in all epistolary
observances, however near the relationship. Not that
the forms used were hard forms, entirely fixed by usage
and devoid of personal feeling and individuality. They
appear to have been more flexible and living than our
own, as they were more frequently varied according to
the taste and sentiment of the writers. Sometimes, of
course, they were perfunctory, but often they have an
original and very graceful turn. One letter, whicli I
will quote at length, contains curious evidence of the
courtesy and discourtesy of those daj's. The forms
used in the letter itself are perfect, but the writer com-
plains that other letters have not been answered.

In the reign of Henry VII. Sir Robert Plumpton had
a daughter, Dorothy, who was in the household of Lady
Darcy (probably as a sort of maid of honor to her lady-
ship) , but was not quite pleased with her position, and
wanted to go home to Plumpton. She had written to
her father several times, but had received no answer,
so she now writes again to him in these terms. The
date of the letter is not fully given, as the year is want-
ing ; but her parents were married in 1477, and her father
died in 1523, at the age of seventy, after a life of strange
vicissitudes. The reader will observe two leading char-
acteristics in this letter, — that it is as courteous as if
the writer were not related to the receiver, and as
affectionate as if no forms had been observed. As
was the custom in those days, the young lad}'^ gives her

320 EPISTOLARY COMMUNICATION.

parents their titles of worldly honor, but she always
adds to them the most affectionate filial expressions :

To the right worshipfull and my most entyerly beloved^ goody
kind father y Sir Bobart Plompion, knyghtj lying at Plompton in
Yorkshire, be thes delivered in hast,

Ryght worshipfull father, in the most humble manner
that I can I recommend me to you, and to my lady my mother,
and to all my brethren and sistren, whom I besech almyghtie
God to mayntayne and preserve in prosperus health and
encrese of worship, entyerly requiering you of your daly
blessing; letting you wyt that I send to you mesuage, be
Wryghame of Knarsbrugh, of my mynd, and how that he
should desire you in my name to send for me to come home
to you, and as yet T had no answere agane, the which desire
my lady hath gotten knowledg. Wherefore, she is to me
more better lady than ever she was before, insomuch that
she hath promysed me hir good ladyship as long as ever she
shall lyve ; and if she or ye can fynd athing meyter for me
in this parties or any other, she will helpe to promoote me to
the uttermost of her puyssaunce. Wherefore, I humbly
besech you to be so good and kind father unto me as to let
me know your pleasure, how that ye will have me ordred, as
shortly as it shall like you. And wryt to my lady, thanking
hir good ladyship of hir so loving and tender kyndnesse
shewed unto me, beseching hir ladyship of good oontynewance
thereof. And therefore I besech you to send a servant of yours
to my lady and to me, and show now by your fatherly kynd-
nesse that I am your child; for I have sent you dyverse
messuages and wryttings, and I had never answere againe.
Wherefore yt is thought in this parties, by those persones
that list better to say ill than good, that ye have litle favor
unto me ; the which error ye may now quench yf yt will like
you to be so good and kynd father unto me. Also I besech
you to send me a fine hatt and some good cloth to make me
some kevercheffes. And thus I besech Jesu to have you in

EPISTOLARY COMMUNICATION. 321

his blessed keeping to his pleasure, and your harts desire and
comforth. Wryten at the Ilirste, the xviii day of Maye.
By your loving daughter,

DORYTHE PlOMPTON.

It may be worth while, for the sake of contrast, and
that we may the better perceive the lost fragrance of the
antique courtesy, to put the substance of this letter into
the style of the present da3\ A modern 3'oung lady
would probabl}^ write as follows : —

HiKST, May 18.
Dear Papa, — Lady Darcy has found out that I want to
leave her, but she has kindly promised to do what she can to
find something else for me. I wish yoXi would say what you
think, and it would be as well, perhaps, if you would be so
good as to drop a line to her ladyship to thank her. I have
written to you several times, *but got no answer, so people
here say that you don't care very much for me. "Would you
please send me a handsome bonnet and some handkerchiefs?
Best love to mamma and all at home.

Your affectionate daughter,

Dorothy Plumpton.

This, I think, is not an unfair specimen of a modern
letter.^ The expressions of worship, of humble respect,
have disappeared, and so far it may be thought that
there is improvement, yet that respect was not incom-
patible with tender feeling; on the contrary, it was
closely associated with it, and expressions of sentiment

1 In Prosper M^rimee's " Correspondence " he gives the following
as the authentic text of the letter in which Lady Florence Paget
announced her elopement with the last Marquis of Hastings to her
father : —

"Dear Pa, as I knew you would never consent to my marriage with
Lord Hastings, I was wedded to him to-day. I remain j'oursj etc."
21

322 EPISTOLARY COMMUNICATION.

have lost strength and vitality along with expressions
of respect. Tenderness may be sometimes shown in
modern letters, but it is rare ; and when it occurs it is
generally accompanied by a degree of familiarity which
our ancestors would have considered in bad taste. Dor-
oth}^ Plumpton's own letter is far richer in the expres-
sion of tender feeling than any modern letter of the
courteous and ceremonious kind, or than any of those
pale and commonplace communications from which deep
respect and strong affection are almost equally excluded.
Please observe, moreover, that the 3'oung lady had rea-
son to be dissatisfiqd with her father for his neglect,
which does not in the least diminish the filial courtesy
of her stj^le, but she chides him in the sweetest fashion,
— " Show now hy your fatherly kindness thmt I am
your ohildJ' Could anything be prettier than that,
though the reproach contained in it is really one of
some severity?

Dorothy's father, Sir Robert, puts the following super-
scription on a letter to his wife, " To my ent^Tcly and
right hartily beloved wife. Dame Agnes Plumpton, be
this Letter delivered." He begins his letter thus, " My
deare hart, in my most hartily wyse, I recommend mee
unto you ; " and he ends tenderly, " By your owne lover,
Robert Plumpton, Kt." She, on the contrarj^, though
a faithful and brave wife, doing her best for her hus-
band in a time of great trial, and enjoying his full
confidence, begins her letters, "Right worshipful Sir,"
and ends simply, " By j'our wife. Dame Agnes Plump-
ton." She is so much absorbed hy business that her
expressions of feeling are rare and brief. '* Sir, I am in

EPISTOLARY COMMUNICATION. 323

good health, and all your children prays for your daly
blessing. And all your servants is in good health and
, prays diligently for your good speed in your matters."

The generally courteous tone of the letters of those
days may b^ judged of by the following example. The
reader will observe how small a space is occupied with
the substance of the letter in comparison with the ex-
pressions of pure courtesy, and how simply and hand-
somely regret for the trespass is expressed : —

To his toorshipful Cosin, Sir Rohart Phmpton, Kt,

Right reverend and worshipful Cosin, I commend me
unto you as hertyly as I can, evermore desiring to heare of
your welfare, the which I besech Jesu to continew to his
pleasure, and your herts desire. Cosin, please you witt that
I am enformed, that a poor man somtyme belonging to mee,
called Umfrey Bell, hath trespased to a servant of youres,
which I am sory for. Wherefore, Cosin, I desire and hartily
pray you to takeupp the matter into your own hands for my
sake, and rewle him as it please you; and therein youwil do,
as I may do that may be plesur to you, and my contiy, the
which I shalbe redy too, by the grace of Grod, who preserve

you.

By your own kynsman,

Rob ART Warcopp, of Warcoppe.

The reader has no doubt by this time enough of these
old letters, which are not likely to possess much charm
for him unless, like the present writer, he is rather of an
antiquarian turn.^

1 For those who take an interest in such matters I may say that
the last representative of the Plumptons died in France unmarried
in 1749, and Plutnpton Hall was barbarously pulled down by its
purchaser, an ancestor of the present Earls of Harewood. The

324 EPISTOLARY COMMUNICATION.

The quotations are enough to show some of the forms
used m correspondence by our forefathers, forms that
were right in their own daj^ when the state of society
was more ceremonious and deferential, but no one would
propose to revive them. We ma}', however, still value
and cultivate the beautifully courteous spirit that our
ancestors possessed and express it in our own modern
ways.

I have already observed that the essentially modern
form of courtesy is the rapiditj' of our replies. This,
at least, is a virtue that we can resolutely cultivate and
maintain* In some countries it is pushed so far that
telcgiams are very frequently sent when there is no need
to emplo}' the telegraph. The Arabs of Algeria are ex-
tremel}^ fond of telegraphing for its own sake : the notion
of its rapidity pleases and amuses them ; tliey like to
wield a power so wonderful. It is said that the Ameri-
cans constantly employ the telegraph on very trivial
occasions, and the habit is increasing in England and
France. The secret desire of the present age is to find
a plausible excuse for excessive brevity in correspond-
ence, aud this is supplied by the comparative costliness
of telegi-aphing. It is a comfort that it allows you to
send a single word. I have heard of a letter from a
aon to a father consisting of the Latin word Ibo^ and
of a still briefer one from the father to the son con-
fined entirely to the imperative I, These miracles of
brevity are only possible in letters between the most

blBtary of the family is very interesting, and the more so to me
that it iwiue intermarried with my own. Dorothy Plumpton was
a niece of the first Sir Stephen Hamerton.

EPISTOLARY COMMUNICATION, 325

intimate friends or relations, but in telegraphy they are
common.

It is verj' difficult for courtesy to survive this modern
passion for brevity, and we see it more and more
openl}' cast aside. All the long phrases of politeness
have been abandoned in English corre«pondence for a
generation, except in formal letters to official or verj*
dignified personages ; and the little that remains is re-
duced to a mere shred of courteous or affectionate ex-
pression. We have not, it is true, the detestable habit
of abridging words, as our ancestors often did, but we
cut our phrases short, and sometimes even words of
courtesy are abridged in an unbecoming manner. Men
will write D'- Sir for Dear Sir. If I am dear enough to
these correspondents for their sentiments of affection to
be worth uttering at all, why should they be so chary
of expressing them that they omit two letters from the
very word which is intended to affect my feelings ?

" If I be dear, if I be dear,"

as the poet says, why should my correspondent be-
grudge me the four letters of so brief an adjective ?

The long French and Italian forms of ceremony at
the close of letters are felt to be burdensome in the
present day, and are gradually giving place to briefer
ones ; but it is the very length of them, and the time
and trouble they cost to write, that make them so cour-
teous, and no brief form can ever be an effective sub-
stitute in that respect.

I was once placed in the rather embarrassing posi-
tion of having suddenly to send telegrams in my own

326 EPISTOLARY COMMUNICA TION^

name, containing a request, to two high foreign author-
ities in a corps where punctilious ceremony is very
strictly observed. My solution of the difficulty was
to write two full ceremonious letters, with all the formal
expressions unabridged, and then have these letters
tele'^raphed in extenso. This was the onl^' possible
solution, as an ordinar}^ telegram would have been en-
tirely out of the question. It being rather expensive
to ti^'lcgraph a very formal letter, the cost added to the
apt><^nrance of deference^ so I had the curious but very
real advantage on m}' side that I made a telegram seem
even more deferential than a letter.

Tbe convenience of the letter-writer is consulted in
inverse ratio to the appearances of courtesy. In the
matter of sealing, for example, that seems so slight
and indifferent a concern, a question of ceremony and
courtes}' is involved. The old-fashioned custom of a
large seal with the sender's arms or cipher added to
the importance of the contents both by strictly guard-
ing the privacy of the communication and by the digni-
fied assertion of the writei^s rank. Besides this, the
time that it costs to take a proper impression of a seal
shows the absence of hurry and the disposition to sacri-
fice which are a part of all noble courtesy; whilst
the not of rapidly licking the gum on the inside of an
envelope and then giving it a thump with your fist to
make it stick is neither dignified nor elegant. There
were certain beautiful associations with the act of seal-
ing. There was the taper that had to be lighted, and
that had its own little candlestick of chased or gilded
silver, or delicately painted porcelain; there was the

EPISTOLARY COMAfUNJ CATION. 327

polished and graven stone of the seal, itself more or
less precious, and enhanced in value by an art of high
antiquity and noble associations, and this graven sig-
net-stone was set in massive gold. The act of sealing
was deliberate, to secure a fair impression, and as the
wax caught flame and melted it disengaged a delicate
perfume. These little things may be laughed at by a
generation of practical men of business who know the
value of every second, but they had their importance,
and have it still, amongst those who possess an}^ deli*
cacy of perception.^ The reader will remember the
sealing of Nelson's letter to the Crown Prince of Den-
mark during the battle of Copenhagen. "A wafer
was given him," says Southey, '' but he ordered a can-
dle to be brought from the cockpit, and sealed the let-
ter with wax, affixing a larger seal than he ordinarily
used. ' This,' said he, * is no time to appear hurried
and informal.* " The story is usually told as a strik-
ing example of Nelson's coolness in a time of intense

1 Sir Walter Scott had sympatliy enough with the courtesy of
old time to note its minutiae very closely : —

" After inspecting' the cavalry, Sir Everard again conducted his
nephew to the library, where he produced a letter, carefully folded^
surrounded by a little stripe of Jlox-silk, according to ancient form,
and sealed with an accurate impression' of the Waverley coat-of-anns.
It was addressed, with great formalify, * To Cosmo Comj'ne Bradwar.
dine, Esq., of Bradwardine, at his principal mansion of Tully-Veolan,
in Perthshire, Nortli Britain. These — by the hands of Captain Edward
Waverley, nephew of Sir Everard Waverley, of Waverley-Honour,
Bart." — Waverley, chap. vi.

I had not this passage in mind when writing the text of this
Essay, but the reader will notice how closely it confirms what I
hav6 said about deliberation and care to secure a fair impression
of the seaL

328 EPISTOLARY COMMUNICATION,

excitement, but it might be told with equal effect as a
proof of his knowledge of mankind and of the trifles
T^Lich have a powerful effect on human intercourse.
The preference of wax to a wafer, and especially the
deliberate choice of a larger seal as more cei-emonious
and important, are clear evidence of diplomatic skill.
Kg doubt, too, the impression of Nelson's arms was
very careful and clear.

Id writing to French Ministers of State it is a tradi-
tional custom to employ a certain paper called "papier
ministro," which is very much larger than that sent
to onliuary mortals. Paper is by no means a matter
of indifierence. It is the material costume under
whieh wc present ourselves to persons removed from
lis by distance ; and as a man pa3's a call in handsome
clot lies as a sign of respect to others, and also of self-
respect, so he sends a piece of handsome paper to be
the bearer of his salutation. Besides, a letter is in
itself a gift, though a small one, and however trifling
a gift may be it must never be shabb}'. The English
iindersttuid this art of choosing good-looking letter-
paper, and are remarkable for using it of a thickness
rare in other nations. French love of elegance has led
to charming inventions of tint and texture, particularly
in delicate gray tints, and these papers are now often
decorated with embossed initials of heraldic devices on
a large scale, but that is carr3'ing prettiness too far.
The oommon American habit of writing letters on ruled
paper is not to be recommended, as the ruling reminds
us of copy-books and account-books, and has a me-
chanieal appearance that greatlj' detracts from what
ought to be the purely personal air of an autograph.

EPISTOLARY COMMUNICATION. 829

Modern love of despatch has led to the invention of
the post-card, which, from our present point of view,
that of courtesy, deserves unhesitating condemnation.
To use a post-card is as much as to say to your corre-
spondent, "In order to save for myself a verj- little
money and a very little time, I will expose the subject
of our correspondence to the ejes of an}' clerk, post-
man, or servant, who feels the slightest curiosity about
it ; and I take this small piece of card, of which I am
allowed to use one side onl}-, in order to relieve myself
from the obligation, and spare myself the trouble, of
writing a letter/' To make the convenience absolutely
perfect, it is customary- in England to omit the opening
and concluding salutations on post-cards, so that the}'
are the ne plus ultra, I will not saj- of positive rudeness,
but of that negative rudeness which is not exactly the
opposite of courtesy, but its absence. Here again, how-
ever, comes the modem j)rinciple ; and promptitude and
frequencj' of communication ma}' be accepted as a com-
pensation for the sacrifice of formalit}'. It may be
argued, and with reason, that when a man of our own
day sends a post-card his ancestors would have been
still more laconic, for they would have sent nothing at
all, and that there are a thousand circumstances in
which a post-card ma}' be written when it is not possible
to write a letter. A husband on his travels has a supply
of such cards in a pocket-book. With these, and his
pencil, he writes a line once or twice a day in train
or steamboat, or at table between two dishes, or on
the windy platform of a railway station, or In the
street when he sees a letter-box. He spnds fifty such

330 EPISTOLARY COMMUNICATION.

communications where his father would have written
three letters, and his grandfather one slowly composed
and slowly travelling epistle.

Many modern correspondents appreciate the con-
venience of the post-card, but their conscience, as that
of well-bred people, cannot get over the fault of its pub-
licity. For these the stationers have devised several
diiaerent substitutes. There is the French plan of what
is called '' Un Mot a la Poste," a piece of paper with a
single fold, gummed round the other three edges, and
perforated like postage-stamps for the facility of the
opener.^ There is the miniature sheet of paper that
you have not to fold, and there is the card that you
enclose in an envelope, and that prepares the reader for
a very brief communication. Here, again, is a very
curious illustration of the sacrificial nature of courtesy.
A card is sent ; why a card ? Why not a piece of paper
of the same size which would hold as many words ?
The answer is that a card is handsomer and more costly,
and from its stiffness a little easier to take out of the
envelope, and pleasanter to hold whilst reading, so that
a small sacrifice is made to the pleasure and convenience
of the receiver, which is the essence of courtesy in letter-
writing. All this brief correspondence is the offspring

1 A very odd but very real objection to the employment of
these missives is that the receiver does not always know how to
open them, and may burn them unread. I remember sending a
ahort letter in this shape from France to an English lady. She
destroyed my letter without opening it; and I got for answer that
" if it was a French custom to send blank post-cards she did not
kno^v what could be the signification of it." Such was the result
of a well-meant attempt to avoid the non-courteous piostcard !

EPISTOLARY COMMUNICATION. 331

of the electric telegraph. Our forefathers were not used
to it, and would have regarded it as an offence. Even
at the present date (1884) it is not quite safe to write in
our biief modern way to persons who came to maturity
before the electric telegraph was in use.

There is a wide distinction between brevity and hurrj^ ;
in fact, brevity, if of the intelligent kind, is the best pre-
servative against hurr}'. Some men write short lettera,
but are verj^ careful to observe all the forms ; and they
have the great advantage that the apparent importance
of the formal expressions is enhanced by the shortness
of the letter itself. This is the case in Robert Warcopp's
letter to Sir Robert Plumpton.

When hurry really exists, and it is impossible to avoid
the appearance of it, as when a letter cannot be brief,
yet must be written at utmost speed, the proper course
is to apologize for hurry at the beginning and not at the
end of the letter. The reader is then propitiated at
once, and excuses the slovenly penmanship and stj^le.

It is remarkable that legibility of handwriting should
never have been considered as; among the essentials of
courtesy in correspondence. It is obviously for the
convenience of the reader that a letter should be easily
read ; but here another consideration intervenes. To
write very legibly is the accomplishment of clerks and
writing-masters, who are usually poor men, and, as such,
do not hold a high social position. Aristocratic pride
has alwaj's had it for a principle to disdain, for itself,
the accomplishments of professional men ; and therefore
a careless scrawl is more aristocratic than a clean hand-
writing, if the scrawl is of a fashionable kind. Perhaps

332 EPISTOLARY COMMUNICATION.

the historic origin of this feeling may be the scorn of
the ignorant mediaeval baron for writing of all kinds as
beneath the attention of a warrior. In a cultured age
there may be a reason of a higher order. It may be
supposed that attention to mechanical excellence is in-
compatible with the action of the intellect ; and people
are curiously ready to imagine incompatibilities where
they do not reall^^ exist. As a matter of fact, some men
of eminent intellectual gifts write with as exquisite a
clearness in the formation of their letters as in the eluci-
dation of their ideas. It is easily forgotten, too, that
the same person may use different kinds of handwriting,
according to circumstances, like the gentleman whose
best hand some people could read, whose middling hand
the writer himself could read, and whose worst neither
he nor any other human being could decipher. Le-
gouv6, in his exquisite way, tells a charming story of
how he astonished a little girl by excelling her in callig-
raphy. His scribble is all but illegible, and she was
laughing at it one day, when he boldly challenged her to
a trial. Both sat down and formed their letters with
great patience, as in a writing class, and it turned out,
to the girl's amazement, that the scribbling Academician
had by far the more copperplate-like hand of the two.
He then explained that his bad writing was simply the
result of speed. Frenchmen provokingly reserve their
w^Ty worst and most illegible writing for the signature.
You are able to read the letter but not the signature,
and if there is not some other means of ascertaining
the writer's name you are utterly at fault.
The old habit of crossing letters, now happily aban-

EPISTOLARY COMMUNICATION. 333

doned, was a direct breach of real, though not of what
in former da3-i3 were conventional, good manners. To
cross a letter is as much as to say, " In order to spare
myself the cost of another sheet of paper or an extra
stamp, I am quite willing to inflict upon 3*ou, my reader,
the trouble of disengaging one set of lines from an-
other." Ver}" economical people in the past generation
saved an occasional penny in another way at the cost of
the reader's eyes. Thc}^ diluted their ink with water,
till the recipient of the letter cried, "Prithee, why so
pale?" .

The modern tj^pe- writing machine has the advantage
of making all words equgUy legible ; but the receiver of
the printed letter is likely to feel on opening it a slight
yet perceptible shock of the kind alwaj^s caused by a
want of consideration. The letter so printed is un-
doubtedly easier to read than all but the ver^'' clearest
manuscript, and so far it may be considered a politeness
to use the instrument; but unluckil^^ it is impersonal,
so that the performer on the instrument seems far re-
moved from the receiver of the letter and not in that
direct communication with him wliich woald be appar-
ent in an autograph. The effect on the mind is almost
like that of a printed circular, or at least of a letter
which has been dictated to a short-hand writer.

The dictation of letters is allowable in business,
because men of business have to use the utmost attain-
able despatch, and (like the use of the lead pencil) it is
permitted to invalids, but with these exceptions it is
sure to produce a feeling of distance almost resembling
discourtesy. In the first place, a dictated letter is not

334 EPISTOLARY COMMUNICATION.

strictly private, its contents being already known to
the amanuensis ; and besides this it is felt that the rear
son for dictating letters is the composer's convenience,
which he ought not to consult so obviously. If he
dictates to a short-hand writer he is evidently chary of
his valuable time, whereas courtesy always at least
seern^. willing to sacrifice time to others. These re-
marks, L repeat, have no reference to business corre-
spondence, which has its own code of good manners.

The most irritating letters to receive are those which,
under a great show of courtesy, with many phrases and
many kind inquiries about j^our health and that of your
household, and even with some news adapted to your
taste, contain some short sentence which betrays the
fact that the whole letter was written with a manifestly
selfish purpo'se. The proper answer to such letters is a
brief business answer to the one essential sentence that
revealed the writer's object, not taking any notice what-
ever of tiie froth of courteous verbiage.

Is it a part of riecessarj' good breeding to answer
letters at all? Are we really, in the nature of things j
under the obligation to take a piece of paper and write
phrases and sentences thereupon because it has pleased
somebody at a distance to spend his time in that
manner?

This requires consideration ; there can be no general
rule. It seems to me that people commit the error of
transferring the subject from the region of oral conver-
sation to the region of written intercourse. If a man
asked me the way in the street it would be rudeness on
my part not to answer him, because the answer is easily

EPISTOLARY COMMUNICATION. 385

given and costs no appreciable time, but in written
correspondence the case is essentially different. I am
burdened with work ; every hour, every minute of my
day is apportioned to some definite duty or necessary
rest, and three strangers make use of the post to ask me
questions. To answer them I must make references ;
however brief the letters may be they will take time, —
altogether the three will consume an hour. Have these
correspondents any right to expect me to work an hour
for them? Would a cabman drive them about the
streets of London during an hour for nothing? Would
a waterman pull them an thour on the Thames fov
nothing? Would a shoe-black brush their boots and
trousers an hour for nothing? And why am I to serve
tiiese men gratuitously and be called an ill-bred, dis-
courteous person if I tacitly decline to be their servant ?
We owe sacrifices ^— occasional sacrifices — of this kind
to friends and relations, and we can afford them to a
few, but we are under no obligation to answer every-
body. Those whom we do answer may be thankful for
a word on a post-card in Gladstone's brief but sufficient
fashion. I am very much of the opinion of Rudolphe
in Ponsard's " UHonneur et TArgent" A friend asks
him what he does about letters : —

Rudolphe, Je les mets

Soigncusement en poche et ne r^ponds jamais.

Premier Ami, Oh ! vous rallies.

Rudolphe. Non pas. Je ne puis pas admettre
Qu'un importun m'ohlige k rdpondre a sa lettre,
Et, parcequ'il lui plait de noircir du' papier
Me coudamne moi-m^me k ce facheux mdtier.

336 LETTERS OF FRIENDSHIP.

ESSAY XXIII.

LETTERS OF FRIENDSHIP.

IF the art of writing had been unknown till now,, ana
if the invention of it were suddenly to burst upon
the world as did that of the telephone, one of the things
TBOfit generally said in praise of it would be this. It
would be said, ** What a gain to friendship, now that
friends can communicate in spite of separation by the
very widest distances ! "

Yet we have possessed this means of communication,
the fLillcst and best of all, from remote antiquity, and we
scarce iy make anj' use of it — certainly not any use at
all j'es[>onding to its 'Capabilities, and as time goes on,
instead of developing those capabilities by practice in
the art of friendl}' coiTespondencc, we allow them to
diminish b}' disuse.

The lowering of cost for the transport of letters, in-
stead of making friendly correspondents numerous, has
Hinde them few. The cheap postage-stamp has in-
ei'cascd business correspondence prodigiouslj'^, but it
has had a very different effect on that of friendship.
Great numbers of men whose business correspondence
is heavy scarcely write letters of friendship at all.
Their minds produce the business letter as by a second
natnre, and are otherwise sterile.

As for the facilities afforded by steam communication

LETTERS OF FRIENDSHIP. 337

with distant countries, they seem to be of little use
to friendship, since a moderate distance soon puts a
stop to friendly communication. Except in cases of
strong affection the Straits of Dover are an effectual
though imaginary bar to intercourse of this kind, not to
speak of the great oceans.

The impediment created by a narrow sea is, as I
have said, imaginary, but we may speculate on the
reasons for it ; and my own reflections have ended in
the somewhat strange conclusion that it must have
something to do with sea-sickness. It must be that
people dislike the idea of writing a letter that will have
to cross a narrow channel of salt-water, because they
vaguely and dimly dread the motioii of the vessel.
Nobody would consciously avow to himself such a
sympathy with a missive exempt from all human ills,
but the feeling may be unconsciously- present. How
else are we to account for the remarkable fact that salt-
water breaks fiiendlj^ communication by letter ? If you
go to live anywhere out of your native island your most
intimate friends cease to give any news of themselves.
They do not even send printed announcements of the
marriages and deaths in their families. This does not
imply any cessation of friendly feeling on their part.
If you appeared in England again they would welcome
you with the utmost kindness and hospitality, but they
do not like to post anything that will have to cross the
sea. The news-vendors have not the same delicate
imaginative sympathy with the possible suflferings of
rag-pulp, so 3'ou get your Enghsh journals and find
therein, by pure accident, the marriage of one intimate

22

838 LETTERS OF FRIENDSHIP,

old friend and the death of another. You excase the
married man, because he is too much intoxicated with
happiness to be responsible for any omission ; and j-ou
excuse the dead man, because he cannot send letters
from another world. Still 3'ou think that somebody
not preoccupied by bridal joys or impeded by the last
paralysis might have sent you a line directly, were it
only a printed card.

Not only do the writers of letters feel a difficulty in
sending their manuscript across the sea, but people
appear to have a sense of difficulty in correspondence
proportionate to the distance the letter will have to
traverse. One would infer that they really experience,
by the power- of imagination, a feeling of fatigue in
sending a letter on a long journey. If this is not so,
how are we to account for the fact that the rarity of
letters from fi-iends increases in exact proportion to
our remoteness from them ? A simple person without
correspondence would naturally imagine that it would
be resorted to as a solace for separation, and that the
greater the distance the more the separated friends
would desire to be drawn together occasionally by its
means, but in practice this rarely hapi)ens. People
will communicate b}' letter across a space of a hundred
miles when they will not across a thousand.

The very smallest impediments are of importance
when the desire for intercourse is languid. The cost
of postage to colonies and to countries within the pos-
tal union is trifling, but still it is heavier than the cost
of internal postage, and it may be unconsciously felt
as an impediment. Another slight impediment is that

LETTERS OF FRIENDSHIP. 339

the answer to a letter sent to a great distance cannot
arrive next daj', so that he who writes in hope of an
answer is like a trader who cannot expect an immedi-
ate return for an investment.

To prevent friendships from d3ing oat entirely
through distance, the French have a custom which
seems, but is not, an empty form. On or ^bout New
Year's Day they send cards to all friends and many
acquaintances, however far away. The useful effects
of this custom are the following : —

1. It acquaints you with the fact that yoxxv friend is
still aliviB, — pleasing information if jou care to see
him again.

2. It shows you that he has not forgotten you,

3. It gives you his present address.

4. In case of marriage, yon receive his wife's card
along with his own ; and if he is dead you receive no
card at all, which is at least a negative intimation.^

This custom has also an effect upon written corre-
spondence, as the printed card affords the opportunity
of writing a letter, when, without the address, the let-
ter might not be written. When the address is well
known the card often suggests the idea of writing.

When warm -friends send visiting-cards they often
add a few words of manuscript on the card itself, ex-
pressing friendlj' sentiments and giving a scrap of brief
but welcome news.

Here is a suggestion to a generation that thinks
friendly letter-writing irksome. With a view to the

1 Besides which, in the case of a French friend, you are sure to
have notice of such events by printed leltres defaire part.

340 LETTERS OF FRIENDSHIP.

Bparing of time and trouble, which is the great object
of inodem life (sparing, that is, in order to waste in
other wajs) , cards might be printed as forms of invita-
tion are, leaving only a few blanks to be filled up ; or
there might be a public signal-book in which the phrases
most likely to be usefiil might be represented by lum-

The abandonment of letteriwriting between friends
is the more to be regretted that, unless our friends are
public persons, we receive no news of them indirectly ;
therefore, when we leave their neighborhood, the sepa-
ratioa is of that complete kind which resembles tempo-
rary death. ''No word comes from the dead," and no
word comes from those silent friends, ^t is a melan-
choly thought in leaving a friend of this kind, when you
shake hands at the station and still hear the sound of
his voice, that in a. few minutes he will be dead to you
for months or years. The separation from a corre-
sponding friend is shorn of half its sorrows. You
know tliat he will write, and when he writes it requires
Uttlc imagination to hear his voice again.

To write, however, is not all. For correspondence
to reach its highest value, both friends must have the
natural gift of friendly letter-writing, which may be
defined as the power of talking on paper in such a
manner as to represent their own minds with perfect
fidelity in their friendly aspect.

This power is not common. A man may be a charm-
ing companion, full of humor and' gayety, a well of
knowledge, an excellent talker, yet his correspondence
may not reveal the possession of these g^s. Some

LETTERS OF FRIENDSHIP. S41

men are so constituted that as soon tiS they take a pen
their faculties freeze. I remember a case of the same
congelation in another art. A certain painter had
exuberant humor and mimicr}'', with a marked talent
for strong effects in talk ; in short, he had the gifts of
an actor, and, as Pius VII. called Napoleon I. , he was
both eommediante and tragediante. Any . one who
knew him, and did not kndw his paintings, would
have supposed at onee that a man so gifted must have
painted the most animated works ; but it so happened
(from some cause/ in the deepest mysteries of his na-
ture) that whenever he took up a brush' or a pencil his
humor, his tragic power, and his love of telling effects
all suddenly left him, and he was as timid, slow, sober,
and generally ineffectual in his painting as he was full of
fire and enei^y in talk. So it is in writing. That
tvhich ought to be the pouring forth of a man's nature
often liberates only a part of his nature, and perhaps
that part which has least to do with friendship. Your
friend delights you by hi^ ease and affectionate charm
of manner, by the hapginess of his expressions, by his
wit, by the extent of his information, all these being
qualities that social intercoui'se brings out in him as
colors are revealed by light. The same man, in dull
solitude at his desk, may write a letter from which
every one of these qualities may be totally absent, and
instead of them he may offer you a piece of perfunctory
duty-writing which, as you see quite plainly, he only ,
wanted to get done with, and in which you do not find
a trace of your friend's real character. Such corre-
spondence as that is wortb having only so far as

842 LETTERS OF FRIENDSHIP.

it informs you of your friend's existence and of his
health.

Another and a very different way in which a man
may represent himself unfairly in correspondence, so
that his letters are not his real self, is when he finds
that he has some particular talent as a writer, and un-
consciously cultivates that talent when he holds a pen,
whereas his real self has many other qualities that re-
main unrepresented. In this way humor may become
the dominant quality in the letters of a correspondent
whose conversation is not dominantly humorous.

Habits of business sgmetimes produce the effect that
the confirmed business correspondent will write to his
friend willingly and promptly on an}' matter of busi-
ness, and will give him excellent advice, and be glad
of the opportunity of rendering him a service, but he
will shrink from the unaccustomed effort of writing any
other kind of letter.

There is a strong temptation to blame silent friends
and praise good correspondents ; but we do not reflect
that letter-writing is a task to some and a pleasure to
others, and that if people may sometimes be justly
blamed for shirking a corvee they can never deserve
praise for indulging in an amusement There is a par-
ticular reason why, when friendly letter-writing is a
task, it is more willingly put off than many other tasks
that appear far heavier and harder. It is either a real
pleasure or a feigned pleasure, and feigned pleasures
are the most wearisome things in life, far more weari-
some than acknowledged work. For in work you have
a plain thing to do and you see the end of it, and there

LETTERS OF FRIENDSHIP. 343

IS no need for ambages at the beginning or for a graceful
retiring at the close; but a feigned pleasure has its
own observances that must be gone through whether one
has Viny heart for them or not. The groom who cleans
a rich man's stable, and whistles at his work, is happier
than the guest at a state dinner who is trj'ing to look
other than what he is, — a wearied victim of feigned and
formal pleasure with a set false smile upon his face.
In writing a business letter you have nothing to affect ;
but a letter of friendship, unless you have the real in-
spiration for it, is a narrative of things you have no
true impulse to narrate, and the expression of feelings
which (even if they be in some degree existent) yo\x
do not earnestly desire to utter.

The sentiment of friendshij) is in general rather a
quiet feeling of regard than any lively enthusiasm. It
may be counted upon for what it is, — a disposition to
receive the friend with a welcome or to render him an
occasional service, but there is not, commonly, enough
of it to be a perennial warm fountain of literar}^ inspira-
tion. Therefore the worst mistake in dealing with a
fiicnd is to reproach him for not having been cordial
and communicative enough. Sometimes this reproach
is made, especiall}'* by women, and the immediate effect
of it is to close whatever communicativeness there may
be. If the friend wrote little before being reproached
he will write less after.

The true inspiration of the friendly letter is the per-
fect faith that all the concerns of the writer will interest
his friend. If James, who is separated by distance from
John, thinks that John will not care about what James

844 LETTERS OF FRIENDSHIP.

has been doing, hoping, suffering, the. fount of friendly
correspondence is frozen at its source. James ought to
believe that John loves him enough to care about every
little thing that can affect his happiness, even to the
sickness of his old horse or the accident that happened
to his dog when the scullery-maid threw scalding water
out of the kitchen window ; then there will be no lack,
and James will babble on innocently through many a
page, and never have to think.

The believer in friendship, he who has the true un-
doubting faith, writes with perfect carelessness about
great things and small, avoiding neither serious interests,
as a wary man would, nor trivial ones that might be
passed over by a writer avaricious of his time^ William
of Orange, in his letters to Bentinck, appears to have
been the model of friendly correspondents ; and he wa^
so because his letters reflected not a part only of his
thinking and living, but the whole of it, as if nothing
that concerned him could possibly be without interest
for the man he loved. Familiar as it must be to many
readers, I cannot but quote a passage from Macaulay :

" The descendants of Bentinck still preserve many letters
written by William to their master, and it is not too much to
say that no person who has not studied those letters can form
a correct notion of the Prince's character. He whom even
his admirers generally accounted the most frigid and distant
of men here forgets all distinctions of rank, and pours out
all his thoughts with the ingenuousness of a schoolboy. He
imparts without reserve secrets of the highest moment. He
explains with perfect simplicity vast designs affecting all
the governments of Europe. Mingled with his communica-
tions on such subjects are other communications of a very

LETTERS OF FRIENDSHIP. 845

different bat perhaps not of a less iuteresUng kind. All his
adventures, all his personal feelings, his long runs after enor-
mous stags, his carousals on St. Hubert's Day, the growth of
his plantations, the failure of his melons, the state of his
stud, his wish to procure an easy pad-nag for his wife, hia
vexation at learning that one of his household, after ruining
a girl of good family, refused to marry her, his fits of sear
sickness, his coughs, his headaches, his devotional moods, his
gratitude for the Divine protection after a great escape, his
struggles to submit himself to the Divine will after a disaster,
are described with an amiable garrulity hardly to have been
expected from the most discreetly sedate statesman of his
age. Still more remarkable is the careless effusion of his
tenderness, and the brothexly interest which he takes in
his friend's domestic felicity,'*

Friendly letters easily run over from sheet to sheet
till they become ample and voluminous* I received a
welcome epistle of twent}^ pages recently, and have
seen another from a young man- to his comrade which
exceeded fifty ; but the grandest letter that I ever heard
of was from Gustave Dore to a very old lady whom he
liked. He was travelling in Switzerland, and sent her
a letter eighty pages long, full of lively pen-sketches
for her entertainments Artists often insert sketches in
their letters,^ — a gi'aeeful habit, as it adds to their inter-
est and value.

The talent for scribbling friendly letters implies some
rough literary power, but may coexist with other literary
powers of a totally different kind, and, as it seems, in
perfect independence of them. Th^re is no apparent
connection between the genius in *'Childe Harold,"
" Manfred,".*' Cain," and the talent of a lively letter-writer,
yet Byron was the besticareless letter- writer in English

346 LETTERS OF FRIENDSHIP.

whose correspondence has been published and pre-
served. He said "dreadful is the exertion of letter-
writing," but by this he must have meant the first
overcoming of indolence to begin the letter, for when
once in motion, his pen travelled with consummate
naturalness and ease, and the exertion is not to be
perceived. The length and subject of his communica-
tions were indeterminate. He scribbled on and on,
every passing mood being reflected and fixed forever
in bis letters, which complete our knowledge of him by
showtjig us the action of his mind in ordinary times as
vividlj' as the poems display its power in moments of
higliest exaltation. We follow his mental phases from
minutG to minute. He is not really in one state and
preteudiiig to be in another for form's sake, so 3-ou
have all his moods, and the letters are alive. The
transitions are quick as thought. He darts from one
topic to nnother with the freedom and agility of a bird,
dwelling on each just long enough to satisfy his present
Deed, but not an instant longer, and this without anj'
reference to the original subject or motive of the letter.
He is one of those perfect correspondents qiii causent
avec la plume. Men, women, and things, comic and
tragic adventures, magnificent scener}', historical cities,
all that his mind spontaneously notices in the world,
am touclied upon l^riefly, yet with consummate power.
Though the sentences were written in the most careless
haste and often in the strangest situations, many a
paragraph is so dense in its substance, so full of matter, .
that one could not abridge it without loss. But the
supreme merit of Byron's letters is that they record

LETTERS OF FRIENDSHIP. 847

his own sensations with such fidelity. What do I, the
receiver of a letter, care for second-hand opinions about
anything? I can hear the fashionable opinions from
echoes innumerable. What I do want is a bit of my
friend himself, of his own peculiar idiosyncrasy, and if
T get that it matters nothing that his feelings and opin-
ions should be different from mine ; nay, the more they
differ from mine the more freshness and amusement
they bring me. All BjTon's correspondents might be
sure of getting a bit of the real BjTon. He never
describes anything without conveying the exact effect
upon himself. Writing to his publisher from Rome in
1817, he gives in a single paragraph a powerful descrip-
tion of the execution of three robbers by the guillotine
(rather too terrible to quote) , and at the end of it comes
the personal efiect : —

** The pain seems little, and yet the effect fo the spectator
and the preparation to the criminal are very striking and
chilling. The first turned me quite hot and thirsty, and
made me shake so that I could hardly hold the opera-glass
(I was close, but was determined to see as one should see
everything once, with attention) ; the second and third (which
shows how dreadfully soon things grow indifferent), I am
ashamed to say, had no effect on me as a horror, though I
would have saved them if I could."

How accurately this experience is described with no
affectation of impassible courage (he trembles at first
like a woman) or of becoming emotion afterwards, the
instant that the real emotion ceased ! Onl}'^ some pity
remains, — "I would have saved them if I could."

The bits of frank criticism thrown into his letters,
often quite by chance, were not the least interesting

^8 LETTERS OF FRIENDSHIP.

dements in Byron's correspondence. Here is an ex-
ample, about a book that had been sent him : —

** Modem Greece — good for nothing; written by some one
^ho has never been there, and, not being able to manage the
Spenser stanza, has invented a thing of his own, consisting
of two elegiac stanzas, an heroic line and an Alexandrine,
twisted on a string. Besides, why modern t You may say
viodem Greeks ^ but smrely Greece itself is rather more ancient
tiian ever it was."

The carelessness of B^Ton in letter-writing, his total
indifference to proportion and form, his inattention to
the b^inning, middle, and end of a letter, considered
as a literary composition, are not to be counted for
faults, as they would be in writings of any pretension.
A friendly letter is^ by its nature, a thing without pre-
tension. The one merit of it which. comi>ensate3 for
cver}^ defect is to carry the living writer into the reader's
presence, such as he really is, not such as by studj'^ and
art he might make himself out to be. BjTon was
energetic, impetuous, impulsive, quickly observant, dis-
orderly, generous, open-hearted, vain. All these quali-
ties and defects are as conspicuous in his correspondence
as they were in his mode of life. There have b^en better
letter- writers as to literary art, — to which he gave no
thought, — and the literarj^ merits that his letters possess
(tlieir clearness, their force of narrative and description,
their Conciseness) are not the results of study, but the
characteristics of a vigorous mind.

The absolutely best friendly letter-writer known to
ine is Victor Jacquemont. He, too, wrote according to
the inspiration of the moment, but it was so abundant

LETTERS OF. FRIENDSHIP. 849

that it carried him on like a steadily flowing tide. His
letters are wonderfully sustained, yet they are not com-
posed; they are as artless as Byron's, but mucli more
full and regular. Many scribblers have facility, a flux
of words, but who has Jacquemont's weight of matter
along with it? The development of his extraordinary
epistolary talent was due to another talent deprived of
adequate exercise by circumstances. Jacquemont was
by nature a brilliant, charming, amiable talker, and the
circumstances were various situations in which this
talker was deprived of an audience, being often, in
iong wanderings, surrounded by dull <v* ignorant people.
Ideas accumulated in his mind till the accumulation be-
came difficult to bear, and he relieved himself hy talking
on paper to friends at a distance, but intentionally only
to one friend at a time. He tried to forget that his
letters were passed round a circle of readers, and the
idea that they would be printed never once occurred to
him: —

**En ^crirant aujourd^hui aux ims et aux autres, j'ai
cherch^ k oublier ce que tu me dis de Pechange que chacun
fait des lettres qu'il re9oit de moi. Cette pensce m'aurait
retenu la plume, ou du moins, ne VauraU j)as laissee couler
assez nonchalamment sur le papier pour en noircir^ en un jour^
cinquante-huit feuilles, comme je Tai fait. . . . Jie sais et
yaime heaxtcoup causer h deux; a trois, c^est autre chose; il en
est de meme pour ecrire. Pour parler comme je pense et sans
blague, il me foul la persuasion que je ne serai lu que de celui
h qui j^ecris."

To read these letters, in the four volumes of them
which have been happily preserved, is to live with the
oourageous observer from day to day, to ahare pleasures

350 LETTERS OF FRIENDSHIP.

enjo^'ed with the freshness of sensation that belongs to
youth and strength, and privations borne with the cheer-
fulness of a truly heroic spirit.

This Essay would run to an inordinate length if I even
mentioned the best of the many letter-writers who are
known to us ; and it is generally by some adventitious
circumstance that ihey have ever been known at all.
A man wins fame in something quite outside of letter-
writing, and then his letters are collected and given to
the world, but perfectly obscure people maj' have been
equal or superior to him as correspondents. Occasion-
ally the letters of isome obscure person are rescued from
oblivion. Madame de Remusat passed quietlj- through
life, and is now in a blaze of posthumous fame. Her
son decided upon the publication of her letters, and then
it became at once apparent that this lady had extraor-
dinary gifts of the observing and recording order, so
that her testimony, as an eye-witness of rare intelligence,
must affect all future estimates of the conqueror of
Austerlitz. There may be at this moment, there prob-
ably are, persons to whom the world attributes no liter-
ary talent, 3'et wlio are cleverl3' preserving the verj'' best
materials of history in careless letters to their friends.

It seems an indiscretion to read private letters, even
when they are in print, but it is an indiscretion we can-
not help committing. What can be more private than
a letter from a man to his wife on purely' family" matters ?
Surely it is wrong to read such letters ; but who could
repent having read that exquisite one from Tasso's
father, Bernardo Tasso, written to his wife about the
education of their children during an involuntary sepa-

LETTERS OF FRIENDSHIP. 351

ration? It shows to what a degree a sheet of paper
may be made the vehicle of a tender affection. In the
first page he tries, and, lover-like, tries again and again,
to find words that will draw them together in spite of
distance. " Not merel}' often," he says, " but con-
tinually our thoughts must meet upon the road.*' He
expresses the fullest confidence that her feelings for
him are as strong and true as his own for her, and that
the weariness of separation is painful alike for both,
only he fears that she will be less able to bear the pain,
not because she is wanting in prudence but by reason
of her abounding love. At length the tender kindness
of his expressions culminates in one passionate outburst,
"pot ch' io amo voi in quello esti'emo grado che si
possa amar cosa mortale."

It would be difficult to find a stronger contrast than
that between Bernardo Tasso's warmth and the tranquil
coolness of Montaigne, who just saj's enough to save
appearances in that one conjugal epistle of his which
has come down to us. He begins by quoting a scepti-
cal modern view of marriage, and then briefly disclaims
it for himself, but does not say exactly what his own
sentiments may be, not having much ardor of aflTec-
tion to express, and honestly avoiding any feigned
declarations : —

** Ma Femme vous entendez bien que ce n'est pas le tour
d'vn galand homme, aux reigles de ce temps icy, de vous
courtiser & caresser encore. Car ils disent qu'vri habil
homme pent bien prendre femme: mais que de Tespouser
c'est k faire k vn sot. Laissons les dire: ie me tiens de ma
part k la simple fa9on du vieil aage, aussi en porte-ie tan tost

852 LETTERS OF FRIENDSHIP.

le poil. Ft de yray la mouuelletc ceuste si cher iusqu'k ceste
heure k ce pauure estat (& si ie iie 89ay si nous en sommes &
la derniere enchere) qu'en tout & par tout i'en quitte le party,
Viuons ma femme, vous & moy, \k la vieiUe Fran^oise."

If friendship is maintained by correspondence, it is
also liable to be imperilled by it. Not unfrequently
have men parted on the most amiable terms, looking
forward to a happy meeting, and not foreseeing the evil
effects of letters. Something will be written by one of
them, not quite acceptable to the other, who will eithef
remonstrate and cause a rupture in that way, or take
his trouble silently and allow friendship to die miserably
of her wound. Much experience is needed before we
entirely realize the danger of friendly intercourse on
paper. It is ten times more difficult to maintain a
friendship by letter than by personal intercourse, not
for the obvious reason that letter- writing requires an
effort, but because as soon as there is the slightest
divergence of views or difference in conduct, the ex-
pression of it or the account of it in writing cannot be
modified by kindness in the eye or gentleness in the
tone of voice. My friend may say almost anything to
me in his private room, because whatever passes his
lips will come with tones that prove him to be still my
friend ; but if he wrote down exactly the same words,
and a postman handed me the written paper, they might
seem hard, unkind, and even hostile. It is strange
how slow we are to discover this in practice. We are
accustomed to speak with great freedom to intimate
fi'ieiids, and it is only after painful mishaps that we
completely realize the truth tbat it ia perilous to permit

LETTERS OF FRIENDSHIP. S58

ourselves the same liberty with the pen. As soon as
we do realize it we see the extreme folly of those who
timidly avoid the oral expression of friendly censure,
and afterwards write it all out in. black ink and send it
in a missive to the victim when he has gone away. He
receives the letter, feels it to be a cold cruelty, and
takes refuge from the vexations of friendship in the
toils of business, thanking Heaven that in the' region
of plain facts there la snmll place for sentiment.

23

864 LETTERS OF BUSINESS.

ESSAY XXIV.

LETTERS OF BUSINESS.

'T^HE possibilities of intercourse by correspondence
-*• are usually underestimated. .

That there are great natural differences of talent for
letter-writing is certainly' true; but it is equally true
that there are great natural differences of talent for
oral explanation, jet, although we constantly hear
people say that this or that matter of business cannot
be treated by correspondence, we never hear them say
that it cannot be treated by personal interviews. The
value of the personal interview is often as much over-
estimated as that of letters is depreciated ; for if some
men do best with the tongue, others are more effective
with the pen.

It is presumed that there is nothing in correspond-
ence to set against the advantages of pouring forth
many words without effort, and of carrying on an
argument rapidly; but the truth is, that correspond-
ence has peculiar advantages of its own. A hearer
seldom grasps another person's argument until it has
been repeated several times, and if the argument is of
a very complex nature the chances are that he will
not carry away all its points even then. A letter is
a document which a person of slow abilities can study
at his leisure, until he has mastered it; so that an

LETTERS OF BUSINESS, 355

elaborate piece of reasoning may be set forth in a
letter with a fair chance that such a person will ulti-
mately understand it. He will read the letter three
.or four times on the day of its arrival, then he will
still feel that something may have escaped him, and
he will read it again next day. He will keep it and
refer to it afterwards to refresh his memory. He can
do nothing of all this with what you say to him orally.
His only resource in that case is to write down a memo-
randum of the conversation on your departure, in which
he will probably make serious omissions or mistakes.
Your letter is a memorandum of a far more direct and
authentic kind.

Appointments are sometimes made in order to settl^
a matter of business by talking, and after the parties
have met and talked for a long time one says to the
other, '' I will write to you in a day or two ; " and the
other instantly agrees with the proposal, from a feeling
that the matter can be settled more cleai'ly by letter
than by oral communication.

In these cases it may happen that the talking has
cleared the way for the letter, — that it has removed
subjects of doubt, hesitation, or dispute, and lefb only
a few points on which the parties are very nearly
agreed.

There are, however, other cases, which have some-
times come under my own observation, in which men
meet by appointment to settle a matter, and then seem
afraid to cope with it, and talk about indifferent sub*
jects with a half-conscious intention of postponing the
difficult one till there is no longer time to deal with it

356 LETTERS OF BUSINESS.

on that day. They then say, when they separate,
"We will settle that matter by correspondence," as
if they could not have done so just as easily without
giving themselves the trouble of meeting. In such
cases as these the reason for avoiding the difficult sub-
ject is either timidity or indolence. Either the parties
do not like to face each other in an opposition that
may become a verbal combat, or else they have not
decision and industry enough to do a hard day's work
together ; so they procrastinate, that they may spread
the work over a larger space of time.

The tunidity that shrinks from a personal encounter
is sometimes the cause of hostile letter-writing about
matters of business even when personal interviews are
most easy. There are instances of disputes by letter
between people who live in the same town, in the same
street, and even in the same house, and who might
quarrel with their tongues if they were not afraid, but
fear drives them to fight from a certain distance, as it
requires less personal courage to fire a cannon at an
enemy a league away than to face his naked sword.

Timidit}^ leads people to write letters and to avoid
them. Some timorous people feel bolder with a pen ;
others, on the contrary, are extremely afraid of com-
mitting anything to paper, either because written words
remain and may be referred to afterwards, or because
they may be read by eyes they were never intended
for, or else because the letter-writer feels doubtful
about his own powers in composition, grammar, or
spelling.

Of these reasons against doing business by letter the

LETTERS OF BUSINESS. 357

second is really serious. You write about your most
strictly private affairs, and unless the receiver of the
letter is a rigidly careful and orderly person, it may
be read by his clerks or servants. You may afterwards
visit the recipient and find the letter lying about on a
disorderly desk, or stuck on a hook suspended from a
wall, or thrust into a lockless drawer ; and as the letter
is no longer your property, and you have not the re-?
source of destroying it, you will keenly appreciate the
wisdom of those who avoid letter-writing when they
can.

The other cause of timidity, the apprehension that
some fault may be committed, some sin against liter-
ary taste or grammatical rule, has a powerful effect as
a deterrent from even necessary business correspond-
ence. The fear which a half-educated person feels that
he will commit faults causes a degree of hesitation
which is enough of itself to produce them ; and besides
this cause of eiTor there is the want of practice, also
caused b}'' timidity, for persons who dread letter-writing
practise it as little as possible.

The awkwardness of uneducated letter-writers is a
most serious cause of anxiety to people who are com-
pelled to intrust the care of things to uneducated de-
pendants at a distance. Such care-takers, instead of
keeping you regularly informed of the state of affairs
as an intelligent correspondent would, write rarely,
and they have such difficulty in imagining the neces-
sary ignorance of one who is not on the spot, that the
information the}' give you is provokingly incomplete on
some most important points.

358 LETTERS OF BUSINESS,

An uneducated agent will write to you and tell you,
for example, that damage has occurred to something
of yours, say a house, a carriage, or a yacht, -but he
will not tell you its exact nature or extent, and he will
leave you in a state of anxious conjecture. If you
question him by letter, he will probably miss what is
most essential in your questions, so that you will have
great difficulty in getting at the exact truth. After
much trouble you will perhaps have to take the train
and go to see the extent of damage for yourself, though
it might have been described to you quite accurately
in a short letter by an intelligent man of business.

Nothing is more wonderful than the mistakes in fol-
lowing written directions that can be committed by
uneducated men. With clear directions in the most
legible characters before their eyes they will quietly go
and do something entirely different, and appear un-
feignedl}^ surprised when you show them the written
directions afterwards. In these cases it is probable
that they have unconsciously substituted a notion of
their own for your idea, which is the common process
of what the uneducated consider to be understanding
things.

The extreme facility with which this is done may be
illustrated by an example. The well-known French
savant and inventor, Ruolz, whose name is famous in
connection with electro-plating, turned his attention to
paper for roofing and, as he perceived the defects of
the common bituminous papers, invented another in
which no bitumen was employed. This he advertised
constantly and extensively as the " Carton non bitum^

LETTERS OF BUSINESS. 359

Ruolz," consequently every one calls it the "Carton
bitum^ Ruolz." The reason here is that the notion of
papers for roofs was already so associated in the French
mind with bitumen, that it was absolutely impossible
to effect the disjunction of the two ideas.

Instances have occurred to everybody in which the
consequence of warning a workman that he is not to
do some particular thing, is that he goes and does it,
when if nothing had been said on the subject he might,
perchance, have avoided it. Here are two good in-
stances of this, but I have met with many others. I
remember ordering a binder to bind some volumes with
red edges, specially stipulating that he was not to use
aniline red. He therefore carefully stained the edges
with aniline. I also remember writing to a painter that
he was to stain some new fittings of a boat with a ti-ans-
parent glaze of raw sienna, and afterwards varnish
them, and that he was to be careful not to use opaque
paint anywhere. I was at a great distance from the
boat and could not superintend the work. In due time
I visited the boat and discovered that a foul tint of
opaque paint had been employed everywhere on the
new fittings, without any glaze or varnish whatever,
in spite of the fact that old fittings, partially retained,
were still there, with mellow transparent stain and var-
nish, in the closest juxtaposition with the hideous thick
new daubing.

It is the evil of medio9rity in fortune to have fre-
quently to trust to uneducated agents. Rich men can
employ able representatives, and in this way they can
inform themselves accurately of what occurs to their

360 < LETTERS OF BUSINESS.

belongings at a distance. Without riches, however, we
may sometimes have a friend on the spot who will see
to things for us, which is one of the kindest offices of
friendship. The most efficient friend is one who will
not only look to matters of detail, but will take the
trouble to inform you accurately about them, and for
this he must be a man of leisure. Such a friend often
spares one a railway journey by a few clear lines of
report or explanation. Judging from personal experi-
ence, I should say that retired law^^ers and retired mili-
tary officers were admirably adapted to render this great
service efficientlj', and I should suppose that a man who
had retired from busj^ commercial life would be scarcely
less useful, but I should not hope for precision in one
who had always been unoccupied, nor should I expect
many details from one who was much occupied still.
The first would lack training and experience ; the sec-
ond would lac£ leisure.

The talent for accuracy in affairs may be distinct
from literary talent and education, and though we have
been considering the difficulty of corresponding on
matters of business with the uneducated, we must not
too hastily infer that because a man is inaccurate in
spelling, and inelegant in phraseology, he may not be
an agreeable and efficient business correspondent.
There was a time when all the greatest men of busi-
ness in England were uncertain spellers. Clear expres-
sion and completeness of statement are more valuable
than any other qualities in a business correspondent.
I sometimes have to correspond with a tradesman in
Paris who rose from an humble origin and scarcely

LETTERS OF BUSINESS. 361

produces what a schoolmaster would consider a pass-
able letter ; yet his letters are models in essential qual-
ities, as he always removes by plain statements or
questions every possibility of a mistake, and if there
is any want of absolute precision in my orders he is
sure to find out the deficiency, and to call my attention
to it sharpl3\

The habit of not acknowledging orders is one of the
worst negative vices in business correspondence. It is
most inconveniently common in France, but happily
much rarer in England. Where this vice prevails you
cannot tell whether the person you wish to employ has
read your order or not ; and if 3^ou suppose him to have
read it, you have no reason to feel sure that he has
understood it, or will execute it in time.

It is a great gain to the writer of letters to be able

to make them brief and clear at the same time, but as

there is obscurity in a labyrinth of many words so there

may be another kind of obscurity from their paucity, —

that kind which Horace alluded to with reference to

poetry, —

" Brevis esse laboro
Obscurus fio."

Sometimes one additional word would spare the
reader a doubt or a misunderstanding. This is likely
to become more and more the dominant fault of corre-
spondence as it imitates the brevity of the telegram.

Observe the interesting use of the word laboro by
Horace. You may, in fact, labor to be brief, although
the result is an appearance of less labor than if you had
written at ease. It may take more time to write a very

362 LETTERS OF BUSINESS.

short letter than one of twice the length, the only gain
in this ease being to the rebeiver.

Letters of business often appear to be written irj the
most rapid and careless haste ; the writing is almost
illegible from its speed, the composition slovenly, the
letter brief. And 3^et such a letter may have cost
hours of deliberate reflection before one word of it was
committed to paper. It is the rapid registering of a
slowl}^ matured decision.

It is a well-known principle of modem business cor-
respondence that if a letter refers only to one subject
it is more likely to receive attention than if it deals
with several; therefore if you have several diflerent
orders or directions to give it is bad policy to write
them all at once, unless you are absolutely compelled
to do so because they are all equally' pressing. Even
if there is the same degree of urgency for all, yet a
practical impossibility that all should be executed at
the same time, it is still the best policy to give your
orders successively and not more quickly than they can
be executed. The only danger of this is that the re-
ceiver of the orders may think at first that they are
small matters in which postponement signifies little, as
they can be executed at any time. To prevent this he
should be strongly warned at first that the order will
be rapidly followed by several others. If there is not
the same degree of urgency for all, the best way is to
make a private register of the difierent matters in the
order of their urgency, and then to write several short
notes, at intervals, one about each thing.

People have such a marvellous power of misunder-

LETTERS OF BUSINESS. 863

standing even the very plainest directions that a business
letter never can be made too clear. It will, indeed,
frequently happen that language itself is not clear
enough for the purposes of explanation without the
help of drawing, and drawing may not be clear to one
who has not been educated to understand it, which
compels you to have recourse to modelling. In these
cases the task of the letter-writer is greatlj^ simplified,
as he has nothing to do but foresee and prevent any
misunderstanding of the drawing or model.

Every material thing constructed hy mankind maj^
be explained by the three kinds of mechanical drawing,
— plan, section, and elevation, — but the difficult3% is
that so many people are unable to understand plans and
sections; they only understand elevations, and not
always even these. The special incapacity to under-
stand plans and sections is common in every rank of
societj^ and it is not uncommon even in the practical
trades. All letter-writing that refers to material con-
struction would be immensely simplified if, by a general
rule in popular and other education, ever}'^ future man
and woman in the country were taught enough about
mechanical drawing to be able at least to read it.

It is delightful to correspond about construction with
any trained architect or engineer, because to such a
correspondent you can explain everything briefly, with
the perfect certainty of being accurately understood.
It is terrible toil to have to explain construction by
letter to 9- man who does not understand mechanical
drawing ; and when you have given great labor to your
explanation, it is the merest chance whether he will

364 LETTERS OF BUSINESS.

catch jour meaning or not. The evil does not stop at
mechanical drawing. Not only do uneducated people
misunderstand a mechanical plan or section, but the}'
are quite as liable to misunderstand a perspective draw-
ing, as the great architect and draughtsman VioUet-le-
Duc charmingly exemplified by the work of an intelligent
child. A little boy had drawn a cat as he had seen it in
front with its tail standing up, and this front view was
stupidly misunderstood by a mature bourgeois^ who
thought the animal was a biped (as the hind-legs were
hidden), and believed the erect tail to be some unknown
object sticking out of the nondescript creature's head.
If you draw a board in perspective (other than iso-
metrical) a workman is quite likely to think that one
end of it is to be narrower than the other.

Business correspondence in foreign languages is a
very simple matter when it deals only with plain facts,
and it does not require any very extensive knowledge of
the foreign tongue to write a common order ; but if any
delicate or complicated matter has to be explained, or if
touchy sensitiveness in the foreigner has to be soothed
by management and tact, then a thorough knowledge of
the shades of expression is required, and this is ex-
tremely rare. The statement of bare facts, or the utter-
ance of simple wants, is indeed only a part of business
correspondence, for men of business, though they are
not sujiposed to display sentiment in affairs, are in
reality just as much human beings as other men, and
consequently they have feelings which are to be con-
sidered. A correspondent who is able to write a foreign
language with delicacy and tact will often attain his

LETTERS OF BUSINESS. 365

object when one with a ruder and more imperfect knowl-
edge of the language would meet with certain failure,
though he asked for exactly the same thing.

It is surely possible to be civil and even polite in
business correspondence without using the deplorable
commercial slang which exists, I believe, in every
modern language. The proof that such abstinence is
possible is that some of the most efficient and most
active men of business never have recourse to it at all.
This commercial slang consists in the substitution of
conventional terms originally intended to be more cour-
teous than plain English, French, etc., but which, in
fact, from their mechanical use, become wholly destitute
of that best politeness which is personal, and does not
depend upon set phrases that can be copied out of a
tradesman's model letter-writer. Anybody but a trades-
man calls 3^our letter a letter ; why should an English
tradesman call it " your favor," and a French one
^' voire honoree'*f A gentleman writing in the month
of May speaks of April, Ma}^, and June, when a trades-
man carefully avoids the names of the months, and
calls them ultimo^ courant^ andproximo ; whilst instead
of saying " by" or '' according to," like other English-
men, he says per. This style was touched upon by
Scott in Provost Crosbie's letter to Alexander Fairford :
'' Dear Sir — Your respected favor of 25th ultimo^ per
favor of Mr. Darsie Latimer, reached me in safety."
This is thought to be a finished commercial style. One
sometimes meets with the most astonishing and com-
plicated specimens of it, which the authors are evidently
proud of as proofs of their high commercial training.

LETTERS OF BUSINESS.

I regret not to have kept some fine examples of these,
as their perfections are far beyond all imitation. This is
not surprising when we reflect that the very worst com-
mercial style is the result of a stnving by many minds,
during several generations, after a preposterous ideal.

Tradesmen deserve credit for understanding the one
element of courtesy in letter-writing which has been
neglected by gentlemen. They value legible hand-
writing, and they print clear names and addresses on
their letter-paper, by which they spare much trouble.

Before closing this chapter let me say something
about the reading of business letters as well as the
writing of them. It is, perhaps, a harder duty to read
such letters with the necessary degree of attention than
to compose them, for the author has his head charged
with the subject, and writing the letter is a relief to
him ; but to the receiver the matter is new, and however
lucid may be the exposition it always requires some
degree of real attention on his part. How are you,
being at a distance, to get an indolent man to bestow
that necessary attention ? He feels secure from a per-
sonal visit, and indulges his indolence by neglecting
your concerns, even when they are also his own. Long
ago I heard an English Archdeacon tell the following
story about his Bishop. The prelate was one of that
numerous class of men who loathe the sight of a busi-
ness letter ; and he had indulged his indolence in that
respect to such a degree that, little by little, he had
arrived at the fatal stage where one leaves letters
unopened for days or weeks. At one particular time
the Archdeacon was aware of a great arrear of un-

LETTERS OF BUSINESS, 867

opened letters, and impressed his lordship with the
necessity for taking some note of their contents. Yield-
ing to a stronger will, the Bishop began to read ; and
one of the first communications was from a wealthy
man who offered a large sum for church purposes (I
think for building), but if the offer was not accepted
within a certain lapse of time he declared his intention
of making it to that which a Bishop loveth not — a dis-
senting community. The prelate had opened the letter
too late, and he lost the money. I believe that the
Archdeacon's yexation at the loss was more than
counterbalanced by gratification that his hierarchical
superior had received such a lesson for his neglect.
Yet he did but imitate Napoleon, of whom Emerson
says, "He directed Bourrienne to leave all letters un-
opened for three weeks, and then observed with satis-
faction how large a part of the correspondence had
disposed of itself and no longer required an answer."
This is a very unsafe system to adopt, as the case of
the Bishop proves. Things may "dispose of them-
selves *' in the wrong wa}^ like wine in a leaky cask,
which, instead of putting itself carefully into a sound
cask, goes trickling intp the earth.

The indolence of some men in reading and answering
letters of business would be incredible if they did not
give clear evidence of it. The most remarkable ex-
ample that ever came under my notice is the following.
A French artist, not by any means in a condition of
superfluous prosperity, exhibited a picture at the Salon,
He waited in Paris till after the opening of the exhibi-
tion and then went down into the country. On the day

368 LETTERS OF BUSINESS.

of his departure he received letters from two different
collectors expressing a desire to purchase his work, and
asking its price. Any real man of business would have
seized upon such an opportunity at once. He would
have answered both letters, stayed in toWn, and con-
trived to set the two amateurs bidding against each
other. The artist in question was one of those un-
accountable mortals who would rather sacrifice all l^eir
chances of life than indite a letter of business, so he
left both inquiries unanswered, saying that if the men
had really wanted the picture they would have called
to see him. He never sold it, and some time after-
wards was obliged to give up his profession, quite as
much from the lack of promptitude in affairs as from
any artistic deficiency.

Sometimes letters of business are read^ but read so
carelesslj" that it would be better if they were thrown
unopened into the fire. I have seen some astounding
instances of this, and, what is most remarkable, of
repeated and incorrigible carelessness in the same per-
son or firm, compelling one to the conclusion that in
corresponding with that person or that firm the clearest
language, the plainest writing, and the most legible
numerals, are all equally without effect. I am thinking
particularly of one case, intimately known to me in all
its details, in which a business correspondence of some
duration was finally abandoned, after infinite annoy-
ance, for the simple reason that it was impossible to
get the members of the firm, or their representatives,
to attend to written orders with any degree of accuracy.
Even whilst writing this very Essay I have given an

LETTERS OF BUSINESS. 369

order with regard to which I foresaw a probable error.
Knowing by experience that a probable error is almost
certain if steps are not taken energetically to prevent
it, I requested that this error might not be committed,
and to attract more attention to my request I wrote the
paragraph containing it in red ink, — a very unusual pre-
caution. The foreseen error was accurately committed.

24

870 ANONYMOUS LETTERS.

ESSAY XXV.

ANONYMOUS LETTERS.

PROBABLY few of my mature readers have attained
middle age without receiving a number of anony-
mous letters. Such letters are not always oflfensive,
sometimes they are amusing, sometimes considerate
and kind, yet there is in all cases a feeling of annoy-
ance on receiving them, because the writer has made
himself inaccessible to a I'eply. It is as if a man in a
mask whispered a word in your ear and then vanished
suddenly in a crowd. You wish to answer a calumny
or acknowledge a kindness, and you may talk to the
winds and streams.

Anonymous letters of the worst kind have a certain
value to the student of human nature, because they
afford him glimpses of the evil spirit that disguises
itself under the fair seemings of society. You believe
with childlike simplicity and innocence that, as you
have never done any intentional injury to a human
being, 3'ou cannot have a human enemy, and you make
the startling discovery that somewhere in the world,
perhaps even amongst the smiling people you meet at
dances and dinners, there are creatures who will have
recourse to the foulest slanders if thereby they may
hope to do you an injury. What can you have done
to excite such bitter animosity ? You may both have

ANONYMOUS LETTERS. 871

done much and neglected much. You may have had
some superiority of body, mind, or fortune ; you may
have neglected to soothe some jealous vanity by the
Hattery it craved with a tormenting hunger.

The simple fact that j'ou seem happier than Envy
thinks you ought to be is of itself enough to excite a
strong desire to diminish your offensive happiness or
put an end to it entirely. Tliat is the reason why
people who are going to be married receive anonj^mous
letters. If they are not reallj^ happy they have every
appearance of being happy, which is not less intolera-
ble. The anonj'mous letter- writer seeks to put a stop
to such a state of things. He might go to one of the
parties and slander the ojther openly, but it would re-
quire courage to do that directly to his face. A letter
might be written, but if name and address were given
there would come an inconvenient demand for proofs.
One course remains, offering that immunity from conse*
quences which is soothing to the nerves of a coward.
The envious or jealous man can throw his vitriol in the
dark and slip away unperceived — he can write an
anonymous letter.

Has the reader ever really tried to picture to himself
the state of that man's or woman's mind (for women
write these things also) who can sit down, take a sheet
of paper, make a rough draft of an anonymous letter,
copy it out in a very legible yet carefully disguised
hand, and make arrangements for having it posted at.
a distance from the place where it was written ? Such
things are constantly done. At this minute there are
a certain number of men and women in the world who

372 ANONYMOUS LETTERS.

are vile enough to do all that simply in order to spoil
the happiness of some person whom they regard with
" envy, hatred, malice, and all uncharitableness." I
see in my mind's eje the gentleman — the man having
all the apparent delicacy and refinement of a gentleman
— who is writing a letter intended to blast the char-
acter of an acquaintance. Perhaps he meets that ac-
quaintance in society, and shakes hands with him, and
pretends to take an interest in his health. Meanwhile
he secretly reflects upon the particular sort of calumny
that will have the greatest degree of verisimilitude.
Everything depends upon his talent in devising the
most credible sort of calumny, — not the calumny most
likely to meet general credence, but that which is most
likely to be believed by the person to whom it is ad-
dressed, and most likely to do injury when believed.
The anonymous calumniator has the immense advan-
tage on his side that most people are prone to believe
evil, and that good people are unfortunately the most
prone, as they hate evil so intensely that even the very
phantom of it arouses their anger, and they too fre-
quently do not stop to inquire whether it is a phantom
OT a reality. The clever calumniator is careful not
to go too far; he will advance something that might
be or that might have been ; he does not love le vrai,
but lie is a careful student of le vraisemblable. He
will assume an appearance of reluctance, he will drop
hints more terrible than assertions, because they are
vague, mysterious, disquieting. When he thinks he
has done enough he stops in time; he has inoculated
tbe drop of poison, and can wait till it takes effect.

ANONYMOUS LETTERS. 873

It must be rather an anxious time for the anonymous
letter-writer when he has sent off his missive. In the
nature of things he cannot receive an answer, and it
is not easy for him to ascertain very soon what has
been the result of his enterprise. If he has been tr}--
ing to prevent a marriage he does not know immedi-
ately if the engagement is broken off, and if it is not
broken off he has to wait till the wedding-day before
he is quite sure of his own failure, and to suffer mean-
whOe from' hope deferred and constantly increasing ap-
prehension. If the rupture occurs he. has a moment of
Satanic joy, but it may be due to some other cause
than the success of his own calumny, so that he is
never quite sure of having himself attained his object.

It is believed that most people who are engaged to
be married receive anonj^mous letters recommending
them to break off the match. Not onl}^ are such letters
addressed to the betrothed couple themselves, but also
to their relations. K there is not a doubt that the
statements in such letters are purely calumnious, the
right course is to destroy them immediately and never
allude to them afterwards ; but if there is the faintest
shadow of a doubt — if there is the vaguest feeling that
there may be some ground for the attack — then the only
course is to send the letter to the person accused, and
to say that this is done in order to afford him an oppor-
tunity for answering the anon3Tnous assailant. I re-
member a case in which this was done with the best
results. A professional man without fortune was going
to marry a young heiress ; I do not mean a great heir-
ess, but one whose fortune might be a temptation.

374 ANONYMOUS LETTERS.

Her family received the usual anonymous letters, and
in one of them it was stated that the aspirant's father,
who had been long dead, had dishonored himself by
base conduct with regard to a public trust in a certain
town where he occupied a post of great responsibility
towards the municipal authorities. The letter was
shown to the son, and he was asked if he knew anj--
thing of the matter, and if he could do anything to
clear awaj" the imputation. Then came the diflSculty
that the alleged betrayal of trust was stated to have
occurred twenty years before, and that the Maj'or was
dead, and probabl3^ most of the common councillors
also. What was to be done? It is not easy to dis-
prove a calumny, and the onus of proof ought always
to be thrown upon the calumniator, but this calumnia-
tor was anonymous and intangible, so the son of the
victim was requested to repel the charge. By a very
unusual and most fortunate accident, his father had
received on quitting the town in question a letter from
the Mayor of a most exceptional character, in which
he spoke with warm and grateful appreciation of ser-
vices rendered and of the happy relations of trust and
confidehce that had subsisted between himself and the
slandered man down to the very termination of their
intercourse. This letter, again by a most lucky acci-
dent, had been preserved by the widow, and by means
of it one dead man defended the memory of another.
It removed the greatest obstacle to the marriage ; but
another anonymous writer, or the same in another
handwriting, now alleged that the slandered man had
died of a disease likely to be inherited by his posterity.

^-

ANONYMOUS LETTERS. 875

Here, again, luck was on the side of the defence, as
the physician who had attended him was still alive, so
that this second invention was as easil^^ disposed of
as the first. The marriage took place ; it has been
more than usually happy, and the children are pictures
of health.

The trouble to which anonymous letter-writers put
themselves to attain their ends must sometimes be very
great. I remember a case in which some of these
people must have contrived by means of spies or agents
to procure a private address in a foreign country, and
must have been at great pains also to ascertain certain
facts in England which were carefully mingled with the
lies in the calumnious letter. The nameless writer was
evidently well informed, possibly he or she ma}^ have
been a "friend" of the intended victim. In this case
no attention was paid to the attack, which did not
delay the marriage by a single hour. Long afterwards
the married pair happened to be talking about anony-
mous letters, and it then appeared that each side
had received several of these missives, coarsely or in-
geniously concocted, but had given them no more
attention than they deserved.

An anonymous letter is sometimes written in col-
laboration by two persons of different degrees of ability.
When this is done one of the slanderers generally sup-
plies the basis of fact necessary to give an appearance
of knowledge, and the other supplies or improves the
imaginative part of the common performance and its
literary style. Sometimes one of the two may be
detected by the nature of the references to fact, or by

376 * ANONYMOUS LETTERS.

the supposed writer's personal interest in bringing about
a certain result.

It is very difficult at the first glance entirely to resist
the effect of a clever anonymous letter, and perhaps it
is only men of clear strong sense and long experience
who at once overcome the first shock. In a very short
time, however, the phantom evil grows thin and dis-
appears, and the motive of the writer is guessed at or
discerned.

The follow:ing brief anonymous lettei; or one closely
resembling it (I quote from memory) was once received
by an English gentleman on his travels.

** Dear Sir, — I congratulate you on the fact that you will
be a grandfather iu about two months. I mention this as you
may like to purchase baby-linen for your grandchild during
your absence. I am, Sir, yours sincerely,

** A Well-wisher."

The receiver had a family of grown-up children of
whom not one was married. The letter gave him a
slight but perceptible degree of disquietude which he
put aside to the best of his ability. In a few days came
a signed letter from one of his female servants confess-
ing that she was about to become a mother, and claiming
his protection as the grandfather of the child. It then
became evident that the anon3rmous letter had been
written by the girl's lover, who was a tolerably educajied
man whilst she was uneducated, and that the pair had
entered into this little plot to obtain money. The
matter ended by the dismissal of the girl, who then
made threats until she was placed in the hands of the
police. Other circumstances were recollected proving

ANONYMOUS LETTERS. 877

her to be a remarkably audacious liar and of a slander-
ous disposition.

The torture that an anonymous letter may inflict
depends far more on the nature of the person who
receives it than on the circumstances it relates. A
ealous and suspicious nature, not opened by much ex-
perience or knowledge of the world, is the predes-
tined victim of the anonymous torturer. Such a nature
jumps at evil report like a fish at an artificial fly, and
feels the anguish of it immediatelj'. By a law that
seems really cruel such natures seize with most avidity
on those very slanders that cause them the most pain.

A kind of anonymous letter of which we have heard
much in the present disturbed state of European societ^^
is the letter containing threats of phj^sical injury. It
informs you that you will be ** done for " or '* disabled "
in a short time, and exhorts you in the meanwhile to
prepare for your awful doom. The object of these
letters is to deprive the receiver of all feeling of security
or comfort in existence. His consolation is that a real
intending murderer would probably be thinking too much
of his own. perilous enterprise to indulge in correspond-
ence about it, and we do not perceive that the attacks
on public men are at all proportionate in number to the
menaces addressed to them.

As there are malevolent anonymous letters intended
to inflict the most wearing anxiet}', so there are benevo-
lent ones written to save our souls. Some theologically
minded person, often of the female sox, is alarmed for
our spiritual state because she fears that we have doubts
about the supernatural, and so she sends us books that

378 ANONYMOUS LETTERS.

only make ue wonder at the mental condition for which
such literature can be suitable. I remember one of my
female anonj^mous correspondents who took it for
granted that I was like a ship drifting about without
compass or rudder (a great mistake on her part) , and
so she offered me the safe and spacious haven ot
Swedenborgianism ! Others will tell you of the " great
pain " with which they have read this or that passage
of 3'our writings, to which an author may always reply
that as there is no Act of Parliament compelling British
subjects to read his books the sufferers have only to let
them alone in order to spare themselves the dolorous
sensations they complain of.

Some kind anonjinous correspondents write to con-
sole us for offensive criticism by maintaining the truth
of our assertions as supported by their own experience.
I remember that when the novel of " Wenderholme " was
published, and naturally attacked for its dreadful por-
traiture of the drinking habits of a past generation, a
lady wrote to me anonymously from a locality of the
kind described bearing mournful witness to the veracity
of the description. 1 In this case the emploj-ment of
the anonymous form was justified by two considerations.
There was no offensive intention, and the lady had to
speak of hci' own relations whose names she desired to
conceal Authors frequently receive letters of gently

^ I need hardly say that there has been immense improvement
In this respect, and that such descriptions have no application to
the Lcincaehiro of to-day; indeed, they were never true, in that
extreme degree, of Lancashire generally, but only of certain small
I oc alkies whi(!h were at one time like spots of local disease on a
generally vigorous body.

ANONYMOUS LETTERS. 379

expressed criticism or remonstrance from readers who
do not give theii* names. The only objection to these
communications, which are often interesting, is that it
is rather teasing and vexatious to be deprived of the
opportunity for answering them. The reader ma}^ like
to see one of these gentle anonymous letters. An un-
married lady of mature age (for there appears to be no
reason to doubt the veracity with which she gives a
slight account of herself) has been reading one of m}^
books and thinks me not quite just to a most respect-
able and by no means insignificant class in English
society. She therefore takes me to task, — not at all
unkindly.

**Dear Sir, — I have often wished to thank you for the
intense pleasure your books have given me, especially the
* Painter's Camp in the Highlands,' the word-pictures of
which reproduced the enjoyment, intense even to pain, of the
Scottish scenery.

**I have only now become acquainted with your * Intel-
lectual Life,' which has also given me great pleasure, though
of another kind. Its general fairness and candor induce
me to protest against your judgment of a class of women
whom I am sure you underrate from not having a suflficieut
acquaintance with their capabilities.

** * Wcmien who are not impelled by some masculine influence
are not superior, either in knowledge or in discipline of the mind,
at the age of fifty to what they were at twenty-five. . . . The best
illustration of this is a sisterhood of three or four rich old maids.
. . , You will observe that they invariably remain, as to their
education, where they were left by their teachers many years be-
fore. . . . Even in what most interests them — theology^ they
repeat but do not extend their information,^

** My circle of acquaintance is small, nevertheless I know
many women between twenty-five and forty whose culture is

380 ANONYMOUS, LETTERS.

always steadily progressing; who keep up an acquaintanoe
with literature for its own sake, and not * impelled * thereto
* by masculine influence; * who, though without creative power,
yet have such capability of reception that they can appreciate
the best authors of the day; whose theology is not quite the
fossil you represent it, though I confess it is for but a' small
number of my acquaintance that I can claim the power of
judicially estimating the various schools of theology.

** Without being specialists, the more thoughtful of our
class have such an acquaintance with current literature that
'' they are able to enter into the progress of the great ques-
tions of the day, and may even estimate the more fairly a
Gladstone or a Disraeli for being spectators instead of actors
in politics.

**I have spoken of my own acquaintances, but they are
such as may be met within any middle-class society. For
myself, I look back to the painful bewilderment of twenty-
five and contrast it with satisfaction with the brighter per-
ceptions of forty, finding out *a little more, and yet a little
more, of the eternal order of the universe.' One reason for
your underrating us may be that our receptive powers only
are in constant use, and we have little power of expression.
I dislike anonymous letters as a rule, but as I write as the
representative of a class, I beg to sign myself,
** Yours gratefully,
*'One of Three or Four Rich Old Maids.
«A^oi'cm6crl3,1883."

Letters of this kind give no pain to the receiver,
except when they compel him to an unsatisfactory kind
of self-examination. In the present case I make the
best amends by giving publicity and permanence to this
clearly expressed criticism. Something may be said,
too, in defence of the passages incriminated. Let me
attempt it in the form of a letter which may possibly
fall under the eye of the Rich Old Maid.

ANONYMOUS LETTERS. 381

Pear Madam, — Your letter has duly reached me, and
produced feelings of compunction. Have I indeed been
guilty of injustice towards a class so deserving of respect and
consideration as the Rich Old Maids of England ? It has
always seemed to me one of the privileges of my native
country that such a class should flourish there so much more
amply and luxuriantly than in other lands. Married women
are absorbed in the cares and anxieties of their own house-
holds, but the sympathies of old maids spread themselves over
a wider area. Balzac hated them, and described them as
having souls overflowing witli gall; but Balzac was a French-
man, and if he was just to the rare old maids of his native
countiy (which I cannot believe) he knew nothing of the
more numerous old maids of Great Britain. I am not in
Balzac's position. Dear friends of mine, and dearer relations,
have belonged to that kindly sisterhood.

The answer to your objection is simple. " The Intellectual
Life ** was not published in 1883 but in 1873. It was written
some time before, and the materials had been gradually
accumulating in the author's mind several years before it
was written. Consequently your criticism is of a much later
date than the work you criticise, and as you are forty in 1883
you were a young maid in the times I was thinking of when
writing. It is certainly true that many women of the now
past generation, particularly those who lived in celibacy, had
a remarkable power of remaining intellectually in the same
place. This power is retained by some of the present
generation, but it is becoming rarer every day because the
intellectual movement is so strong that it is drawing a con-
stantly increasing number of women along with it; indeed
this movement is so accelerated as to give rise to a new
anxiety, and make us look back with a wistful regret. We
are now beginning to perceive that a certain excellent old
type of Englishwomen whom we remember with the greatest
affection and respect will soon belong as entirely to the past
as if they had lived in the days of Queen Elizabeth, From the
intellectual point of view their lives were hardly worth living,
but we are beginning to ask ourselves whether their igno-

382 ANONYMOUS LETTERS.

ranee (I use the plain term) and their prejudices (the plain
term again) were not essential parts of a whole that com-
manded our respect. Their simplicity of mind may have
been a reason why they had so much simplicity of purpose in
well-doing. Their strength of prejudice may have aided
them to keep with perfect steadfastness on the side of moral
and social order. Their intellectual restfulness in a few
clear settled ideas left a degree of freedom to their energy in
common duties that may not always be possible amidst the
bewildering theories of an unsettled and speculative age.
Faithfully yours,
The Author of **The Intellectual Life."

AMUSEMENTS. 388

ESSAY XXVL

AMUSEMENTS.

/^NE of the most unexpected discoveries that we
^^-^ make on entering the reflective stage of exist-
ence is that amusements are social obligations.

The next discoverj'^ of this kind is that the higher
the rank of the person the more obligatory and the
more numerous do his so-called "amusements" be-
come, till finally we reach the princely life which seems
to consist almost exclusively of these observances.

Why should it ever be considered obligatory upon a
man to amuse himself in some way settled by others?
There appear to be two principal reasons for this. The
first is, that when amusements are practised by many
persons in common it appears unsociable and ungra-
cious to abstain. Even if the amusement is not inter-
esting in itself it is thought that the society it leads us
into ought to be a sufficient reason for following it.

The second reason is that, like all things which are
repeated by many people together, amusements soon
become fixed customs, and have all the weight and
authority of customs, so that people dare not abstain
from observing them for fear of social penalties.

If the amusements are expensive they become not
only a sign of wealth but an actual demonstration and
display of it, and as nothing in the world is so much

384 AMUSEMENTS.

respected as wealth, or so eflScient a help to social posi-
tion, and as the expenditure which is visible produces
far more effect upon the mind than that which is not
seen, it follows thg-t all costl}^ amusements are useful
for self-assertion in the world, and become even a
means of maintaining the political importance of great
families.

On the other hand, not to be accustomed to expen-
sive amusements implies that one has lived amongst
people of narrow means, so that most of those who
have social ambition "are eager to seize upon every
opportunity for enlarging their experience of expensive
amusements in order that they may talk about them
afterwards, and so affirm their position as members of
the upper class.

The dread of appearing unsociable, of seeming rebel-
lious against custom, or inexperienced in the habits of
the rich, are reasons quite strong enough for the main-
tenance of customary amusements even when there is
very little real enjoyment of them for their own sake.

But, in fact, there are always some people who prac-
tise these amusements for the sake of the pleasure they
give, and as these people are likely to excel the others
in vivacity, activity, and skill, as they have more en-
train and gayety, and talk more willingly and heartily
about the sports they love, so they naturally come to
lead opinion upon the subject and to give it an appear-
ance of earnestness and warmth that is beyond its
real condition. Hence the tone of conversation about
amusements, though it may accurately represent the sen-
timents of those who enjoy them, does not represent all

AMUSEMENTS. 886

opinion fairly. The opposite side of the question found
a witty exponent in Sir George Cornewall Lewis, when
he uttered that immortal sajdng by which his name will
endure when the recollection of his political services
has passed away, — ** How tolerableiife would be were
it not for its pleasures ! '' There you have the feeling
of the thousands who su\3mit and conform, but who
would have much to say if it were in good taste to
say anything against pleasures that are offered to us in
hospitality.

Amusements themselves become work when under-
taken for an ulterior purpose such as the maintenance
of political influence. A great man goes through a
certain regular series of dinners, balls, games, shoot-
ing and hunting parties, races, wedding-breakfasts",
visits to great houses, excursions on land and water,
and all these things have the outward appearance of
amusement, but may, in realit}^, be labors that the great
man undertakes for some purpose entirel}'' outside of
the frivolous things themselves. A Prime Minister
scarcely goes beyond political dinners, but what an
endless series of engagements are undertaken by a
Prince of Wales ! Such things are an obligation for
him, and when the obligation is accepted with unfail-
ing patience and good temper, the Prince is not only
working, but working with a certain elegance and grace
of art, often involving that prettiest kind of self-sacri-
fice which hides itself under an appearance of enjoy-
ment. Nobody supposes that the social amusements
so regularly gone through by the eldest son of Queen
Victoria can be, in all cases, very entertaining to him ;
25

386 AMUSEMENTS.

we suppose them to be accepted as forms of human
intercourse that bring him into personal relations with
his future subjects. The difference between this Prince
and King Louis II. of Bavaria is perhaps the most
striking contrast in modern royal existences. Prince
Albert Edward is accessible to everybody, and shares
the common pleasures of his countrymen ; the Bavarian
sovereign is never so happy as when in one of his
romantic and magnificent residences, surrounded by
the sublimity of nature and the embellishments of art,
he sits alone and dreams as he listens to the strains
of exquisite music. Has he not erected his splendid
castle on a rock, like the builder of *'The Palace of
Art"?

*' A huge crag-platform, smooth as bumish'd brass
I chose. The ranged ramparts bright
From level meadow-bases of deep grass
Suddenly scaled the light.

«* Thereon I built it firm. Of ledge or shelf
The rock rose clear, or winding stair.
M7 soul would live alone unto herself
In her high pahice there."

The life of the King of BaVaria, sublimely serene in
its independence, is a long series of tranquil omissions.
There may be a wedding-feast in one of his palaces,
but such an occurrence only seems to him the best of
all reasons why he should be in another. He escapes
from the pleasures and interests <&f daily life, making
himself an earthly paradise of architecture, music, and
gardens, and lost in his long dream, assuredly one
of the most poetical figures in the biographies of kings,

AMUSEMENTS. 387

and one of the most interesting, but how remote from
men ! This remoteness is due, in great part, to a sin-
cerity of disposition which declines amusements that
do not amuse, and desires only those real pleasures
which are in perfect harmony with one's own nature
and constitution. We like the .sociability, the ready
human sj'mpathy, of the Prince of Wales ; we think
that in his position it is well for him to be able to keep
all that endless .series of engagements, but has not
King Louis some claim upon our indulgence even in
his eccentricity? He has refused the weary round of
false amusements and made his choice of ideal pleasure.
If he condescended to excuse himself, his Apologia
pro vita sita might take a form somewhat resembling
this. He might say, "I was born to a great fortune
and only ask leave to enjoy it in my own way. The
world's amusements are an infliction that I consider
myself at liberty to avoid. I lov« musical or silent
solitude, and the enchantments of a fair garden and a
lofty dwelling amidst the glorious Bavarian mountains.
Let the noisy world go its way with its bitter wrang-
lings, its dishonest politics, its sanguinary wars ! I
set up no tyfann3\ I leave my subjects to enjoy their
brief human existence in their own fashion, and they
let me dream my dream."

These are not the world's ways nor the world's view.
The world considers it essential to the character of a
prince that he should be at least apparently happy in
those pleasures which are enjoyed in societ}', that he
should seem to enjoy them along with others to show
his fellow-feeling with common men, and not sit by him-

388 AMUSEMENTS.

self, like King Louis in his theatre, when ^ Tannhanser "
is performed for the ro^'al ears alone.

Of the many precious immunities that belong to
humble station there are none more valuable than the
freedom from false amusements. A poor man is under
one obligation, he must work, but his work itself is a
blessed deliverance from a thousand other obligadons.
He is not obliged to shoot, and hunt, and danee against
his will, he is not obliged to affect interest and pleasure
in games that only weary him, he has not to receive
tiresome strangers in long ceremonious repasts when he
would rather have a simple short dinner with bis wife.
Beranger sang the happiness of beggars with his sym^
pathetic humorous philosophy, but in all seriousness
it might be maintained that the poor are happier than
they know. They get their easy unrestrained human
intercourse by chance, meetings, and greetings, and
gossipings, and, they are spared all the acting, all the
feigning, that is. connected with, the routine of imposed
enjoyments.

Avowed work, even when uncongenial, is far less
trj'ing to patience than feigned pleasure. You dislike
accounts and 3^ou dislike balls, but though your dislike
may be nearly equal in both oases, you will assuredly
find that the time hangs less heavily when yon are
resolutely grappling with the details of your aecounfr
books than when you are only wishing that the dancers
would go to bed; The reason is that any hard work,
whatever it is, has the qualities of a mental tonic,
whereas unenjoyed pleasures have an opposite effect,
and even though work may be uncongenial you see a

AMUSEMENTS, 889

sort of result, whilst a false pleasure leaves no result
but the extreme fktigue that attends it, — a kind of
fatigue quite exceptional in its nature, and the most
disagreeable that is known to man.

The dislike for false amusements is often misunder-
stood -to be a puritanical intolerance of all amusement.
It is in this as in all things that are passionately enjoyed,
^— the false thing is most disliked bj^ those who best
appreciate the true.

What may be' called the truth or fstlsiehood of amuse-
ments is not in the amusements themselves, but in the
relation between one human idiosyncrasy and them.
Every idiosyncrasy has its own strong mysterious
affinities, generally distinguishable in childhood, always
elearlj" distinguishable in youth. We are like a lute or
a violin, the tuned strings vibrate in answer to certain
notes but not in answer to others.

To cdnvert amusements into social customs or obliga-
tions, to make it a man's duty to shoot birds or ride
after foxes because it is* agreeable toothers to discharge
guns and galfop aci'oss fields, is an infringement of
individual liberty which is less excusable in the case of
amusements than it is in more serious things. For in
serious things, in politics and religion, there is always
the plausible argument that the impression of * the in-
dividual conscience is' good for the unity of the State ;
whereas amusement» are supposed to exist for the
recreation of those who practise them, and when they
are not enjoyed they are hot amusements bnt something
else. There is no single English word that exactly
expresses what they are, but there is a Freneh one^

890 AMUSEMENTS,

the word corv/e^ which means forced labor, labor under
dictation, all the more unpleasant in these cases that it
must assume the appearance of enjo3'ment.^

Surely there is nothing in which the independence of
the individual ought to be so absolute, so unquestioned,
as in amusements. What right have I, because a thing
is a pleasant pastime to me, to compel my friend or my
son to do that thing when it is a corvee to him ? No
man can possibly amuse himself in obedience to a word
of command, the most he can do is to submit, to try to
appear amused, wishing all the time that the weaiy
task was over.

To mark the contrast clearly I will describe some
amusements from the opposite points of view of those
who enjoy them naturally, and those to whom they
w^ould be indifferent if they were not imposed, and hate-
ful if they were.

Shooting is delightful to genuine sportsmen in many
ways. It renews in them the sensations of the vigor-
ous youth of humanit}', of the tribes that lived by
the chase. It brings them into contact with nature,
gives a zest, and interest to hard pedestrian exercise,
makes the sportsmen minutely acquainted with the
country, and leads to innumerable observations of the
habits of wild animals that have the interest without
the formal pretensions of a science. Shooting is a
delightful exercise of skill, requiring admirable prompti-
tude and perfect nerve, so that any success in it is grati-
fjing to self-esteem. Sir Samuel Baker is always proud

^ Littr^ derives corvee from the Low-Latin corrogata, from the
Latin cum and rogare.

AMUSEMENTS. 391

of being such a good marksman, and frankly shows his
satisfaction. " I had fired three heautifuUy correct
shots with No. 10 bullets, and seven drachms of powder
in each charge ; these were so nearly together that they
occupied a space in her forehead of about three inches.'*
He does not aim at an animal in a general way, but
always at a particular and penetrable spot, recording
each hit, and the special bullet used. Of course he
loves his guns. These modern instruments are delight-
ful toys on account of the highly developed art em-
ploj^ed in their construction, so that they would be
charming things to possess, and handle, and admire,
even if they were never used, whilst the use of them
gives a terrible power to man. See a good marksman
when he takes a favorite weapon in his hand ! More
redoubtable than Roland with the sword Durindal, he
is comparable rather to Apollo with the silver bow, or
even to Olympian Zeus himself grasping his thunders.
Listen to him when he speaks of his weapon ! If he
thinks 3'ou have the free-masonry of the chase, and can
understand him, he talks like a poet and lover. Baker
never fails to tell us what weapon he used on each
occasion, and how beautifully it performed, and due
honor and advertisement are kindly given to the maker,
out of gratitude.

" I accordingly took my trusty little Fletcher double rifle
No. 24, and running knee-deep into the water to obtain a
close shot I fired exactly between the eyes near the crown of
the head. At the reports of the little Fletcher the hippo
disappeared.'*

Then he adds an affectionate foot-note about the gun.

892 AMUSEMENTS.

praising it for going with him for five yearn, as if it had
had a choice about the mattex, and could have offered
its services to another master. He believes it to be
alive, like a dog.

** This excellent and handy rifle was made by Thomas
Fletcher, of Gloucester, and accompanied me like a faithful
dog throughout my journey of nearly five years to the. Albert
Nyanza, and. returned with me to England as good as new."

In the list of Baker's rifles appears his bow of Ulysses,
his Child of a Cannon, femiliarly called the Baby, throw-
ing a half-pound explosive shell, a lovelj^ little pet of a
weapon with a recoil that broke an Arab's collar-bone,
and was not without some slight effect even upon that
mighty hunter, its master.

** Bang went the Baby; round I spun like a weather-cock
with the blood flowing from my nose, as the recoil had driven
the top of the hammer deep into the bridge. My Baby not
only screamed but kicked viciously. However I knew the
elephant would be bagged, as the half-pound shell had been
aimed directly behind the shoulder."

We have the most minute descriptions of the effects
of these projectiles in the head of a hippopotamus and
the body of an elephant. " I was quite satisfied with
my explosive shells," says the enthusiastic sportsman,
and the great beasts appear to have been satisfied too.

Now let me attempt to describe the feelings of a
man not bom with the natural instinct of a sportsman.
We need not suppose him to be either a weakling or a
coward. There are strong and brave men who can
exercise their strength and prove their courage without
willingly inflicting wounds or death upon any creature.

AMUSEMENTS. 393

To some such men a gun is simply an encumbrance, to
wait for game is a wearisome trial of patience, to follow
it is aimless wandering, to slaughter it is to do the work
of a butcher or a poulterer, to wound it is to incur a
degree of remorse that is entirely destructive of enjoy-
ment. The feet that somewhere on mountain or in
forest poor creatures are lying with festering flesh or
shattered bones to die slowly in pain and hunger, and
the terrilile thirst of the wounded, and all for the pleas-
ure of a gentleman, — such a fact as that, when clearly
realized, is not to be got over by anything less powerful
than the genuine instinct of the sportsman who is him-
self one of Nature's own born destro^-ers, as panthers
and falcons are. The feeling of one who has not the
sporting instinct has been well expressed as follows by
Mr. Lewis Morris, in "A Cynic's Daj^-dream 2 " —

** Scant pleasure should I think to gain
From endless scenes of death and pain ;
'T would little profit me to slay
A thousand innocents a day ;
I should not much delight to tear
With wolfish dogs the shrieking hare ;
With horse and hound to track to death
A helpless wretch that gasps for breath;
To make the fair bird check its wing,
And drop, a dying, shapeless thing ;
To leave the joy of all the wood
A mangled heap of fur and blood.
Or else escaping, but in vain,
To pine, a shattered wretch, in pain ;
Teeming, perhaps, or doomed to sed
Its young brood starve in misery."

Hunting may be classed with shooting and passed
over, as the instinct is the same for both, with this dif-

394 AMUSEMENTS.

ference only that the huntsman has a natural passion
for horsemanship that may be wanting to the pedes-
trian marksman. An amusement entirely apart from
every other, and requiring a special instinct, is that of
sailing. '

If you have the nautical passion it was bom with
you, and no reasoning can get it out of you. Every
sheet of navigable water draws you with a marvellous
attraction, fills you with an indescribable longing.
Miles away from anything that can be sailed upon,
you cannot feel a breeze upon your cheek without
wishing to be in a sailing-boat to catch it in a spread
of canvas. A ripple on a duck-pond torments 3^ou
with a teazing reminder of larger surfaces, and if you
had no other field for navigation you would want to be
on that duck-pond in a tub. "I would rather have
a plank and a handkerchief for a sail," said Charles
Lever, " than resign myself to give up boating." You
have pleasure merely in being afloat, even without mo-
tion, and all the degrees of motion under sail have
their own peculiar charm for you, from an insensible
gliding through glassy waters to a light against op-
posite winds and raging seas. You have a thorough,
intimate, and affectionate knowledge of all the details
of your ship. The constant succession of little tasks
and duties is an unfailing interest, a delightful occupa-
tion. Tou enjoy the manual labor, and acquire some
skill not only as a sailor but as ship's carpenter and
painter. You take all accidents and disappointments
clieerfully, and bear even hardship with a merry heart.
Nautical exercise, though on the humble scale of the

AMUSEMENTS. 395

modest amateur, has preserved or improved j'our health
and activity, and brought you nearer to Nature by
teaching you the habits of the winds and waters and
by displaying to you an endless variety of scenes, al-
ways with some fresh interest, and often of enchanting
beauty.

Now let us suppose that you are simple enough to
think that what pleases you, who have the instinct, will
gratify another who is destitute of it. If you have
power enough to make him accompany 3'ou, he will
pass through the following experiences.

Try to realize the fact that to him the sailing-boat
is only a means of locomotion, and that he will refer
to his watch and compare it with other means of loco-
motion already known to him, not having the slightest
affectionate prejudice in its favor or gentle tolerance
of its defects. If j'ou could always have a stead}' fair
wind he would enjoy the boat as much as a coach or a
very slow railwaj- train, but he will chafe at every de-
lay. None of the details that delight j'ou can have the
slightest interest for him. The sails, and particularl}'
the cordage, seem to him an irritating complication
which, he thinks, might be simplified, and he will not
give any mental effort to master them. He cares noth-
ing about those qualities of sails and hull which have
been the subject of such profound scientific investiga-
tion, such long and passionate controversy. You can-
not speak of anything on board without employing
technical terms which, however necessary, however
unavoidable, will seem to him a foolish and useless
affectation by which an amateur tries to give himself

396 AMUSEMENTS.

nautieal airs. If you say '^ the raainsheet" he tlilnks
you might have said more rationallj- and concisely " the
cord by which you pull towards 3'ou that long pole
which is under the biggest of the sails," and if you say
*' the starboard quarter," he thinks 3'ou ought to have
said, in simple English, " that part of the vessel's side
that is towards the back end of it and to your right
hand when you are standing with your face looking
forwards.'* If you happen to be becalmed he suffers
from an infinite ennui. If 3'ou Jiave to beat to wind-
ward he is indifferent to the wonderful art and vexed
with 3'OU because, as Jiis host, 3'ou have not had the
politeness and the forethought to provide a favorable
breeze. If you are a 3'acht6man of limited means and
your guest has to take a small share in working the
vessel, .he will not perform it with any cheerful al^crit3'^,
but consider it unfit for a gentleman, x If this goes on
for long it is likel3^ that there will be irritation on both
sides, snappish expressions, and a quarrel. Who is
in fault? Both are excusable in the false situation that
has been created, but it ought not to have been created
at all. You ought not to have invited a man without
nautical instincts, or he ought not to have accepted tlie
invitation. He was a charming companion ou land,
and that misled 3'ou both. Meet him on land again,
receive him hospitably at your house. I would say
'' forgive him ! " if there were anything to forgive, but
it is not any fault of his or any merit of yours if,
b3^ the irrevocable fate of congenital idips3'ncrasy, the
amusement that 3'ou were destined to seek and enjoy
is the corvee that he. was destined to avoid. ,

AMUSEMENTS. 39T

I find no language strong enough to condemn the
selfishness of those who, in order that they may enjoy
what is a pleasure to themselves, deliberately and
knowingly inflict a corvee upon others. This objec-
tion does not apply to paid service, for that is the
result of a contract. Servants constantly endure the
tedium of waiting and attendance, but it is theh* fonn
of work, and they have freely undertaken it. Work
of that kind is not a corvee^ it is not forced labor.
Real corv^es are inflicted by heads of families on de-
pendent relations, or by patrons on humble friends who
are under some obligation to them, and so bound to
them as to be defenceless. The father or patron wants,
let us sa3^ his nightly game at whist ; he must and will
have it, if he cannot get it he feels that the machine
of the universe is out of gear. He singles out three
people who do not want to play, perhaps takes for his
partner one who thoroughly dislikes the game, but who
has learned something of it in obedience to his orders.
They sit down to their board of green cloth. The time
passes wearily for the principal victim, who is thinking
of something else and makes mistakes. The patron
loses his temper, speaks with increasing acerbity, and
finally either flies into a passion and storms (the old-
fashioned way) , or else adopts, with grim self-control,
a tone of insulting contempt towards his victim that
is even more difllcult to endure. And this is the re-
ward for having been unselfish and obliging, these are
the thanks for liaving sacrificed a happy evening!

If this is often done by individuals armed with some
kind of power and authority, it is done still more fre<

398 AMUSEMENTS.

quently by majorities. The tyranny of majorities begins
in onr school-days, and the principal happiness of man-
hood is in some measure to escape from it. Manj^ a
man in after-life remembers with bitterness the weary
hours he had to spend for the gratification of others in
games that he disliked. The present writer has n vivid
recollection of what, to him, was the infinite dulness of
cricket. He was not by any means an inactive bo}^
but it so happened that cricket never had the slightest
interest for him, and to this da}' he cannot pass a cricket-
ground without a feeling of strong antipathy to its level
surface of green, and of thankfulness that he is no
longer compelled to go through the irksome old corvee
of his 3'outh. One of the manj' charms, to his taste,
of a rock}' mountain-side in the Highlands is that cricket
is impossible there. At the same time he quite beneves
and admits everything that is so enthusiastically claimed
for cricket by those who have a natural aflSnity for the
game.

There are not only sports and pastimes, but there is
the long reverberating echo of every sport in endless
conversations. Here it may be remarked that the
lovers of a particular amusement, when they happen
to be a majority, possess a ten-ible power of inflicting
ennui upon others, and they often exercise it without
mercy. Five men are dining together, and three are
fox-hunters. Evidently they ought to keep fox-hunting
to themselves in consideration for the other two, but
this requires an almost superhuman self-discipline and
politeness, so there is a risk that the minority may have
to submit in silence to an inexhaustible series of details

AMUSEMENTS. 899

about horses and foxes and dogs. Indeed you are never
safe from this kind of conversation, even when you
have numbers on your side. Sporting talk may be
inflicted by a minority when that minority is incapable
of any other conversation and strong in its own inca-
pacity. Here is a case in point that was narrated to me
by one of the three convives. The host was a country
gentleman of great intellectual attainments, one gue^t
was a famous Londoner, and the other was a sport-
ing squire who had been invited as a neighbor. Fox-
hunting was the only subject of talk, because the
squire was garrulous and unable to converse about any
other topic.

Ladies are often pitiable sufferers from this kind of
conversation. Sometimes thej^ have the instinct of
masculine sport themselves, and then the subject has
an interest for them; but an intelligent woman may
find herself in a wearisome position when she would
rather avoid the subject of slaughter, and all the men
around her talk of nothing but killing and wounding.

It is natural that men should talk much about their
amusements, because the mere recollection of a true
amusement (that for which we have an aflSnity) is in
itself a renewal of it in imagination, and an immense
refreshment to the mind. In the midst of a gloomy
English winter the yachtsman talks of summer seas, and
whilst he is talking he watches, mentally, his well-set
sails, and hears the wash of the Mediterranean wave.

There are three pleasures in a true amusement, first
anticipation, full of hope, which is

"A feast for promised triumph yet to come,"

400 AMUSEMENTS,

often the best baoqaet of all. Then comes the actnal
fruition, usually dashed with disaippoinftmeiits that a true
lover of the sport accepts in the most cheerful spirit.
Lastly, we go through it all over again, either with the
friends who have shared our ndventures' or at least with
those who could have enjoyed them had they been
there, and who (for vanity often claims her own de-
lights) know enough about the matter to appreciate
our own admirable skill and courage.

In concluding this Essay I desire to warn young
readers against a very common mistake. It is very
generally believed that literature and the fine arts can
be happily practised as amusements. I believe this to
be an error due to the vulgar notion that iartists and
literar}'^ people do not work but only display talent, as
if anybody could display talent without toil. Literary
and artistic pursuits ai'e in fact sPudies and not amuse-
ments. Too arduous to have ihe refreshing quality of
recreation, they put too severe a sti-ain upon the
faculties, they are too troublesome in their processes,
and too unsatisfactory in their results, unless ^ natural
gift has been developed by earnest and long- continued
labor* It does indeed occasionally happen that an
artist who has acquired skill by persistent study will
flinnsc himself by exercising it in sport. Apainter ma}'
make idle sketches as Byron sometunes broke out into
careless rhymes, or as a scholar will playfully coinpose
doggerel in Greek, but these gambols of accomplished
men are not to be confounded with the painful efforts of
amateurs who fancy that they are going to dance in the
Palace of Art and shortly discover t^at the muse who

AMUSEMENTS. 401

presides there is not a smiling hostess but a severe and
exigent schoolmistress. An able French painter, Louis
Leloir, wrote thus to a friend about another art that he
felt tempted to practise : —

*' Etching tempts me much. I am making experiments
and hope to show you something soon. Unhappily life is too
short; we do a little of everything, and then perceive that each
branch of art would of itself consume the life of a man, to
practise it very imperfectly after all. . . . We get angry with
ourselves and struggle, but too late. It was at the beginning
that we ought to have put on blinkers to hide from ourselves
everything that is not art."

If we mean to amuse ourselves let us avoid the pain-
ful wrestling against insuperable jlifficulties, and the
humiliation of imperfect results. Let us shun all osten-
tation, either of wealth or talent, and take our pleasures
happily like poor children, or like the idle angler who
stands in his old clothes by the purling stream and
watches the bobbing of his float, or tiie glancing of the
fly that his guileful industry has made.

INDEX.

Absinthe, French use, 273.

Absurdity, in languages^ 157.

Academies, in a university, 275.

Accidents, Divine connection with
(Essay XV.), 218-222.

Acquaintances: new and humble,
21, 22; chance, 23-26; met in
travelling (Essay XVII.), 239-

Adaptability: a mystery, 9; in
life's journey, 44; to unrefined
people, 72.

Adultery, overlooked in princes,
168.

Affection; not blinding to faults,
10; how to obtain filial, 98; in
the beginning of letters, 316.

Affinities, mysterious, 288.

A^e: affecting human intercourse,
IX ; outrun by youth, 86-9Z pas-
sim; affecting friendship, 112;
senilitv hard to convince, 293,
294; middle and old, 302; kind
letter to an old lady, 345.

Agnosticism, affecting filial rela-
tions, 93.

Agriculture: under law, 228; and
Radicals, 282.

Albany, Duke of, his associations, 5.

Albert Nvanza, Baker's exploits,
392.

Alexis, Prince, sad relations to his
father, 95, 96.

Alps: first sight, 235; grandeur,
271.

Americans: artistic attraction, 8;
inequalities of wealth, 248; be-
havior towards strangers, 249;
treated as ignorant by the Eng-
lish, 277; under George III., 279 ;
use of ruled paper, 328.

Amusements : pursnit of, 27 ; sym-
pathy with 3'outhful, 88; out-
door, 302, 303 ; praise for Indul-

gence not deserved, 342; in
general (Essay XXVI.), 383-401 ;
obligator}', 383; expensive and
pleasurable, 384; laborious, 385;
princely enjoyments, 386, 387;
poverty not compelled to practise,
388; feigned, 388, 389; converted
into customs, 389; should be in-
dependent in, 390 ; shooting, 391-
393; boating, 394-396; selfish
compulsion, 397; tyranny of
majorities, 398 ; conversational
echoes, 398, 399; ladies not in-
terested, 399; three stages of
Eleasure, 399, 400; artistic gam-
ols, 400; to be taken naturally
and happily, 401.

Analvsis : miportant to prevent con-
fusion (Essay XX.), 280-294 /?as-
shn ; analytical faculty wanting,
280, 292-294.

Ancestry: aristocratic, 123; boast,
130; home, 138; less religion,
214.

Angels, and the arts, 191.

Anglicanism, and Russian Church,
257, 258.

Angling, pleasure of, 401.

Animals, feminine care, 177.

Annuities, affecting family ties, 68,
69.

Answers to letters, 334, 335.

Anticipation, pleasure of, 399, 400. -

Antiquarianism, author's, 323.

Apollo, a sportsman compared to,
391.

Arabs: use of telegraph, 323; col-
lar-bone broken, 392.

Archeeology: a friend's interest, x;
affected by railway travel, 14.

Architecture : illustration, vii, xii ;
studies in France, 17, 23, 24 ; con-
nection with religion, 189, 190,
192; ignorance about English,

404

fNDEX.

265 ; common mistakes, 291 ; let-
ters about, 365.

Aristocracy: French rural, 18, 19;
English laws of primogeniture,
66; English instance, 123, 124;
discipline, 128; often poor, 135,
136 ; effect of deference, 146, 147 ;
a mark of ? 246, 247; Norman
influence, 251, 252 ; antipathy, to
Dissent, 256, 257; sent to Eton,
277 ; and Bohemianism, 309 ; dis-
like of scholarship, 331, 332.
(See Rank.)

Aristophilus, fictitious character,
146.

Armies: national ignorance, 277-
279; monopoly of places in
French, 283. (See War,)

Art: detached from religion, xii ;
affecting friendship, 6, 8 ; (ylaude
and Turner, 13 ; chance acquaint-
ances, 23, 24 ; purposes lowered,
28, 29 ; penetrated by love, 42,
43 ; affecting fraternity, 64 ;
friendship, 113, 114 ; lifts above
mercenary motives. 132; liter-
ary, 154 ; adaptability of Greek
language, 158 ; preferences of
artists rewarded, 165 ; affecting
relations of Priests and Women
(Essay XIII. partii.), 187-195/>rts-
sim ; exaggeration and diminu-
tion, both admissible, 232, 233 ;
result of selection, 253 ; French
ignorance of English, 265, 266,
267 ; antagonized by Philisti-
nism, 285, 286, 301 ; not mere
amusement, 400. (See Painting,
Sculpture, Turner, etc.)

Asceticism, tmges both the Philis-
tine and Bohemian, 299, 300.
(See Friesthood, Roman Catholi-
cism, etc.)

Association : pleasurable or not, 3 ;
affected by opinions, 5, 6 ; by
tastes, 7, 8 ; London, 20 ; of a
certain French painter, 28 ; be-
tween Priests and Women (Essa}'
XIII. part III.), l^h-2S^\ passim ;
among travellers (P2ssay XVII.),
239-252; leads to misapprehen-
sion of opinions, 287, 288. (See
Companionship, Friendship, So-
ciety, etc.)

Atavism, puzzling to parents, 88.

Atheism : reading prayers, 163 ;

apparent, 173; confonnded with
Deism, 257. (See God, Religion,
etc.)

Attention ; how directed in the
study of language, 154 ; want
of, 197.

Austerlitz, battle, 350. (See Napo-
leon I.)

Austria^ Empress, 180.

Authorit}', of fathers (Essay VI.),
1^-%% passim, (See Priests.)

Authors : illustration, 9 ; indebted-
ness to humbler classes, 22, 23 ;
relations of several to women, 46
et seq. ; sensitiveness to family
indifference, 74; in society and
with the pen, 237, 238; a pro-
crastinating correspondent, 317;
anonymous letters, 378. (See
Hamerton, etc.)

Authorship, illustrating interde-
pendence, 12. (See Literature,
etc.)

Autobiographies, revelations of
faithful family life, 65.

Autumn tints, 233.

Avignon, France, burial-place of
Mill, 53.

Bachelors: independence, 26;
dread of a wife's relations, 73;
lonely hearth, 76 ; friendship de-
stroj-ed by marriage, 115, 116;
reception into society, 120; eat-
ing-habits, 244. (See Marriage,
Wivts, etc.)

Baker, Sir Samuel, shooting, 390-
392.

Balzac, his hatred of old maids,
381.

Baptis^m, religious influence, 184,
185. (See Priesthood.)

Baptists : in England, 170 ; Igno-
rance about, 257. (See Meli-
gion.)

Barbarism, emerging from, 161.
(See Civilization.)

Baronius, excerpts hy Prince Alexis,
95.

Barristers, mercenarv motives, 132,
133.

Bavaria, kin^ of, 385-387.

Bazaar, charity, 188.

Beard, not worn by priests, 202.

Beauty: womanly attraction, 38,
39; sought by wealth, 299.

INDEX.

405

Bedford, Duke of, knowledge of
French, 151.

Belgium, letters written at the date
of Waterloo, 153.

Beljame, his knowledge of English,
152

Bell, Umfrey, m old letter, 323.

Benevolence, priestlj' and feminine
association therem, 195, 196.
(See Pnests^ etc.)

Ben Nevis, and other Scotch heights,
271.

Bentinck, William, letters to, 344,
345.

Betham-Edwards, Amelia, her de-
scription of English bad manners,
240, 245.

Bible ; faith in, 6 ; allusion to Prov-
erbs and Canticles, 41; reading,
123; Babel, 159; commentaries
studied, authority, 206; exam-
ples, 208; narrow limits, 211,
212; commentaries and sermons,
302. (See Religion^ etc.)

Bicycle, illustration, 15.

Bir&s, in France, 272.

Birth, priestlv connection with,
184, 185. (See Priests, Women.)

Black cap, illustration, 204.

Blake, William, quotation about
Folly and Wisdom, 31.

Blasphemy, royal, 167. (See 7w-
moralify, etc')

Boating : affected by railways, 14 :
French river, 128; rich and poor,
138, 139; comparison, 154; Le-
ver's experience, 260; mistaken
judgments, 292, 293 ; not enjoyed,
302 ; sleeping, 307 ; on the
Thames, 335 ; painting a boat,
359; amusement, 394-396. (See
Yachts, etc.)

Boccaccio, quotation about pesti-
lence, 222.

Bohemianism: Noble (Essay XXI.),
295-314; unjust opinions, 295;
lower forms, 296; social vices,
297; sees the weakness of Philis-
tinism, 298 ; how justifiable, 299 ;
imagination and asceticism, 300;
intimacy with nature, 302; esti-
mate of the desirable, 303; living
illustration, 304; furniture, men-
tal and material, 305 ; an English
Bohemian's enjovment, 306 ; con-
tempt for comfort, uselessness,

307; self-sacrifice, 308; higher
sort, 309 ; of Goldsmith, 309, 310 ;
Corot, Wordsworth, 311; Palmer,
312, 313 ; part of education,
313^ 314; a painter's, 314. (See
Pktlistimsm.)

Bonaparte Family, criminality of,
168. {See Napoleon L)

Books: how far an author's own,
13; in hospitality, 142; refusal
to read, 195 ; indifference to, 286,
287; cheap and dear, 304, 305;
Wordsworth's carelessness, 311;
binding, 369. (See Literature,
etc.)

Bores, EnglisR dread of, 245. (See
Intrusion.)

Borrow, George, on Enghsh houses,
145.

Botany, allusion, 166.

Bourbon Family, criminality of„ 168.

Bourrienne, Fauvelet de, Napole-
on's secretary, 367.

Boyton, Captain, swimminsj-appa-
ratus, 290.

Boys: French, 23, 24; English fra-
ternal jealousies, 66; education,
and differences with older peo-
ple, 7S-9S passim; roughened by
play, 100; friendships, 111. (See
Brothers, Fathers, Sons, etc.)

Brassey, Sir Thomas, his yacht,
138, 139.

Brevity, in correspondence, 324-
331, 361.

Bright, John, his fraternity, 68.

British Museum : ignorance about,
266 ; library, 287 ; confused witli
other buildings, 291. (See Lon-
don.)

Bronte, Charlotte, her St. John, in
Jane E>Te, 196.

Brothers: divided by incompati-
bility, 10; English divisions, 63;
idiosyncrasy, 64; petty jealousy,
65, 66; love'and hatred illustrated,
67; the Brights, 68; money affairs,
69: generosity and meanness, 70 ;
refinement an obstacle, 71; lack
of fraternal interest, 74; riches
and poverty, 77. (See JSoys,
Friendship, Sons, etc.)

Buffon, Georges Louis Leclerc de,
his noble life, 209, 210.

Buildings, literar^"^ illustration, vii.

Bulgaria, lost to Turkey, 278.

406

INDEX,

Bull-figlits, women's presence, 180.
(See"^ Cruelty.)

Bunyan, John: choice in religion,
173; imprisoned, 181.

Business: affecting family tied, 64,
67; affecting letter-writing, 342,
343 ; Letters of (Essay XXIV.), 354
-369 ; orally conducted or written,
354-357; stupid agents, 358, 359;
talent for accuracy, 360; acknowl-
edging orders, 361; apparent
carelessness, one subject best, 362 ;
knowledge of drawing important
to explanations on paner, 363, 364;
acquaintance with languages a
help, 364; commercfal slang, 365;
indolence in letter-reading has
disastrous results, 366-369. (See
Correspondence,)

Byron, Lord: on Friendship, 30;
PLiidoe, 39; marriage relations,
46, 48-50, 55-57 ; as a letter-writer,
345-349; careless rhymes, 400.

Calumny: caused by indistinct
ideas, 292 ; in letters', 370-377.

Cambridge University, 275, 276.

Camden Society, publication, 318.

Cannes, anecdote, 235.

Cannon-balls, national intercourse,
160. (See Wars.)

Canoe, illustration, 15.

Card-plaving: incident, 128, 129;
Frencli habit, 273; khigs, 289;
laborious, 397.

Carelessness, causing wrong judg-
ments, 293.

Caste: as affecting friendship, 4;
not the uniting lorce, 9; French
rites, 16; English prejudice, 19;
sins against, 22; among authors,
4iJ-'pi;i kinship of ideas, 57; ease
wiMi lower classes, 64; really
esbtent, 124, 125; loss through
pinerrv, 136; among English
triuelfers, 240-242, 245, 246.
(^te Classes, Rank, Titlesy etc.)

Cat, drawing by a child, 364.

Ciitiiciiriils: drawing a French, 23,
24; imposing, 189, 190, 192.

Ctlibflty: Shelley's experience, 34;
in Catholic Church, 120; clerical,
1S»8^2(I1; of old maids, 379-382.
(Set: Clergy, PHests, Wives, etc.)

Censure, dangerous in letters, 352,
3d3.

Ceremony : dependent on prosper-
ity, 125, 126 ; fondness of women
for, 197, 198; also 187-195 »a«sm.
(See Manners, Rank, etc.)

Chamberlain, the title, 137.

Chambord, Count de, restoration
possible, 254, 255.

Channel, British, illustration^ 14.

Charles IL, women's influence dur-
ing his reign, 181.

Charles XII., his hardiness, 308.

Chaucer, Geoff re}', on birds, 272.

Cheltenham, Eng., treatment of
Dissenters, 19.

Chemistry, illustration, 3.

Cheshire,' Eng., a case of generos-
ity, 68.

Children : recrimination with par-
ents, 75; as affecting parental
wealth, 119; social reception, 120;
'keenly alive to social distinc-
tions, 121 ; imprudent marriages,
123; a poor woman's, 189; inter-
ruptions, 140, 141; ignorance of
foreign language makes us seem
like, 151; feminine care, 177; of
clergy, 200, 201 ; cat picture, 364 ;
pleasures of poor, 401. (See Boys,
JSrothers, Marriaf/e, Sons, etc.)

Chinese mandarins, 130.

Chirography, in letters, 331-333.

Christ: his divinity a past issue, 6;
Church institute'd, 178, 179; Dr.
Macleod on, 186; limits of knowl-
edge in Jesus* day, 213. (See
Church, Relitjion, etc.)

Christianity: as affecting inter-
coui*se, 5, 6 ; its early disciples,
142; preferment for adherence,
162, 163; morality a part of, 168,
169; state churches, 170; in poe-
iry, 198; early ideal, 206. (See
Roman Catholicism, etc.)

Christmas: decorations, 188; in
Tennyson, 198. (See Clergy,
Priesthood, Women. )

Church: attendance of hypocrites,
163; compulsory, 172 ; mstituted
by God in Christ, 178, 179; in-
fluence at all stages of life, 183-
186 ; aesthetic industry, 188 ;
dress, 189; buildings, 1§0; men-
aces, 193 ; partisanship, 194 ;
power of custom, 198; author-
ity, 203. (See Religion, Roman
Catholicism^ etc.)

INDEX.

407

Church of England: as affecting
friendship, 6; freedom of mem-
bers in their own country, in-
stance of Dissenting tyranny,
164; dangers of forsaking, 165;
bondage of royalty, 166, 168;
adherence of nobility, 169, 170,
173; of working-people, 170, 171;
compulsory attendance, liberal-
ity, 172, 173; ribaldry sanctioned
by its head, 181; prieklv consola-
tion, 183; the legal chiirch, 185;
ritualistic art, 188-190; a bishop's
invitation to a discussion, 192;
story of a bishop's indolence,
366, 367; French ignorance of,
275.. (See Enyland^ Christy etc.)

Cipher, in letters, 323.

Civility. (See Hospitalily.)

Civilization: liking for, xiii; an-
tagonism to nature in love-mat-
ters, 41; lower state, 72; affected
by hospitality, 100; material ad-
juncts, 253; physical, 298; duty
to further, 299; foi-saken, 310.
(See Barbarism^ Bohemianism,
Philistinism, etc.)

Classes: Differences of Rank (Es-
say X.), 130-147 passim ; affected
by religion (Essay XII.), 161-
174; limits, 250; in connection
with Gentility (Essay XVIII.),
253-263/wts5i/?i. (SeedisUf Cer-
emonieSf Rank, etc.)

Classics, study of, in the Renais-
sance, 212.

Claude, helps Turner. {See Paint-
ers, etc.)

Clergy: mercenary motives, 132,
133; more tolerant of immorality
than of hereaj', 168; belief in
natural law, 221; dangers of as-
sociation with, 287. (SQePiiest-
hood, Religion, etc.)

Clergywomen, 200, 201.

Clerk H, their knowledge an aid to
national intercourse, 149, 150.
(See Business, Languages, etc.)

Couts-of-arms: usurped, 135; in
letters, 326, 327. (See Rank.)

Cockburn, Sir Alexander, knowl-
edge of French, 151.

Cock Robin, boat, 138. (See Boat-
ing.)

Coffee, satire on trade, 133, 134.

Cologne Cathedral, 190.

Colors, in painting, 232, 233.

Columbus, Voltaire's allusion, 274.

Comet, in Egyptian war, 229.
(See Superstition. )

Comfort, pursuit of, 27, 298, 299.
(See Philistinism.)

Commerce, affected by language,
148-150, 159, 160. (See Busi-
ness, Languages, etc.)

Communism, threats, 377.

Como, Italy, solitude, 31.

Companionship: how decided, 4;
affected by opinions, 5, 6; by-
tastes, 7, 8; in London, 20; with
the lower classes, 21-23 ; chance,
24-20; intellectual exclusiveness,
27, 28; books, 29; nature, 30;
in Marriage (Essay IV.), 44-62;
travelling, absence, 44; intellect-
ual, 45; instances of unlawful,
46, 47; failures not surprising,
48; of Bvron, 49, 50; Goethe, 51,
52; Mill, 53, 54; discouraging
examples, 55, 56; difficulties of
extraordinary minds, 57; arti-
ficial, 58; hopelessness of finding
ideal associations, 59; indications
and realizations, 60; trust, 61,
62; hindered by refinement, 71,
72;^affected by cousinship, 73;
parents and children (Essav VI.),
78-98 passim ; Death of I'riend-
ship (Essay VIII.), 110-118;
affected bv wealth and pover-
ty (Essays' IX. and X.), 119-147
passim ; between Priests and
Women (Essay XIII.), 175-204.
(See Association, Friendship, etc.)

Comradeship, difficult between par-
ents and children, 89. (See As-
sociation, etc.)

Concession : weakening the mind,
147; national, 148; feminine lik-
ing, 175.

Confessional, the: influencing wo-
men, 201-203; a supposititious
compulsion, 281. (See Religion,
etc)

Confirmation, priestly connection
with, 185. (See Women.)

Confusion: (Essay XX.), 280-294;
masculine and feminine, 280; po-
litical, 280-284; rebels and re-
formers, 280; private and public
libertv, 281; Radicals, 282; ego-
lite, 283; religious, 284, 285; Phi-

408

INDEX.

listines and Bohemians, 285-287;
confounding people with their &s-
sociates, 287, 288; vocations, 288,
289 ; persons, 290 ; foreign build-
ings, 291 ; inducing calumny,
292; caused by insufficient analy-
sis, 292, 293;' about inventions,
293; result of carelessness, indo-
lence, or senility, 293, 294.

Consolation, of clergj'', 179-183.
(See Religion.)

Construing, different from reading,
154. (See Languages.)

Continent, the: family ties, 63;
friendship broken by marriage,
116 ; religious liberality, 173;
marriage, 184 ; flowers, 188, 189 ;
confessional, 202, 203; exagger-
ation, 234, 235 ; table-manners of
travellers, 240-252 y^awiVn ; drink-
ing-places, 262. (See France, etc.)

Controversy, disliked, xiii.

Conventionality: affecting person-
ality, 15-17 ; genteel ignorance
engendered by, 260-262. (See
Courtesy^ Manners, etc.)

Conversation : chance, 26 ; com-
pared with literature, 29 ; study
of languages?, 156 ; at table d'hote,
239-249 ; among strangers, 247-
252 2)assim ; useless to quote, 291 ;
Goldsmith's enjoyment, 309.

Convictions, our own to be trusted,
iii, iv.

Copenhagen, battle, 327.

Cornhill Magazine, Lever's article,
259,. 260.

Corot (Jean Baptiste Camille), his
Bohemianism, 310, 311.

Correspondence : akin to periodi-
cals, 30 ; Belgian letters, 153 ;
Courtesy of Epistolary Communi-
cation (Essay XXII.), 315-335 ;
introductions and number of let-
ters, 316 ; promptness, 317, 318 ;
Plumptou Letters, 318-323 ; brev-
ity, 324 ; telegraphy and abbre-
viations, 325 ; sealing, 326, 327 ;
peculiar stationery, 328 ; post-
cards, 329 ; un mot a la paste,
330 ; brevity and hurry, 331 ;
handwriting, 332 ; crossed lines,
ink, type-writers, 333 ; dictation,
outside courtesy, 334 ; to reply or
not reply ? 335 ; Letters of Friend-
ship (Essay XXIII.), 336-353 ; a

supposed gain to friendship, 336 ;
neglected, 337 ; impediments, 338;
French cards, 339 ; abandonment
to be regretted, 340 ; letter-writing
a gift, 341 ; real self wanted in
letters, 342 ; letters of business
and friendship, 343 ; familiarity
best, 344 ; lengthy letters, 345;
Byron's, 346-348 ; Jacquemont's,
349; the Rdmusat letters, 350 ;
Bernardo Tasso's, Montaigne's,
350; perils of plain speaking, 352,
353; Letters of Business (Essay
XXIV.), 354-369 ; differences of
talent, 354 ; repeated perusals,
355 ; refuge of timidity, 356 ;
letters exposed, literary faults,
omissions, 357 : directions misun-
derstood, 358, 359 ; acknowledg-
ing orders, 361; slovenly writing,
one subject in each letter, 362 ;
misunderstanding through igno-
rance, 363 ; in foreign languages,
364 ; conventional slang, 365 ;
careful reading necessary, 366 ;
unopened letters, 367 ; epistles
half-read, 368 ; a stupid error,
369 ; Anonvmous Letters (Essay
XXV.), 370-382; common, 370 ;
slanderous, 371 ; vehicle of cal-
umny, 872 ; written to betrothed
lovers, 373 ; story, 374 ; written
in collaboration and with pains,

375 ; an expected grandchild,

376 ; torture and threats, 377 ;
kindly and critical, 378-382.

Corvee: allusion, 342 ; detinition,
389, 390, 396, 397. (See Amuse-
ments.)

Cottage, love in a, 35, 36.

Court-circulars, 166, 167.

Courtesy: its forms, 127-129 ; id-
ioms, 157 ; in Epistolarv Commu-
nication (Essay XXII. )\ 315-335 ;
in what courtesy consists, 315 ;
the act of writing, phrases, 316 ;
promptitude^ 317 ; instance of
procrastination, 317,318; illus-
trations, in the Plumpton Corre-
spondence, of ancient courtesy,
318-323, 331 ; consists in modern
brevity', 324 ; foreign forms, 325 ;
bv telegraph, 326 ; in little things,
327; in stationery, 328; affected
bv postal cards, 329, 330 ; iu
cfiirography, 331, 332 j affected

INDEX.

409

by tTpe-writers, 333 ; for show
merely, 334 ; requiring answers,
335. (See Manners, ClasseSf etc.)

Cousins : French proverb, general
relationship, 72 ; lack of friendly
interest, 74. (See Brothers, etc.)

Creuzot, French foundry, 272.

Cricket : not played in France, 272;
author's dislike, 398. ( See Amuse-
menfs.)

Crimean War, caused by ignorance,
278. (See War.)

Criticism : intolerant of certain feat-
ures in books, 89 ; in Byron's
letters, 347 ; in anonymous letters,
379 ; explained by a date, 381.

Cromwell, Oliver, contrasted with
his son, 96.

Culture and Philistinism, 285-287.

Customs : upheld by clergj', 197,
198; amusements changed into,
383, 384, 389. (See Ceremonies,
Courtesy, Rank, etc.)

Daily News, London, illustration
of natural law vs. religion, xii.

Dancing : French quotation about,
31 ; religious aversion, 123 ; not
compulsory to the poor, 388. (See
Amusements, etc.)

Dante, his subjects, 192.

Daughters, their respectful and im-
pertinent letters, 319-321. (See
Fathers, Sens, Women, etc.)

Death: termination of intercourse,
X, xi; from love, 39; Byron's
lines, 50; ingratitude expressed
in a will, 69; of wife's relations,
73; of Friendship (Essay VIII.),
110-118; not personal, 110; of
a French gentleman, 182 ; priestly
connection with, 184-186, 203;
of absent friends, 338; French
customs J 339; silence, 340.
(See P nests, Religion.)

Debauchery, destructive of love, 34.

Deference, why liked, 122. (See
Rank, etc.)

Deism, confounded with Atheism,
257. (See God, Religion, etc.)

Delos, oracle of, 229.

Democracies, illustration of broken
friendships, 114, 115.

Democracy: accusation of, 131;
confounded with Dissent, 257.
(See Nationality, etc.)

Denmark, the crown-prince of, 327.

Dependence, of one upon all, 12.

De Saussiire, Horace Benedict, his
life study, 230, 231.

Despotism, provincial and social,
17. (See Tyranny.)

De Tocqueville, Alexis Charles
Henri Clerel: allusion, 147 ;
translation, 152; on English
unsociability (Essay XVII.), 239-
^2 passim'

Devil: priestly opposition, 195;
belief in agency, 224; God's
relatioi to, 228. (See Clergy,
Superstitim, Religion, etc.)

Devonshire, TEng., its beauty, 270.

Dickens, Charles : his middle-^lass
portraitures, 20; his indebtedness
to the poor, 22; humor, 72.

Dictionary, references, 155. (See
Languages.)

Diderot, Denis, Goldsmith's inter-
view, 309.

Dignity, to be mamtained in middle-
life, 117.

Diminution, habit in art and life
rEssay XVI.), 232-238. (See
Exaggeration.)

Diogenes, his philosophy, 127.

Discipline: of children, 78-98 joa«-
sim; delegated, 83; mental, 208;
of self, 308.

Dbcord, the result of high taste, 6.

Dishonesty, part of Bohemianism,
296.

Disraeli, Benjamin, female esti-
mate, 380.

Dissenters : French estimate, 18, 19;
English exclusion, 19, 256; lib-
erty in religion, 164, 165; posi-
tion not compulsory, 170; small
towns, 171-173. (See Church of
England, etc.)

Dissipation: among working-men,
124: in France, 272, 273. (See
Wine, etc.)

Distinctions forgotten (Essay XX.).
280-294 pasfiiwi. (See Conjusi'm.)

Divorce, causes of, 38. (See Mai'^
riage, Women, etc.)

Dobeil, Sidnev, social exclusion,
19.

Dog,, rifle compared to, 392. (See
Amusements!)

Dominicans, dress, 189. (See jRe-
ligion, etc.)

410

INDEX.

Dominoes in France, 273. (See
Amusementi.'j

Don Quixote, illustration of pater-
nal satire, 97.

Dor(5, GuPtave, his kind and long
letter, 345.

Double, Leopold, home, 142.

Dover Straits, 337.

Drama: power of adaptation, 72;
amateur actors, 143.

Drawing: a French church, 23, 24;
aid to business letters, 363, 364.
(See PainterSf etc.)

Dreams, outgrown, 60.

Dress: connection with manners,
126, 127; ornaments to indicate
wealth, 131; feminine interest,
187; clerical vestments, 187,
188, 198; sexless, 202, 203; of
the Philistines, 297, 298; Bohe-
mian, 304-307, 313, 314. (See
Women.)

Driving, sole exercise, 302.

Drunkenness: part of Bohemian-
ism, 296; in best society, 297.
(See Table, Wine, etc.)

Duelling, French, 273.

Du Maurier, George, his satire on
coffee-dealers, 133, 134.

Dupont. Pierre, song about wine,
268, 269, 272.

Ear, learning languages by, 156.
(See Languages.)

Easter: allusion, 198; confession,
281.

Eccentricity: high intellect, 56; in
an artist, 307 ; claims indul-
gence, 387.

Eclipse, superstitious view, 215-217,
229.

Economy, necessitated by marriage,
26. (See Wealth.)

Edinburgh Review, editor, 152.

Editor, a procrastinating corre-
spondent, 317.

Education: similarity, 10; affect-
ing idiosyncrasy, * 13 ; conven-
tional, 15; effect upon humor,
20 ; literary, derived from the
poor, 22; affected by change in
filial obedience, 80-88; home, 81
et seq. ; authority of teachers, 81,
83 ; divergence ' of parental and
filial, 84; special efforts, 85; di-
vergent, 90-92 ; profoimd lack of,

91 ; never to be thrown off, 92 ; of
hospitalitv, 99, 100 ; the effect on
all religion (Essay XV.), 215-231
passim ; knowledge of languages,
245; of Tasso family, 350, 351.
(See Languages^ etc.)

I-Sypt* Suez Canal, xii ; illustra-
tion of school tasks, 85; war of
1882, 222-224, 229.

Eliot, George : hints fi*om the poor,
22; her peculiar relation to Mr.
Lewes, 45, 46, 55, 56 ; often con-
founded with other writers, 290.

Elizabeth, Queen: order about the
marriage of clergy, 200; her
times, 381. (Sec Celibacy.)

Emerson, Ralph Waldo : the dedi-
cation, iii, IV ; anecdote of Na-
poleon, 367.

Ei^land: newspaper reports, 41; a
French woman's knowledge of,
107 ; respect for rank, 136 ; title-
worship, 137; estimate of wealth,
144-146 ; slavery to houses, 145 ;
French ideas slowly received,
150; religious freedom, 164-168,
172 ; two religions for the nobil-
ity, 169, 170, 173 ; a most relent-
less monarch, 180; women dur-
ing reign of Charles II., 181 ; mar-
riage rites, 184, 185 ; aristocracy,
246; A Remarkable Peculiarity
(Essay XVII.), 239-252; meeting
abroad, 239; reticence in each
other's compain^ 240; anecdotes,
241, 242; dread of intrusion,
243, 244; freedom with foreign-
ers and with compatriots, 245;
not a mark of aristocracj^, 246;
fear of meddlers, 247; interest
in rank, 248; reticence outgrow^n,
249; Lever's illustration, 250;
exceptions, 251 ; Saxon and Nor-
man influence, 251, 252 ; Dissent-
ers ignored, 256, 257; general
information, 263 ; French igno-
rance of art and literature in,
265-267, 269; game, 268; moun-
tains, 270, 271; landscapes, 270;
Church, 275 ; supposed law about
attending the Mass, 281; homes
longed for, 286 ; the architectural
blunders of tourists, 291 ; Philis-
tine lady, 304; painter and Phi-
listine, 306 ; letters in the fifteenth
and sixteenth centuries, 318-321;

INDEX.

411

use of telegraph, 323; letters short-
ened, 325 ; letter-paper 328; post-
cards, 329, 330; communication
with France, 337 ; trade habits,
361,365; reading of certain books
not compulsory, 378 ; old maids,
381; winter, 399. (See Church
of Engl and y France ^ etc.)

English Language: ignorance of,
a misfortune, 149, 150; familiar
knowledge unusual in France,
151-153; forms of courtesy, 157;
conversation abroad, 240 ; Bohe-
mian^ 295; literature, 305; bad
spelling, 360, 361; no synonym
for corvee y 389; nautical terms,
396. (See England, etc.)

English People: Continental repul-
sion, 7 ; artistic attraction, 8 ;
undervaluation of chance conver-
sations, 26; looseness of family
ties, 63; ashamed of sentiment,
82; feeling about heredity, 93;
one lady's empty rooms, 104;
another's incivility. 106; a mer-
chant's loss of wealth, 121, 122 ;
deteriorated aristocrat, 123; let^
ters by ladies, 153 ; no consoling
power, 182; gentlewomen of for-
mer generation, 205, 206; where
to find inspiriting models, 208;
companions of Prince Imperial,
225 ; understatement a habit,
234-238; a lady's ignorant re-
mark about servants, 258, 259;
ignorance of French mountains,
etc., 270-271; fuel and iron, 272;
universities, 275, 276; patron-
age of Americans, 277; anony-
mous letter to a gentleman, 376.

Ennui: banished hy labor, 32; on
shipboard, 396.

Enterprise, affecting individualism,
14.

Envy, expressed in anonymous
letters, 371.

Epiphany, annual Egyptian cere-
mony, xii. (See Science, Su-
perstition, etc.)

Epithets, English, 235.

Equality: affecting intercourse, 246;
egalitey 282, 283. (See Rank,
Ignorance,)

Equestrianism, affected by rail-
ways, 14.

Etching, Leloir*8 fondness for, 401.

Etheredge, Sir Gteorge, his ribaldry,
181.

Eton College, allusion, 277.

Eugenie, Empress : her influence
over her husband, 176; his re-,
gard, 225.

Europe: vintages, 133; influence
of Littr^, 210; Southern, 240;
allusion, 254 ; Turkey nearly ex-
pelled, 278; latest tliought, 306;
cities, 309; William of Orange,
on complications, 344; commu-
nistic disturbances, 377. (See
England, France, etc.)

Evangelicism, English peculiarities,
123. (See Dissenters, etc.)

Evans, Marian. (See George Eliol.)

Evolution, theory of, 176.

Elxaggeration, the habit in art and
life (Essay XVI.), 232-238. (See
Diminution,)

Exercise: love of, 14; in the young
and the old, 86, 87. (See Amuse-
ments.)

Experience: value, 30; needed to
avoid dangers in letter-writing,
352.

Extravagance: part of Bohemian-
ism, 295 ; Goldsmith's, 310.

Family: Ties (Essay V.), 63-77;
looseness in England, 63; broth-
erljr coolness, 64; domestic jeal-
ousies, 65 ; laws of primogeniture,
66; instances of strong attach-
ment, 67; illustrations of kind-
ness, 68 ; pecuniary relations, 69 ;
Earsimony, 70; discomfort ot Te-
nement, 71 ; cousins, 72; wife's
relations, 73; indifference to the
achievements of kindred, 74; aid
from relatives, domestic rudeness,
75; brutality, misery, 76; homo
privations, 77 ; Fathers and Sons
(Essay VI.), 78-98; intercourse,
to be distinguished from individ-
ual, 119, 120; rich friends, 121;
false, 122; children's marriages,
123; old, 135, 136; clerical, 199,
200; subjects of letters, 205; re-
gard of Napoleon III., 225. (See
Brothers, Sons, etc.)

Fashion, transient, 307.

Fathers: separated from children
by incompatibility, 10; by irasci-
bility, 75 ; by brutality of tongue.

412

INDEX.

76; and Sons (Essay VI.}, 78-08;
unsatisfactory relation, interreg-
num, 78; old and new feelings
and customs, 79; commanding,
80; exercise of authority, 81;
Mill's experience, 82; abdication
of authority', 83; personal edu-
cation of sons, 84, 85; mistakes
of middle-age, 86; outstripped
by sons, 87; intimate friendship
impossible, 88 ; differences of age,
89 ; divergences of education and
experience, 90, 91; opinions not
hereditary, 92, 93 ; the attempted
controlof marriage, 94; Peter the
Great and Alexis, 95 ; other illus-
trations of discord, 96; satire and
disregard of personality, 97 ; true
foundation of paternal associa-
tion, 98; death of a French par-
ent, 182; a letter, 319-322.

Favor, fear of loss, 147.

Ferdinand and Isabella, religious
freedom in their reign, 164.

Fiction: love in French, 41; absorb-
ing theme, 42; in a library, 305.

Fletcher, Thomas, firearms made
by, 391, 392.

Florence, Italy, pestilence, 222.

Flowers: illustration, 179; church
use, 188; Flower Sunday, 189.
(See Womeny etc.)

Fly, artificial, 377.

Fog, English, 270.

Foreigners: associations with, 7;
view of English family life, 63;
in travelling-conditions (Essay
XVII. ), 239-252 /?a5Stm; associa-
tion leads to misapprehension,
287; in England, 291.

Fox-hunting, 180, 398, 399. (See
AmusementSj Sports^ etc.)

France: a peasant's outlook, xii;
social despotism in small cities,
17-19 ; pleasant associations in a
cathedral city, 23, 24; political
criticism, 115; noisy card-plaj'-
ers, 128, 129; disregard of titles,
136, 137; adage about riches,
146; English ideas slowly re-
ceived, travel in Southern, 150;
religious freedom, 165 ; marriage,
184; railway accident, 218-220;
the Imperialists, 225 ; feudal fash-
ions, 246; obstinacy of the old
regime, 254-256; mountains, 271;

vigor of young men, 272, 273;
universities, 275, 276; equality
attained by Revolution, 283";
bourgeois complaint of news-
papers, 286; mineral oil, 288;
confusion of tourists, 291 ; Gold-
smith's travels, 309, 310; land-
scape painter, 310 ; end of Plump-
ton familv, 323 ; use of telegraph,
323; letters shortened, 325; let-
ter-paper, 328; post-cards, 330;
chirography, 332; New Year's
cards, 339*; carto7i non bitumej
,358, 359; habits of tradesmen,
360, 361, 365; the Salon, 367; old
maids, 381; a corvee, 389, 390;
Leloir the painter, 401. (See
Continent^ etc.)

Fraternity, fratemitef 282, 283.
(See Brothers.)

Freedom : national, 279 ; public and
private liberty confounded, 281,

French Language: teaching, 86;
ignorance a misfortune, 149, 150;
rare knowledge of, by English-
men, 151, 152; letters by Eng-
lish ladies, 153 ; forms of courtesy,
157; prayers, 158; as the uni-
versal tongue, 158, 159; English
knowledge of, 245; univers, 273,
274. (See Languar/es.)

French People : excellence in paint-
ing, and relations to Americans
and English, 7 ; an ideal of oood
form, 15; old conventionality,
16-18 ; love in fiction, 41; family
ties, 63; proverb about cousins,
72; unbelieving sons, 93; bour-

feois table manners formerly,
01, 102; state apartments, 105;
incivility towards, at an English
table, 106 ; girls, 106 ; a woman's
clever retort, 107 ; literature con-
demned by wholesale, 147; royal
daily life, 167; power of conso-
lation, 382; examples of virtue,
208; old nobility, 209; Buffon
and Littrd, 209-211 ; hxzard pro-
videntiel, 227; painters, 232, 233;
overstatement, 234, 235; socia-
bilitj' with strangers contrasted
with the English want of it (Es-
say XVII.), 239-252 passim; a
widow and suite, 242, 243; dis-
creet social habits, 247, 248; a

INDEX.

413

disregard of titles, 248 ; a weak
question about fortune, 259; ig-
norance of English matters, 265-
270; wine-song, 268, 269; fuel
and iron, 271, 272 ; seeming van-
ity of language, 273, 274; con-
ceit cured b}' war, 278 ; commun-
ist dreamers, 284; proverb, 287;
confusion of persons^ 290.

Friendship: supposed impossible in
a given case, viii, ix; real, x;
how formed, 4; not confined to
the same class, 5; affected by
art and religion, 6 ; by taste and
nationality, 7, 8; by likeness,
8; with those with whom we
have not much in common, 9, 10 ;
affected by incompatibility, 10;
Byron's comparison, 80; affect-
ing illicit love, 41 ; akin to mar-
riage, 48; elective affinity, 76;
Death of (Essay VUL), 110-118;
sad subject, no resurrection, de-
finition, 110; boyish alliances,
growth, 111; personal changes,
112; differences of oi)inion, 113;
of prosperity, financial, profes-
sional, political, 114; habits, mar-
riage, 115 ; neglect, poor and rich,
116; equality not essential, ac-
ceptance of kindness, new ties,
117; intimacy easily destroyed,
118; affected'by wealth (Essays
IX., X.), 119-147 passim; by
language, 149; between Priests
and Women (Essay XIII.), 175-
204 passim; torme'd with stran-
gers, 251 ; leads to misunderstood
opinions, 287, 288; disturbed bv
procrastination, 317; Lettera of,
(Essay XXIII.), 336-353; infre-
quency, 336; obstacles, 337; the
sea a barrier, 338 ; aid of a few
words at New Year's, 339 ; death-
like silence, 340; charm of man-
ner not always carried into letters,
341; excluded by business, 342;
cooled by reproaches, 343; all
topics interesting to a friend,
344; affection overflows in long
letters, 345-351 ; fault-finding
dangerous, 352, 353; journeys
saved, 360. (See AssociaiioUj
Companionship^ Family, etc.)

Fruit, ignorance about English,
269, 270.

Fruition, pleasure of, 400.

Fuel, French, 272.

Furniture: feminine interest in,
187 ; regard and disregard (Essay
XXL), 295-314 passim; Gold-
smith's extravagance, 310. (See
Women.)

Gambetta, his death, 225.

Game; in England, 267, 268, 270;
elephant and hippopotamus, 392.
(See Sports.)

Games, connection with amusement,
385, 397. (See Cards^ etc.)

Garden, illustration. 9.

Gascoyne, William, letters, 318, 319.

Grenerosity : affecting familv ties,
69, 70; of a Philistine, 30f.

Geneva Lake, as seen by different
eyes, 230, 231.

Genius, enjoyment of, 303.

Gentility : (jenteel Ignorance (Es-
say XVIIL), 253-263 ; an ideal
condition, 253 ; misfortune, 254 ;
French noblesse, 255 ; ignores
differing forms of religion, 256,
257 ; poverty, 258 ; inferior finan-
cial conditions, 259, 260 ; real dif-
ferences, 261 ; genteel societv
avoided, 262 ; because stupia,
263.

Geography : London Atlas, 274 ;
work of Reclus, 291. (See Igno-
ranee.)

Geology, allusion, 166. (See Sci-
ence')

George III., colonial tenure, 279.

Germany : models of virtue, 208 ;
hotel fashions, 244 ; a Bohemian
and scholar, 304-^06.

German Language, English knowl-
edge, 245.

Gladstone, William E. : the probable
effect of a French training, 17, 18 ;
indebtedness to trade, 135 ; Loi^dy
137 ; foreign troubles ending in
inkshed, 150 ; allusion, 241 ; use
of post-cards, 335 ; female esti-
mate, 380.

Glasgow, steamer experience, 25.

Gloucester, Eng., manufactory of
rifles, 391, 392.

God : of the future, 177 ; personal
care, 178, 179; against wicked-
ness, 180; Divine love, 178-181,
186, 187 ; interference with law

414

INDEX,

(Essay XV.), 215-231 passim;
human motives, 228. (See Reli-
gion, etc.)

Gods : our valors the best, 177 ;
siege of Syracuse, 215-217. (See
Superstition.)

Godwin, Marj-, relations to Shellev,
46-48.

Goethe: Faust's Margaret, 39 ; re-
lation to women, 46, 50, 56, 57 ;
Life, 244.

Gold: in embroiderv to indicate
wealth, 131 ; color,' 232, 233.

Goldsmith, Oliver, his Bohemian-
ism, 309, 310.

Gormandizing, 103. (See Table.)

Government : feminine, 176 ; scien-
tific, 229.

Grammar: French knowledge of,
152 ; rival of literature, 154 ; in
correspondence, 356, 357. (See
Larif/uageSf etc.)

Gratitude : a sister's w^ant of, 69 ;
hospitality not reciprocated, 122.

Greece : Bvron's enthusiasm, 50,
57 ; story of Nikias, 215-217 ;
advance of knowledge, 230 ; By-
ron's notice of a book, 348.

Greek Church : Czar's headship,
168 ; the only true, 258. (See
Church of England f etc.)

Greek Language : teaching, 84 ; fit-
ness as the universal language,
158, 159 ; in the Renaissance,
212 ; professorship and librarv,
287 ; doggerel, 400. (See Lan-
guages.)

Groom, true happmess in a stable,
343.

Guests : Rights of (Essay VII.),
99-109 ; respect, exclu'siveness,
99 ; two views, 100 ; conformity
insisted upon, 101 ; left to choose
for himself, 102; duties towards
a host, generous entertainment,

103 ; parsimonious treatment,

104 ; illustrations, ideas to be
respected, 105 ; nationality also,
107 ; a host the ally of his guests,

107 ; discourtesy towards a host,

108 ; illustration, 109 ; among rich
and poor, 140-144.

Guiccioli, Countess, her relations to

Bvron, 49, 50.
Guillotine, Byron's description, 347.
Gulliver's Travels, allusion, 261.

Gymnastics : by young French-
men, 272; aristocratic monopoly,
283. (See Amusements^ etc.)

Habits : in language, 157 ; French
discretion, 247, 248.

Hamerton, Philip Gilbert: indebted-
ness to Emerson, iii, iv ; plan of
the book, vii-ix ; omissions, ix ;
the pleasures of friendship, x ; on
death, x, xi; a liking for civili-
zation and all its amenities, xii;
thoughts in French travel, 17 et
seq. ; pleasant experience in study-
ing French architecture, 23, 24;
conversation in Scotland, 24, 25 ;
in a steamer, 25, 26 ; acquaintance
with a painter, 28 ; belief in Na-
ture's promises, 60 et seq. ; what
a sister said, 65 ; the love of two
brothers, 67 ; delightful experi-
ence with wife's relations, 73 ;
experience of hospitable tyranny,
100 tt seq.] Parisian dinner, 10^;
experience with friendship, 113 ;
noisy French farmers, 128, 129 ;
Scotch dinner, 131 ; country inci-
dpnt, 139, 140 ; questioning a
Parisian lady, 152 ; Waterloo
letters, 156 ; how Italian seems
to him, 155 ; incident of Scotch
tiavel, 173 ; visit to a bereaved
French lady, 182 ; travel in
France, 219 ; lesson from a
painter, 232; snubbed at a hotel,
240-242; a French widow on her
travels, 242, 243; a lady's igno-
rance about religious distinctions,
257 ; personal anecdotes about ig-
norance between the English and
French, 265-279 passim ; transla-
tions into French, 267; Puseyite
anecdote, 284, 285 ; conversations
heard, 2^1 ; boat incident, 292,
293; life-portraits, 300-308; ex-
perience with procrastinators,
317, 318 ; residence in Lancashire,
318; interest in Plumpton familv,
323, 324; telegraphing a letteV,
326; experience with un mot a,
la poste^ 830; his boat wrongly
painted, 359; his Parisian corre-
spondent, 360, 361 ; efforts to en-
sure accuracy, 368, 369 ; a strange
lady's anxiety for bis religious
condition, 378 ; his Wenderholmc,

INDEX.

415

378 ; anonymous letter answered,
379-382 ; clislike of cricket, 398.

Harewood, Earl of, 323.

Haste, connection with refinement
and wealth, 125, 126. (See Lei-
sure,)

Hastings, Marquis of, his elope-
ment, 321.

Haweis, H. R., sermon on Egyptian
war, 224.

Hedges : English, 270, 271 ; sleep-
ing under, 307.

Hell, element in oratory, 192, 193.
(See Priests.)

Heredity, opinions not always he-
reditary, 92-97.

Heresy : banishment for, 161 ; dis-
abilities, 162 el seq. ; punishment
by fire, 180 ; pulpit attack, 192 ;
shades iti, 257, 258 ; resistance to
God, 284. (See Roman Catholi-
cism^ etc.)

Highlanders, their rowing, 154.

Hirst, Eng., letters from, 320, 321.

Histor}', French knowledge of, 152.

Holland, Goldsmith's travels, 309.

Home : Family Ties (Essay V.), 62-
77; a hell, 76; crowded, 77; ab-
sence affecting friendship, 111;
French, 142; English (Essay X.),
130-147 passim ; the confessional,
202; nostalgia, 288.

Homer : indebtedness to the poor,
22 ; on the appetite, 103.

Honesty, at a discount, 162, 163,
170.

Honor, in religious confoi-mity,
102.

Horace: familiarity with, 155;
quoted, 289, 361.

Horneck, Mrs., Goldsmith's friend,
310.

Horseback: illustration, 168, 260;
luxury, 298.

Hospitality: (Essay VII.), 99-109;
help to liberty, 99 ; an educator
for right or wrong, 100; opposite
yiews, 100; tyranny over guests,
101; reaction against old cus-
toms, 102; a host's rights, some
extra effort to be expected, 103 ;
disregard of a guest's comfort,
104; instances, opinions to be
respected, 105 ; host should pro-
tect a guest's rights, 106; anec-
dote, 107; inyasion of rights, 108;

glaring instance, 109; affected by
wealth, 140-144; excuse by a
procrastinator, 318. (See Guests.)

Hosts, rights and duties (Essay
VII.) J 99-109 passim, (See
Hospitality.)

Houghton, Lord, his knowledge of
French, 151, 152.

Housekeeping: ignorance of cost,
258, 259; cares, 381.

Houses: effect of living in the
same, ix; big, 145; evolution
of dress, 189; movable, 261, 262;
damage, 358.

Hugo, Victor, use of a word, 273,
274.

Humanity: obligations to, 12; fix-
ture happiness dependent upon
a knowledge of languages, 148
et seq.

Humor: in different classes, 20;
lack of it, 72 ; in using a foreign
language, 157, 158; not carried
into letters and pictures, 340-
342.

Hungarians, their sociability, 249.

Hurry, to be distinguished from
brevity in letter-writing, 331.

Husbands : narration of experience,
25, 26; unsuitable, 40; relations
of noted men to wives, 44-62 pas-
sim; compulsory unions, 94-98;
old-fashioned letter, 322; use of
post-cards, 329, 330 ; privacy of
letters, 350; Montaigne's letter,
351, 352. (See Wives, etc.)

Hut: suggestions of a, 261, 262; for
an artist, 314.

Huxley, Thomas Henry, on natural
law,* 217, 219.

Hypocrisy : to be avoided, xi-xiii ;
in religion (Essay XU.), 161-
VJ\ passim; not a Bohemian vice,
296.

Ibratteem, lost at sea, 226.

Ideas, their interchange dependent
upon language, 148.

Idiosyncrasy: its charm, 9; in art
and authorship, 12, 13; nullified
by travel, 14, 15; affecting mari-
tal happiness, 48-62 passim :
affecting family ties, 64 ; wanted
in letters, 347; in amusements,
389; congenital, 396.

Ignorance : Genteel (Essay XVUI.),

416

INDEX.

253-263; among French roy-
alists, 254, 255 ; in religion,
256, 257; in regard to pecuniary
conditions, 258, 259; ot likeness
and unlikeness, 260, 261; dis-
advantages, 262; drives people
from society, 263 ; Patriotic (Es-
say XIX.), 264-279; a narrow
satisfaction, 264; French igno-
rance of English art, 265, 267;
of English game, 268; of Eng-
lish fruit, 269; English errors as
to mountains, 270, 271 ; fuel,
manly vigor, 272, 273; word
universal f 274; universities, 275,
276 ; literature, 277 ; leads to war,
277, 278 ; not the best patriotism,
279; unavoidable, 301; contented,
302; of i^ntlewomen, 381, 382.
(See Nationality f etc.)

Imagination, a luxury, 300.

Immorality: too easily forgiven in
princes, 168; considered essen-
tial to Bohemianism, 295. (See
Vice.)

Immortality: connection with mu-
sic, 191; menaces and rewards,
193. (See Priests, etc.)

Impartiality, not shown by clergy,
194.

Impediments, to national inter-
course (Essay XL), 148-160.

Impertinence, ease of manner mis-
taken for, 250.

Incompatibility: inexplicable, 10;
one of two great powers deciding
intercourse, 11. (See Friendshij/,
etc.)

Independence: (Essay II.), 12-32;
illusory and real, influence of lan-
guage, 12; illustrations, 13; rail-
way travel destructive to, 14;
conventionality and French ideas
of good form, 15 ; social repres-
sions and London life, 16; local
despotism, 17; the French rural
aristocracy, 18; illustrations and
social, exclusion, 19; humor and
domestic anxiety, society not
essential, 20; palliations to soli-
tude, outside of society, absolute
solitude, 21; rural illustrations,
22; incident in a French town,
23; one in Scotland, 24; on a
steamer, 25; English reticence,
26; an evil of solitude, pursuits

in common, 27; illustration from
Mill, deterioration of an artist,
28; patient endurance, the re-
freshment of books, 29; compan-
ionship of nature, 30 ; consolation
of labor, 31; an objection to this
relief, 32; a fault, 69; of Philis-
tines and Bohemians (Essay
XXL), 295-314 passim, (Se'e
Society, etc.)

Independents, the, in England, 170.

India: a brother's cold farewell,
67; relations of England, 279.

Indians, their Bohemian life, 298,
306.

Individualism, affected by railways,
13-15.

Individuality, reliance upon our
own, iv.

Indolence: destroying friendship,
116; stupid, 197; causes wrong
judgment, 293; part of Bohe-
mianism, 295 ; in ousiness, 356 ;
in reading letters, 366-369.

Indulgences, affecting friendship,
115.

Industry: to be respectedi 132;
professional work, 196; Buffon*8
and Littrd's. 209, 210; ignorance
about English, 265, 266; of a
Philistine, 300; in letter-writing,
356.

Inertia, in middle-life, 302.

Infidelity: affecting political rights,
162, 163; withstood by Dissent,
257.

Ink: dilution to save expense, 333;
red, 369.

Inquisition, the, in Spain, 180.

Inspiration, in Jacquemont's letters,
348.

Intellectuality: a restraint upon
passion, 38; affecting family ties,
73, 74; its pursuits, 127; denied to
England, 265, 266, 267; ambition
for, 283; the accompaniment of
wealth, 297; outside of, 301; en-
joyed, 306.

Intelligence : the supreme, 176, 1,77 ;
connection with leisure, 197.

Intercession, feminine fondness for,
175, 176.

Intercourse. (This subject is so
interwoven with the whole work
that special references are im-
possible.)

INDEX.

417

Interdependence, illustrated by
literary work, 12.

Interviews, compared with letters,
354-357.

Intimacy: mysteriously hindered,
10; with nature, 302.

Intolerance, of amusements, 389.

Intrusion, dreaded by the English,
243, 247.

Inventions, why sometimes mis-
judged, 292, 293.

Irascibility, in parents, 75, 76.

Iron, in France, 272.

Irving, Washington, on Goldsmith,
310.

Isolation: affecting study, 28, 29;
alleviations, 29-31. (See Inde-
pendtnce.)

Italian Language: Latin natural-
ized, 155; merriment in using,
158.

Italy: Byron's sojourn, 50: Goe-
tlie's, 51 , titles and poverty, 136 ;
overstatement a habit, 23*4; pa-
pal government, 255, 256; trav-
elling-vans, 261; alkision, 271;
wiiylive there, 285,286; tourists,
291 •, Goldsmith's travels, 309;
forms in letter-writing, 325.

Jacquemokt, Victor, his letters,
348-350.

James, an imaginary friend, 343,
344.

Jardin des Plantes, Buffon*a work,
209.

Jealousy: national, 7; domestic,
65, youthful, effect of primogeni-
ture, 66; between England and
France, 150; Greece need not
awaken, 159, excited by the con-
fessional, 202, 203 ; in anonymous
letters, 371.

Jerusalem, the Ark lost, 229.

.lewelry: worn by priests, 202; en-
joyment of, 297.

Jews : not the only subjects of use-
ful study, 207, 208, 211; God of
Battles, 224; advance of knowl-
edge, 230. (See Bible.)

John, an imaginary friend, 344,
345.

Jones, an imaginary gentleman,
130.

justice: feminine disregard, 180;
connection with priesthood, 194.

Keble, John, Christian Year, 198.

Kenipis, Thomas &, his great work,
95.

Kenilworth, anecdote, 277.

Kindness, how to be received, 117.

Kindred: affected by incompatibil-
ity, 10; Family Ties (Essay V.),
63 77; given ^y Fate, 75. (See
Sons^ etc.)

Kings: divine right, 255; on cards,
289; courtesy in correspondence,
317; a poetic figure, 386, 387.
(See Rank^ etc.)

Knarsbrugh, Eng.. 320.

Knyghton, Henry, quotation, 251.

Lakes, English, 270.

Lancashire, Eng. : all residents not
in cotton -trade, 288; residence,
318, drinking-habits, 378.

Land-ownership, 131.

Landscape: companionship, 31; ig-
norance about the English, 270.

Languages : as affecting friendship,
7; similarity, 10; influences in-
terdependence, 12; study of for-
eign, 29, 84, 85; ignorance of, an
Obstacle (Essay XL), 148-160;
impediment to national inter-
course, 148 ; mutual ignorance of
the French and English, 149;
commercial advantages, Ameri-
can kinship, 150; an imperfect
knowledge induces reticence, 151 ;
rarity of full knowledge, 152 ; il-
lustrations, lirst stage of learning
a tongue, 153; second, 154; third,
fourth, 155; fifth, leaniing by
ear, 156; absurdities, idioms,
forms of politeness, 157; a uni-
versal speech, 158 ; Greek com-
mended, 159; advantages, 160;
one enough, 301, 305; acquaint-
ance with six, 304; foreign letters,
364, 365.

Latin: teaching, 84; construction
unnatural, 155; in the Renais-
sance, 212; church, 258; proverb,
287; poetr}', 289; in telegrams,
324; Horace, 361? corrogata, 390.

Laws: diflicult to ascertain, viii;
human resignation to, xi; of Hu-
man Intercourse (Essay I.), 3-11;
fixed knowledge difficult, 3; com-
mon belief, 4; similarity of inter-
est, 5; may breed antagonism, 6 ;

27

418

INDEX,

national prejudices, 7; likeness
begets friendship, 8; idiosyncra-
sy and adaptability, 9 ; intimacy
slow, 10 ; law of the pleasure of
human intercourse still hidden,
11; fixed, 179; feminine disre-
gard, 184; quiet tone, 193; regu-
larity and interference (Essay
XV.), 215-231 passim ; legal dis-
tinctions, 280, 281.

Laymen, contrasted with clerg^'',
181, 182.

Lectures, one-sided, 29.

Legouv^, M. : on filial relations, 78 ;
religious question, 93; anecdote
of chirography, 332.

Leisure : its cormection with refine-
ment, 125, 126; varying in differ-
ent professions, 196, 197.

Leloir, Louis, fondness for etching,
401.

Lent, allusion, 198.

Letters. (See Correspondence.)

Lever, Charles: quotation from
That Boy of Norcott's, 249, 250;
finances misunderstood, 259, 260;
boating, 259, 394.

Lewes, (>eorge Henry: relation to
Marian I^vans, 45 ; quotation from
Life of Goethe, 244.

Lewis, Sir Geojrge Cornewall, im-
mortal saying,' 385.

L'Honneur et 1' Argent, quotation.
304, 335.

Liberality: French lack of, 18, 19;
induced by hospitality, 99, 100;
apparent, 173.

Liberty: in religion (Essav XII.),
161-174 ; private and public, 281,
282; liberte, 282, 283; with
friends in letters, 353,

Libraries: value, 286, 287; narrow
specimens, 302.

Lies, at a premium, 162, 163.

Life: companionship for, 44-62; en-
joyed in different ways, 306.

Likeness, the secret of' companion-
ship, 8.

Limpet, an illustration of incivilitv,
108.

Literature: conventional, 15; influ-
ence of the humbler classes, 22,
23; softens isolation, 29, 31;
deaths from love, 39 ; affecting
fraternity, 64 ; youthful nonsense
not tolerated in books, 89 ; supe-

riority to mercenary motives, 132 ;
advantages of mutual national
knowledge, 149-153; rivals in its
owa domain, 154 ; not necessarily
religious, 198; English periodical,
237; ignorance about English,
267; and Philistinism, 286, 287;
. singleness of aim, 289; English,
305 ; not an amusement, 400.

Littr^, Maximilien Paul il^mile, his
noble life, 209-211.

Livelihood, anxiety about, 20.

London : mental independence, 16-
18; soliUide needless, 20; Mill's
rank, 56; old but new, 136;
Flower Sunday, 189; pestilence
improbable, 222; The Times, 244;
centre of English literature, 267;
business time" contrasted with that
of Paris, 273; buildings, 291;
Palmer leaving, 310; cabman,
335; a famous Londoner, 399.

Lottery, illustrative of* kinship, 75.

Louis 11., amusements, 386-388.

Louis XVIIL, impiety, 167.

Louvre : English art excluded, 267;
confounded with other buildings,
291.

Love: of nature, 30; Passionate (Es-
say III.), 33-43; nature, blindness,
33; not the monopoly of youth,
debaucher}'^, 34; permanence not
assured, 35; " in a cottage," per-
ilous to happiness, socially lim-
ited, 36 ; restraints, higher and
lower, 37; varieties, selfishness,
in intellectual people, 38; poetic
subject, dying for, 39 ; old maids,
unlawful 'in married people, 40;
French fiction, early marriage re-
pressed by civilization, 41; pas-
sion out of place, the endless song,
42; natural correspondences and
Shelley, 43; in marriage, 44-62;
some family illustrations, 63-77;
wife's relations, 73 ; paternal and
filial (Essay VI.), 78-98 passim;
between friends (Essay VIII.),
110-118; divine, 178,179; family,
205. (See Brothers, Family j
etc.)

Lowell, James Russell, serious hu-
mor, 20.

Lower Classes, the : English rural,
22; rudeness, 75; religious privi-
leges, 170, 171.

INDEX.

419

Luxury, material, 298. (See Phi-

lisiinism.)
Lyons, France, the Academy, 275.

Macaulay, T. B., quotations, 181,
200, 224, 344, 345.

Macleod, Dr. Norman, his sym-
• pathy, 186, 187.

Magistracy, French, 283.

Mahometauism, as affecting inter-
course, 5.

Malice: harmless, 269; in letters,
371-377.

Manchester, Eng., life there, 31.

Manners; affected by wealth, 125-
129 ; by leisure, 197 ; by aristoc-
racy, 2*46. (See Courtesy ^ etc.)

Manufactures: under fixed law,
228; ignorance about English,
265, 266, 268.

Marriage : responsibility increased,
25, 26; or celibacy? 34; Shel-
ley's, does not assure love, 35;
following love, 36; irregular, 37;
restraints of superior intellects,
38; love outside of, 40; early
marriage restrained hy civiliza-
tion, 41; philosophy of this, 42;
Companionship in*(Essay IV.),
44-62; life-journey, 44; aliena-
tions for the sake* of intellectual
companionship, 45; illustrations,
46, 47; mistakes not surprising,
48; Bvron, 49, 50; Goethe, 51,
62; Mill, 53, 54; difficulty in
finding true mates, 55; excep-
tional cases not discouraging, 56;
easier for ordinary people, 57;
inequality, 58 ; hopeless tranquil-
litv, 59; youthful dreams dis-
pelled, 60; Nature's promises,
how fulfilled, 61; "I thee wor-
ship," 62; wife's relations, 73;
filial obedience, 94-97; destroy-
ing friendship, 115 ; affecting
personal wealth, 119 ; social treat-
ment, 120; of children, 123; ef-
fect of royal religion, 166; and
of lower-class, 171; civil and
religious, 184, 185; clerical, 196,
198-201; of absent friends, 338;
French customs, 339 ; Montaigne's

. sentiments, 351, 352; slanderous

attempts to prevent, 371-375 ;

household cares, 381 ; breakfasts,

, 385, 386. (See W(men, etc.) {

Mask, a simile, 370.
Mediocrity, dead level of, 236.
Mediterranean Sea, allusion, 399.
Meissonier, Jean Ernest Louis, his

talent, 284.
Melbourne, Bishop of, 221.

Men, choose for themselves, 197.
(See Marriage y Sons, Women,
etc.)

Mephistopheles, allusion, 235.

Mercliants, connection with national
peace, 149, 150.

Merimte, Prosper, Correspondence,
321.

Metalhirgj'-, under fixed law, 228.

Methodists, the-: in England, 170;
h^-mns, 257.

Michelet, Jules.' on the Church, 189,
190; on the confessional, 202, 203.

Middle Classes: Dickens's descrip-
tions, 20; rank of some authors,
56; domestic rudeness, 75; table
customs, 103^ religious freedom,
170; clerical mferences, 183. (See
ClasseSy Lower Class^ etc.)

Mignet, Francois Auguste Marie :
friendship with Thiers, 120 ; con-
dition, 121.

Military Life: illustration, 21; fil-
ial obedience, 80; religion, 123;
religious confonnity, 169 ; an-
tagonistic to toleration, 173, 174 ;
French, 272; allusion, 300, 307.

Mill, John Stuart: social affinities,
20; aversion to unintellectual so-
ciety, 27, 28 ; relations to women,
63-55; social rank, 56; education
by his father, 81-84; on friend-
snip, 112, 113; on sneering de-
preciation, 237; on English con-
duct towards strangers, 245 ; on
social stupidity, 263.

Milnes, Richard. Monckton. (See
Loi'd Houghton.)

Milton, John, Palmer's constant in-
terest, 313.

Mind, weakened by concession, 147.

Misanthropy, appearance of, 27.

Montaigne, Michel: marriage, 59;
letter to wife, 351, 352.

Montesquieu, Baron, allusion, 147.

Months, trade terms for, 365.

Morris, Lewis, A Cynic's Day-
dream, 393.

Mothers, " loud-tongued," 75. (See
Children^ Women, etc.)

420

INDEX.

Mountains: climbing affected by
railways, 14 ; quotation from
Byron* 30 ; in pictures, 43 ; glory
in England ana France, 270, 271 ;
Mont Blanc, where situated,
271.

Mozart, Johann Chrvsostom Wolf-
gang Amadeus, allusion, 289.

Muloch, Dinah Maria, confounded
with George Eliot, 290.

Music : detached from religion, xii,
xiii; voice of love, 42; affecting
fraternity, 64; connection with
religion,*191; illustration of har-
mony, 389.

Nagging, by parents, 76.

Napoleon I. :*and the Universe, 273,
274; privations, 308; mot of the
Pope, 341 ; Rt-musat letters, 350.

Napoleon III.: death, son, 225; ig-
norance of German power, 278;
losing Sedan, 308.

Nationalitv: prejudices, 7; to be
respected at table, 106, 107; dif-
ferent languages an obstacle to
intercourse (Essay XI.), 148-160;
mutual ignorance (Essay XIX.),
264-279 »fl.<?s/wi.

National Gallery, London, 291.

Nature: compensations, iv; causes,
xii; laws not deducible from
single cases, 4; inestimable gifts,
26; beauty an alleviation of soli-
tude, loyalty, 30, 31; opposed
to civilization in love-matters,
41; universality of love, 42, 43;
promises fulfilled, 60-62; revival
of studv, 212 ; laws fixed (Essay
XV.), 2*15-231 paitsim; De Saus-
sure's study, 2-JO, 231 ; expressed
in painting, 232, 233; nearness,
303-314 passim ; her destrovers,
393.

Navarre, King Henry of, 224.

Navv, a young officer's acquain-
tance, 25, 26.

Neglect, destro3''s friendship, 116.

Nclj-rin, Lord: the navv in his time,
^i); letter in battle,* 327, 328.

Necvea, affected by rudeness, 128,
liliK

Nt'iv^ England, a blond native, 240.

Newspapers: on nature and the
su|iematural, xii; adultery re-
ports in English, 41; personal

interest, 124; regard for titles,
137; quarrels between En^ish
and American, 150 ; reading,
156; on royalty, 166, 167 ; deaths
in, 225 ; English and French sub-
servience to rank, 248; a bour-
geois complaint, 286 ; crossing
the seas, 337, 338.

New Year's, French customs, 339.

Niagara Rapids, 290.

Night, Palmer's watches, 312.

Nikias, a militarv leader, his su-
perstition, 215-217, 229.

Nineteenth Centurv, earlier half,
205, 206.

Nobilitj'^: the English have tw^o
churches to choose from, 169-
171, 173; opposition to Dissent,
256, 257.

Nonconformity, English, 256, 257.
(See Dissent J etc.)

Normans, influence of the Conquest,
251, 252.

Oaths, no obstacle to hypocrisy,
162.

Obedience, filial (Essay VI.), 78-98.

Observation, cultivated, 290, 291.

Obstacles: of Language, between
nations (Es?avXl.). 148-160; of
Religion (Ess*ay XII ), 161-174.

Occupations, easily confused, 288,
289.

Oil, mineral, 288.

Old Maids, defence, 379-382.

Olympus, unbelief in its gods, 162.

Oman, sea of, 226.

Opinions : not the result of volition,
xiii; of gUests to be respected,
105, 106; changes affecting friend-
ship, 112, 113.

Orange, William of, correspond-
ence, 344, 345.

Oratoiy, connection with religion,
xii, 191-195.

Order of the Universe, to be trust-
ed, iii.

Originality: seen in authorship, 12;
how hindered and helped, 13, 14 ;
French estimate, 15.

Orthodoxy, t>laced on a level with
hypocri'sy, 162, 163.

Ostentation, to be shunned in
amusements, 401.

Oxford: opinion of a learned doc-
tor about Christ's divinity, 6;

INDEX.

421

Shelley^s expulsion, 96; ks an-
tiquity, 276, 276.

Paganism: hypocrisy, and pre-
fennent, 162; gods and wars,
224,

Paget, Lady Florence, curt letter,
321.

Pain, feminine indifference to, 180.

Painters: taste in travel, 14; de-
terioration of a, 28 ; discovering
new beauties, 60; Corot, 310, 311;
Palmer, 312; one in adversit}',
314 ; gayety not in pictures,
341 ; sketches in letters, 345; of
boats, 359; lack of business in
French painter, 367, 368; idle
sketches, 400; Leloir, 401.

Painter's Camp in the Highlands,
379.

Painting: fondness for it a cause
of discord, 6 ; French excellence,
8; interdependence, 13; high
aims, 28; palpitating with love,
43 ; affecting fraternity, 64 ;
none in heaven, 191; not ne-
cessarily religious, 198; copies,
203; two methods, 232, 233;
convenient building, 261; igno-
rance about English, 265-267;
not merely an amusement, 400,
(See Ai% etc.)

Paleontolog}^, allusion, 206.

Palgrave, Gifford, saved from ship-
wreck, 226-228.

Palmer, George, a speech, 223.

Palmer, Samuel, his Bohemianism,
312, 313.

Palmer, William, in Russia, 257,
258.

Paper, used in correspondence,
328.

Paradise: the arts in, 191; affecting
pulpit oratory, 193. (See Priests. )

Paris : an artistic centre, 8 ; in-
civility at a dinner, 107; effect
of wealth, 121 ; elegant house,
142 ; English residents, 150 ;
a lady's reply about English
knowledge of French language,
152; Notre Dame, 190; Jardin
des Piantes, 209 ; hotel incident,
240-242; not a desert, 242; light
of the world, 266, 267, 274;
resting after dejeuner, 273 ; con-
fusion about buildings, 291; an

illiterate tradesman, 360, 361;
the Salon, 367.

Parliament: illustration of hered-
ity, 93 ; indebtedness of mem-
bers to trade, 135; infidelity in,
162; superiority of pulpit, *191 ;
George Palmer, 223; questions
in, 241; Houses, 291.

Parsimony : affecting family ties,
70; in hospitality, 104, 105.

Patriotism : obligations, 12; Littr^'s,
210; Patriotic Ignorance (Essav
XIX.), 264-279; places people in
a dilemma, 264; anecdotes of
French and English errors, about
art, literature, mountains, land-
scapes, fuel, ore, schools, lan-
guage, 265-277 ; ignorance lead-
ing to war, 277-279; suspected
of lacking, 287-288.

Peace, affected by knowledge of
languages, 148-150, 160.

Peculiarity, of English people to-
wards each other (Essay XYII.),
239-252.

Pedagogues, their narrowness, 154.

Pedestnanism ; as affected by rail-
ways, 14; in France, 272, 273;
not enjoyed, 302.

Peel, Arthur, his indebtedness to
trade, 135.

Pencil, use, when pennissible, 333.

Periodicals, akin to correspondence,
30.

Persecution, feminine S3'mpatiiy
with, 80, 181.

Perseverance, Buffbn's and Littr^'s,
209, 210.

Personality: its "abysmal deeps,"
11 ; repressed by conventionality,
15 ; accompanies independence,
17; affecting family ties, 63-77
passim; paternal and filial differ-
ences, 78-98 passim; its frank
recognition, 98; confused, anec-
dotes, 289, 290.

Persuasion, feminine trust in, 175.

Pestilence, God's anger in, 222.

Peter the Great, sad relations to
his son, 95, 96.

Philistinism : illustrative stories,
285, 286; defined, 297; passion
for comfort, 298; asceticism and
indulgence, 299, 300; a life-por-
trait, 300-303 ; estimate of life,
303 ; an English lady's parlor,

422

INDEX.

304, 305; contrast, 306; avoid-
ance of needless exposure, 313.

Philology : a rival of literature, 154 ;
favorable to progress in language,
155.

Philosophj : detached from reli-
gion, xii ; rational tone, 193.

Photographv : a French experience,
24; under fixed law, 228.

Physicians : compared with priests,
i86 ; rational, 193; Littr^'s ser-
vice, 210.

Picturesque, regard for the, 7.

Piety; and law (Essay XV.), 215-
231 passim; shipYreck, 226,
227.

Pitt, William, foreign disturbances
in his da}", 150.

Pius VII., on Napoleon, 341.

Play, boyish friendship in, 111.

Pleasures, three in amusements,
399, 400.

Plebeians, in England, 251, 252.

Plumpton Correspondence, 318-
323, 331.

Poetry: detached from religion,
xii; of love, 42; dulness to, 47;
Shellev's, 47; Byron's, 60, 345-
349; Coethe's, 51; and science,
57; Tennyson on Brotherhood,
67 ; lament, 73 ; art, 154 ; music in
heaven, 191; KeWe, 198; Battle
of Ivry, 224; French, 268, 269;
Latin, loyalty of Tennyson, 289;
French coupfet, 304; in a library,
305; *'If I be dear," 325;
Horace, 361; Palace of Art, 386;
quotation from Morris, 393; line
about anticipation, 399.

Poets : ideas about the harmlessness
of love, 36; avoidance of prac-
tical difficulties, 39 ; love in
natural scenery, 43.

Politics: conventional, 15; French
narrowness, 18, 19; coffee-house,
28; inherited opinions, 93; opin-
ions of guests to be respected,
105, 106; affecting friendship,
113-115; affected by ignorance
of language, 148, 150, 160; adap-
tation of Greek language, 158;
disabilities arising from religion,
161-174 ; divine government,
229; genteel ignorance, 254-256;
votes sought, 257; affected by
national ignorance, 277-279, dis-

tinctions confounded, 280-284;
verses on letter-writing, 335.

Ponsard, Francois, quotations, 304,
335.

Popes: their infidelity, 162; tempo-
ral power, 255, 256. (See Roman
Catholicism^ etc.)

Popular Notions, often wrong, 292.

Postage, cheap, 336.

Postal Union, a forerunner, 159.

Post-cards, affecting correspond-
ence, 329, 330, 335.

Poverty: allied with shrewdness,
22; affecting friendship (Essay
IX.), 116, 119-129; priestly vis-
its, 183; Littr^'s service, 210;
ignorance about, 258-260; French
rhyme, 304; not always the con-
comitant of Bohemianism, 309;
not despised, 314; in epistolary
forms, 317.

Prayers: reading in French, 158;
averting calamities, 220-231 pas-
sim.

Prejudices: about great men, 4;
national, 7; of English gentle-
women, 382.

Pride: of a wife, 69 ; in family
wealth, 66; refusal of gifts, 68 ;
in shooting, 390.

Priesthood: Priests and Women
rEssay XTIL), 175-204; meeting
leminine dependence, 178 ; affec-
tionate interest, 179; representing
God, 182; sympathy, 183; mar-
riages and burials, 184; baptism
and confirmation, 185; death,
186 ; Queen Victoria's reflections,
186, 187; aesthetic interest, 188;
vestments, 189 ; architecture, 190;
music, 191; oratorv and dignitj',
192; heaven and hell, 193; par-
tisanship, 194 ; association in
benevolence, 195; influence of
leisure, 196; custom and cere-
mony, 197; holy seasons, 198;
celibacy, 199; marriage in for-
mer times, 200; sceptical sons,
201; confessional, 202; assump-
tion of superiority, 203; perfunc-
tory goodness, 2(54.
Primogeniture, affecting family ties,

66.
Privacy: of a host, to be respected,

109; in letters, 350, 357.
Procrastination : in correspondence!

INDEX.

423

318, 319, 356; anecdotes, 366-
369.

Profanity, definition, 208.

Professions, contrasted with trades,
132, 133.

Pro£^es8, five stages in the study
of language, 153-157.

Promptness : in correspondence,
316, 317, 329 ; in business, 368.

Propriety, cloak for vice, 297.

Prose: an art, 154; eschewed by
Tennyson, 289.

Prosody, rival of literature, 154.

Protestantism: in France, 19, 165,
256; Prussian tyranny, 173; ex-
clusion of music, 191; clerical
marriages, 200, 201; auricular
confession, 201-203; liberty in-
fringed, 281.

Providence and Law (Essay XV.),
2lb-2Zl passim,

Prussia: Protestant tyranny, 173;
a soldier's cloak, 189; military
strength, 278. '

Public Men, wrong judgment
about, 4.

Puncli's Almanack, quoted, 133.

Pursuits, similarity in, 10.

Pusevism, despised, 284, 285.

Puzzle, language regarded as a,
153, 154.

Rabelais, quotation, 165.

Racehorses, illustration, 65.

Radicalism, definition, 282, 283.

Railway's: affecting independence,
13-15; meditations in a French,
17; story in illustration of rude-
ness, l(w, 109; distance from,
IIG; French accident, 218-220;
moving huts, 261, 262; Stephen-
son's locomotive, 293; allusion,
309; journeys saved, 360; com-
pared to sailing, 395.

Rain : cause of accident, 219 ; prayers
for, 221.

Rank: a power for good, 5; conver-
sation of French people of, 16;
Eursuit of, 27 ; discrimination in
ospitality, 104; affecting friend-
ship, 116; Differences ^Essay X.),
130-147; social precedence, 130;
land and money, 131 ; trades and
professions, 132-135; unreal dis-
tinctions, 135; to be ignored, 136;
English and Continental views,

136, 137; family without title.
138: affecting hospitality, 139-
145; price, deference, 145-147;
English admiration, 241, 242, 248,
249-252; connection with amuse-
ment, 383-401 passim.

Rapidity, in letter-writing, 324, 325.

Reading, in a foreign language,
154-158.

Reading, Eng., speech, 223, 224.

Reasoning, in letters, 384, 385.

Rebels, contrasted with reformers,
280.

Recreation, the purpose of amuse-
ment, 389.

Reeve, Henry, knowledge of French,
152.

Reformers, and rebels, 280, 281.

Refinement: affecting family har-
mony, 64; companionship, 71;
enhanced by wealth, 125, 126.

Religion: affecting human inter-
course, xi-xiii; detached from
the arts, xii ; affecting friendship,
5, 6; conventional,, 15; Chelten-
ham prejudice, 19; formal in Eng-
land, 63; affecting fraternity, 64;
affecting family regard, 74 ; cler-
gyman's son, 90, 91; family dif-
ferences, 93, 94; to be respected
in guests, 105, 106; destroying
friendship, 113 ; Evangelical, 123;
personal deterioration, 124 ; mer-
cenary motives, 132, 133; title-
worsliip, 137 ; an Obstacle (Essay
XII.), 161-174; the dominant,
161 ; a hindrance to honest people,
162; dissimulation, 163; apparent
liberty, 164; social penalties, 165;
no liberty for princes, 166 ; French
illustration, 167 ; roval liberty in
morals, 168; official conformity,
169; greater freedom in the lower
ranks, 170; less in small commu-
nities, 171 ; libert3*of rejection and
dissent, 172; false position, 173;
enforced conformitv, 174; Priests
and Women (Essay XIII.), 175-
204; of love, 178, 179; Why we
are Apparentlv becoming Less
Religious (Essay XIV.), 205-214;
meditations of ladies of former
generation, 205; trust in Bible,
206 ; idealization, 207 ; Nineteenth
Century inquiries, 208 ; Buffon as
an illustration, 209; Littre, 210;

424

INDEX.

compared with Bible characters,
211; the Renaissance, 212; boun-
daries outgrown, 213; less theol-
ogy, 214; How we are Really
becoming Less Religious (Essay
XV. ), 215-231 ; superstition, 215 ;
supernatural interference, 216,
217 ; idea of law diminishes emo-
tion, 218; railway accident, 219 ;
prayers and accidents, 220; future
detfnition, 221; penitence and
punishment, 222; war and God,
223; natural order, 224; Provi-
dence, 225; »al ration from ship-
wreck, 226; un hazard providen-
tiel, 227 ; irreliffi&a, 228; less
piety, 229; devotion and science,
230; wise expenditure of time,
231; feuds, 240; genteel igno-
rance of established churches,
255-258 ; French ignorance of
English Church, 275 ; distinctions
confounded, 281,282; intolerance
mixed with social contempt, 284,
285; activity limited to religion
and riches, 301; in old letters,
320, 321, 323; female interest in
the author's welfare, 377, 378;
in theology, 379, 380. (See
Church oj£ngland^ Methodism,
Protestantism, etc.)

Rdmusat, Mme. de, letters, 350.

Renaissance, expansion of study in
the, 212.

Renan, Ernest, one objection to
trade, 132.

Republic, French, 254, 283, 284.

Residence, affecting friendship, 116.

Respect : the road to filial love, 98;
wny liked, 122; in correspond-
ence, 316.

Restraints, of marriage and love,
36, 37.

Retrospection, pleasures of, 400.

Revolution, French, 209, 246, 283.
(See France.)

Riding, Lever's difficulties, 260.

Rifles: in hunting, 391-393; names,
392.

Rights. (See different heads, such
as Hospitality J Sons, etc.)

Robinson Crusoe, illustration, 21.

Rock, simile, 261.

Roland, his sword Durindal, 391.

Roman Camp, site, 14.

Roman Catholicism: its effect on

companionship, 6; seen in rural
France, 19; illustration of the
Pope, 87; infidel sons, 93; wis-
dom of celibacy, 120; infidel
dignitaries, 162; liberty in Spain,
164; royalty hearing Mass, 167;
military' salute to the Host, 169;
recognition in England, 169, 170,
173; Continental intolerance, 172,
173; a conscientious traveller,
173; oppression in Prussia, 173;
tradesmen compelled to hear
Mass, 174; Madonna^s influence,
176; priestly consolation, 183;
use of art, 188-190; Dominican
dress, 189 ; cathedrals, the Host,
190; astuteness, celibacy, 199;
female allies, 200; confessional,
201, 202; feudal tenacity, 255;
Protestantism ignored, 256; Ro-
manism ignored by the Greek
Church, 258; compulsory attend-
ance, 282. (See Priesthoodf Re-
liyion, etc.)

Romance: like or dislike for, 7;
glamour of love, 42.

Rome: people not subjected to the
papacy, 255, 256 ; Byron's letter,
347.

Rossetti, on. Mrs. Harriett Shelley,
46.

Rouen Cathedral, 190.

Royal Academy, London, 266, 276.

Royal Society,* London, 274.

Royalty, its religious bondage, 166-
l69, HL

Rugby, residence of a father, 84.

Ruolz, the inventor, his bituminous
paper, 358, 359.

Russell, Lord Arthur, his knowl-
edge of French, 152.

Russia: religious position of the
Czar, 168; orthodoxy, 257, 258;
war with Turkey, 278. (See
Greek Church.)

Sabbath, its observance, 123.
Sacredness, definition of, 208.
Sacrifices: demanded by courtesy,

315, 316; in letter-writing, 329-

331 ; to indolence, 368.
Sahara, love-simile, 60.
Saint Bernard, Qualities, 230, 231.
Saint Hubert's Day, carousal, 345,
Saints, in every occupation, 209.
Salon, French, 266, 276, 867.

INDEX.

425

Sarcasm: lasting effects, 66; brutal
and paternal, 97.

Satire. (See Sarcasm.)

Savagery, return to, 298. (See
BarbdrUm^ Civilization.)

Saxons, influence in England, 251,
252.

Scepticism: and religious rites,
184, 185; in clergymen's sons,
201. (See Heresy.)

Schools, prejudice against French,
106.

Schuyler's Life of Peter tlie Great,
96.

Science: study affected by isola-
tion, 29 ; and poetry, 57 ; superi-
ority to mercenary motives, 132 ;
in language, 154; adaptation of
Greek language to, 158; illustra-
tion, 166; cold, 176, 178, 190;
disconnected with religion, 198;
affecting Bible stud)^, 206; con-
nection with religion (Essay
XV.), 215-231 /wssiwi.

Scolding, 75, 76.

Scotland: a chance acquaintance,
25, 26; gentleman's sacritice for
his son, 84; incident in a coun-
try-house, 131; religious incident
in travel, 173 ; a painter's hint,
2.32; the Highlands, 271 ; scenery,
379 ; cricket impossible, 398.

Scott, Sir Walter : indebtedness to
the poor, 22; Lucy of Lammer-
moor, 39, 143, 144;' Jeanie Deans,
175; supposed American igno-
rance of, 277; quotation from
Waverley, 327; Provost's letter,
365.

Sculpture: warmed by love, 42, 43;
none in heaven, 191; ignorance
about English, 265. (See Art^ etc.)

Seals on letters, 326-328.

Secularists: in England, 171 ; tame
oratory, 193.

Sedan, cause of lost battle, 308.

Seduction, how restrained, 38.

Self-control, grim, 397.

Self-esteem, effect of benevolence
in developing, 196.

Self-examination, induced by let-
ters, 380.

Self-indulgence, of opposite kinds,
299, 300.

Self-interest: affecting friendship,
116 ; At the confessional, 202.

Selfishness: affected by marriage,
26; desire for comfort, 27; affect-
ing passion, 38; in hosts, 101,
102; in a letter, 334; in amuse-
ments, 397.

Sensuality, connection with Bohe-
raianism, 296.

Sentences, reading, 156.

Sentiment, none m business, 353,
364.

Separations: between friends, 111-
118; letter-writing during, 338;
Tasso family, 350, 361.

Sepulchre, whited, 297.

Sermons : one-sided, 29 ; in library,
302.

Sen^ants : marriage to priests, 200 ;
often needful, 259; concomitants
of wealth, 297, 298; none, 307;
in letters, 324; anonvmous letter,
376 ; hired to wait, 397.

Severn River, 270.

Sexes: pleasure in association, 3;
passionate love, 34; relations
socially limited, 36, 37 ; antago-
nism of nature and civilization,
41; in natural scenery, 43; in-
harmony in marriages, 44-62
po/ssim; sisters and brothers, 65;
connection with confession, 201-
204; lack of anal vsis, 280; Bohe-
mian relations, 296, 297.

Shakspeare: indebtedness to the
poor, 22; Juliet, 39; portraiture
of youthful nonsense, 88; allu-
sion by Grant White, 277 ; Mac-
beth and Hamlet confused, 290 ;
Polonius's advice applied to Gold-
smith, 310.

Shelley, Percy Bysshe: his study
of past literature, 13; passionate
love, 34; marriages, 35, 46-48,
55, 56; quotation, 43; disagree-
ment with his father, 96, 97.

Ships: passing the Suez canal, xii;
interest of Peter the Great, and
dislike of his son, 85; at siege of
Syracuse, 215; of war, 277, 278;
as affecting correspondence, 337 ;
drifting, 378; fondness for details,
394.

Shoeblack, illustration, 335.

Shyness, English, 245.

Siamese Twins, allusion, 290.

Silence, golden, 85.

Sin, affecting pulpit oratory, 193.

426

INDEX.

Sir, the title, 137.

Sisters: affection, 63-77 passim,;
jealousy of admiration, 65 ; pecu-
niary obligations, how regarded,
69.

Slander: by rich people, 146, 147;
in anonymous letters, 370-377.

Slang, commercial, 365.

Slovenliness, part of Bohemianism,
296.

Smith, an imaginary' gentleman,
130.

Smith, Jane, an Imaginary charac-
ter, 178.

Smoking : affecting friendship, 115;
Bohemian practice, 305.

Snobberv, among English travel-
lers, 240-242.

Sociability: affecting the appetite,
102; English want of (Essay
XVII.), 239-252; in amusements,
383, 384.

Society: good, in France, 15, 16;
eccentricity no barrier in London,
16-18; exclusion, 21, 22; unex-
pectedly found, 23-26 ; alienation
irora common pursuits, 27, 28;
aid to study, 29-31; restraints
upon love, 36, 37 ; laws set aside
by George Eliot, 45, 46, 55; Goe-
the's defiance, 52, 56, 57; rights
of hospitality, illustrated (Essay
VII.), 99-109; aristocratic, 124;
affected by rank and wealth (Es-
say X.), IZO-l^l passim; and bv
religion (Essay XII.), 161-174
passim; ruled' by women, 176;
tyranny, 181; clerical leisure,
196, 197; inimical to Littr(^, 210;
absent air in, 237; affected by
Gentility (Essay XVIII.), 253-
263; secession of thinkers, 262,
263; intellectual, 303; usages,
304; outside of, 307.

Socrates, allusion, 204.

Solicitors, their industrj", 196.

Solitude: social, 19; dread, 21;
pleasant reliefs, 22-26; serious
evil, 27 ; sometimes demoralizing,
28; affecting study, 29; mitiga-
tions, 29-31; preferred, 31; for-
gotten in labor, 31, 32; picture of,
43; Shelley's fondness, 47; free
space necessary, 77; dislike-
prompting to hospitality (g. r.).

Sons : 8e|)arated from fathers by in-
compatibility, 10; escape from
paternal brutality, 76; Fathers
and (Essay VI.), 78-98; change
of circumstances, 78; former obe-
dience, 79; orders out of fashion,
80; outside education, 81 ; educa-
tion by the father, 82-85; rapidity
of youth, 86, 87 ; laek of paternal
resemblance, 88 : differing tastes,
89; fathers outgrown, 90; chan-
ges in culture, 91; reservations,
92; differing opinions, 93; old-
time divisions, 94; an imperial
son, 95 ; other painful instances,
96 ; wounded by satire, 97 ; right
basis of sonship, 98. (See /^am-
tVv, Fathers, etc.)

Sorbonne, the, professorship of Eng-
lish, 152.

Southey, Robert, Life of Nelson,
327.

Spain : religious freedom, 164 ; her-
etics burned, 180.

Speculation, compared with ftxperi-
ence, 30.

Speech, silvern, 85.

Spelling, inaccurate, 360. (See
Languages, etc.)

Spencer, Heroert : made the cover
for an assault upon a guest's opin-
ions, 106 ; on display of wealth,
145; confidence in nature's laws,
227.

Spenser, Edmund, his poetic stanza,
384.

Sports: often comparatively unre-
strained, 36 ; affecting fraternity,
64 ; youth fitted for, 86; rough-
ening influence, 100 ; affectmg
friendship, 115; aristocratic, 124;
among the rich, 143 ; ignorance
about English, 267, 268 ; concom-
itant of wealth, 297 ; not enjoyed,
302 ; William of Orange's, 345 ;
connection with amusement, 385-
AQ\ passim.

Springtime of love, 34.

Stanford's London Atlas, 274.

Stars, illustration of crowds, 77.

Steam, no help to friendship, 337.

Stein, Baroness von, relations to
Goethe, 51-53.

Stephenson, George, his locomotive
not a failure, 293.

Stowe, Harriet Beecher, her works

INDEX.

427

confounded with Greorge Eliot's,
290.

Strangers, treatment of b}- the Eng-
lish and others (Essay XVII.},
239-252 passim.

Stream, illustration from the impos-
sibility of upward flow, 98.

Strength, accompanied with exer-
cise, 302.

Studies : affecting friendship, 111 ;
literary and artistic, 400, 401.

Subjugation, the motive of display
of wealth, 145.

Suez Canal, and sui^erstition, xii.

Sunbeam, yacht, 138, 139.

Sunday : trench incident, 128, 129 ;
allusion, 198; supposed law, 281.
(See Sabbath.)

Sunset, Allusion, 31.

Supernaturalism (Essay XV.), 215-
231 imssiai; doubts* about, 377,
378.

Superstition and religion (Essay
XV.), 215-231 /}a««/n.

Surgeon, an artistic, 289.

Sweden, king of, 308.

Swedenborgianism, commended to
the author, 378.

Swift, Jonathan, Gulliver's box,
261.

Swimming: affected by railways,
14 ; in France, 272.

Switzerland: epithets applied to,
235; tourists, 240; Alps, 271;
Goldsmith's travels, 309; Dore's
travels, 345.

Sj'mpathy : with an author, 9 ; one
"of two great powers deciding
human intercourse, 11; of a mar-
ried man with a single, 25, 26;
between pai'ents and children
(Essay Vl.), 78-98 passim; be-
tween Priests and Women (Essay
XIII. part I.), nb-\^^ passim.

Svmposium, antique, allusion, 29.

Syracuse, siege, 215-217, 229.

Table: its pleasures comparatively
unrestrained, 36; former tyranny
of hospitality, 101, 102; modern
customs, appetite affected by so-
ciability, 102 ; excess not required
by hospitality, 103; French fash-
ion, 105; instances of bad man-
ners, 106, 107, 126-128; rules of
precedence, 130, 131; matrons

occupied with cares, 140, 141 ;
among the rich, 143; tyranny,
172; English manners towards
strangers contrasted with those
of other nations (Essav XVII.),
239-252; dejeuner, 27*3; among
the rich, 297; talk about hunting,
398, 399.

Talking, contrasted with writing,
354-357.

Tasso, Bernardo, father of the poet,
his letters, 350, 351.

Taylor, Mrs., relations to Mill, 53-
55.

Telegraphv : under fixed law, 228 ;
affecting letters, 324, 325, 331,
361 ; anecdote, 326.

Telephone, illustration, 336.

Temper, destroys friendship, 112,
118.

Temperance, sometimes at war with
hospitality, 102-104.

Tenderness, in letters, 320, 322.

Tennyson : study of past literature,
13;* line about brotherhood, 67;
religious sentiment of In Memo*
riam, 198; lovaltv to verse, 289;
Palace of Art* 386, 400.

Thackeray, William Makepeace :
Rev. Charles Honeyman in The
Newcomes, 203; Book of Snobs,
242.

Thames River, 270, 335.

Theatre: avoidance, 123; English
travellers like actors, 242; gifts
of a painter, 341.

Th^leme, Abbayc de, its motto, 165.

Thierry, Augustin, History of Nor-
man Uonq^uest, 251, 252.

Thiers, Louis Adolphe, friendship
with Mignet, 120, 121.

Time, forgotten in labor, 31, 32.

Timiditv, taking refuge in corre-
spondence, 356, 357.

Titles: table precedence, 130; esti-
mate in England and op the Con-
tinent, 136, 137 ; British regard,
241, 242, 248-252 passm; French
disregard, 248.

Tolerance : induced by hospitality,
99; of amusements, 389.

Towneley Hall, library, 318.

Trade: English and social excln-
sion, 19; foolish distinctions, 132-
136; connection with national
peace, 150; adaptation of Greek

428

INDEX.

language, 158; interference of re-
ligion, 171, 174; ignorance about
English, 265, 266, 2G8j Lanca-
shire, 388; careless tradesmen,
360, 361 ; slang, 365.

Translations: disliked, 154; of
Hamerton into French, 267.

Transubstantiation : privAte opinion
and outward form, 169; poetic,
190. (See Roman Catholicism^
etc.)

Trappist, freedom of an earnest,
164, 165.

Travel : railway illustration, 13-15 ;
marriage simile, 44; affecting
fraternity, 64; affecting friend-
ship, ill; facilitated, 160; in
Arabia, 226; unsociability (Essay
XVII.), 239-252; in vans, 261,
262; confusion of places, 291; dis-
pensing with luxur}', 300; an un-
travelled man 301 ; not cared for,
302 ; cheap conveyances, 304 ;
books of, 305 ; Goldsmith's, 309.

Trees, and Radicals, 282, 283.

Trinity, denial of, 257.

Truth, violations (Essay XVI.),
232-238.

Tudor Family; Mary's reign, 164;
criminalitv, 168 ; Mary's persecu-
tion, 180. '

Turkey, war with Russia, 278.

Turner, Joseph Mallord William,
aided by Claude, 13.

Type-writers, effect on correspond-
ence, 333.

Tyranny: of religion (Essay XII.),
161-174 ; meanest form, 172, 174 ;
of majorities, 398.

Ulysses : literary simile, 29 ; Bow
of, 392.

Understateme'nt (See Untruth.)

Union of languages and peoples,
148-150.

Unitarianism : no European sover-
eign dare profess, 167, 168; diffi-
culty with creeds, 172; ignorance
about, 257.

United States, advantage of having
the same language as England,
150.

Universe, univers^ 273-275.

Universities: degrees^ 91; French
and English, 275, 276; Radical
members, 284.

Untruth: an Unrecogr.ized Form
ol (Essay XVI.)^ 232-238 ; two
methods* in paintm^, 232 ; exag-
geration and diminution, 233:
self -misrepresentation, 234; over-
statement and understatement il-
lustrated in travelling epithets,
235 ; dead mediocrity in conver-
sation, 236; inadequacy, 237; il-
lustration, 238.

Vanity: national (Essay XIX.),

264-279 passim ; taking offence,

279; absence, 301.
Vice: of classes, 124, 125; devilish,

195; part of Bohemianism, 295,

296; of best 'society, 297.
Victoria, Queen: quotation from

her diar^-, 1S6, 187; her oldest

son, 385.
Violin, illustration, 389.
VioUet-le-Duc, anecdote, 364..
Virgil, Palmer's constant compan-
ion, 313. (See Latin.)
Virgin Mary, her influence, 176.

(See Eugenie^ etc.)
Virtue: of classes, 124, 126 ; priest-

h' adherence, 195; definition, 208;

Buffon's and Littr^'s, 211.
Visiting, with rich and poor, 139-

144.
Vitriol, in letters, 871.
Vituperation, priestly, 194.
Vivisection, feminine dislike, 180.
Voltaire: quotation about Colum-
• bus, 274; Goldsmith's interview,

309.
Vulpius, Obri^ane, relations to

Goethe, 52, 53.

Wagner, Richard, his Tann-
haiiser, 388.

Wales, Prince of. laborious amuse-
ments, 385-387.

Warcopp, Robert, in Plumpton
letters, 323, 331.

Wars: affected by studv of lan-
guages, 148-150, 151, '160; Eu-
genie's influence, 176 ; divine
connection, 215-224; caused by
national ignorance, 277, 278.

Waterloo, battle, 153.

Wave, simile, 251.

Wealth: affecting fraternity, 6G
affecting domestic harmonj', 77
destroying friendship, 114, 116

INDEX.

429

Flux of (Essay IX.), 119-129;
property variable, influence of
changes, 119 ; access of baciielors
and the married to society, 120;
instances of friendship affected
by poverty, 121; false friends,
122; imprudent marriages, 123;
middle-class instances of content-
ment, 124 ; aid to refinement, 125;
dress, 126 ; cards, and other
forms of courtesy, superfluities,
127; discipline of courtesy, 128;
rural manners in France*, 129 ;
Differences (Essay X.), 130-147;
social precedence, 130; land-
t)wnership, 131; tnide, 132-134;
nouveau riche and ancestry, 135;
titles, 136, 137 ; varied enjoyments,
138, 139 ; hospitality, 140-144;
English appreciation, 144-146 ;
undue deference, 146, 147 ; over-
statement and understatement,
234; assumption, 242; plutocracy,
246, 247; American inequalities,
248; genteel ignorance, 258-200;
two great advantages, 297, 298;
small measure, 298; connection
with Philistinism and Bohemian-
ism, 299-314; employs better
agents, 359, 360; connection with
amusements, 383-401. (See Fov-
ertv, etc.)

Webb, Captain, lost at Niagara,290.

Weeds, illustration of Radicalism,
282.

Weimar: Goethe's home, -52, 57;
Duke of, 57.

Wenderholme, Hamerton's storv,
378.

Wesley, John, choice in religion,
173. (See Methodism.)

Westbrook, Harriett, relation to
Shelley, 46, 47, 97.

Westminster Abbey, mistaken for
another building, 291.

White, Richard Grant, story, 277.

Whist, selfishness in, 397.

William, emperor of Germany, table
customs, 103.

Wine : connection with hospitality,
101-103, 121; traders m con-
sidered superior, 133; ignorance
about English use, 268, 269, 270 ;
port, 273 ; concomitant of wealth,
297. 298; simile, 367. (See
Table J etc.)

Wives: a pitiful confession, 41;
George Eliot's position, 45, 46;
relations to noted husbands, 47-
62; dread of a wife's kindred,
73; unions made by parents, 94-
98; destroying friendship, 115,
116; tired, 144; regard of Na-
poleon III., 225; old letters, 322;
gain from post-cards, 329^ 330;
privacy of letters, 350; Mon-
taigne's letter, 251, 252. (See
MaiTtage^ Women^ etc.)

Wolf, priestly, 203.

Wolselev, Sir Garnet, victory, 222,
223, 229.

Wood, French use of, 272.

Women: friendship between two,
viii, ix; absorption in one, 33;
beauty's attraction, 33, 38, 39;
passion long preserved, 40; rela-
tions to certain noted men, 44-
G2 passim; sisterly jealousy, 65;
governed by sentiment,' 69 ;
adding to home discomfort, 75,
76 ; English incivility, 106 ;
French incivility to English, and
defence, 106; social acuteness,
130; Priests and Women (Essav
XIII. ), 175-204; dislike of tixe'd
rules, 175; persuasive powers,
ruling society, 176; dependence,
advisers, 177 ; love^ 178 ; gentle-
ness, 179; sympathy with per-
secution, 180; harm of both
frivolity and seriousness, 181 ;
injustice of female sex, anxiety
for sympathy, 182; sensitiveness,
183; services desired at special
times, 184; motherhood, 185 ;
consolation, 186 ; aesthetic na-
ture, 187; fondness for show,
188; dress, 189; churches, 190;
worship in music, 191 ; eloquence,
192 ; eager for the right, 194;
obstinacy, 195; association in
benevolence, 196; love of cere-
mony, 197; festivals, 198; con-
fidence in a clergyman, 199 ;
marriage formerly disapproved,
clergy women^ 200; relief m con-
fession, 201, 202; gentlewomen's
letters, 205, 206; French, among
strangers, 242, 243; want of anal-
ysis, 280: strong theological in-
terest. 377-380: old maids, 379-
382 ; ' gentlewomen, 881, 382 ;

430

INDEX.

not interested in sporting talk,
399. (See J/arnaye, Wivti^etQ.)

Word, power of a, 118.

Wordsworth: indebtedness to the
poor, 22; on Nature's loyalty, 30;
instance of his uncleanne8s,'311.

Work, softens solitude, 31, 32.

Working-men. (See Lower Classes.)

World, possible enjoyment of, 303.

Worship : word in wedding-service,
62; limited by locality, 171-174;
musical, 191; expressions in let-
ters, 321.

Writing, a new discovery supposed,
336.

Wryghame, message by, 320.

Wvcherley, William, his ribaldry,
i81.

Yachting, 258, 259, 292, 358. (See
Boating. )

York : Minster, 190 ; archbishop,
222; diocese, 275.

Yorkshire, letter to, 320.

Youth : contrasted with age, 87-89 ;
nonsense reproduced by Shak-
speare, 89; insult, 107; m friend-
ship, 111, 112; acceptance of
kindness, 117; semblance caused
by ignorance of a language, 151.

Zeus, a hunter compared to, 391.

THE END.

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