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diff --git a/7438-h/7438-h.htm b/7438-h/7438-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..650f84e --- /dev/null +++ b/7438-h/7438-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,5936 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=US-ASCII" /> +<title>Friends in Council, by Arthur Helps</title> + <style type="text/css"> +/*<![CDATA[ XML blockout */ +<!-- + P { margin-top: .75em; + margin-bottom: .75em; + } + P.gutsumm { margin-left: 5%;} + P.poetry {margin-left: 3%; } + .GutSmall { font-size: 0.7em; } + H1, H2 { + text-align: center; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + } + H3, H4, H5 { + text-align: center; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; + } + BODY{margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + } + table { border-collapse: collapse; } +table {margin-left:auto; margin-right:auto;} + td { vertical-align: top; border: 1px solid black;} + td p { margin: 0.2em; } + .blkquot {margin-left: 4em; margin-right: 4em;} /* block indent */ + + .smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + + .pagenum {position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-size: small; + text-align: right; + font-weight: normal; + color: gray; + } + img { border: none; } + img.dc { float: left; width: 50px; height: 50px; } + p.gutindent { margin-left: 2em; } + div.gapspace { height: 0.8em; } + div.gapline { height: 0.8em; width: 100%; border-top: 1px solid;} + div.gapmediumline { height: 0.3em; width: 40%; margin-left:30%; + border-top: 1px solid; } + div.gapmediumdoubleline { height: 0.3em; width: 40%; margin-left:30%; + border-top: 1px solid; border-bottom: 1px solid;} + div.gapshortdoubleline { height: 0.3em; width: 20%; + margin-left: 40%; border-top: 1px solid; + border-bottom: 1px solid; } + div.gapdoubleline { height: 0.3em; width: 50%; + margin-left: 25%; border-top: 1px solid; + border-bottom: 1px solid;} + div.gapshortline { height: 0.3em; width: 20%; margin-left:40%; + border-top: 1px solid; } + .citation {vertical-align: super; + font-size: .8em; + text-decoration: none;} + img.floatleft { float: left; + margin-right: 1em; + margin-top: 0.5em; margin-bottom: 0.5em; } + img.floatright { float: right; + margin-left: 1em; margin-top: 0.5em; + margin-bottom: 0.5em; } + img.clearcenter {display: block; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; margin-top: 0.5em; + margin-bottom: 0.5em} + --> + /* XML end ]]>*/ + </style> +</head> +<body> +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg eBook, Friends in Council, by Arthur Helps + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + + + + +Title: Friends in Council + First Series + + +Author: Arthur Helps + + + +Release Date: July 25, 2014 [eBook #7438] +[This file was first posted on April 30, 2003] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FRIENDS IN COUNCIL*** +</pre> +<p>This eBook was produced by Les Bowler.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><span +class="GutSmall">CASSELL’S NATIONAL LIBRARY.</span></p> + +<div class="gapshortline"> </div> +<h1>Friends in Council</h1> +<p style="text-align: center">First Series</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center"><span +class="GutSmall">BY</span></p> +<p style="text-align: center">SIR ARTHUR HELPS.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/tpb.jpg"> +<img alt= +"Decorative graphic" +title= +"Decorative graphic" +src="images/tps.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p style="text-align: center">CASSELL & COMPANY, Limited:</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><span +class="GutSmall"><i>LONDON</i></span><span class="GutSmall">, +</span><span class="GutSmall"><i>PARIS & +MELBOURNE</i></span><span class="GutSmall">.</span></p> +<p style="text-align: center"><span +class="GutSmall">1891.</span></p> +<h2>INTRODUCTION.</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">Arthur Helps</span> was born at Streatham +on the 10th of July, 1813. He went at the age of sixteen to +Eton, thence to Trinity College, Cambridge. Having +graduated B.A. in 1835, he became private secretary to the Hon. +T. Spring Rice, who was Chancellor of the Exchequer in Lord +Melbourne’s Cabinet, formed in April, 1835. This was +his position at the beginning of the present reign in June, +1837.</p> +<p>In 1839—in which year he graduated M.A.—Arthur +Helps was transferred to the service of Lord Morpeth, who was +Irish Secretary in the same ministry. Lord +Melbourne’s Ministry was succeeded by that of Sir Robert +Peel in September, 1841, and Helps then was appointed a +Commissioner of French, Danish, and Spanish Claims. In 1841 +he published “Essays Written in the Intervals of +Business.” Their quiet thoughtfulness was in accord +with the spirit that had given value to his services as private +secretary to two ministers of State. In 1844 that little +book was followed by another on “The Claims of +Labour,” dealing with the relations of employers to +employed. There was the same scholarly simplicity and grace +of style, the same interest in things worth serious +attention. “We say,” he wrote, towards the +close, “that Kings are God’s Vicegerents upon Earth; +but almost every human being has, at one time or other of his +life, a portion of the happiness of those around him in his +power, which might make him tremble, if he did but see it in all +its fulness.” To this book Arthur Helps added an +essay “On the Means of Improving the Health and Increasing +the Comfort of the Labouring Classes.”</p> +<p>His next book was this First Series of “Friends in +Council,” published in 1847, and followed by other series +in later years. There were many other writings of his, less +popular than they would have been if the same abilities had been +controlled by less good taste. His “History of the +Conquest of the New World” in 1848, and of “The +Spanish Conquest of America,” in four volumes, from 1855 to +1861, preceded his obtaining from his University, in 1864, the +honorary degree of D.C.L. In June, 1860, Arthur Helps was +made Clerk of the Privy Council, and held that office of high +trust until his death on the 7th of March, 1875. He had +become Sir Arthur in 1872.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">H. M.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER I.</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">None</span> but those who, like myself, +have once lived in intellectual society, and then have been +deprived of it for years, can appreciate the delight of finding +it again. Not that I have any right to complain, if I were +fated to live as a recluse for ever. I can add little, or +nothing, to the pleasure of any company; I like to listen rather +than to talk; and when anything apposite does occur to me, it is +generally the day after the conversation has taken place. I +do not, however, love good talk the less for these defects of +mine; and I console myself with thinking that I sustain the part +of a judicious listener, not always an easy one.</p> +<p>Great, then, was my delight at hearing last year that my old +pupil, Milverton, had taken a house which had long been vacant in +our neighbourhood. To add to my pleasure, his college +friend, Ellesmere, the great lawyer, also an old pupil of mine, +came to us frequently in the course of the autumn. +Milverton was at that time writing some essays which he +occasionally read to Ellesmere and myself. The +conversations which then took place I am proud to say that I have +chronicled. I think they must be interesting to the world +in general, though of course not so much so as to me.</p> +<p>Milverton and Ellesmere were my favourite pupils. Many +is the heartache I have had at finding that those boys, with all +their abilities, would do nothing at the University. But it +was in vain to urge them. I grieve to say that neither of +them had any ambition of the right kind. Once I thought I +had stimulated Ellesmere to the proper care and exertion; when, +to my astonishment and vexation, going into his rooms about a +month before an examination, I found that, instead of getting up +his subjects, like a reasonable man, he was absolutely +endeavouring to invent some new method for proving something +which had been proved before in a hundred ways. Over this +he had wasted two days, and from that moment I saw it was useless +to waste any more of my time and patience in urging a scholar so +indocile for the beaten path.</p> +<p>What tricks he and Milverton used to play me, pretending not +to understand my demonstration of some mathematical problem, +inventing all manner of subtle difficulties, and declaring they +could not go on while these stumbling-blocks lay in their +way! But I am getting into college gossip, which may in no +way delight my readers. And I am fancying, too, that +Milverton and Ellesmere are the boys they were to me; but I am +now the child to them. During the years that I have been +quietly living here, they have become versed in the ways of the +busy world. And though they never think of asserting their +superiority, I feel it, and am glad to do so.</p> +<p>My readers would, perhaps, like one to tell them something of +the characters of Ellesmere and Milverton; but it would ill +become me to give that insight into them, which I, their college +friend and tutor, imagine I have obtained. Their friendship +I could never understand. It was not on the surface very +warm, and their congeniality seemed to result more from one or +two large common principles of thought than from any peculiar +similarity of taste, or from great affection on either +side. Yet I should wrong their friendship if I were to +represent it otherwise than a most true-hearted one; more so, +perhaps, than some of softer texture. What needs be seen of +them individually will be by their words, which I hope I have in +the main retained.</p> +<p>The place where we generally met in fine weather was on the +lawn before Milverton’s house. It was an eminence +which commanded a series of valleys sloping towards the +sea. And, as the sea was not more than nine miles off, it +was a matter of frequent speculation with us whether the +landscape was bounded by air or water. In the first valley +was a little town of red brick houses, with poplars coming up +amongst them. The ruins of a castle, and some water which, +in olden times, had been the lake in “the +pleasaunce,” were between us and the town. The clang +of an anvil, or the clamour of a horn, or busy +wheelwright’s sounds, came faintly up to us when the wind +was south.</p> +<p>I must not delay my readers longer with my gossip, but bring +them at once into the conversation that preceded our first +reading.</p> + +<div class="gapshortline"> </div> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. I tell you, Ellesmere, these are the +only heights I care to look down from, the heights of natural +scenery.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. Pooh! my dear Milverton, it is only +because the particular mounds which the world calls heights, you +think you have found out to be but larger ant-heaps. +Whenever you have cared about anything, a man more fierce and +unphilosophical in the pursuit of it I never saw. To +influence men’s minds by writing for them, is that no +ambition?</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. It may be, but I have it not. +Let any kind critic convince me that what I am now doing is +useless, or has been done before, or that, if I leave it undone, +some one else will do it to my mind; and I should fold up my +papers, and watch the turnips grow in that field there, with a +placidity that would, perhaps, seem very spiritless to your now +restless and ambitious nature, Ellesmere.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. If something were to happen which will +not, then—O Philosophy, Philosophy, you, too, are a good +old nurse, and rattle your rattles for your little people, as +well as old Dame World can do for hers. But what are we to +have to-day for our first reading?</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. An Essay on Truth.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. Well, had I known this before, it is +not the novelty of the subject which would have dragged me up the +hill to your house. By the way, philosophers ought not to +live upon hills. They are much more accessible, and I think +quite as reasonable, when, Diogenes-like, they live in tubs upon +flat ground. Now for the essay.</p> +<h3>TRUTH.</h3> +<p>Truth is a subject which men will not suffer to grow +old. Each age has to fight with its own falsehoods: each +man with his love of saying to himself and those around him +pleasant things and things serviceable for to-day, rather than +the things which are. Yet a child appreciates at once the +divine necessity for truth; never asks, “What harm is there +in saying the thing that is not?” and an old man finds, in +his growing experience, wider and wider applications of the great +doctrine and discipline of truth.</p> +<p>Truth needs the wisdom of the serpent as well as the +simplicity of the dove. He has gone but a little way in +this matter who supposes that it is an easy thing for a man to +speak the truth, “the thing he troweth;” and that it +is a casual function, which may be fulfilled at once after any +lapse of exercise. But, in the first place, the man who +would speak truth must know what he troweth. To do that, he +must have an uncorrupted judgment. By this is not meant a +perfect judgment or even a wise one, but one which, however it +may be biassed, is not bought—is still a judgment. +But some people’s judgments are so entirely gained over by +vanity, selfishness, passion, or inflated prejudices and fancies +long indulged in; or they have the habit of looking at everything +so carelessly, that they see nothing truly. They cannot +interpret the world of reality. And this is the saddest +form of lying, “the lie that sinketh in,” as Bacon +says, which becomes part of the character and goes on eating the +rest away.</p> +<p>Again, to speak truth, a man must not only have that martial +courage which goes out, with sound of drum and trumpet, to do and +suffer great things; but that domestic courage which compels him +to utter small sounding truths in spite of present inconvenience +and outraged sensitiveness or sensibility. Then he must not +be in any respect a slave to self-interest. Often it seems +as if but a little misrepresentation would gain a great good for +us; or, perhaps, we have only to conceal some trifling thing, +which, if told, might hinder unreasonably, as we think, a +profitable bargain. The true man takes care to tell, +notwithstanding. When we think that truth interferes at one +time or another with all a man’s likings, hatings, and +wishes, we must admit, I think, that it is the most comprehensive +and varied form of self-denial.</p> +<p>Then, in addition to these great qualities, truth-telling in +its highest sense requires a well-balanced mind. For +instance, much exaggeration, perhaps the most, is occasioned by +an impatient and easily moved temperament which longs to convey +its own vivid impressions to other minds, and seeks by amplifying +to gain the full measure of their sympathy. But a true man +does not think what his hearers are feeling, but what he is +saying.</p> +<p>More stress might be laid than has been on the intellectual +requisites for truth, which are probably the best part of +intellectual cultivation; and as much caused by truth as causing +it. <a name="citation12"></a><a href="#footnote12" +class="citation">[12]</a> But, putting the requisites for +truth at the fewest, see of how large a portion of the character +truth is the resultant. If you were to make a list of those +persons accounted the religious men of their respective ages, you +would have a ludicrous combination of characters essentially +dissimilar. But true people are kindred. Mention the +eminently true men, and you will find that they are a +brotherhood. There is a family likeness throughout +them.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p>If we consider the occasions of exercising truthfulness and +descend to particulars, we may divide the matter into the +following heads:—truth to oneself—truth to mankind in +general—truth in social relations—truth in +business—truth in pleasure.</p> +<p>1. Truth to oneself. All men have a deep interest +that each man should tell himself the truth. Not only will +he become a better man, but he will understand them better. +If men knew themselves, they could not be intolerant to +others.</p> +<p>It is scarcely necessary to say much about the advantage of a +man knowing himself for himself. To get at the truth of any +history is good; but a man’s own history—when he +reads that truly, and, without a mean and over-solicitous +introspection, knows what he is about and what he has been about, +it is a Bible to him. “And David said unto Nathan, I +have sinned before the Lord.” David knew the truth +about himself. But truth to oneself is not merely truth +about oneself. It consists in maintaining an openness and +justness of soul which brings a man into relation with all +truth. For this, all the senses, if you might so call them, +of the soul must be uninjured—that is, the affections and +the perceptions must be just. For a man to speak the truth +to himself comprehends all goodness; and for us mortals can only +be an aim.</p> +<p>2. Truth to mankind in general. This is a matter +which, as I read it, concerns only the higher natures. +Suffice it to say, that the withholding large truths from the +world may be a betrayal of the greatest trust.</p> +<p>3. Truth in social relations. Under this head come +the practices of making speech vary according to the person +spoken to; of pretending to agree with the world when you do not; +of not acting according to what is your deliberate and +well-advised opinion because some mischief may be made of it by +persons whose judgment in this matter you do not respect; of +maintaining a wrong course for the sake of consistency; of +encouraging the show of intimacy with those whom you never can be +intimate with; and many things of the same kind. These +practices have elements of charity and prudence as well as fear +and meanness in them. Let those parts which correspond to +fear and meanness be put aside. Charity and prudence are +not parasitical plants which require boles of falsehood to climb +up upon. It is often extremely difficult in the mixed +things of this world to act truly and kindly too; but therein +lies one of the great trials of man, that his sincerity should +have kindness in it, and his kindness truth.</p> +<p>4. Truth in business. The more truth you can get +into any business, the better. Let the other side know the +defects of yours, let them know how you are to be satisfied, let +there be as little to be found as possible (I should say +nothing), and if your business be an honest one, it will be best +tended in this way. The talking, bargaining, and delaying +that would thus be needless, the little that would then have to +be done over again, the anxiety that would be put aside, would +even in a worldly way be “great gain.” It is +not, perhaps, too much to say, that the third part of men’s +lives is wasted by the effect, direct or indirect, of +falsehoods.</p> +<p>Still, let us not be swift to imagine that lies are never of +any service. A recent Prime Minister said, that he did not +know about truth always prevailing and the like; but lies had +been very successful against his government. And this was +true enough. Every lie has its day. There is no +preternatural inefficacy in it by reason of its falseness. +And this is especially the case with those vague injurious +reports which are no man’s lies, but all men’s +carelessness. But even as regards special and unmistakable +falsehood, we must admit that it has its success. A +complete being might deceive with wonderful effect; however, as +nature is always against a liar, it is great odds in the case of +ordinary mortals. Wolsey talks of</p> + +<blockquote><p> “Negligence<br +/> +Fit for a fool to fall by,”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>when he gives Henry the wrong packet; but the Cardinal was +quite mistaken. That kind of negligence was just the thing +of which far-seeing and thoughtful men are capable; and which, if +there were no higher motive, should induce them to rely on truth +alone. A very close vulpine nature, all eyes, all ears, may +succeed better in deceit. But it is a sleepless +business. Yet, strange to say, it is had recourse to in the +most spendthrift fashion, as the first and easiest thing that +comes to hand.</p> +<p>In connection with truth in business, it may be observed that +if you are a truthful man, you should be watchful over those whom +you employ; for your subordinate agents are often fond of lying +for your interests, as they think. Show them at once that +you do not think with them, and that you will disconcert any of +their inventions by breaking in with the truth. If you +suffer the fear of seeming unkind to prevent your thrusting +well-meant inventions aside, you may get as much pledged to +falsehoods as if you had coined and uttered them yourself.</p> +<p>5. Truth in pleasure. Men have been said to be +sincere in their pleasures; but this is only that the taste and +habits of men are more easily discernible in pleasure than in +business. The want of truth is as great a hindrance to the +one as to the other. Indeed, there is so much insincerity +and formality in the pleasurable department of human life, +especially in social pleasures, that instead of a bloom there is +a slime upon it, which deadens and corrupts the thing. One +of the most comical sights to superior beings must be to see two +human creatures with elaborate speech and gestures making each +other exquisitely uncomfortable from civility: the one pressing +what he is most anxious that the other should not accept, and the +other accepting only from the fear of giving offence by +refusal. There is an element of charity in all this too; +and it will be the business of a just and refined nature to be +sincere and considerate at the same time. This will be +better done by enlarging our sympathy, so that more things and +people are pleasant to us, than by increasing the civil and +conventional part of our nature, so that we are able to do more +seeming with greater skill and endurance. Of other false +hindrances to pleasure, such as ostentation and pretences of all +kinds, there is neither charity nor comfort in them. They +may be got rid of altogether, and no moaning made over +them. Truth, which is one of the largest creatures, opens +out the way to the heights of enjoyment, as well as to the depths +of self-denial.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p>It is difficult to think too highly of the merits and delights +of truth; but there is often in men’s minds an exaggerated +notion of some bit of truth, which proves a great assistance to +falsehood. For instance, the shame of some particular small +falsehood, exaggeration, or insincerity, becomes a bugbear which +scares a man into a career of false dealing. He has begun +making a furrow a little out of the line, and he ploughs on in it +to try and give some consistency and meaning to it. He +wants almost to persuade himself that it was not wrong, and +entirely to hide the wrongness from others. This is a +tribute to the majesty of truth; also to the world’s +opinion about truth. It proceeds, too, upon the notion that +all falsehoods are equal, which is not the case; or on some fond +craving for a show of perfection, which is sometimes very +inimical to the reality. The practical, as well as the +high-minded, view in such cases, is for a man to think how he can +be true now. To attain that, it may, even for this world, +be worth while for a man to admit that he is inconsistent, and +even that he has been untrue. His hearers, did they know +anything of themselves, would be fully aware that he was not +singular, except in the courage of owning his insincerity.</p> + +<div class="gapshortline"> </div> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. That last part requires thinking +about. If you were to permit men, without great loss of +reputation, to own that they had been insincere, you might break +down some of that majesty of truth you talk about. And bad +men might avail themselves of any facilities of owning +insincerity, to commit more of it. I can imagine that the +apprehension of this might restrain a man from making any such +admission as you allude to, even if he could make up his mind to +do it otherwise.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. Yes; but can anything be worse than a +man going on in a false course? Each man must look to his +own truthfulness, and keep that up as well as he can, even at the +risk of saying, or doing, something which may be turned to ill +account by others. We may think too much about this +reflection of our external selves. Let the real self be +right. I am not so fanciful as to expect men to go about +clamouring that they have been false; but at no risk of letting +people see that, or of even being obliged to own it, should they +persevere in it.</p> +<p><i>Dunsford</i>. Milverton is right, I think.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. Do not imagine that I am behind either +of you in a wish to hold up truth. My only doubt was as to +the mode. For my own part, I have such faith in truth that +I take it mere concealment is in most cases a mischief. And +I should say, for instance, that a wise man would be sorry that +his fellows should think better of him than he deserves. By +the way, that is a reason why I should not like to be a writer of +moral essays, Milverton—one should be supposed to be so +very good.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. Only by thoughtless people then. +There is a saying given to Rousseau, not that he ever did say it, +for I believe it was a misprint, but it was a possible saying for +him, “Chaque homme qui pense est +méchant.” Now, without going the length of +this aphorism, we may say that what has been well written has +been well suffered.</p> +<blockquote><p>“He best can paint them who has felt them +most.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>And so, though we should not exactly declare that writers who +have had much moral influence have been wicked men, yet we may +admit that they have been amongst the most struggling, which +implies anything but serene self-possession and perfect +spotlessness. If you take the great ones, Luther, +Shakespeare, Goethe, you see this at once.</p> +<p><i>Dunsford</i>. David, St. Paul.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. Such men are like great rocks on the +seashore. By their resistance, terraces of level land are +formed; but the rocks themselves bear many scars and ugly +indents, while the sea of human difficulty presents the same +unwrinkled appearance in all ages. Yet it has been driven +back.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. But has it lost any of its bulk, or +only gone elsewhere? One part of the resemblance certainly +is that these same rocks, which were bulwarks, become, in their +turn, dangers.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. Yes, there is always loss in that +way. It is seldom given to man to do unmixed good. +But it was not this aspect of the simile that I was thinking of: +it was the scarred appearance.</p> +<p><i>Dunsford</i>. Scars not always of defeat or flight; +scars in the front.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. Ah, it hardly does for us to talk of +victory or defeat, in these cases; but we may look at the contest +itself as something not bad, terminate how it may. We +lament over a man’s sorrows, struggles, disasters, and +shortcomings; yet they were possessions too. We talk of the +origin of evil and the permission of evil. But what is +evil? We mostly speak of sufferings and trials as good, +perhaps, in their result; but we hardly admit that they may be +good in themselves. Yet they are knowledge—how else +to be acquired, unless by making men as gods, enabling them to +understand without experience. All that men go through may +be absolutely the best for them—no such thing as evil, at +least in our customary meaning of the word. But, you will +say, they might have been created different and higher. See +where this leads to. Any sentient being may set up the same +claim: a fly that it had not been made a man; and so the end +would be that each would complain of not being all.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. Say it all over again, my dear +Milverton: it is rather hard. [Milverton did so, in nearly +the same words.] I think I have heard it all before. +But you may have it as you please. I do not say this +irreverently, but the truth is, I am too old and too earthly to +enter upon these subjects. I think, however, that the view +is a stout-hearted one. It is somewhat in the same vein of +thought that you see in Carlyle’s works about the contempt +of happiness. But in all these cases, one is apt to think +of the sage in “Rasselas,” who is very wise about +human misery till he loses his daughter. Your fly +illustration has something in it. Certainly when men talk +big about what might have been done for man, they omit to think +what might be said, on similar grounds, for each sentient +creature in the universe. But here have we been meandering +off into origin of evil, and uses of great men, and wickedness of +writers, etc., whereas I meant to have said something about the +essay. How would you answer what Bacon maintains? +“A mixture of a lie doth ever add pleasure.”</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. He is not speaking of the lies of +social life, but of self-deception. He goes on to class +under that head “vain opinions, flattering hopes, false +valuations, imaginations as one would.” These things +are the sweetness of “the lie that sinketh in.” +Many a man has a kind of mental kaleidoscope, where the bits of +broken glass are his own merits and fortunes, and they fall into +harmonious arrangements and delight him—often most +mischievously and to his ultimate detriment, but they are a +present pleasure.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. Well, I am going to be true in my +pleasures: to take a long walk alone. I have got a +difficult case for an opinion, which I must go and think +over.</p> +<p><i>Dunsford</i>. Shall we have another reading +tomorrow?</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. Yes, if you are both in the humour for +it.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER II.</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">As</span> the next day was fine, we agreed +to have our reading in the same spot that I have described +before. There was scarcely any conversation worth noting, +until after Milverton had read us the following essay on +Conformity.</p> +<h3>CONFORMITY.</h3> +<p>The conformity of men is often a far poorer thing than that +which resembles it amongst the lower animals. The monkey +imitates from imitative skill and gamesomeness: the sheep is +gregarious, having no sufficient will to form an independent +project of its own. But man often loathes what he imitates, +and conforms to what he knows to be wrong.</p> +<p>It will ever be one of the nicest problems for a man to solve +how far he shall profit by the thoughts of other men, and not be +enslaved by them. He comes into the world, and finds +swaddling clothes ready for his mind as well as his body. +There is a vast scheme of social machinery set up about him; and +he has to discern how he can make it work with him and for him, +without becoming part of the machinery himself. In this lie +the anguish and the struggle of the greatest minds. Most +sad are they, having mostly the deepest sympathies, when they +find themselves breaking off from communion with other +minds. They would go on, if they could, with the opinions +around them. But, happily, there is something to which a +man owes a larger allegiance than to any human affection. +He would be content to go away from a false thing, or quietly to +protest against it; but in spite of him the strife in his heart +breaks into burning utterance by word or deed.</p> +<p>Few, however, are those who venture, even for the shortest +time, into that hazy world of independent thought, where a man is +not upheld by a crowd of other men’s opinions, but where he +must find a footing of his own. Among the mass of men, +there is little or no resistance to conformity. Could the +history of opinions be fully written, it would be seen how large +a part in human proceedings the love of conformity, or rather the +fear of non-conformity, has occasioned. It has triumphed +over all other fears; over love, hate, pity, sloth, anger, truth, +pride, comfort, self-interest, vanity, and maternal love. +It has torn down the sense of beauty in the human soul, and set +up in its place little ugly idols which it compels us to worship +with more than Japanese devotion. It has contradicted +Nature in the most obvious things, and been listened to with +abject submission. Its empire has been no less extensive +than deep-seated. The serf to custom points his finger at +the slave to fashion—as if it signified whether it is an +old or a new thing which is irrationally conformed to. The +man of letters despises both the slaves of fashion and of custom, +but often runs his narrow career of thought, shut up, though he +sees it not, within close walls which he does not venture even to +peep over.</p> +<p>It is hard to say in what department of human thought and +endeavour conformity has triumphed most. Religion comes to +one’s mind first; and well it may when one thinks what men +have conformed to in all ages in that matter. If we pass to +art, or science, we shall see there too the wondrous slavery +which men have endured—from puny fetters, moreover, which +one stirring thought would, as we think, have burst +asunder. The above, however, are matters not within every +one’s cognisance; some of them are shut in by learning or +the show of it; and plain “practical” men would say, +they follow where they have no business but to follow. But +the way in which the human body shall be covered is not a thing +for the scientific and the learned only: and is allowed on all +hands to concern, in no small degree, one half at least of the +creation. It is in such a simple thing as dress that each +of us may form some estimate of the extent of conformity in the +world. A wise nation, unsubdued by superstition, with the +collected experience of peaceful ages, concludes that female feet +are to be clothed by crushing them. The still wiser nations +of the west have adopted a swifter mode of destroying health, and +creating angularity, by crushing the upper part of the female +body. In such matters nearly all people conform. Our +brother man is seldom so bitter against us, as when we refuse to +adopt at once his notions of the infinite. But even +religious dissent were less dangerous and more respectable than +dissent in dress. If you want to see what men will do in +the way of conformity, take a European hat for your subject of +meditation. I dare say there are twenty-two millions of +people at this minute each wearing one of these hats in order to +please the rest. As in the fine arts, and in architecture, +especially, so in dress, something is often retained that was +useful when something else was beside it. To go to +architecture for an instance, a pinnacle is retained, not that it +is of any use where it is, but in another kind of building it +would have been. That style of building, as a whole, has +gone out of fashion, but the pinnacle has somehow or other kept +its ground and must be there, no one insolently going back to +first principles and asking what is the use and object of +building pinnacles. Similar instances in dress will occur +to my readers. Some of us are not skilled in such affairs; +but looking at old pictures we may sometimes see how modern +clothes have attained their present pitch of frightfulness and +inconvenience. This matter of dress is one in which, +perhaps, you might expect the wise to conform to the foolish; and +they have.</p> +<p>When we have once come to a right estimate of the strength of +conformity, we shall, I think, be more kindly disposed to +eccentricity than we usually are. Even a wilful or an +absurd eccentricity is some support against the weighty +common-place conformity of the world. If it were not for +some singular people who persist in thinking for themselves, in +seeing for themselves, and in being comfortable, we should all +collapse into a hideous uniformity.</p> +<p>It is worth while to analyse that influence of the world which +is the right arm of conformity. Some persons bend to the +world in all things, from an innocent belief that what so many +people think must be right. Others have a vague fear of the +world as of some wild beast which may spring out upon them at any +time. Tell them they are safe in their houses from this +myriad-eyed creature: they still are sure that they shall meet +with it some day, and would propitiate its favour at any +sacrifice. Many men contract their idea of the world to +their own circle, and what they imagine to be said in that circle +of friends and acquaintances is their idea of public +opinion—“as if,” to use a saying of +Southey’s, “a number of worldlings made a +world.” With some unfortunate people, the much +dreaded “world” shrinks into one person of more +mental power than their own, or perhaps merely of coarser nature; +and the fancy as to what this person will say about anything they +do, sits upon them like a nightmare. Happy the man who can +embark his small adventure of deeds and thoughts upon the shallow +waters round his home, or send them afloat on the wide sea of +humanity, with no great anxiety in either case as to what +reception they may meet with! He would have them steer by +the stars, and take what wind may come to them.</p> +<p>A reasonable watchfulness against conformity will not lead a +man to spurn the aid of other men, still less to reject the +accumulated mental capital of ages. It does not compel us +to dote upon the advantages of savage life. We would not +forego the hard-earned gains of civil society because there is +something in most of them which tends to contract the natural +powers, although it vastly aids them. We would not, for +instance, return to the monosyllabic utterance of barbarous men, +because in any formed language there are a thousand snares for +the understanding. Yet we must be most watchful of +them. And in all things, a man must beware of so conforming +himself as to crush his nature and forego the purpose of his +being. We must look to other standards than what men may +say or think. We must not abjectly bow down before rules +and usages; but must refer to principles and purposes. In +few words, we must think, not whom we are following, but what we +are doing. If not, why are we gifted with individual life +at all? Uniformity does not consist with the higher forms +of vitality. Even the leaves of the same tree are said to +differ, each one from all the rest. And can it be good for +the soul of a man “with a biography of his own like to no +one else’s,” to subject itself without thought to the +opinions and ways of others: not to grow into symmetry, but to be +moulded down into conformity?</p> + +<div class="gapshortline"> </div> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. Well, I rather like that essay. +I was afraid, at first, it was going to have more of the fault +into which you essay writers generally fall, of being a comment +on the abuse of a thing, and not on the thing itself. There +always seems to me to want another essay on the other side. +But I think, at the end, you protect yourself against +misconstruction. In the spirit of the essay, you know, of +course, that I quite agree with you. Indeed, I differ from +all the ordinary biographers of that independent gentleman, +Don’t Care. I believe Don’t Care came to a good +end. At any rate he came to some end. Whereas numbers +of people never have beginning, or ending, of their own. An +obscure dramatist, Milverton, whom we know of, makes one of his +characters say, in reply to some world-fearing wretch:</p> + +<blockquote><p> “While +you, you think<br /> +What others think, or what you think they’ll say,<br /> +Shaping your course by something scarce more tangible<br /> +Than dreams, at best the shadows on the stream<br /> +Of aspen leaves by flickering breezes swayed—<br /> +Load me with irons, drive me from morn till night,<br /> +I am not the utter slave which that man is<br /> +Whose sole word, thought, and deed are built on what<br /> +The world may say of him.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. Never mind the obscure +dramatist. But, Ellesmere, you really are unreasonable, if +you suppose that, in the limits of a short essay, you can +accurately distinguish all you write between the use and the +abuse of a thing. The question is, will people +misunderstand you—not, is the language such as to be +logically impregnable? Now, in the present case, no man +will really suppose it is a wise and just conformity that I am +inveighing against.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. I am not sure of that. If +everybody is to have independent thought, would there not be a +fearful instability and want of compactness? Another thing, +too—conformity often saves so much time and trouble.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. Yes; it has its uses. I do not +mean, in the world of opinion and morality, that it should be all +elasticity and no gravitation; but at least enough elasticity to +preserve natural form and independent being.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. I think it would have been better if +you had turned the essay another way, and instead of making it on +conformity, had made it on interference. That is the +greater mischief and the greater folly, I think. Why do +people unreasonably conform? Because they feel unreasonable +interference. War, I say, is interference on a small scale +compared with the interference of private life. Then the +absurdity on which it proceeds; that men are all alike, or that +it is desirable that they should be; and that what is good for +one is good for all.</p> +<p><i>Dunsford</i>. I must say, I think, Milverton, you do +not give enough credit for sympathy, good-nature, and humility as +material elements in the conformity of the world.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. I am not afraid, my dear Dunsford, of +the essay doing much harm. There is a power of sleepy +conformity in the world. You may just startle your +conformists for a minute, but they gravitate into their old way +very soon. You talk of their humility, Dunsford, but I have +heard people who have conformed to opinions, without a pretence +of investigation, as arrogant and intolerant towards anybody who +differed from them, as if they stood upon a pinnacle of +independent sagacity and research.</p> +<p><i>Dunsford</i>. One never knows, Ellesmere, on which +side you are. I thought you were on mine a minute or two +ago; and now you come down upon me with more than +Milverton’s anti-conforming spirit.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. The greatest mischief, as I take it, +of this slavish conformity, is in the reticence it creates. +People will be, what are called, intimate friends, and yet no +real interchange of opinion takes place between them. A man +keeps his doubts, his difficulties, and his peculiar opinions to +himself. He is afraid of letting anybody know that he does +not exactly agree with the world’s theories on all +points. There is no telling the hindrance that this is to +truth.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. A great cause of this, Ellesmere, is +in the little reliance you can have on any man’s +secrecy. A man finds that what, in the heat of discussion, +and in the perfect carelessness of friendship, he has said to his +friend, is quoted to people whom he would never have said it to; +knowing that it would be sure to be misunderstood, or +half-understood, by them. And so he grows cautious; and is +very loth to communicate to anybody his more cherished opinions, +unless they fall in exactly with the stream. Added to +which, I think there is in these times less than there ever was +of a proselytising spirit; and people are content to keep their +opinions to themselves—more perhaps from indifference than +from fear.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. Yes, I agree with you.</p> +<p>By the way, I think your taking dress as an illustration of +extreme conformity is not bad. Really it is wonderful the +degree of square and dull hideousness to which, in the process of +time and tailoring, and by severe conformity, the human +creature’s outward appearance has arrived. Look at a +crowd of men from a height, what an ugly set of ants they +appear! Myself, when I see an Eastern man, one of the +people attached to their embassies, sweeping by us in something +flowing and stately, I feel inclined to take off my hat to him +(only that I think the hat might frighten him), and say, Here is +a great, unhatted, uncravated, bearded man, not a creature clipt +and twisted and tortured into tailorhood.</p> +<p><i>Dunsford</i>. Ellesmere broke in upon me just now, so +that I did not say all that I meant to say. But, Milverton, +what would you admit that we are to conform to? In +silencing the general voice, may we not give too much opportunity +to our own headstrong suggestions, and to wilful licence?</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. Yes: to be somewhat deaf to the din of +the world may be no gain, even loss, if then we only listen more +to the worst part of ourselves; but in itself it is a good thing +to silence that din. It is at least a beginning of +good. If anything good is then gained, it is not a sheepish +tendency, but an independent resolve growing out of our +nature. And, after all, when we talk of non-conformity, it +may only be that we non-conform to the immediate sect of thought +or action about us, to conform to a much wider thing in human +nature.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. Ah me! how one wants a moral essayist +always at hand to enable one to make use of moral essays.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. Your rules of law are grand +things—the proverbs of justice; yet has not each case its +specialities, requiring to be argued with much circumstance, and +capable of different interpretations? Words cannot be made +into men.</p> +<p><i>Dunsford</i>. I wonder you answer his sneers, +Milverton.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. I must go and see whether words cannot +be made into guineas: and then guineas into men is an easy +thing. These trains will not wait even for critics, so, for +the present, good-bye.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER III.</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">Ellesmere</span> soon wrote us word that +he would be able to come down again; and I agreed to be at +Worth-Ashton (Milverton’s house) on the day of his +arrival. I had scarcely seated myself at our usual place of +meeting before the friends entered, and after greeting me, the +conversation thus began:</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. Upon my word, you people who live in +the country have a pleasant time of it. As Milverton was +driving me from the station through Durley Wood, there was such a +rich smell of pines, such a twittering of birds, so much joy, +sunshine, and beauty, that I began to think, if there were no +such place as London, it really would be very desirable to live +in the country.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. What a climax! But I am always +very suspicious, when Ellesmere appears to be carried away by any +enthusiasm, that it will break off suddenly, like the gallop of a +post-horse.</p> +<p><i>Dunsford</i>. Well, what are we to have for our +essay!</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. Despair.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. I feel equal to anything just now, and +so, if it must be read sometime or other, let us have it now.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. You need not be afraid. I want +to take away, not to add gloom. Shall I read?</p> +<p>We assented, and he began.</p> +<h3>DESPAIR.</h3> +<p>Despair may be serviceable when it arises from a temporary +prostration of spirits: during which the mind is insensibly +healing, and her scattered power silently returning. This +is better than to be the sport of a teasing hope without +reason. But to indulge in despair as a habit is slothful, +cowardly, short-sighted; and manifestly tends against +Nature. Despair is then the paralysis of the soul.</p> +<p>These are the principal causes of despair—remorse, the +sorrows of the affections, worldly trouble, morbid views of +religion, native melancholy.</p> +<h3>REMORSE.</h3> +<p>Remorse does but add to the evil which bred it, when it +promotes, not penitence, but despair. To have erred in one +branch of our duties does not unfit us for the performance of all +the rest, unless we suffer the dark spot to spread over our whole +nature, which may happen almost unobserved in the torpor of +despair. This kind of despair is chiefly grounded on a +foolish belief that individual words or actions constitute the +whole life of man: whereas they are often not fair +representatives of portions even of that life. The +fragments of rock in a mountain stream may tell much of its +history, are in fact results of its doings, but they are not the +stream. They were brought down when it was turbid; it may +now be clear: they are as much the result of other circumstances +as of the action of the stream; their history is fitful: they +give us no sure intelligence of the future course of the stream, +or of the nature of its waters; and may scarcely show more than +that it has not been always as it is. The actions of men +are often but little better indications of the men +themselves.</p> +<p>A prolonged despair arising from remorse is unreasonable at +any age, but if possible, still more so when felt by the +young. To think, for example, that the great Being who made +us could have made eternal ruin and misery inevitable to a poor +half-fledged creature of eighteen or nineteen! And yet how +often has the profoundest despair from remorse brooded over +children of that age and eaten into their hearts.</p> +<p>There is frequently much selfishness about remorse. Put +what has been done at the worst. Let a man see his own evil +word, or deed, in full light, and own it to be black as hell +itself. He is still here. He cannot be +isolated. There still remain for him cares and duties; and, +therefore, hopes. Let him not in imagination link all +creation to his fate. Let him yet live in the welfare of +others, and, if it may be so, work out his own in this way: if +not, be content with theirs. The saddest cause of +remorseful despair is when a man does something expressly +contrary to his character: when an honourable man, for instance, +slides into some dishonourable action; or a tender-hearted man +falls into cruelty from carelessness; or, as often happens, a +sensitive nature continues to give the greatest pain to others +from temper, feeling all the time, perhaps, more deeply than the +persons aggrieved. All these cases may be summed up in the +words, “That which I would not that I do,” the +saddest of all human confessions, made by one of the greatest +men. However, the evil cannot be mended by despair. +Hope and humility are the only supports under this burden. +As Mr. Carlyle says,</p> +<blockquote><p>“What are faults, what are the outward +details of a life; if the inner secret of it, the remorse, +temptations, true, often-baffled, never-ended struggle of it, be +forgotten. ‘It is not in man that walketh to direct +his steps.’ Of all acts, is not, for a man, +<i>repentance</i> the most divine? The deadliest sin, I +say, were that same supercilious consciousness of no sin; that is +death: the heart so conscious is divorced from sincerity, +humility, and fact; is dead: it is ‘pure’ as dead dry +sand is pure. David’s life and history, as written +for us in those Psalms of his, I consider to be the truest emblem +ever given of a man’s moral progress and warfare here +below. All earnest souls will ever discern in it the +faithful struggle of an earnest human soul towards what is good +and best. Struggle often baffled, sore baffled, down as +into entire wreck; yet a struggle never ended; ever, with tears, +repentance, true unconquerable purpose, begun anew. Poor +human nature! is not a man’s walking, in truth, always +that: a ‘succession of falls!’ Man can do no +other. In this wild element of a Life, he has to struggle +onwards; now fallen, deep abased; and ever, with tears, +repentance, with bleeding heart, he has to rise again, struggle +again still onwards. That his struggle be a faithful +unconquerable one: this is the question of questions.”</p> +</blockquote> +<h3>THE SORROWS OF THE AFFECTIONS.</h3> +<p>The loss by death of those we love has the first place in +these sorrows. Yet the feeling in this case, even when +carried to the highest, is not exactly despair, having too much +warmth in it for that. Not much can be said in the way of +comfort on this head. Queen Elizabeth, in her hard, wise +way, writing to a mother who had lost her son, tells her that she +will be comforted in time; and why should she not do for herself +what the mere lapse of time will do for her? Brave words! +and the stern woman, more earnest than the sage in +“Rasselas,” would have tried their virtue on +herself. But I fear they fell somewhat coldly on the +mother’s ear. Happily, in these bereavements, kind +Nature with her opiates, day by day administered, does more than +all the skill of the physician moralists. Sir Thomas Browne +says,</p> +<blockquote><p>“Darkness and light divide the course of +time, and oblivion shares with memory a great part even of our +living beings; we slightly remember our felicities, and the +smartest strokes of affliction leave but short smart upon +us. Sense endureth no extremities, and sorrows destroy us +or themselves. To weep into stones are fables. +Afflictions induce callosities, miseries are slippery, or fall +like snow upon us, which, notwithstanding, is no unhappy +stupidity. To be ignorant of evils to come, and forgetful +of evils past, is a merciful provision in Nature, whereby we +digest the mixture of our few and evil days, and our delivered +senses not relapsing into cutting remembrances, our sorrows are +not kept raw by the edge of repetitions.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>The good knight thus makes much comfort out of our physical +weakness. But something may be done in a very different +direction, namely, by spiritual strength. By elevating and +purifying the sorrow, we may take it more out of matter, as it +were, and so feel less the loss of what is material about it.</p> +<p>The other sorrows of the affections which may produce despair, +are those in which the affections are wounded, as jealousy, love +unrequited, friendship betrayed and the like. As, in +despair from remorse, the whole life seems to be involved in one +action: so in the despair we are now considering, the whole life +appears to be shut up in the one unpropitious affection. +Yet human nature, if fairly treated, is too large a thing to be +suppressed into despair by one affection, however potent. +We might imagine that if there were anything that would rob life +of its strength and favour, it is domestic unhappiness. And +yet how numerous is the bond of those whom we know to have been +eminently unhappy in some domestic relation, but whose lives have +been full of vigorous and kindly action. Indeed the culture +of the world has been largely carried on by such men. As +long as there is life in the plant, though it be sadly pent in, +it will grow towards any opening of light that is left for +it.</p> +<h3>WORLDLY TROUBLE.</h3> +<p>This appears too mean a subject for despair, or, at least, +unworthy of having any remedy, or soothing thought out of +it. Whether a man lives in a large room or a small one, +rides or is obliged to walk, gets a plenteous dinner every day, +or a sparing one, do not seem matters for despair. But the +truth is, that worldly trouble, such for instance, as loss of +fortune, is seldom the simple thing that poets would persuade +us.</p> +<blockquote><p>“The little or the much she gave is quietly +resigned;<br /> +Content with poverty, my soul I arm,<br /> +And virtue, though in rags will keep me warm.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>So sings Dryden, paraphrasing Horace, but each of them with +their knowledge of the world, cross-questioned in prose, could +have told us how the stings of fortune really are felt. The +truth is, that fortune is not exactly a distinct isolated thing +which can be taken away—“and there an +end.” But much has to be severed, with undoubted pain +in the operation. A man mostly feels that his reputation +for sagacity, often his honour, the comfort, too, or supposed +comfort, of others are embarked in his fortunes. Mere +stoicism, and resolves about fitting fortune to oneself, not +oneself to fortune, though good things enough in their way, will +not always meet the whole of the case. And a man who could +bear personal distress of any kind with Spartan indifference, may +suffer himself to be overwhelmed by despair growing out of +worldly trouble. A frequent origin of such despair, as +indeed of all despair (not by any means excluding despair from +remorse), is pride. Let a man say to himself, “I am +not the perfect character I meant to be; this is not the conduct +I had imagined for myself; these are not the fortunate +circumstances I had always intended to be surrounded +by.” Let him at once admit that he is on a lower +level than his ideal one; and then see what is to be done +there. This seems the best way of treating all that part of +worldly trouble which consists of self-reproval. We +scarcely know of any outward life continuously prosperous (and a +very dull one it would be): why should we expect the inner life +to be one course of unbroken self-improvement, either in +prudence, or in virtue?</p> +<p>Before a man gives way to excessive grief about the fortunes +of his family being lost with his own, he should think whether he +really knows wherein lies the welfare of others. Give him +some fairy power, inexhaustible purses or magic lamps, not, +however, applying to the mind; and see whether he could make +those whom he would favour good or happy. In the East, they +have a proverb of this kind, Happy are the children of those +fathers who go to the Evil One. But for anything that our +Western experience shows, the proverb might be reversed, and, +instead of running thus, Happy are the sons of those who have got +money anyhow, it might be, Happy are the sons of those who have +failed in getting money. In fact, there is no sound proverb +to be made about it either way. We know nothing about the +matter. Our surest influence for good or evil over others +is, through themselves. Our ignorance of what is physically +good for any man may surely prevent anything like despair with +regard to that part of the fortunes of others dear to us, which, +as we think, is bound up with our own.</p> +<h3>MORBID VIEWS OF RELIGION.</h3> +<p>As religion is the most engrossing subject that can be +presented to us, it will be considered in all states of mind and +by all minds. It is impossible but that the most hideous +and perverted views of religion must arise. To combat the +particular views which may be supposed to cause religious +despair, would be too theological an undertaking for this +essay. One thing only occurs to me to say, namely, that the +lives and the mode of speaking about themselves adopted by the +founders of Christianity, afford the best contradiction to +religious melancholy that I believe can be met with.</p> +<h3>NATIVE MELANCHOLY.</h3> +<p>There is such a thing. Jacques, without the +“sundry contemplation” of his travels, or any +“simples” to “compound” his melancholy +form, would have ever been wrapped in a “most humorous +sadness.” It was innate. This melancholy may +lay its votaries open to any other cause of despair, but having +mostly some touch of philosophy (if it be not absolutely morbid), +it is not unlikely to preserve them from any extremity. It +is not acute, but chronic.</p> +<p>It may be said in its favour that it tends to make men +indifferent to their own fortunes. But then the sorrow of +the world presses more deeply upon them. With large open +hearts, the untowardness of things present, the miseries of the +past, the mischief, stupidity, and error which reign in the +world, at times almost crush your melancholy men. Still, +out of their sadness may come their strength, or, at least, the +best direction of it. Nothing, perhaps, is lost; not even +sin—much less sorrow.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. I am glad you have ended as you have: +for, previously, you seemed to make too much of getting rid of +all distress of mind. I always liked that passage in +“Philip van Artevelde,” where Father John says,</p> +<blockquote><p>“He that lacks time to mourn, lacks time to +mend.<br /> +Eternity mourns that.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>You have a better memory than I have: how does it go on?</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>.</p> + +<blockquote><p> “’Tis +an ill cure<br /> +For life’s worst ills, to have no time to feel them.<br /> +Where sorrow’s held intrusive and turned out,<br /> +There wisdom will not enter, nor true power,<br /> +Nor aught that dignifies humanity.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Still this does not justify despair, which was what I was +writing about.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. Perhaps it was not a just criticism of +mine. One part of the subject you have certainly +omitted. You do not tell us how much there often is of +physical disorder in despair. I dare say you will think it +a coarse and unromantic mode of looking at things; but I must +confess I agree with what Leigh Hunt has said somewhere, that one +can walk down distress of mind—even remorse, perhaps.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. Yes; I am for the Peripatetics against +all other philosophers.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. By the way, there is a passage in one +of Hazlitt’s essays, I thought of while you were reading, +about remorse and religious melancholy. He speaks of mixing +up religion and morality; and then goes on to say, that +Calvinistic notions have obscured and prevented self-knowledge. +<a name="citation42"></a><a href="#footnote42" +class="citation">[42]</a></p> +<p>Give me the essay—there is a passage I want to look +at. This comparison of life to a mountain stream, the rocks +brought down by it being the actions, is too much worked +out. When we speak of similes not going on four legs, it +implies, I think, that a simile is at best but a four-legged +animal. Now this is almost a centipede of a simile. I +think I have had the same thought as yours here, and I have +compared the life of an individual to a curve. You both +smile. Now I thought that Dunsford at any rate would be +pleased with this reminiscence of college days. But to +proceed with my curve. You may have numbers of the points +through which it passes given, and yet know nothing of the nature +of the curve itself. See, now, it shall pass through here +and here, but how it will go in the interval, what is the law of +its being, we know not. But this simile would be too +mathematical, I fear.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. I hold to the centipede.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. Not a word has Dunsford said all this +time.</p> +<p><i>Dunsford</i>. I like the essay. I was not +criticising as we went along, but thinking that perhaps the +greatest charm of books is, that we see in them that other men +have suffered what we have. Some souls we ever find who +could have responded to all our agony, be it what it may. +This at least robs misery of its loneliness.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. On the other hand, the charm of +intercourse with our fellows, when we are in sadness, is that +they do not reflect it in any way. Each keeps his own +trouble to himself, and often pretending to think and care about +other things, comes to do so for the time.</p> +<p><i>Dunsford</i>. Well, but you might choose books which +would not reflect your troubles.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. But the fact of having to make a +choice to do this, does away, perhaps, with some part of the +benefit: whereas, in intercourse with living men, you take what +you find, and you find that neither your trouble, nor any +likeness of it, is absorbing other people. But this is not +the whole reason: the truth is, the life and impulses of other +men are catching; you cannot explain exactly how it is that they +take you out of yourself.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. No man is so confidential as when he +is addressing the whole world. You find, therefore, more +comfort for sorrow in books than in social intercourse. I +mean more direct comfort; for I agree with what Ellesmere says +about society.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. In comparing men and books, one must +always remember this important distinction—that one can put +the books down at any time. As Macaulay says, “Plato +is never sullen. Cervantes is never petulant. +Demosthenes never comes unseasonably. Dante never stays too +long.”</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. Besides, one can manage to agree so +well, intellectually, with a book; and intellectual differences +are the source of half the quarrels in the world.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. Judicious shelving!</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. Judicious skipping will nearly +do. Now when one’s friend, or oneself, is crotchety, +dogmatic, or disputatious, one cannot turn over to another +day.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. Don’t go, Dunsford. Here +is a passage in the essay I meant to have said something +about—“why should we expect the inner life to be one +course of unbroken self-improvement,” etc.—You +recollect? Well, it puts me in mind of a conversation +between a complacent poplar and a grim old oak, which I overheard +the other day. The poplar said that it grew up quite +straight, heavenwards, that all its branches pointed the same +way, and always had done so. Turning to the oak, which it +had been talking at before for some time, the poplar went on to +remark, that it did not wish to say anything unfriendly to a +brother of the forest, but those warped and twisted branches +seemed to show strange struggles. The tall thing concluded +its oration by saying, that it grew up very fast, and that when +it had done growing, it did not suffer itself to be made into +huge floating engines of destruction. But different trees +had different tastes. There was then a sound from the old +oak, like an “ah” or a “whew,” or, +perhaps, it was only the wind amongst its resisting branches; and +the gaunt creature said that it had had ugly winds from without +and cross-grained impulses from within; that it knew it had +thrown out awkwardly a branch here and a branch there, which +would never come quite right again it feared; that men worked it +up, sometimes for good and sometimes for evil—but that at +any rate it had not lived for nothing. The poplar began +again immediately, for this kind of tree can talk for ever, but I +patted the old oak approvingly and went on.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. Well, your trees divide their +discourse somewhat Ellesmerically: they do not talk with the +simplicity La Fontaine’s would; but there is a good deal in +them. They are not altogether sappy.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. I really thought of this fable of mine +the other day, as I was passing the poplar at the end of the +valley, and I determined to give it you on the first +occasion.</p> +<p><i>Dunsford</i>. I hope, Ellesmere, you do not intend to +put sarcastic notions into the sap of our trees hereabouts. +There’s enough of sarcasm in you to season a whole +forest.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. Dunsford is afraid of what the trees +may say to the country gentlemen, and whether they will be able +to answer them. I will be careful not to make the trees too +clever.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. Let us go and try if we can hear any +more forest talk. The winds, shaped into voices by the +leaves, say many things to us at all times.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER IV.</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">In</span> the course of our walk Milverton +promised to read the following essay on Recreation the next +day. I have no note of anything that was said before the +reading.</p> +<h3>RECREATION.</h3> +<p>This subject has not had the thought it merits. It seems +trivial. It concerns some hours in the daily life of each +of us; but it is not connected with any subject of human +grandeur, and we are rather ashamed of it. Schiller has +some wise, but hard words that relate to it. He perceives +the pre-eminence of the Greeks, who could do many things. +He finds that modern men are units of great nations; but not +great units themselves. And there is some room for this +reasoning of his.</p> +<p>Our modern system of division of labour divides wits +also. The more necessity there is, therefore, for funding +in recreation something to expand men’s intelligence. +There are intellectual pursuits almost as much divided as +pin-making; and many a man goes through some intellectual +process, for the greater part of his working hours, which +corresponds with the making of a pin’s head. Must +there not be some danger of a general contraction of mind from +this convergence of attention upon something very small, for so +considerable a portion of a man’s life?</p> +<p>What answer can civilisation give to this? It can say +that greater results are worked out by the modern system; that +though each man is doing less himself than he might have done in +former days, he sees greater and better things accomplished; and +that his thoughts, not bound down by his petty occupation, travel +over the work of the human family. There is a great deal, +doubtless, in this argument; but man is not altogether an +intellectual recipient. He is a constructive animal +also. It is not the knowledge that you can pour into him +that will satisfy him, or enable him to work out his +nature. He must see things for himself; he must have bodily +work and intellectual work different from his bread-getting work; +or he runs the danger of becoming a contracted pedant with a poor +mind and a sickly body.</p> +<p>I have seen it quoted from Aristotle, that the end of labour +is to gain leisure. It is a great saying. We have in +modern times a totally wrong view of the matter. Noble work +is a noble thing, but not all work. Most people seem to +think that any business is in itself something grand; that to be +intensely employed, for instance, about something which has no +truth, beauty, or usefulness in it, which makes no man happier or +wiser, is still the perfection of human endeavour, so that the +work be intense. It is the intensity, not the nature, of +the work that men praise. You see the extent of this +feeling in little things. People are so ashamed of being +caught for a moment idle, that if you come upon the most +industrious servants or workmen whilst they are standing looking +at something which interests them, or fairly resting, they move +off in a fright, as if they were proved, by a moment’s +relaxation, to be neglectful of their work. Yet it is the +result that they should mainly be judged by, and to which they +should appeal. But amongst all classes, the working itself, +incessant working, is the thing deified. Now what is the +end and object of most work? To provide for animal +wants. Not a contemptible thing by any means, but still it +is not all in all with man. Moreover, in those cases where +the pressure of bread-getting is fairly past, we do not often +find men’s exertions lessened on that account. There +enter into their minds as motives, ambition, a love of hoarding, +or a fear of leisure—things which, in moderation, may be +defended or even justified; but which are not so peremptory, and +upon the face of them excellent, that they at once dignify +excessive labour.</p> +<p>The truth is, that to work insatiably requires much less mind +than to work judiciously, and less courage than to refuse work +that cannot be done honestly. For a hundred men whose +appetite for work can be driven on by vanity, avarice, ambition, +or a mistaken notion of advancing their families, there is about +one who is desirous of expanding his own nature and the nature of +others in all directions, of cultivating many pursuits, of +bringing himself and those around him in contact with the +universe in many points, of being a man and not a machine.</p> +<p>It may seem as if the preceding arguments were directed rather +against excessive work than in favour of recreation. But +the first object in an essay of this kind should be to bring down +the absurd estimate that is often formed of mere work. What +ritual is to the formalist, or contemplation to the devotee, +business is to the man of the world. He thinks he cannot be +doing wrong as long as he is doing that.</p> +<p>No doubt hard work is a great police agent. If everybody +were worked from morning till night and then carefully locked up, +the register of crimes might be greatly diminished. But +what would become of human nature? Where would be the room +for growth in such a system of things? It is through sorrow +and mirth, plenty and need, a variety of passions, circumstances, +and temptations, even through sin and misery, that men’s +natures are developed.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p>Again, there are people who would say, “Labour is not +all; we do not object to the cessation of labour—a mere +provision for bodily ends; but we fear the lightness and vanity +of what you call recreation.” Do these people take +heed of the swiftness of thought—of the impatience of +thought? What will the great mass of men be thinking of, if +they are taught to shun amusements and the thoughts of +amusement? If any sensuality is left open to them, they +will think of that. If not sensuality, then avarice, or +ferocity for “the cause of God,” as they would call +it. People who have had nothing else to amuse them have +been very apt to indulge themselves in the excitement of +persecuting their fellow creatures.</p> +<p>Our nation, the northern part of it especially, is given to +believe in the sovereign efficacy of dulness. To be sure, +dulness and solid vice are apt to go hand in hand. But +then, according to our notions, dulness is in itself so good a +thing—almost a religion.</p> +<p>Now, if ever a people required to be amused, it is we +sad-hearted Anglo-Saxons. Heavy eaters, hard thinkers, +often given up to a peculiar melancholy of our own, with a +climate that for months together would frown away mirth if it +could—many of us with very gloomy thoughts about our +hereafter—if ever there were a people who should avoid +increasing their dulness by all work and no play, we are that +people. “They took their pleasure sadly,” says +Froissart, “after their fashion.” We need not +ask of what nation Froissart was speaking.</p> +<p>There is a theory which has done singular mischief to the +cause of recreation and of general cultivation. It is that +men cannot excel in more things than one; and that if they can, +they had better be quiet about it. “Avoid music, do +not cultivate art, be not known to excel in any craft but your +own,” says many a worldly parent, thereby laying the +foundation of a narrow, greedy character, and destroying means of +happiness and of improvement which success, or even real +excellence, in one profession only cannot give. This is, +indeed, a sacrifice of the end of living for the means.</p> +<p>Another check to recreation is the narrow way in which people +have hitherto been brought up at schools and colleges. The +classics are pre-eminent works. To acquire an accurate +knowledge of them is an admirable discipline. Still, it +would be well to give a youth but few of these great works, and +so leave time for various arts, accomplishments, and knowledge of +external things exemplified by other means than books. If +this cannot be done but by over-working, then it had better not +be done; for of all things, that must be avoided. But +surely it can be done. At present, many a man who is versed +in Greek metre, and afterwards full of law reports, is childishly +ignorant of Nature. Let him walk with an intelligent child +for a morning, and the child will ask him a hundred questions +about sun, moon, stars, plants, birds, building, farming, and the +like, to which he can give very sorry answers, if any; or, at the +best, he has but a second-hand acquaintance with Nature. +Men’s conceits are his main knowledge. Whereas, if he +had any pursuits connected with Nature, all Nature is in harmony +with it, is brought into his presence by it, and it affords at +once cultivation and recreation.</p> +<p>But, independently of those cultivated pursuits which form a +high order of recreation, boyhood should never pass without the +boy’s learning several modes of recreation of the humbler +kind. A parent or teacher seldom does a kinder thing by the +child under his care than when he instructs it in some manly +exercise, some pursuit connected with Nature out of doors, or +even some domestic game. In hours of fatigue, anxiety, +sickness, or worldly ferment, such means of amusement may delight +the grown-up man when other things would fail.</p> +<p>An indirect advantage, but a very considerable one, attendant +upon various modes of recreation, is, that they provide +opportunities of excelling in something to boys and men who are +dull in things which form the staple of education. A boy +cannot see much difference between the nominative and the +genitive cases—still less any occasion for +aorists—but he is a good hand at some game or other; and he +keeps up his self-respect, and the respect of others for him, +upon his prowess in that game. He is better and happier on +that account. And it is well, too, that the little world +around him should know that excellence is not all of one +form.</p> +<p>There are no details about recreation in this essay, the +object here being mainly to show the worth of recreation, and to +defend it against objections from the over-busy and the +over-strict. The sense of the beautiful, the desire for +comprehending Nature, the love of personal skill and prowess, are +not things implanted in men merely to be absorbed in producing +and distributing the objects of our most obvious animal +wants. If civilisation required this, civilisation would be +a failure. Still less should we fancy that we are serving +the cause of godliness when we are discouraging recreation. +Let us be hearty in our pleasures, as in our work, and not think +that the gracious Being Who has made us so open-hearted to +delight, looks with dissatisfaction at our enjoyment, as a hard +taskmaster might, who in the glee of his slaves could see only a +hindrance to their profitable working. And with reference +to our individual cultivation, we may remember that we are not +here to promote incalculable quantities of law, physic, or +manufactured goods, but to become men—not narrow pedants, +but wide-seeing, mind-travelled men. Who are the men of +history to be admired most? Those whom most things +became—who could be weighty in debate, of much device in +council, considerate in a sick-room, genial at a feast, joyous at +a festival, capable of discourse with many minds, large-souled, +not to be shrivelled up into any one form, fashion, or +temperament. Their contemporaries would have told us that +men might have various accomplishments and hearty enjoyments, and +not for that be the less effective in business, or less active in +benevolence. I distrust the wisdom of asceticism as much as +I do that of sensuality; Simeon Stylites no less than +Sardanapalus.</p> + +<div class="gapshortline"> </div> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. You alluded to Schiller at the +beginning of the essay: can you show me his own words? I +have a lawyer’s liking for the best evidence.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. When we go in, I will show you some +passages which bear me out in what I have made him say—at +least, if the translation is faithful. <a +name="citation53"></a><a href="#footnote53" +class="citation">[53]</a></p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. I have had a great respect for +Schiller ever since I heard that saying of his about death, +“Death cannot be an evil, for it is universal.”</p> +<p><i>Dunsford</i>. Very noble and full of faith.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. Touching the essay, I like it well +enough; but, perhaps, people will expect to find more about +recreation itself—not only about the good of it, but what +it is, and how it is to be got.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. I do not incline to go into detail +about the matter. The object was to say something for the +respectability of recreation, not to write a chapter of a book of +sports. People must find out their own ways of amusing +themselves.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. I will tell you what is the paramount +thing to be attended to in all amusements—that they should +be short. Moralists are always talking about +“short-lived” pleasures: would that they were!</p> +<p><i>Dunsford</i>. Hesiod told the world, some two +thousand years ago, how much greater the half is than the +whole.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. Dinner-givers and managers of theatres +should forthwith be made aware of that fact. What a +sacrifice of good things, and of the patience and comfort of +human beings, a cumbrous modern dinner is! I always long to +get up and walk about.</p> +<p><i>Dunsford</i>. Do not talk of modern dinners. +Think what a Roman dinner must have been.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. Very true. It has always struck +me that there is something quite military in the sensualism of +the Romans—an “arbiter bibendi” chosen, and the +whole feast moving on with fearful precision and apparatus of all +kinds. Come, come! the world’s improving, +Ellesmere.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. Had the Romans public dinners? +Answer me that. Imagine a Roman, whose theory, at least, of +a dinner was that it was a thing for enjoyment, whereas we often +look on it as a continuation of the business of the day—I +say, imagine a Roman girding himself up, literally girding +himself up to make an after-dinner speech.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. I must allow that is rather a +barbarous practice.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. If charity, or politics, cannot be +done without such things, I suppose they are useful in their way; +but let nobody ever imagine that they are a form of +pleasure. People smearing each other over with stupid +flattery, and most of the company being in dread of receiving +some compliment which should oblige them to speak!</p> +<p><i>Dunsford</i>. I should have thought, now, that you +would always have had something to say, and therefore that you +would not be so bitter against after-dinner speaking.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. No; when I have nothing to say, I can +say nothing.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. Would it not be a pleasant thing if +rich people would ask their friends sometimes to public +amusements—order a play for them, for instance—or at +any rate, provide some manifest amusement? They might, +occasionally with great advantage, abridge the expense of their +dinners; and throw it into other channels of hospitality.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. Ah, if they would have good acting at +their houses, that would be very delightful; but I cannot say +that the being taken to any place of public amusement would much +delight me. By the way, Milverton, what do you say of +theatres in the way of recreation? This decline of the +drama, too, is a thing you must have thought about: let us hear +your notions.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. I think one of the causes sometimes +assigned, that reading is more spread, is a true and an important +one; but, otherwise, I fancy that the present decline of the +drama depends upon very small things which might be +remedied. As to a love of the drama going out of the human +heart, that is all nonsense. Put it at the lowest, what a +great pleasure it is to hear a good play read. And again, +as to serious pursuits unfitting men for dramatic entertainments, +it is quite the contrary. A man, wearied with care and +business, would find more change of ideas with less fatigue, in +seeing a good play, than in almost any other way of amusing +himself.</p> +<p><i>Dunsford</i>. What are the causes then of the decline +of the drama?</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. In England, or rather in +London,—for London is England for dramatic purposes; in +London, then, theatrical arrangements seem to be framed to drive +away people of sense. The noisome atmosphere, the difficult +approach, the over-size of the great theatres, the intolerable +length of performances.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. Hear! hear!</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. The crowding together of theatres in +one part of the town, the lateness of the hours—</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. The folly of the audience, who always +applaud in the wrong place—</p> +<p><i>Dunsford</i>. There is no occasion to say any more; I +am quite convinced.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. But these annoyances need not +be. Build a theatre of moderate dimensions; give it great +facility of approach; take care that the performances never +exceed three hours; let lions and dwarfs pass by without any +endeavour to get them within the walls; lay aside all ambition of +making stage waves which may almost equal real Ramsgate waves to +our cockney apprehensions. Of course there must be good +players and good plays.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. Now we come to the part of Hamlet.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. Good players and good plays are both +to be had if there were good demand for them. But, I was +going to say, let there be all these things, especially let there +be complete ventilation, and the theatre will have the most +abundant success. Why, that one thing alone, the villainous +atmosphere at most public places, is enough to daunt any sensible +man from going to them.</p> +<p><i>Dunsford</i>. There should be such a choice of +plays—not merely Chamberlain-clipt—as any man or +woman could go to.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. There should be certainly, but how is +such a choice to be made, if the people who could regulate it, +for the most part, stay away? It is a dangerous thing, the +better classes leaving any great source of amusement and +instruction wholly, or greatly, to the less refined classes.</p> +<p><i>Dunsford</i>. Yes, I must confess it is.</p> +<p>Great part of your arguments apply to musical as well as to +theatrical entertainments. Do you find similar results with +respect to them?</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. Why, they are not attended by any +means as they would be, or made what they might be, if the +objections I mentioned were removed.</p> +<p><i>Dunsford</i>. What do you say to the out-of-door +entertainments for a town population?</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. As I said before, my dear Dunsford, I +cannot give you a chapter of a “Book of +Sports.” There ought, of course, to be parks for all +quarters of the town: and I confess it would please me better to +see, in holiday times and hours of leisure, hearty games going on +in these parks, than a number of people sauntering about in +uncomfortably new and unaccustomed clothes.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. Do you not see, Dunsford, that, like a +cautious official man, he does not want to enter into small +details, which have always an air of ridicule? He is not +prepared to pledge himself to cricket, golf, football, or +prisoner’s bars; but in his heart he is manifestly a Young +Englander—without the white waistcoat. Nothing would +please him better than to see in large letters, on one of those +advertising vans, “Great match! Victoria Park!! +Eleven of Fleet Street against the Eleven of Saffron +Hill!!!”</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. Well, there is a great deal in the +spirit of Young England that I like very much, indeed that I +respect.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. I should like the Young England party +better myself if I were quite sure there was no connection +between them and a clan of sour, pity-mongering people, who wash +one away with eternal talk about the contrast between riches and +poverty; with whom a poor man is always virtuous; and who would, +if they could, make him as envious and as discontented as +possible.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. Nothing can be more strikingly in +contrast with such thinkers than Young England. Young +Englanders, according to the best of their theories, ought to be +men of warm sympathy with all classes. There is no doubt of +this, that very seldom does any good thing arise, but there comes +an ugly phantom of a caricature of it, which sidles up against +the reality, mouths its favourite words as a third-rate actor +does a great part, under-mimics its wisdom, over-acts its folly, +is by half the world taken for it, goes some way to suppress it +in its own time, and, perhaps, lives for it in history.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. Well brought out, that metaphor, but I +don’t know that it means more than that the followers of a +system do in general a good deal to corrupt it, or that when a +great principle is worked into human affairs, a considerable +accretion of human folly and falseness mostly grows round it: +which things some of us had a suspicion of before.</p> +<p><i>Dunsford</i>. To go back to the subject. What +would you do for country amusements, Milverton? That is +what concerns me, you know.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. Athletic amusements go on naturally +here: do not require so much fostering as in towns. The +commons must be carefully kept: I have quite a Cobbettian fear of +their being taken away from us under some plausible pretext or +other. Well, then, it strikes me that a great deal might be +done to promote the more refined pleasures of life among our +rural population. I hope we shall live to see many of +Hullah’s pupils playing an important part in this +way. Of course, the foundation for these things may best be +laid at schools; and is being laid in some places, I am happy to +say.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. Humph, music, sing-song!</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. Don’t you observe, Dunsford, +that when Ellesmere wants to attack us, and does not exactly see +how, he mutters to himself sarcastically, sneering himself up, as +it were, to the attack.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. You and Dunsford are both wild for +music, from barrel-organs upwards.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. I confess to liking the humblest +attempts at melody.</p> +<p><i>Dunsford</i>. I feel as Sir Thomas Browne tells us he +felt, that “even that vulgar and tavern music, which makes +one man merry, another mad, strikes in me a deep fit of devotion +and a profound contemplation of the first composer. There +is something in it of divinity more than the ear discovers; it is +an hieroglyphical and shadowed lesson of the whole world and +creatures of God: such a melody to the ear as the whole world +well understood, would afford the understanding.”</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. Apropos of music in country places, +when I was going about last year in the neighbouring county, I +saw such a pretty scene at one of the towns. They had got +up a band, which played once a week in the evening. It was +a beautiful summer evening, and the window of my room at the end +overlooked the open space they had chosen for their +performances. There was the great man of the neighbourhood +in his carriage looking as if he came partly on duty, as well as +for pleasure. Then there were burly tradesmen, with an air +of quiet satisfaction, sauntering about, or leaning against +railings. Some were no doubt critical—thought that +Will Miller did not play as well as usual this evening. +Will’s young wife, who had come out to look again at him in +his band dress (for the band had a uniform), thought +differently. Little boys broke out into imaginary polkas, +having some distant reference to the music: not without grace +though. The sweep was pre-eminent: as if he would say, +“Dirty and sooty as I am I have a great deal of fun in +me. Indeed, what would May-day be but for me?” +Studious little boys of the free-school, all green +grasshopper-looking, walked about as boys knowing something of +Latin. Here and there went a couple of them in childish +loving way, with their arms about each other’s necks. +Matrons and shy young maidens sat upon the door-steps near. +Many a merry laugh filled up the interludes of music. And +when evening came softly down upon us, the band finished with +“God save the Queen,” the little circle of those who +would hear the last note moved off, there was a clattering of +shutters, a shining of lights through casement-windows, and soon +the only sound to be heard was the rough voice of some villager, +who would have been too timid to adventure anything by daylight, +but now sang boldly out as he went homewards.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. Very pretty, but it sounds to me +somewhat fabulous.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. I assure you—</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. Yes, you were tired, had a good +dinner, read a speech for or against the corn-laws, fell asleep +of course, and had this ingenious dream, which, to this day, you +believe to have been a reality. I understand it all.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. I wish I could have many more such +dreams.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER V.</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">Our</span> last conversation broke off +abruptly on the entrance of a visitor: we forgot to name a time +for our next meeting; and when I came again, I found Milverton +alone in his study. He was reading Count Rumford’s +essays.</p> +<p><i>Dunsford</i>. So you are reading Count Rumford. +What is it that interests you there?</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. Everything he writes about. He +is to me a delightful writer. He throws so much life into +all his writings. Whether they are about making the most of +food or fuel, or propounding the benefits of bathing, or +inveighing against smoke, it is that he went and saw and did and +experimented himself upon himself. His proceedings at +Munich to feed the poor are more interesting than many a +novel. It is surprising, too, how far he was before the +world in all the things he gave his mind to.</p> +<p>Here Ellesmere entered.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. I heard you were come, Dunsford: I +hope we shall have an essay to-day. My critical faculties +have been dormant for some days, and want to be roused a +little. Milverton was talking to you about Count Rumford +when I came in, was he not? Ah, the Count is a great +favourite with Milverton when he is down here; but there is a +book upstairs which is Milverton’s real favourite just now, +a portentous-looking book; some relation to a blue-book, +something about sewerage, or health of towns, or public +improvements, over which said book our friend here goes into +enthusiasms. I am sure if it could be reduced to the size +of that tatterdemalion Horace that he carries about, the poor +little Horace would be quite supplanted.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. Now, I must tell you, Dunsford, that +Ellesmere himself took up this book he talks about, and it was a +long time before he put it down.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. Yes, there is something in real life, +even though it is in the unheroic part of it, that interests +one. I mean to get through the book.</p> +<p><i>Dunsford</i>. What are we to have to-day for our +essay?</p> +<p>Milverton. Let us adjourn to the garden, and I will read +you an essay on Greatness, if I can find it.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p>We went to our favourite place, and Milverton read us the +following essay.</p> +<h3>GREATNESS.</h3> +<p>You cannot substitute any epithet for great, when you are +talking of great men. Greatness is not general dexterity +carried to any extent; nor proficiency in any one subject of +human endeavour. There are great astronomers, great +scholars, great painters, even great poets who are very far from +great men. Greatness can do without success and with +it. William is greater in his retreats than Marlborough in +his victories. On the other hand, the uniformity of +Cæsar’s success does not dull his greatness. +Greatness is not in the circumstances, but in the man.</p> +<p>What does this greatness then consist in? Not in a nice +balance of qualities, purposes, and powers. That will make +a man happy, a successful man, a man always in his right +depth. Nor does it consist in absence of errors. We +need only glance back at any list that can be made of great men, +to be convinced of that. Neither does greatness consist in +energy, though often accompanied by it. Indeed, it is +rather the breadth of the waters than the force of the current +that we look to, to fulfil our idea of greatness. There is +no doubt that energy acting upon a nature endowed with the +qualities that we sum up in the word cleverness, and directed to +a few clear purposes, produces a great effect, and may sometimes +be mistaken for greatness. If a man is mainly bent upon his +own advancement, it cuts many a difficult knot of policy for him, +and gives a force and distinctness to his mode of going on which +looks grand. The same happens if he has one pre-eminent +idea of any kind, even though it should be a narrow one. +Indeed, success in life is mostly gained by unity of purpose; +whereas greatness often fails by reason of its having manifold +purposes, but it does not cease to be greatness on that +account.</p> +<p>If greatness can be shut up in qualities, it will be found to +consist in courage and in openness of mind and soul. These +qualities may not seem at first to be so potent. But see +what growth there is in them. The education of a man of +open mind is never ended. Then, with openness of soul, a +man sees some way into all other souls that come near him, feels +with them, has their experience, is in himself a people. +Sympathy is the universal solvent. Nothing is understood +without it. The capacity of a man, at least for +understanding, may almost be said to vary according to his powers +of sympathy. Again, what is there that can counteract +selfishness like sympathy? Selfishness may be hedged in by +minute watchfulness and self-denial, but it is counteracted by +the nature being encouraged to grow out and fix its tendrils upon +foreign objects.</p> +<p>The immense defect that want of sympathy is, may be strikingly +seen in the failure of the many attempts that have been made in +all ages to construct the Christian character, omitting +sympathy. It has produced numbers of people walking up and +down one narrow plank of self-restraint, pondering over their own +merits and demerits, keeping out, not the world exactly, but +their fellow-creatures from their hearts, and caring only to +drive their neighbours before them on this plank of theirs, or to +push them headlong. Thus, with many virtues, and much hard +work at the formation of character, we have had splendid bigots +or censorious small people.</p> +<p>But sympathy is warmth and light too. It is, as it were, +the moral atmosphere connecting all animated natures. +Putting aside, for a moment, the large differences that opinions, +language, and education make between men, look at the innate +diversity of character. Natural philosophers were amazed +when they thought they had found a new-created species. But +what is each man but a creature such as the world has not before +seen? Then think how they pour forth in multitudinous +masses, from princes delicately nurtured to little boys on +scrubby commons, or in dark cellars. How are these people +to be understood, to be taught to understand each other, but by +those who have the deepest sympathies with all? There +cannot be a great man without large sympathy. There may be +men who play loud-sounding parts in life without it, as on the +stage, where kings and great people sometimes enter who are only +characters of secondary import—deputy great men. But +the interest and the instruction lie with those who have to feel +and suffer most.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p>Add courage to this openness we have been considering, and you +have a man who can own himself in the wrong, can forgive, can +trust, can adventure, can, in short, use all the means that +insight and sympathy endow him with.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p>I see no other essential characteristics in the greatness of +nations than there are in the greatness of individuals. +Extraneous circumstances largely influence nations as +individuals; and make a larger part of the show of the former +than of the latter; as we are wont to consider no nation great +that is not great in extent or resources, as well as in +character. But of two nations, equal in other respects, the +superiority must belong to the one which excels in courage and +openness of mind and soul.</p> +<p>Again, in estimating the relative merits of different periods +of the world, we must employ the same tests of greatness that we +use to individuals. To compare, for instance, the present +and the past. What astounds us most in the past is the +wonderful intolerance and cruelty: a cruelty constantly turning +upon the inventors: an intolerance provoking ruin to the thing it +would foster. The most admirable precepts are thrown from +time to time upon this cauldron of human affairs, and oftentimes +they only seem to make it blaze the higher. We find men +devoting the best part of their intellects to the invariable +annoyance and persecution of their fellows. You might think +that the earth brought forth with more abundant fruitfulness in +the past than now, seeing that men found so much time for +cruelty, but that you read of famines and privations which these +latter days cannot equal. The recorded violent deaths +amount to millions. And this is but a small part of the +matter. Consider the modes of justice; the use of torture, +for instance. What must have been the blinded state of the +wise persons (wise for their day) who used torture? Did +they ever think themselves, “What should we not say if we +were subjected to this?” Many times they must really +have desired to get at the truth; and such was their mode of +doing it. Now, at the risk of being thought “a +laudator” of time present, I would say, here is the element +of greatness we have made progress in. We are more open in +mind and soul. We have arrived (some of us at least) at the +conclusion that men may honestly differ without offence. We +have learned to pity each other more. There is a greatness +in modern toleration which our ancestors knew not.</p> +<p>Then comes the other element of greatness, courage. Have +we made progress in that? This is a much more dubious +question. The subjects of terror vary so much in different +times that it is difficult to estimate the different degrees of +courage shown in resisting them. Men fear public opinion +now as they did in former times the Star Chamber; and those awful +goddesses, Appearances, are to us what the Fates were to the +Greeks. It is hardly possible to measure the courage of a +modern against that of an ancient; but I am unwilling to believe +but that enlightenment must strengthen courage.</p> +<p>The application of the tests of greatness, as in the above +instance, is a matter of detail and of nice appreciation, as to +the results of which men must be expected to differ largely: the +tests themselves remain invariable—openness of nature to +admit the light of love and reason, and courage to pursue it.</p> + +<div class="gapshortline"> </div> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. I agree to your theory, as far as +openness of nature is concerned; but I do not much like to put +that half-brute thing, courage, so high.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. Well, you cannot have greatness +without it: you may have well-intentioned people and far-seeing +people; but if they have no stoutness of heart, they will only be +shifty or remonstrant, nothing like great.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. You mean will, not courage. +Without will, your open-minded, open-hearted man may be like a +great, rudderless vessel driven about by all winds: not a small +craft, but a most uncertain one.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. No, I mean both: both will and +courage. Courage is the body to will.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. I believe you are right in that; but +do not omit will. It amused me to see how you brought in +one of your old notions—that this age is not +contemptible. You scribbling people are generally on the +other side.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. You malign us. If I must give +any account for my personal predilection for modern times, it +consists perhaps in this, that we may now speak our mind. +What Tennyson says of his own land,</p> +<blockquote><p>“The land where, girt with friend or foe,<br +/> +A man may say the thing he will,”—</p> +</blockquote> +<p>may be said, in some measure, of the age in which we +live. This is an inexpressible comfort. This doubles +life. These things surely may be said in favour of the +present age, not with a view to puff it up, but so far to +encourage ourselves, as we may by seeing that the world does not +go on for nothing, that all the misery, blood, and toil that have +been spent, were not poured out in vain. Could we have our +ancestors again before us, would they not rejoice at seeing what +they had purchased for us: would they think it any compliment to +them to extol their times at the expense of the present, and so +to intimate that their efforts had led to nothing?</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. “I doubt,” as Lord Eldon +would have said; no, upon second thoughts, I do not doubt. +I feel assured that a good many of these said ancestors you are +calling up would be much discomforted at finding that all their +suffering had led to no sure basis of persecution of the other +side.</p> +<p><i>Dunsford</i>. I wonder, Ellesmere, what you would +have done in persecuting times. What escape would your +sarcasm have found for itself?</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. Some orthodox way, I daresay. I +do not think he would have been particularly fond of +martyrdom.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. No. I have no taste for making +torches for truth, or being one: I prefer humane darkness to such +illumination. At the same time one cannot tell lies; and if +one had been questioned about the incomprehensibilities which men +in former days were so fierce upon, one must have shown that one +disagreed with all parties.</p> +<p><i>Dunsford</i>. Do not say “one:” +<i>I</i> should not have disagreed with the great Protestant +leaders in the Reformation, for instance.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. Humph.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. If we get aground upon the +Reformation, we shall never push off again—else would I say +something far from complimentary to those Protestant proceedings +which we may rather hope were Tudoresque than Protestant.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. No, that is not fair. The Tudors +were a coarse, fierce race; but it will not do to lay the faults +of their times upon them only. Look at Elizabeth’s +ministers. They had about as much notion of religious +tolerance as they had of Professor Wheatstone’s +telegraph. It was not a growth of that age.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. I do not know. You have Cardinal +Pole and the Earl of Essex, both tolerant men in the midst of +bigots.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. Well, as you said, Milverton, we shall +never push off, if we once get aground on this subject.</p> +<p><i>Dunsford</i>. I am in fault: so I will take upon +myself to bring you quite away from the Reformation. I have +been thinking of that comparison in the essay of the present with +the past. Such comparisons seem to me very useful, as they +best enable us to understand our own times. And, then, when +we have ascertained the state and tendency of our own age, we +ought to strive to enrich it with those qualities which are +complementary to its own. Now with all this toleration, +which delights you so much, dear Milverton, is it not an age +rather deficient in caring about great matters?</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. If you mean great speculative matters, +I might agree with you; but if you mean what I should call the +greatest matters, such as charity, humanity, and the like, I +should venture to differ with you, Dunsford.</p> +<p><i>Dunsford</i>. I do not like to see the world +indifferent to great speculative matters. I then fear +shallowness and earthiness.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. It is very difficult to say what the +world is thinking of now. It is certainly wrong to suppose +that this is a shallow age because it is not driven by one +impulse. As civilisation advances, it becomes more +difficult to estimate what is going on, and we set it all down as +confusion. Now there is not one “great antique +heart,” whose beatings we can count, but many impulses, +many circles of thought in which men are moving many +objects. Men are not all in the same state of progress, so +cannot be moved in masses as of old. At one time chivalry +urged all men, then the Church, and the phenomena were few, +simple, and broad, or at least they seem so in history.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. Very true; still I agree somewhat with +Dunsford, that men are not agitated as they used to be by the +great speculative questions. I account for it in this way, +that the material world has opened out before us, and we cannot +but look at that, and must play with it and work at it. I +would say, too, that philosophy had been found out, and there is +something in that. Still, I think if it were not for the +interest now attaching to material things, great intellectual +questions, not exactly of the old kind, would arise and agitate +the world.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. There is one thing in my mind that may +confirm your view. I cannot but think that the enlarged +view we have of the universe must in some measure damp personal +ambition. What is it to be a King, Sheik, Tetrarch, or +Emperor, over a bit of a little bit? Macbeth’s +speech, “we’d jump the life to come,” is a +thing a man with modern lights, however madly ambitious, would +hardly utter.</p> +<p><i>Dunsford</i>. Religious lights, Milverton.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. Of course not, if he had them; but I +meant scientific lights. Sway over our fellow-creatures, at +any rate anything but mental sway, has shrunk into less +proportions.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. I have been looking over the +essay. I think you may put in somewhere—that that age +would probably be the greatest in which there was the least +difference between great men and the people in general—when +the former were only neglected, not hunted down.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. Yes.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. You are rather lengthy here about the +cruelties to be found in history; but we are apt to forget these +matters.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. They always press upon my mind.</p> +<p><i>Dunsford</i>. And on mine. I do not like to +read much of history for that very reason. I get so sick at +heart about it all.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. Ah, yes, history is a stupendous +thing. To read it is like looking at the stars; we turn +away in awe and perplexity. Yet there is some method +running through the little affairs of man as through the +multitude of suns, seemingly to us as confused as routed armies +in full flight.</p> +<p><i>Dunsford</i>. Some law of love.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. I am afraid it is not in the past +alone that we should be awestruck with horrors: we, who have a +slave-trade still on earth. But, to go back to the essay, I +like what you say about the theory of constructing the Christian +character without geniality; only you do not go far enough. +You are afraid. People are for ever talking, especially you +philanthropical people, about making others happy. I do not +know any way so sure of making others happy as of being so +oneself, to begin with. I do not mean that people are to be +self-absorbed; but they are to drink in nature and life a +little. From a genial, wisely-developed man good things +radiate; whereas you must allow, Milverton, that benevolent +people are very apt to be one-sided and fussy, and not of the +sweetest temper if others will not be good and happy in their +way.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. That is really not fair. Of +course, acid, small-minded people carry their narrow notions and +their acidity into their benevolence. Benevolence is no +abstract perfection. Men will express their benevolence +according to their other gifts or want of gifts. If it is +strong, it overcomes other things in the character which would be +hindrances to it; but it must speak in the language of the soul +it is in.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. Come, let us go and see the +pigs. I hear them grunting over their dinners in the +farmyard. I like to see creatures who can be happy without +a theory.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER VI.</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">The</span> next time that I came over to +Worth-Ashton it was raining, and I found my friends in the +study.</p> +<p>“Well, Dunsford,” said Ellesmere, “is it not +comfortable to have our sessions here for once, and to be looking +out on a good solid English wet day?”</p> +<p><i>Dunsford</i>. Rather a fluid than a solid. But +I agree with you in thinking it is very comfortable here.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. I like to look upon the backs of +books. First I think how much of the owner’s inner +life and character is shown in his books; then perhaps I wonder +how he got such a book which seems so remote from all that I know +of him—</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. I shall turn my books the wrong side +upwards when you come into the study.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. But what amuses me most is to see the +odd way in which books get together, especially in the library of +a man who reads his books and puts them up again wherever there +is room. Now here is a charming party: “A Treatise on +the Steam-Engine” between “Locke on +Christianity” and Madame de Stael’s +“Corinne.” I wonder what they talk about at +night when we are all asleep. Here is another happy +juxtaposition: old Clarendon next to a modern metaphysician whom +he would positively loathe. Here is Sadler next to Malthus, +and Horsley next to Priestley; but this sort of thing happens +most in the best regulated libraries. It is a charming +reflection for controversial writers, that their works will be +put together on the same shelves, often between the same covers; +and that, in the minds of educated men, the name of one writer +will be sure to recall the name of the other. So they go +down to posterity as a brotherhood.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. To complete Ellesmere’s theory, +we may say that all those injuries to books which we choose to +throw upon some wretched worm, are but the wounds from rival +books.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. Certainly. But now let us +proceed to polish up the weapons of another of these spiteful +creatures.</p> +<p><i>Dunsford</i>. Yes. What is to be our essay +to-day, Milverton?</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. Fiction.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. Now, that is really unfortunate. +Fiction is just the subject to be discussed—no, not +discussed, talked over—out of doors on a hot day, all of us +lying about in easy attitudes on the grass, Dunsford with his +gaiters forming a most picturesque and prominent figure. +But there is nothing complete in this life. “Surgit +amari aliquid:” and so we must listen to Fiction in +arm-chairs.</p> +<h3>FICTION.</h3> +<p>The influence of works of fiction is unbounded. Even the +minds of well-informed people are often more stored with +characters from acknowledged fiction than from history or +biography, or the real life around them. We dispute about +these characters as if they were realities. Their +experience is our experience; we adopt their feelings, and +imitate their acts. And so there comes to be something +traditional even in the management of the passions. +Shakespeare’s historical plays were the only history to the +Duke of Marlborough. Thousands of Greeks acted under the +influence of what Achilles or Ulysses did, in Homer. The +poet sings of the deeds that shall be. He imagines the +past; he forms the future.</p> +<p>Yet how surpassingly interesting is real life when we get an +insight into it. Occasionally a great genius lifts up the +veil of history, and we see men who once really were alive, who +did not always live only in history; or, amidst the dreary page +of battles, levies, sieges, and the sleep-inducing weavings and +unweavings of political combination, we come, ourselves, across +some spoken or written words of the great actors of the time, and +are then fascinated by the life and reality of these +things. Could you have the life of any man really portrayed +to you, sun-drawn as it were, its hopes, its fears, its +revolutions of opinion in each day, its most anxious wishes +attained, and then, perhaps, crystallising into its blackest +regrets—such a work would go far to contain all histories, +and be the greatest lesson of love, humility, and tolerance, that +men had ever read.</p> +<p>Now fiction does attempt something like the above. In +history we are cramped by impertinent facts that must, however, +be set down; by theories that must be answered; evidence that +must be weighed; views that must be taken. Our facts +constantly break off just where we should wish to examine them +most closely. The writer of fiction follows his characters +into the recesses of their hearts. There are no closed +doors for him. His puppets have no secrets from their +master. He plagues you with no doubts, no half-views, no +criticism. Thus they thought, he tells you; thus they +looked, thus they acted. Then, with every opportunity for +scenic arrangement (for though his characters are confidential +with him, he is only as confidential with his reader as the +interest of the story will allow), it is not to be wondered at +that the majority of readers should look upon history as a task, +but tales of fiction as a delight.</p> +<p>The greatest merit of fiction is the one so ably put forward +by Sir James Mackintosh, namely, that it creates and nourishes +sympathy. It extends this sympathy, too, in directions +where, otherwise, we hardly see when it would have come. +But it may be objected that this sympathy is indiscriminate, and +that we are in danger of mixing up virtue and vice, and blurring +both, if we are led to sympathise with all manner of +wrong-doers. But, in the first place, virtue and vice are +so mixed in real life, that it is well to be somewhat prepared +for that fact; and, moreover, the sympathy is not wrongly +directed. Who has not felt intense sympathy for +Macbeth? Yet could he be alive again, with evil thoughts +against “the gracious Duncan,” and could he see into +all that has been felt for him, would that be an encouragement to +murder? The intense pity of wise people for the crimes of +others, when rightly represented, is one of the strongest +antidotes against crime. We have taken the extreme case of +sympathy being directed towards bad men. How often has +fiction made us sympathise with obscure suffering and retiring +greatness, with the world-despised, and especially with those +mixed characters in whom we might otherwise see but one +colour—with Shylock and with Hamlet, with Jeanie Deans and +with Claverhouse, with Sancho Panza as well as with Don +Quixote.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p>On the other hand, there is a danger of too much converse with +fiction leading us into dream-land, or rather into +lubber-land. Of course this “too much converse” +implies large converse with inferior writers. Such writers +are too apt to make life as they would have it for +themselves. Sometimes, also, they must make it to suit +booksellers’ rules. Having such power over their +puppets they abuse it. They can kill these puppets, change +their natures suddenly, reward or punish them so easily, that it +is no wonder they are led to play fantastic tricks with +them. Now, if a sedulous reader of the works of such +writers should form his notions of real life from them, he would +occasionally meet with rude shocks when he encountered the +realities of that life.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p>For my own part, notwithstanding all the charms of life in +swiftly-written novels, I prefer real life. It is true +that, in the former, everything breaks off round, every little +event tends to some great thing, everybody one meets is to +exercise some great influence for good or ill upon one’s +fate. I take it for granted one fancies oneself the +hero. Then all one’s fancy is paid in ready money, or +at least one can draw upon it at the end of the third +volume. One leaps to remote wealth and honour by +hairbreadth chances; and one’s uncle in India always dies +opportunely. To be sure the thought occurs, that if this +novel life could be turned into real life, one might be the uncle +in India and not the hero of the tale. But that is a +trifling matter, for at any rate one should carry on with spirit +somebody else’s story. On the whole, however, as I +said before, I prefer real life, where nothing is tied up neatly, +but all in odds and ends; where the doctrine of compensation +enters largely, where we are often most blamed when we least +deserve it, where there is no third volume to make things +straight, and where many an Augustus marries many a Belinda, and, +instead of being happy ever afterwards, finds that there is a +growth of trials and troubles for each successive period of +man’s life.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p>In considering the subject of fiction, the responsibility of +the writers thereof is a matter worth pointing out. We see +clearly enough that historians are to be limited by facts and +probabilities; but we are apt to make a large allowance for the +fancies of writers of fiction. We must remember, however, +that fiction is not falsehood. If a writer puts abstract +virtues into book-clothing, and sends them upon stilts into the +world, he is a bad writer: if he classifies men, and attributes +all virtue to one class and all vice to another, he is a false +writer. Then, again, if his ideal is so poor, that he +fancies man’s welfare to consist in immediate happiness; if +he means to paint a great man and paints only a greedy one, he is +a mischievous writer and not the less so, although by lamplight +and amongst a juvenile audience, his coarse scene-painting should +be thought very grand. He may be true to his own fancy, but +he is false to Nature. A writer, of course, cannot get +beyond his own ideal: but at least he should see that he works up +to it: and if it is a poor one, he had better write histories of +the utmost concentration of dulness, than amuse us with unjust +and untrue imaginings.</p> + +<div class="gapshortline"> </div> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. I am glad you have kept to the obvious +things about fiction. It would have been a great nuisance +to have had to follow you through intricate theories about what +fiction consists in, and what are its limits, and so on. +Then we should have got into questions touching the laws of +representation generally, and then into art, of which, between +ourselves, you know very little.</p> +<p><i>Dunsford</i>. Talking of representation, what do you +two, who have now seen something of the world, think about +representative government?</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. Dunsford plumps down upon us sometimes +with awful questions: what do you think of all philosophy? or +what is your opinion of life in general? Could not you +throw in a few small questions of that kind, together with your +representative one, and we might try to answer them all at +once. Dunsford is only laughing at us, Milverton.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. No, I know what was in +Dunsford’s mind when he asked that question. He has +had his doubts and misgivings, when he has been reading a six +nights’ debate (for the people in the country I daresay do +read those things), whether representative government is the most +complete device the human mind could suggest for getting at wise +rulers.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. It is a doubt which has crossed my +mind.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. And mine; but the doubt, if it has +ever been more than mere petulance, has not had much practical +weight with me. Look how the business of the world is +managed. There are a few people who think out things, and a +few who execute. The former are not to be secured by any +device. They are gifts. The latter may be well +chosen, have often been well chosen, under other forms of +government than the representative one. I believe that the +favourites of kings have been a superior race of men. Even +a fool does not choose a fool for a favourite. He knows +better than that: he must have something to lean against. +But between the thinkers and the doers (if, indeed, we ought to +make such a distinction), <i>what a number of useful links there +are in a representative government</i> on account of the much +larger number of people admitted into some share of +government. What general cultivation must come from that, +and what security! Of course, everything has its wrong +side; and from this number of people let in there comes +declamation and claptrap and mob-service, which is much the same +thing as courtiership was in other times. But then, to make +the comparison a fair one, you must take the wrong side of any +other form of government that has been devised.</p> +<p><i>Dunsford</i>. Well, but so much power centring in the +lower house of Parliament, and the getting into Parliament being +a thing which is not very inviting to the kind of people one +would most like to see there, do you not think that the ablest +men are kept away?</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. Yes; but if you make your governing +body a unit or a ten, or any small number, how is this power, +unless it is Argus-eyed, and myriad-minded, and right-minded too, +to choose the right men any better than they are found now? +The great danger, as it appears to me, of representative +government is lest it should slide down from representative +government to delegate government. In my opinion, the +welfare of England, in great measure, depends upon what takes +place at the hustings. If, in the majority of instances, +there were abject conduct there, electors and elected would be +alike debased; upright public men could not be expected to arise +from such beginnings; and thoughtful persons would begin to +consider whether some other form of government could not +forthwith be made out.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. I have a supreme disgust for the man +who at the hustings has no opinion beyond or above the clamour +round him. How such a fellow would have kissed the ground +before a Pompadour, or waited for hours in a Buckingham’s +antechamber, only to catch the faintest beam of reflected light +from royalty.</p> +<p>But I declare we have been just like schoolboys talking about +forms of government and so on.</p> +<blockquote><p>“For forms of government let fools +contest,<br /> +That which is <i>worst</i> administered is +best,”—</p> +</blockquote> +<p>that is, representative government.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. I should not like either of you to +fancy, from what I have been saying about representative +government, that I do not see the dangers and the evils of +it. In fact, it is a frequent thought with me of what +importance the House of Lords is at present, and of how much +greater importance it might be made. If there were Peers +for life, and official members of the House of Commons, it would, +I think, meet most of your objections, Dunsford.</p> +<p><i>Dunsford</i>. I suppose I am becoming a little rusty +and disposed to grumble, as I grow old; but there is a good deal +in modern government which seems to me very rude and +absurd. There comes a clamour, partly reasonable; power is +deaf to it, overlooks it, says there is no such thing; then great +clamour; after a time, power welcomes that, takes it to its arms, +says that now it is loud it is very wise, wishes it had always +been clamour itself.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. How many acres do you farm, +Dunsford? How spiteful you are!</p> +<p><i>Dunsford</i>. I am not thinking of Corn Laws alone, +as you fancy, Master Ellesmere. But to go to other +things. I quite agree, Milverton, with what you were saying +just now about the business of the world being carried on by few, +and the thinking few being in the nature of gifts to the world, +not elicited by King or Kaiser.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. The mill-streams that turn the +clappers of the world arise in solitary places.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. Not a bad metaphor, but untrue. +Aristotle, Bacon—</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. Well, I believe it would be much wiser +to say, that we cannot lay down rules about the highest work; +either when it is done, where it will be done, or how it can be +made to be done. It is too immaterial for our measurement; +for the highest part even of the mere business of the world is in +dealing with ideas. It is very amusing to observe the +misconceptions of men on these points. They call for what +is outward—can understand that, can praise it. +Fussiness and the forms of activity in all ages get great +praise. Imagine an active, bustling little prætor +under Augustus, how he probably pointed out Horace to his sons as +a moony kind of man, whose ways were much to be avoided, and told +them it was a weakness in Augustus to like such idle men about +him instead of men of business.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. Or fancy a bustling Glasgow merchant +of Adam Smith’s day watching him. How little would +the merchant have dreamt what a number of vessels were to be +floated away by the ink in the Professor’s inkstand; and +what crashing of axes, and clearing of forests in distant lands, +the noise of his pen upon the paper portended.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. It is not only the effect of the +still-working man that the busy man cannot anticipate, but +neither can he comprehend the present labour. If Horace had +told my prætor that</p> +<blockquote><p>“Abstinuit Venere et vino, sudavit et +alsit,”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>“What, to write a few lines!” would his +prætorship have cried out. “Why, I can live +well and enjoy life; and I flatter myself no one in Rome does +more business.”</p> +<p><i>Dunsford</i>. All of it only goes to show how little +we know of each other, and how tolerant we ought to be of +others’ efforts.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. The trials that there must be every +day without any incident that even the most minute household +chronicler could set down: the labours without show or noise!</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. The deep things that there are which, +with unthinking people, pass for shallow things, merely because +they are clear as well as deep. My fable of the other day, +for instance—which instead of producing any moral effect +upon you two, only seemed to make you both inclined to +giggle.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. I am so glad you reminded me of +that. I, too, fired with a noble emulation, have invented a +fable since we last met which I want you to hear. I assure +you I did not mean to laugh at yours: it was only that it came +rather unexpectedly upon me. You are not exactly the person +from whom one should expect fables.</p> +<p><i>Dunsford</i>. Now for the fable.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. There was a gathering together of +creatures hurtful and terrible to man, to name their king. +Blight, mildew, darkness, mighty waves, fierce winds, +Will-o’-the-wisps, and shadows of grim objects, told +fearfully their doings and preferred their claims, none +prevailing. But when evening came on, a thin mist curled +up, derisively, amidst the assemblage, and said, “I gather +round a man going to his own home over paths made by his daily +footsteps; and he becomes at once helpless and tame as a +child. The lights meant to assist him, then betray. +You find him wandering, or need the aid of other Terrors to +subdue him. I am, alone, confusion to him.” And +all the assemblage bowed before the mist, and made it king, and +set it on the brow of many a mountain, where, when it is not +doing evil, it may be often seen to this day.</p> +<p><i>Dunsford</i>. Well, I like that fable: only I am not +quite clear about the meaning.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. You had no doubt about mine.</p> +<p><i>Dunsford</i>. Is the mist calumny, Milverton?</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. No, prejudice, I am sure.</p> +<p><i>Dunsford</i>. Familiarity with the things around us, +obscuring knowledge?</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. I would rather not explain. Each +of you make your own fable of it.</p> +<p><i>Dunsford</i>. Well, if ever I make a fable, it shall +be one of the old-fashioned sort, with animals for the speakers, +and a good easy moral.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. Not a thing requiring the notes of +seven German metaphysicians. I must go and talk a little to +my friends the trees, and see if I can get any explanation from +them. It is turning out a beautiful day after all, +notwithstanding my praise of its solidity.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER VII.</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">We</span> met as usual at our old spot on +the lawn for our next reading. I forget what took place +before reading, except that Ellesmere was very jocose about our +reading “Fiction” in-doors, and the following +“November Essay,” as he called it, “under a +jovial sun, and with the power of getting up and walking away +from each other to any extent.”</p> +<h3>ON THE ART OF LIVING WITH OTHERS.</h3> +<p>The “Iliad” for war; the “Odyssey” for +wandering; but where is the great domestic epic? Yet it is +but commonplace to say, that passions may rage round a tea-table, +which would not have misbecome men dashing at one another in +war-chariots; and evolutions of patience and temper are performed +at the fireside, worthy to be compared with the Retreat of the +Ten Thousand. Men have worshipped some fantastic being for +living alone in a wilderness; but social martyrdoms place no +saints upon the calendar.</p> +<p>We may blind ourselves to it if we like, but the hatreds and +disgusts that there are behind friendship, relationship, service, +and, indeed, proximity of all kinds, is one of the darkest spots +upon earth. The various relations of life, which bring +people together, cannot, as we know, be perfectly fulfilled +except in a state where there will, perhaps, be no occasion for +any of them. It is no harm, however, to endeavour to see +whether there are any methods which may make these relations in +the least degree more harmonious now.</p> +<p>In the first place, if people are to live happily together, +they must not fancy, because they are thrown together now, that +all their lives have been exactly similar up to the present time, +that they started exactly alike, and that they are to be for the +future of the same mind. A thorough conviction of the +difference of men is the great thing to be assured of in social +knowledge: it is to life what Newton’s law is to +astronomy. Sometimes men have a knowledge of it with regard +to the world in general: they do not expect the outer world to +agree with them in all points, but are vexed at not being able to +drive their own tastes and opinions into those they live +with. Diversities distress them. They will not see +that there are many forms of virtue and wisdom. Yet we +might as well say, “Why all these stars; why this +difference; why not all one star?”</p> +<p>Many of the rules for people living together in peace follow +from the above. For instance, not to interfere unreasonably +with others, not to ridicule their tastes, not to question and +re-question their resolves, not to indulge in perpetual comment +on their proceedings, and to delight in their having other +pursuits than ours, are all based upon a thorough perception of +the simple fact that they are not we.</p> +<p>Another rule for living happily with others is to avoid having +stock subjects of disputation. It mostly happens, when +people live much together, that they come to have certain set +topics, around which, from frequent dispute, there is such a +growth of angry words, mortified vanity, and the like, that the +original subject of difference becomes a standing subject for +quarrel; and there is a tendency in all minor disputes to drift +down to it.</p> +<p>Again, if people wish to live well together, they must not +hold too much to logic, and suppose that everything is to be +settled by sufficient reason. Dr. Johnson saw this clearly +with regard to married people, when he said, “Wretched +would be the pair above all names of wretchedness, who should be +doomed to adjust by reason every morning all the minute detail of +a domestic day.” But the application should be much +more general than he made it. There is no time for such +reasonings, and nothing that is worth them. And when we +recollect how two lawyers, or two politicians, can go on +contending, and that there is no end of one-sided reasoning on +any subject, we shall not be sure that such contention is the +best mode for arriving at truth. But certainly it is not +the way to arrive at good temper.</p> +<p>If you would be loved as a companion, avoid unnecessary +criticism upon those with whom you live. The number of +people who have taken out judges’ patents for themselves is +very large in any society. Now it would be hard for a man +to live with another who was always criticising his actions, even +if it were kindly and just criticism. It would be like +living between the glasses of a microscope. But these +self-elected judges, like their prototypes, are very apt to have +the persons they judge brought before them in the guise of +culprits.</p> +<p>One of the most provoking forms of the criticism above alluded +to is that which may be called criticism over the shoulder. +“Had I been consulted,” “Had you listened to +me,” “But you always will,” and such short +scraps of sentences may remind many of us of dissertations which +we have suffered and inflicted, and of which we cannot call to +mind any soothing effect.</p> +<p>Another rule is, not to let familiarity swallow up all +courtesy. Many of us have a habit of saying to those with +whom we live such things as we say about strangers behind their +backs. There is no place, however, where real politeness is +of more value than where we mostly think it would be +superfluous. You may say more truth, or rather speak out +more plainly, to your associates, but not less courteously than +you do to strangers.</p> +<p>Again, we must not expect more from the society of our friends +and companions than it can give, and especially must not expect +contrary things. It is something arrogant to talk of +travelling over other minds (mind being, for what we know, +infinite); but still we become familiar with the upper views, +tastes, and tempers of our associates. And it is hardly in +man to estimate justly what is familiar to him. In +travelling along at night, as Hazlitt says, we catch a glimpse +into cheerful-looking rooms with light blazing in them, and we +conclude involuntarily how happy the inmates must be. Yet +there is heaven and hell in those rooms—the same heaven and +hell that we have known in others.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p>There are two great classes of promoters of social +happiness—cheerful people, and people who have some +reticence. The latter are more secure benefits to society +even than the former. They are non-conductors of all the +heats and animosities around them. To have peace in a +house, or a family, or any social circle, the members of it must +beware of passing on hasty and uncharitable speeches, which, the +whole of the context seldom being told, is often not conveying +but creating mischief. They must be very good people to +avoid doing this; for let Human Nature say what it will, it likes +sometimes to look on at a quarrel, and that not altogether from +ill-nature, but from a love of excitement, for the same reason +that Charles II. liked to attend the debates in the Lords, +because they were “as good as a play.”</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p>We come now to the consideration of temper, which might have +been expected to be treated first. But to cut off the means +and causes of bad temper is, perhaps, of as much importance as +any direct dealing with the temper itself. Besides, it is +probable that in small social circles there is more suffering +from unkindness than ill-temper. Anger is a thing that +those who live under us suffer more from than those who live with +us. But all the forms of ill-humour and sour-sensitiveness, +which especially belong to equal intimacy (though indeed, they +are common to all), are best to be met by impassiveness. +When two sensitive persons are shut up together, they go on +vexing each other with a reproductive irritability. <a +name="citation93"></a><a href="#footnote93" +class="citation">[93]</a> But sensitive and hard people get +on well together. The supply of temper is not altogether +out of the usual laws of supply and demand.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p>Intimate friends and relations should be careful when they go +out into the world together, or admit others to their own circle, +that they do not make a bad use of the knowledge which they have +gained of each other by their intimacy. Nothing is more +common than this, and did it not mostly proceed from mere +carelessness, it would be superlatively ungenerous. You +seldom need wait for the written life of a man to hear about his +weaknesses, or what are supposed to be such, if you know his +intimate friends, or meet him in company with them.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p>Lastly, in conciliating those we live with, it is most surely +done, not by consulting their interests, nor by giving way to +their opinions, so much as by not offending their tastes. +The most refined part of us lies in this region of taste, which +is perhaps a result of our whole being rather than a part of our +nature, and, at any rate, is the region of our most subtle +sympathies and antipathies.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p>It may be said that if the great principles of Christianity +were attended to, all such rules, suggestions, and observations +as the above would be needless. True enough! Great +principles are at the bottom of all things; but to apply them to +daily life, many little rules, precautions, and insights are +needed. Such things hold a middle place between real life +and principles, as form does between matter and spirit, moulding +the one and expressing the other.</p> + +<div class="gapshortline"> </div> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. Quite right that last part. +Everybody must have known really good people, with all Christian +temper, but having so little Christian prudence as to do a great +deal of mischief in society.</p> +<p><i>Dunsford</i>. There is one case, my dear Milverton, +which I do not think you have considered: the case where people +live unhappily together, not from any bad relations between them, +but because they do not agree about the treatment of +others. A just person, for instance, who would bear +anything for himself or herself, must remonstrate, at the hazard +of any disagreement, at injustice to others.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. Yes. That, however, is a case to +be decided upon higher considerations than those I have been +treating of. A man must do his duty in the way of +preventing injustice, and take what comes of it.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. For people to live happily together, +the real secret is that they should not live too much +together. Of course, you cannot say that; it would sound +harsh, and cut short the essay altogether.</p> +<p>Again, you talk about tastes and “region of subtle +sympathies,” and all that. I have observed that if +people’s vanity is pleased, they live well enough +together. Offended vanity is the great separator. You +hear a man (call him B) saying that he is really not himself +before So-and-so; tell him that So-and-so admires him very much +and is himself rather abashed before B, and B is straightway +comfortable, and they get on harmoniously together, and you hear +no more about subtle sympathies or antipathies.</p> +<p><i>Dunsford</i>. What a low view you do take of things +sometimes, Ellesmere!</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. I should not care how low it was, but +it is not fair—at least, it does not contain the whole +matter. In the very case he has put, there was a subtle +embarrassment between B and So-and-so. Well, now, let these +people not merely meet occasionally, but be obliged to live +together, without any such explanation as Ellesmere has imagined, +and they will be very uncomfortable from causes that you cannot +impute to vanity. It takes away much of the savour of life +to live amongst those with whom one has not anything like +one’s fair value. It may not be mortified vanity, but +unsatisfied sympathy, which causes this discomfort. B +thinks that the other does not know him; he feels that he has no +place with the other. When there is intense admiration on +one side, there is hardly a care in the mind of the admiring one +as to what estimation he is held in. But, in ordinary +cases, some clearly defined respect and acknowledgment of worth +is needed on both sides. See how happy a man is in any +office or service who is acknowledged to do something well. +How comfortable he is with his superiors! He has his +place. It is not exactly a satisfaction of his vanity, but +an acknowledgment of his useful existence that contents +him. I do not mean to say that there are not innumerable +claims for acknowledgment of merit and service made by rampant +vanity and egotism, which claims cannot be satisfied, ought not +to be satisfied, and which, being unsatisfied, embitter +people. But I think your word Vanity will not explain all +the feelings we have been talking about.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. Perhaps not.</p> +<p><i>Dunsford</i>. Certainly not.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. Well, at any rate, you will admit that +there is a class of dreadfully humble people who make immense +claims at the very time that they are explaining that they have +no claims. They say they know they cannot be esteemed; they +are well aware that they are not wanted, and so on, all the while +making it a sort of grievance and a claim that they are not what +they know themselves not to be; whereas, if they did but fall +back upon their humility, and keep themselves quiet about their +demerits, they would be strong then, and in their place and +happy, doing what they could.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. It must be confessed that these people +do make their humility somewhat obnoxious. Yet, after all, +you allow that they know their deficiencies, and they only say, +“I know I have not much to recommend me, but I wish to be +loved, nevertheless.”</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. Ah, if they only said it a few +times! Besides, there is a little envy mixed up with the +humility that I mean.</p> +<p><i>Dunsford</i>. Travelling is a great trial of +people’s ability to live together.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. Yes. Lavater says that you do +not know a man until you have divided an inheritance with him; +but I think a long journey with him will do.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. Well, and what is it in travelling +that makes people disagree? Not direct selfishness, but +injudicious management; stupid regrets, for instance, at things +not being different from what they are, or from what they might +have been, if “the other route” had been chosen; +fellow-travellers punishing each other with each other’s +tastes; getting stock subjects of disputation; laughing +unseasonably at each other’s vexations and discomforts; and +endeavouring to settle everything by the force of sufficient +reason, instead of by some authorised will, or by tossing +up. Thus, in the short time of a journey, almost all modes +and causes of human disagreement are brought into action.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. My favourite one not being the +least—over-much of each other’s company.</p> +<p>For my part, I think one of the greatest bores of +companionship is, not merely that people wish to fit tastes and +notions on you just as they might the first pair of ready-made +shoes they meet with, a process amusing enough to the bystander, +but exquisitely uncomfortable to the person being ready-shod: but +that they bore you with never-ending talk about their pursuits, +even when they know that you do not work in the same groove with +them, and that they cannot hope to make you do so.</p> +<p><i>Dunsford</i>. Nobody can accuse you of that fault, +Ellesmere: I never heard you dilate much upon anything that +interested you, though I have known you have some pet subject, +and to be working at it for months. But this comes of your +coldness of nature.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. Well, it might bear a more favourable +construction. But to go back to the essay. It only +contemplates the fact of people living together as equals, if we +may so say; but in general, of course, you must add some other +relationship or connection than that of merely being +together.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. I had not overlooked that; but there +are certain general rules in the matter that may be applied to +nearly all relationship, just as I have taken that one from +Johnson, applied by him to married life, about not endeavouring +to settle all things by reasoning, and have given it a general +application which, I believe, it will bear.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. There is one thing that I should think +must often make women very unreasonable and unpleasant +companions. Oh, you may both hold up your hands and eyes, +but I am not married, and can say what I please. Of course +you put on the proper official look of astonishment; and I will +duly report it. But I was going to say that Chivalry, which +has doubtless done a great deal of good, has also done a great +deal of harm. Women may talk the greatest unreason out of +doors, and nobody kindly informs them that it is unreason. +They do not talk much before clever men, and when they do, their +words are humoured and dandled as children’s sayings +are. Now, I should fancy—mind, I do not want either +of you to say that my fancy is otherwise than quite +unreasonable—I should fancy that when women have to hear +reason at home it must sound odd to them. The truth is, you +know, we cannot pet anything much without doing it +mischief. You cannot pet the intellect, any more than the +will, without injuring it. Well then, again, if you put +people upon a pedestal and do a great deal of worship around +them, I cannot think but the will in such cases must become +rather corrupted, and that lessons of obedience must fall rather +harshly—</p> +<p><i>Dunsford</i>. Why, you Mahometan, you Turk of a +lawyer—would you do away with all the high things of +courtesy, tenderness for the weaker, and—</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. No, I see what he means; and there is +something in it. Many a woman is brought up in unreason and +self-will from these causes that he has given, as many a man from +other causes; but there is one great corrective that he has +omitted, and which is, that all forms, fashions, and outward +things have a tendency to go down before realities when they come +hand to hand together. Knowledge and judgment +prevail. Governing is apt to fall to the right person in +private as in public affairs.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. Those who give way in public affairs, +and let the men who can do a thing do it, are so far wise that +they know what is to be done, mostly. But the very things I +am arguing against are the unreason and self-will, which being +constantly pampered, do not appreciate reason or just sway. +Besides, is there not a force in ill-humour and unreason to which +you constantly see the wisest bend? You will come round to +my opinion some day. I do not want, though, to convince +you. It is no business of mine.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. Well, I may be wrong, but I think, +when we come to consider education, I can show you how the +dangers you fear may be greatly obviated, without Chivalry being +obliged to put on a wig and gown, and be wise.</p> +<p><i>Dunsford</i>. Meanwhile, let us enjoy the delightful +atmosphere of courtesy, unreasonable sometimes, if you like, +which saves many people being put down with the best arguments in +the most convincing manner, or being weighed, estimated, and +given way to, so as not to spoil them.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. Do not tell, either of you, what I +have been saying. I shall always be poked up into some +garret when I come to see you, if you do.</p> +<p><i>Dunsford</i>. I think the most curious thing, as +regards people living together, is the intense ignorance they +sometimes are in of each other. Many years ago, one or +other of you said something of this kind to me, and I have often +thought of it since.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. People fulfil a relation towards each +other, and they only know each other in that relation, especially +if it is badly managed by the superior one; but any way the +relationship involves some ignorance. They perform orbits +round each other, each gyrating, too, upon his own axis, and +there are parts of the character of each which are never brought +into view of the other.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. I should carry this notion of yours, +Milverton, farther than you do. There is a peculiar mental +relation soon constituted between associates of any kind, which +confines and prevents complete knowledge on both sides. +Each man, in some measure therefore, knows others only through +himself. Tennyson makes Ulysses say,</p> +<blockquote><p>“I am a part of all that I have +seen;”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>it might have run,</p> +<blockquote><p>“I am a part of all that I have +heard.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p><i>Dunsford</i>. Ellesmere becoming metaphysical and +transcendental!</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. Well, well, we will leave these +heights, and descend in little drops of criticism. There +are two or three things you might have pointed out, +Milverton. Perhaps you would say that they are included in +what you have said, but I think not. You talk of the +mischief of much comment on each other amongst those who live +together. You might have shown, I think, that in the case +of near friends and relations this comment also deepens into +interference—at least it partakes of that nature. +Friends and relations should, therefore, be especially careful to +avoid needless comments on each other. They do just the +contrary. That is one of the reasons why they often hate +one another so much.</p> +<p><i>Dunsford</i>. Ellesmere!</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. Protest, if you like, my dear +Dunsford.</p> +<blockquote><p>Dissentient,</p> +<p>1. Because I wish it were not so.</p> +<p>2. Because I am sorry that it is.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">(Signed) <span +class="smcap">Dunsford</span>.</p> +</blockquote> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. “Hate” is too strong a +word, Ellesmere; what you say would be true enough, if you would +put “are not in sympathy with.”</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. “Have a quiet distaste +for.” That is the proper medium. Now, to go to +another matter. You have not put the case of over-managing +people, who are tremendous to live with.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. I have spoken about “interfering +unreasonably with others.”</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. That does not quite convey what I +mean. It is when the manager and the managee are both of +the same mind as to the thing to be done; but the former insists, +and instructs, and suggests, and foresees, till the other feels +that all free agency for him is gone.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. It is a sad thing to consider how much +of their abilities people turn to tiresomeness. You see a +man who would be very agreeable if he were not so observant: +another who would be charming, if he were deaf and dumb: a third +delightful, if he did not vex all around him with superfluous +criticism.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. A hit at me that last, I +suspect. But I shall go on. You have not, I think, +made enough merit of independence in companionship. If I +were to put into an aphorism what I mean, I should say, Those who +depend wholly on companionship are the worst companions; or thus: +Those deserve companionship who can do without it. There, +Mr. Aphoriser General, what do you say to that?</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. Very good, but—</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. Of course a “but” to other +people’s aphorisms, as if every aphorism had not buts +innumerable. We critics, you know, cannot abide +criticism. We do all the criticism that is needed +ourselves. I wonder at the presumption sometimes of you +wretched authors. But to proceed. You have not said +anything about the mischief of superfluous condolence amongst +people who live together. I flatter myself that I could +condole anybody out of all peace of mind.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. All depends upon whether condolence +goes with the grain, or against the grain, of vanity. I +know what you mean, however: For instance, it is a very absurd +thing to fret much over other people’s courses, not +considering the knowledge and discipline that there is in any +course that a man may take. And it is still more absurd to +be constantly showing the people fretted over that you are +fretting over them. I think a good deal of what you call +superfluous condolence would come under the head of superfluous +criticism.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. Not altogether. In +companionship, when an evil happens to one of the circle, the +others should simply attempt to share and lighten it, not to +expound it, or dilate on it, or make it the least darker. +The person afflicted generally apprehends all the blackness +sufficiently. Now, unjust abuse by the world is to me like +the howling of the wind at night when one is warm within. +Bring any draught of it into one’s house though, and it is +not so pleasant.</p> +<p><i>Dunsford</i>. Talking of companionship, do not you +think there is often a peculiar feeling of home where age or +infirmity is? The arm-chair of the sick or the old is the +centre of the house. They think, perhaps, that they are +unimportant; but all the household hopes and cares flow to them +and from them.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. I quite agree with you. What you +have just depicted is a beautiful sight, especially when, as you +often see, the age or infirmity is not in the least selfish or +exacting.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. We have said a great deal about the +companionship of human beings; but, upon my word, we ought to +have kept a few words for our dog friends. Rollo has been +lolling out his great tongue, and looking wistfully from face to +face, as we each began our talk. A few minutes ago he was +quite concerned, thinking I was angry with you, when I would not +let you “but” my aphorism. I am not sure which +of the three I should rather go out walking with now: Dunsford, +Rollo, Milverton. The middle one is the safest +companion. I am sure not to get out of humour with +him. But I have no objection to try the whole three: only I +vote for much continuity of silence, as we have had floods of +discussion to-day.</p> +<p><i>Dunsford</i>. Agreed!</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. Come, Rollo, you may bark now, as you +have been silent, like a wise dog, all the morning.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER VIII.</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">It</span> was arranged, during our walk, +that Ellesmere should come and stay a day or two with me, and see +the neighbouring cathedral, which is nearer my house than +Milverton’s. The visit over, I brought him back to +Worth-Ashton. Milverton saw us coming, walked down the hill +to meet us, and after the usual greetings, began to talk to +Ellesmere.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. So you have been to see our +cathedral. I say “our,” for when a cathedral is +within ten miles of us, we feel a property in it, and are ready +to battle for its architectural merits.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. You know I am not a man to rave about +cathedrals.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. I certainly do not expect you to do +so. To me a cathedral is mostly somewhat of a sad +sight. You have Grecian monuments, if anything so misplaced +can be called Grecian, imbedded against and cutting into Gothic +pillars; the doors shut for the greater part of the day; only a +little bit of the building used: beadledom predominant; the clink +of money here and there; white-wash in vigour; the singing +indifferent; the sermons not indifferent but bad; and some +visitors from London forming, perhaps, the most important part of +the audience; in fact, the thing having become a show. We +look about, thinking when piety filled every corner, and feel +that the cathedral is too big for the Religion which is a +dried-up thing that rattles in this empty space.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. This is the boldest simile I have +heard for a long time. My theory about cathedrals is very +different, I must confess.</p> +<p><i>Dunsford</i>. Theory!</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. Well, “theory” is not the +word I ought to have used—feeling then. My feeling +is, how strong this creature was, this worship, how beautiful, +how alluring, how complete; but there was something +stronger—truth.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. And more beautiful?</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. Yes, and far more beautiful.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. Doubtless, to the free spirits who +brought truth forward.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. You are only saying this, Milverton, +to try what I will say; but, despite of all sentimentalities, you +sympathise with any emancipation of the human mind, as I do, +however much the meagreness of Protestantism may be at times +distasteful to you.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. I did not say I was anxious to go +back. Certainly not. But what says Dunsford? +Let us sit down on his stile and hear what he has to say.</p> +<p><i>Dunsford</i>. I cannot talk to you about this +subject. If I tell you of all the merits (as they seem to +me) of the Church of England, you will both pick what I say to +pieces, whereas if I leave you to fight on, one or the other will +avail himself of those arguments on which our Church is +based.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. Well, Dunsford, you are very candid, +and would make a complete diplomatist: truth-telling being now +pronounced (rather late in the day) the very acme of +diplomacy. But do you not own that our cathedrals are sadly +misused?</p> +<p><i>Dunsford</i>. Now, very likely, if more were made of +them, you, and men who think like you, would begin to cry out +“superstition”; and would instantly turn round and +inveigh against the uses which you now, perhaps, imagine for +cathedrals.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. Well, one never can answer for +oneself; but at any rate, I do not see what is the meaning of +building new churches in neighbourhoods where there are already +the noblest buildings suitable for the same purposes. Is +there a church religion, and is there a cathedral religion?</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. You cannot make the present fill the +garb of the past, Milverton, any more than you could make the +past fill that of the present. Now, as regards the very +thing you are about to discuss to-day, if it be the same you told +us in our last walk—Education: if you are only going to +give us some institution for it, I daresay it may be very good +for to-day, or for this generation, but it will have its sere and +yellow leaf, and there will be a time when future Milvertons, in +sentimental mood, will moan over it, and wish they had it and all +that has grown up to take its place at the same time. But +all this is what I have often heard you say yourself in other +words.</p> +<p><i>Dunsford</i>. This is very hard doctrine, and not +quite sound, I think. In getting the new gain, we always +sacrifice something, and we should look with some pious regard to +what was good in the things which are past. That good is +generally one which, though it may not be equal to the present, +would make a most valuable supplement to it.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. I would try and work in the old good +thing with the new, not as patchwork though, but making the new +thing grow out in such a way as to embrace the old advantage.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. Well, we must have the essay before we +branch out into our philosophy. Pleasure afterwards—I +will not say what comes first.</p> +<h3>EDUCATION.</h3> +<p>The word education is so large, that one may almost as well +put “world,” or “the end and object of +being,” at the head of an essay. It should, +therefore, soon be declared what such a heading does mean. +The word education suggests chiefly to some minds what the State +can do for those whom they consider its young people—the +children of the poorer classes: to others it presents the idea of +all the training that can be got for money at schools and +colleges, and which can be fairly accomplished and shut in at the +age of one-and-twenty. This essay, however, will not be a +treatise on government education, or other school and college +education, but will only contain a few points in reference to the +general subject, which may escape more methodical and enlarged +discussions.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p>In the first place, as regards government education, it must +be kept in mind that there is a danger of its being too +interfering and formal, of its overlying private enterprise, +insisting upon too much uniformity, and injuring local +connections and regards. Education, even in the poorest +acceptance of the word, is a great thing: but the harmonious +intercourse of different ranks, if not a greater, is a more +difficult one; and we must not gain the former at any +considerable sacrifice of the latter.</p> +<p>There is another point connected with this branch of the +subject which requires, perhaps, to be noted. If government +provision is made in any case, might it not be combined with +private payment in other cases, or enter in the way of rewards, +so as to do good throughout each step of the social ladder? +The lowest kind of school education is a power, and it is +desirable that the gradations of this power should correspond to +other influences which we know to be good. For instance, a +hard-working man saves something to educate his children; if he +can get a little better education for them than other parents of +his own rank for theirs, it is an incentive and a reward to him, +and the child’s bringing up at home is a thing which will +correspond to this better education at school. In this +there are the elements at once of stability and progress.</p> +<p>These views may possibly seem too refined, but at any rate +they require consideration.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p>The next branch of the subject is the ordinary education of +young persons not of the poorest classes, with which the State +has hitherto had little or nothing to do. This may be +considered under four heads: religious, moral, intellectual, and +physical education. With regard to the first, there is not +much that can be put into rules about it. Parents and +tutors will naturally be anxious to impress those under their +charge with the religious opinions which they themselves +hold. In doing this, however, they should not omit to lay a +foundation for charity towards people of other religious +opinions. For this purpose, it may be requisite to give a +child a notion that there are other creeds besides that in which +it is brought up itself. And especially, let it not suppose +that all good and wise people are of its church or chapel. +However desirable it may appear to the person teaching that there +should be such a thing as unity of religion, yet as the facts of +the world are against his wishes, and as this is the world which +the child is to enter, it is well that the child should in +reasonable time be informed of these facts. It may be said +in reply that history sufficiently informs children on these +points. But the world of the young is the domestic circle; +all beyond is fabulous, unless brought home to them by +comment. The fact, therefore, of different opinions in +religious matters being held by good people should sometimes be +dwelt upon, instead of being shunned, if we would secure a +ground-work of tolerance in a child’s mind.</p> +<h3>INTELLECTUAL EDUCATION.</h3> +<p>In the intellectual part of education there is the absolute +knowledge to be acquired, and the ways of acquiring knowledge to +be gained. The latter of course form the most important +branch. They can, in some measure, be taught. Give +children little to do, make much of its being accurately +done. This will give accuracy. Insist upon speed in +learning, with careful reference to the original powers of the +pupil. This speed gives the habit of concentrating +attention, one of the most valuable of mental habits. Then +cultivate logic. Logic is not the hard matter that is +fancied. A young person, especially after a little +geometrical training, may soon be taught to perceive where a +fallacy exists, and whether an argument is well sustained. +It is not, however, sufficient for him to be able to examine +sharply and to pull to pieces. He must learn how to +build. This is done by method. The higher branches of +method cannot be taught at first. But you may begin by +teaching orderliness of mind. Collecting, classifying, +contrasting and weighing facts, are some of the processes by +which method is taught. When these four things, accuracy, +attention, logic, and method are attained, the intellect is +fairly furnished with its instruments.</p> +<p>As regards the things to be taught, they will vary to some +extent in each age. The general course of education pursued +at any particular time may not be the wisest by any means, and +greatness will overleap it and neglect it, but the mass of men +may go more safely and comfortably, if not with the stream, at +least by the side of it.</p> +<p>In the choice of studies too much deference should not be paid +to the bent of a young person’s mind. Excellence in +one or two things which may have taken the fancy of a youth (or +which really may suit his genius) will ill compensate for a +complete ignorance of those branches of study which are very +repugnant to him; and which are, therefore, not likely to be +learnt when he has freedom in the choice of his studies.</p> +<p>Amongst the first things to be aimed at in the intellectual +part of education is variety of pursuit. A human being, +like a tree, if it is to attain to perfect symmetry, must have +light and air given to it from all quarters. This may be +done without making men superficial. Scientific method may +be acquired without many sciences being learnt. But one or +two great branches of science must be accurately known. So, +too, the choice works of antiquity may be thoroughly appreciated +without extensive reacting. And passing on from mere +learning of any kind, a variety of pursuits, even in what may be +called accomplishments, is eminently serviceable. Much may +be said of the advantage of keeping a man to a few pursuits, and +of the great things done thereby in the making of pins and +needles. But in this matter we are not thinking of the +things that are to be done, but of the persons who are to do +them. Not wealth but men. A number of one-sided men +may make a great nation, though I much incline to doubt that; but +such a nation will not contain a number of great men.</p> +<p>The very advantage that flows from division of labour, and the +probable consequences that men’s future bread-getting +pursuits will be more and more sub-divided, and therefore +limited, make it the more necessary that a man should begin life +with a broad basis of interest in many things which may cultivate +his faculties and develop his nature. This multifariousness +of pursuit is needed also in the education of the poor. +Civilisation has made it easy for a man to brutalise himself: how +is this to be counteracted but by endowing him with many pursuits +which may distract him from vice? It is not that kind of +education which leads to no employment in after-life that will do +battle with vice. But when education enlarges the field of +life-long good pursuits, it becomes formidable to the +soul’s worst enemies.</p> +<h3>MORAL EDUCATION.</h3> +<p>In considering moral education we must recollect that there +are three agents in this matter—the child himself, the +influence of his grown-up friends, and that of his +contemporaries. All that his grown-up friends tell him in +the way of experience goes for very little, except in palpable +matters. They talk of abstractions which he cannot +comprehend: and the “Arabian Nights” is a truer world +to him than that they talk of. Still, though they cannot +furnish experience, they can give motives. Indeed, in their +daily intercourse with the child, they are always doing so. +For instance, truth, courage, and kindness are the great moral +qualities to be instilled. Take courage, in its highest +form—moral courage. If a child perpetually hears such +phrases (and especially if they are applied to his own conduct), +as, “What people will say,” “How they will look +at you,” “What they will think,” and the like, +it tends to destroy all just self-reliance in that child’s +mind, and to set up instead an exaggerated notion of public +opinion, the greatest tyrant of these times. People can see +this in such an obvious thing as animal courage. They will +avoid over-cautioning children against physical dangers, knowing +that the danger they talk much about will become a bug-bear to +the child which it may never get rid of. But a similar +peril lurks in the application of moral motives. Truth, +courage, and kindness are likely to be learnt, or not, by +children, according as they hear and receive encouragement in the +direction of these pre-eminent qualities. When attempt is +made to frighten a child with these worldly maxims, “What +will be said of you?” “Are you like such a +one?” and such things, it is meant to draw him under the +rule of grown-up respectability. The last thing thought of +by the parent or teacher is, that such maxims will bring the +child under the especial guidance of the most unscrupulous of his +contemporaries. They will use ridicule and appeal to their +little world, which will be his world, and ask, “What will +be said” of him. There should be some stuff in him of +his own to meet these awful generalities.</p> +<h3>PHYSICAL EDUCATION.</h3> +<p>The physical education of children is a very simple matter, +too simple to be much attended to without great perseverance and +resolution on the part of those who care for the children. +It consists, as we all know, in good air, simple diet, sufficient +exercise, and judicious clothing. The first requisite is +the most important, and by far the most frequently +neglected. This neglect is not so unreasonable as it +seems. It arises from pure ignorance. If the mass of +mankind knew what scientific men know about the functions of the +air, they would be as careful in getting a good supply of it as +of their other food. All the people that ever were supposed +to die of poison in the middle ages, and that means nearly +everybody whose death was worth speculating about, are not so +many as those who die poisoned by bad air in the course of any +given year. Even a slightly noxious thing, which is +constant, affecting us every moment of the day, must have +considerable influence; but the air we breathe is not a thing +that slightly affects us, but one of the most important elements +of life. Moreover, children are the most affected by +impurity of air. We need not weary ourselves with much +statistics to ascertain this. One or two broad facts will +assure us of it. In Nottingham there is a district called +Byron Ward, “the densest and worst-conditioned quarter of +the town.” A table has been made by Mr. William +Hawksley of the mortality of equal populations in different parts +of the town:</p> +<blockquote><p>“On comparing the diagram No. 1, relating to +Park Ward, with the diagram No. 7, relating to Byron Ward, it +will be seen that the heavier pressure of the causes of mortality +occasions in the latter district such an undue destruction of +early life, that towards 100 deaths, however occurring, Byron +Ward contributes fifty per cent. more of children under five +years of age than the Park Ward, for the former sends sixty +children to an early grave, while the latter sends only +forty.” <a name="citation116a"></a><a href="#footnote116a" +class="citation">[116a]</a></p> +</blockquote> +<p>Mr. Hawksley, the former witness alluded to, goes on to +say—</p> +<blockquote><p>“It has been long known that, with increase +of years, up to that period of life which has been denominated +the second childhood, the human constitution becomes gradually +more resistful, and as it were slowly hardened against the +repeated attacks of those more acute disorders, incident to an +inferior degree of sanitary civilisation, by which large portions +of an infant population are continually overcome and rapidly +swept away. From the operation of these and more extraneous +influences of a disturbing character, an infant population is +almost entirely exempted; and on this account it is considered +that an infant population constitutes, as it were, a delicate +barometer, from which we may derive more early and more certain +indications of the presence and comparative force of local causes +of mortality and disease than can be obtained from the more +general methods of investigation usually pursued.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>The above evidence is confirmed by Mr. Toynbee:—</p> +<blockquote><p>“The disease of hydrocephalus, of water in +the brain, so fatal to children, I find associated with symptoms +of scrofula, and arising in abundance in these close rooms. +I believe water in the brain, in the class of patients whom I +visit, to be almost wholly a scrofulous affection.” +<a name="citation116b"></a><a href="#footnote116b" +class="citation">[116b]</a></p> +</blockquote> +<p>But supposing people aware of the necessity for good air, and +therefore for ventilation, what is to be done? In houses in +great towns certainly, and I should say in all houses, some of +the care and expense that are devoted to ornamental work, which +when done is often a care, a trouble, an eyesore, and a mischief, +should be given to modes of ventilation, <a +name="citation117a"></a><a href="#footnote117a" +class="citation">[117a]</a> sound building, abundant access of +light, largeness of sleeping-rooms, and such useful things. +Less ormolu and tinsel of all kinds in the drawing-rooms, and +sweeter air in the regions above. Similar things may be +done for and by the poor. <a name="citation117b"></a><a +href="#footnote117b" class="citation">[117b]</a> And it +need hardly be said that those people who care for their +children, if of any enlightenment at all, will care greatly for +the sanitary condition of their neighbourhood generally. At +present you will find at many a rich man’s door <a +name="citation117c"></a><a href="#footnote117c" +class="citation">[117c]</a> a nuisance which is poisoning the +atmosphere that his children are to breathe, but which he could +entirely cure for less than one day’s ordinary +expenses.</p> +<p>I am afraid that ventilation is very little attended to in +school-rooms, either for rich or poor. Now it may be +deliberately said that there is very little learned in any +school-room that can compensate for the mischief of its being +learned in the midst of impure air. This is a thing which +parents must look to, for the grown-up people in the +school-rooms, though suffering grievously themselves from +insufficient ventilation, will be unobservant of it. <a +name="citation118"></a><a href="#footnote118" +class="citation">[118]</a> In every system of government +inspection, ventilation must occupy a prominent part.</p> +<p>The advantage of simple food for children is a thing that +people have found out. And as regards exercise, children +happily make great efforts to provide a sufficiency of this for +themselves. In clothing, the folly and conformity of +grown-up people enter again. Loving mothers, in various +parts of the world, carry about at present, I believe, and +certainly in times past, carried their little children strapped +to a board, with nearly as little power of motion as the board +itself. Could we get the returns of stunted miserable +beings, or of deaths, from this cause, they would be something +portentous. Less in degree, but not less fatally absurd in +principle, are many of the strappings, bandages, and incipient +stays for children amongst us. They are all +mischievous. Allow children, at any rate, some freedom of +limbs, some opportunity of being graceful and healthy. Give +Nature—dear motherly, much-abused Nature—some chance +of forming these little ones according to the beneficent +intentions of Providence, and not according to the angular +designs of ill-educated men and women.</p> +<p>I do not say that attention to the above matters of good air, +judicious clothing, and freedom from bandages, will absolutely +secure health, because these very things may have been so ill +attended to in the parents or in the parental stock as to have +introduced special maladies; but at least they are the most +important objects to be minded now; and, perhaps, the more to be +minded in the children of those who have suffered most from +neglect in these particulars.</p> +<p>When we are considering the health of children, it is +imperative not to omit the importance of keeping their brains +fallow, as it were, for several of the first years of their +existence. The mischief perpetrated by a contrary course in +the shape of bad health, peevish temper, and developed vanity, is +incalculable. It would not be just to attribute this +altogether to the vanity of parents; they are influenced by a +natural fear lest their children should not have all the +advantages of other children. Some infant prodigy which is +a standard of mischief throughout its neighbourhood misleads +them. But parents may be assured that this early work is +not by any means all gain, even in the way of work. I +suspect it is a loss; and that children who begin their education +late, as it would be called, will rapidly overtake those who have +been in harness long before them. And what advantage can it +be that the child knows more at six years old than its compeers, +especially if this is to be gained by a sacrifice of health which +may never be regained? There may be some excuse for this +early book-work in the case of those children who are to live by +manual labour. It is worth while, perhaps, to run the risk +of some physical injury to them, having only their early years in +which we can teach them book-knowledge. The chance of +mischief, too, will be less, being more likely to be counteracted +by their after-life. But for a child who has to be at +book-work for the first twenty-one years of its life, what folly +it is to exhaust in the least the mental energy, which, after +all, is its surest implement.</p> +<p>A similar course of argument applies to taking children early +to church, and to over-developing their minds in any way. +There is no knowing, moreover, the disgust and weariness that may +grow up in the minds of young persons from their attention being +prematurely claimed. We are now, however, looking at early +study as a matter of health; and we may certainly put it down in +the same class with impure air, stimulating diet, unnecessary +bandages, and other manifest physical disadvantages. +Civilised life, as it advances, does not seem to have so much +repose in it, that we need begin early in exciting the mind, for +fear of the man being too lethargical hereafter.</p> +<h3>EDUCATION OF WOMEN.</h3> +<p>It seems needful that something should be said specially about +the education of women. As regards their intellects they +have been unkindly treated—too much flattered, too little +respected. They are shut up in a world of +conventionalities, and naturally believe that to be the only +world. The theory of their education seems to be, that they +should not be made companions to men, and some would say, they +certainly are not. These critics, however, in the high +imaginations they justly form of what women’s society might +be to men, forget, perhaps, how excellent a thing it is +already. Still the criticism is not by any means wholly +unjust. It appears rather as if there had been a falling +off since the olden times in the education of women. A +writer of modern days, arguing on the other side, has said, that +though we may talk of the Latin and Greek of Lady Jane Grey and +Queen Elizabeth, yet we are to consider that that was the only +learning of the time, and that many a modern lady may be far +better instructed, although she knew nothing of Latin and +Greek. Certain it is, she may know more facts, have read +more books: but this does not assure us that she may not be less +conversable, less companionable. Wherein does the +cultivated and thoughtful man differ from the common man? +In the method of his discourse. His questions upon a +subject in which he is ignorant are full of interest. His +talk has a groundwork of reason. This rationality must not +be supposed to be dulness. Folly is dull. Now, would +women be less charming if they had more power, or at least more +appreciation, of reasoning? Their flatterers tell them that +their intuition is such that they need not man’s slow +processes of thought. One would be very sorry to have a +grave question of law that concerned oneself decided upon by +intuitive judges, or a question of fact by intuitive +jurymen. And so of all human things that have to be +canvassed, it is better, and more amusing too, that they should +be discussed according to reason. Moreover, the exercise of +the reasoning faculties gives much of the pleasure which there is +in solid acquirements; so that the obvious facts in life and +history will hardly be acquired by those who are not in the habit +of reasoning upon them. Hence it comes, that women have +less interest in great topics, and less knowledge of them, than +they might have.</p> +<p>Again, if either sex requires logical education, it is +theirs. The sharp practice of the world drives some logic +into the most vague of men; women are not so schooled.</p> +<p>But, supposing the deficiency we have been considering to be +admitted, how is it to be remedied? Women’s education +must be made such as to ensure some accuracy and reasoning. +This may be done with any subject of education, and is done with +men, whatever they learn, because they are expected to produce +and use their requirements. But the greatest object of +intellectual education, the improvement of the mental powers, is +as needful for one sex as the other, and requires the same means +in both sexes. The same accuracy, attention, logic, and +method that are attempted in the education of men should be aimed +at in that of women. This will never be sufficiently +attended to, as there are no immediate and obvious fruits from +it. And, therefore, as it is probable, from the different +career of women to that of men, that whatever women study will +not be studied with the same method and earnestness as it would +be by men, what a peculiar advantage there is in any study for +them, in which no proficiency whatever can be made without some +use of most of the qualities we desire for them. Geometry, +for instance, is such a study. It may appear pedantic, but +I must confess that Euclid seems to me a book for the young of +both sexes. The severe rules upon which the acquisition of +the dead languages is built would of course be a great means for +attaining the logical habits in question. But Latin and +Greek is a deeper pedantry for women than geometry, and much less +desirable on many accounts: and geometry would, perhaps, suffice +to teach them what reasoning is. I daresay, too, there are +accomplishments which might be taught scientifically; and so even +the prejudice against the manifest study of science by women be +conciliated. But the appreciation of reasoning must be got +somehow.</p> +<p>It is a narrow view of things to suppose that a just +cultivation of women’s mental powers will take them out of +their sphere: it will only enlarge that sphere. The most +cultivated women perform their common duties best. They see +more in those duties. They can do more. Lady Jane +Grey would, I daresay, have bound up a wound, or managed a +household, with any unlearned woman of her day. Queen +Elizabeth did manage a kingdom: and we find no pedantry in her +way of doing it.</p> +<p>People who advocate a better training for women must not, +necessarily, be supposed to imagine that men and women are by +education to be made alike, and are intended to fulfil most of +the same offices. There seems reason for thinking that a +boundary line exists between the intellects of men and women +which, perhaps, cannot be passed over from either side. +But, at any rate, taking the whole nature of both sexes, and the +inevitable circumstances which cause them to differ, there must +be such a difference between men and women that the same +intellectual training applied to both would produce most +dissimilar results. It has not, however, been proposed in +these pages to adopt the same training: and would have been still +less likely to be proposed if it could be shown that such +training would tend to make men and women unpleasantly similar to +each other. The utmost that has been thought of here is to +make more of women’s faculties, not by any means to +translate them into men’s—if such a thing were +possible, which, we may venture to say, is not. There are +some things that are good for all trees—light, air, +room—but no one expects by affording some similar +advantages of this kind to an oak and a beech, to find them +assimilate, though by such means the best of each may be +produced.</p> +<p>Moreover, it should be recollected that the purpose of +education is not always to foster natural gifts, but sometimes to +bring out faculties that might otherwise remain dormant; and +especially so far as to make the persons educated cognisant of +excellence in those faculties in others. A certain tact and +refinement belong to women, in which they have little to learn +from the first: men, too, who attain some portion of these +qualities, are greatly the better for them, and I should imagine +not less acceptable on that account to women. So, on the +other side, there may be an intellectual cultivation for women +which may seem a little against the grain, which would not, +however, injure any of their peculiar gifts—would, in fact, +carry those gifts to the highest, and would increase withal, both +to men and women, the pleasure of each other’s society.</p> +<p>There is a branch of general education which is not thought at +all necessary for women; as regards which, indeed, it is well if +they are not brought up to cultivate the opposite. Women +are not taught to be courageous. Indeed, to some persons +courage may seem as unnecessary for women as Latin and +Greek. Yet there are few things that would tend to make +women happier in themselves, and more acceptable to those with +whom they live, than courage. There are many women of the +present day, sensible women in other things, whose panic-terrors +are a frequent source of discomfort to themselves and those +around them. Now, it is a great mistake to imagine that +harshness must go with courage; and that the bloom of gentleness +and sympathy must all be rubbed off by that vigour of mind which +gives presence of mind, enables a person to be useful in peril, +and makes the desire to assist overcome that sickliness of +sensibility which can only contemplate distress and +difficulty. So far from courage being unfeminine, there is +a peculiar grace and dignity in those beings who have little +active power of attack or defence, passing through danger with a +moral courage which is equal to that of the strongest. We +see this in great things. We perfectly appreciate the sweet +and noble dignity of an Anne Bullen, a Mary Queen of Scots, or a +Marie Antoinette. We see that it is grand for these +delicately-bred, high-nurtured, helpless personages to meet Death +with a silence and a confidence like his own. But there +would be a similar dignity in women’s bearing small terrors +with fortitude. There is no beauty in fear. It is a +mean, ugly, dishevelled creature. No statue can be made of +it that a woman would like to see herself like.</p> +<p>Women are pre-eminent in steady endurance of tiresome +suffering: they need not be far behind men in a becoming courage +to meet that which is sudden and sharp. The dangers and the +troubles, too, which we may venture to say they now start at +unreasonably, are many of them mere creatures of the +imagination—such as, in their way, disturb high-mettled +animals brought up to see too little, and therefore frightened at +any leaf blown across the road.</p> +<p>We may be quite sure that, without losing any of the most +delicate and refined of feminine graces, women may be taught not +to give way to unreasonable fears, which should belong no more to +the fragile than to the robust.</p> +<p>There is no doubt that courage may in some measure be +taught. We agree that the lower kinds of courage are matter +of habit, therefore of teaching: and the same thing holds good to +some extent of all courage. Courage is as contagious as +fear. The saying is, that the brave are the sons and +daughters of the brave; but we might as truly say that they must +be brought up by the brave. The great novelist, when he +wants a coward descended from a valorous race, does well to take +him from his clan and bring him up in an unwarlike home. <a +name="citation126"></a><a href="#footnote126" +class="citation">[126]</a> Indeed, the heroic example of +other days is in great part the source of courage of each +generation; and men walk up composedly to the most perilous +enterprises, beckoned onwards by the shades of the brave that +were. In civil courage, moral courage, or courage shown in +the minute circumstances of everyday life, the same law is +true. Courage may be taught by precept, enforced by +example, and is good to be taught to men, women, and +children.</p> +<h3>EDUCATION TO HAPPINESS.</h3> +<p>It is a curious phenomenon in human affairs, that some of +those matters in which education is most potent should have been +amongst the least thought of as branches of it. What you +teach a boy of Latin and Greek may be good; but these things are +with him but a little time of each day in his after-life. +What you teach him of direct moral precepts may be very good +seed: it may grow up, especially if it have sufficient moisture +from experience; but then, again, a man is, happily, not doing +obvious right or wrong all day long. What you teach him of +any bread-getting art may be of some import to him, as to the +quantity and quality of bread he will get; but he is not always +with his art. With himself he is always. How +important, then, it is, whether you have given him a happy or a +morbid turn of mind; whether the current of his life is a clear +wholesome stream, or bitter as Marah. The education to +happiness is a possible thing—not to a happiness supposed +to rest upon enjoyments of any kind, but to one built upon +content and resignation. This is the best part of +philosophy. This enters into the “wisdom” +spoken of in the Scriptures. Now it can be taught. +The converse is taught every day and all day long.</p> +<p>To take an example. A sensitive disposition may descend +to a child; but it is also very commonly increased, and often +created. Captiousness, sensitiveness, and a Martha-like +care for the things of this world, are often the direct fruits of +education. All these faults of the character, and they are +amongst the greatest, may be summed up in a disproportionate care +for little things. This is rather a growing evil. The +painful neatness and exactness of modern life foster it. +Long peace favours it. Trifles become more important, great +evils being kept away. And so, the tide of small wishes and +requirements gains upon us fully as fast as we can get out of its +way by our improved means of satisfying them. Now the +unwholesome concern that many parents and governors manifest as +to small things must have a great influence on the +governed. You hear a child reprimanded about a point of +dress, or some trivial thing, as if it had committed a +treachery. The criticisms, too, which it hears upon others +are often of the same kind. Small omissions, small +commissions, false shame, little stumbling-blocks of offence, +trifling grievances of the kind that Dr. Johnson, who had known +hunger, stormed at Mrs. Thrale for talking about, are made much +of; general dissatisfaction is expressed that things are not +complete, and that everything in life is not turned out as neat +as a Long-Acre carriage; commands are expected to be fulfilled by +agents, upon very rapid and incomplete orders, exactly to the +mind of the person ordering;—these ways, to which children +are very attentive, teach them in their turn to be querulous, +sensitive, and full of small cares and wishes. And when you +have made a child like this, can you make a world for him that +will satisfy him? Tax your civilisation to the uttermost: a +punctilious, tiresome disposition expects more. Indeed, +Nature, with her vague and flowing ways, cannot at all fit in +with a right-angled person. Besides, there are other +precise, angular creatures, and these sharp-edged persons wound +each other terribly. Of all the things which you can teach +people, after teaching them to trust in God, the most important +is, to put out of their hearts any expectation of perfection, +according to their notions, in this world. This expectation +is at the bottom of a great deal of the worldliness we hear so +much reprehended, and necessarily gives to little things a most +irrational importance.</p> +<p>Observe the effect of this disproportionate care for little +things in the disputes of men. A man who does so care, has +a garment embroidered with hooks which catch at everything that +passes by. He finds many more causes of offence than other +men; and each offence is a more bitter thing to him than to +others. He does not expect to be offended. Poor +man! He goes through life wondering that he is the subject +of general attack, and that the world is so quarrelsome.</p> +<p>The result of a bad education in developing undue care for +trifles may be seen in its effect on domestic government and +government in general. If those in power have this fault, +they will make the persons under them miserable by petty, +constant blame; or they will make them indifferent to all +blame. If this fault is in the governed, they will +captiously object to all the ways and plans of their superiors, +not knowing the difficulty of doing anything; they will expect +miracles of attention, justice, and temper, which the rough-hewed +ways of men do not admit of; and they will repine and tease the +life out of those in authority. Sometimes both superiors +and inferiors, governors and governed, have this fault. +This must often happen in a family, and is a fearful punishment +to the elders of it. Scarcely any goodness of disposition, +and what are called great qualities, can make such difficult +materials work well together.</p> +<p>But I end with somewhat of the same argument as I began with, +namely, that as a man lives more with himself than with art, +science, or even with his fellows, a wise teacher, having before +him the intent to make a happy-minded man of his pupil, will try +to lay a groundwork of divine contentment in him. If he +cannot make him easily pleased, he will at least try and prevent +him from being easily disconcerted. Why, even the +self-conceit that makes people indifferent to small things, +wrapping them in an atmosphere of self-satisfaction, is welcome +in a man compared to that querulousness which makes him an enemy +to all around. But most commendable is that easiness of +mind which is easy because it is tolerant, because it does not +look to have everything its own way, because it expects anything +but smooth usage in its course here, because it has resolved to +manufacture as few miseries out of small evils as can be.</p> +<p>Most of us know what it is to vex our minds because we cannot +recall some name or trivial thing which has escaped our memory +for the moment. But then we think how foolish this is, what +little concern it is to us. We are right in that; yet any +defect of memory is a great concern compared to many of the +trifling niceties, comforts, offences, and rectangularities +which, perhaps, we do not think it an ignoble use of heart and +time to waste ourselves upon. It would be well enough to +entertain the rabble of small troubles and offences, if we could +lay them aside with the delightful facility of children, who, +after an agony of tears, are soon found laughing or asleep. +But the chagrin and vexation of grown-up people are grown-up too; +and, however childish in their origin, are not to be laughed or +danced or slept away in childlike simple-heartedness.</p> +<p>We must not imagine that too much stress can well be laid upon +the importance of an education to contentment, for it comes under +the head of those things which are not adjuncts or acquisitions +for a man, but which form the texture of his being. What a +man has learnt is of importance; but what he is, what he can do, +what he will become, are more significant things. Finally, +it may be remarked, that, to make education a great work, we must +have the educators great; that book-learning is mainly good as it +gives us a chance of coming into the company of greater and +better minds than the average of men around us; and that +individual greatness and goodness are the things to be aimed at +rather than the successful cultivation of those talents which go +to form some eminent membership of society. Each man is a +drama in himself—has to play all the parts in it; is to be +king and rebel, successful and vanquished, free and slave; and +needs a bringing-up fit for the universal creature that he +is.</p> + +<div class="gapshortline"> </div> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. You have been unexpectedly merciful to +us. The moment I heard the head of the essay given out, +there flitted before my frightened mind volumes of reports, +Battersea schools, Bell, Wilderspin, normal farms, National +Society, British Schools, interminable questions about how +religion might be separated altogether from secular education, or +so much religion taught as all religious sects could agree +in. These are all very good things and people to discuss, I +daresay; but, to tell the truth, the whole subject sits heavy on +my soul. I meet a man of inexhaustible dulness, and he +talks to me for three hours about some great subject—this +very one of education, for instance—till I sit entranced by +stupidity, thinking the while, “And this is what we are to +become by education—to be like you.” Then I see +a man like D—, a judicious, reasonable, conversable being, +knowing how to be silent too—a man to go through a campaign +with—and I find he cannot read or write.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. This sort of contrast is just the +thing to strike you, Ellesmere: and yet you know as well as any +of us that to bring forward such contrasts by way of depreciating +education would be most unreasonable. There are three +things that go to make a man—the education that most people +mean by education; then the education that goes deeper, the +education of the soul; and, thirdly, a man’s gifts of +Nature. I agree with all you say about D—; he never +says a foolish thing, and does a great many judicious ones. +But look what a clever face he has. There are gifts of +Nature for you. Then, again, although he cannot read or +write, he may have been most judiciously brought up in other +respects. He may have had two, therefore, out of the three +elements of education. What such instances would show, I +believe, if narrowly looked into, is the immense importance of +the education of heart and temper.</p> +<p>I feel with you in some measure about the dulness of the +subject of education. But then it extends to all things of +the institution kind. Men must have a great deal of +pedantry, routine, and folly of all sorts, in any large matter +they undertake. I had had this feeling for a long time (you +know the way in which you have a thing in your mind, although you +have never said it out exactly even to yourself)—well, I +came upon a passage of Emerson’s which I will try to quote, +and then I knew what it was that I had felt.</p> +<p>“We are full of mechanical actions. We must needs +intermeddle, and have things in our own way, until the sacrifices +and virtues of society are odious. Love should make joy; +but our benevolence is unhappy. Our Sunday-schools, and +churches, and pauper societies, are yokes to the neck. We +pain ourselves to please nobody. There are natural ways of +arriving at the same ends at which these aim, but do not +arrive. Why should all virtue work in one and the same +way?” . . . “And why drag this dead weight of a +Sunday-school over the whole of Christendom? It is natural +and beautiful that childhood should inquire, and maturity should +teach; but it is time enough to answer questions when they are +asked. Do not shut up the young people against their will +in a pew, and force the children to ask them questions for an +hour against their will.”</p> +<p>Now, without agreeing with him in all points, we may +sympathise with him.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. I agree with him.</p> +<p><i>Dunsford</i>. I knew you would. You love an +extreme.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. But look now. It is well to say, +“It is natural and beautiful that the young should ask and +the old should teach”; but then the old should be capable +of teaching, which is not the case we have to deal with. +Institutions are often only to meet individual failings. +Let there be more instructed elders, and the “dead +weight” of Sunday-schools would be less needed.</p> +<p>I think the result of our thoughts would be, that there should +be as much life, joy, and Nature put into teaching as can be; but +I, for one, am not prepared to say that the most mechanical +process is not better than none.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. Well, you have now shut up the +subject, according to your fashion, in a rounded sentence; and +you think after that there is nothing more to be said. But +I say it goes to my heart—</p> +<p><i>Dunsford</i>. What is that?</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. To my heart to see the unmerciful +quantity of instruction that little children go through on a +Sunday. I suppose I am a very wicked man; but I know how +wearied I should have been, at any time of my life, if so much +virtuous precept and good doctrine had been poured into me.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. Well, I will not fight certainly for +anything that is to make Sunday a wearisome day for +children. Indeed, what I meant by putting more joy and life +into teaching was, that in such a thing as this Sunday-schooling, +for instance, a judicious man, far from being anxious to get a +certain quantity of routine done about it, would do with the +least—would endeavour to connect it with something +interesting—would, in a word, love children, and not +Sunday-schools.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. Ah, we will have no more about +Sunday-schools. I know we all agree in reality, although +Dunsford has been looking very grave and has not said a +word. I wanted to tell you that I think you are quite +right, Milverton, in saying a good deal about multifariousness of +pursuit. You see a wretch of a pedant who knows all about +tetrameters or statutes of uses, but who, as you hinted an essay +or two ago, can hardly answer his child a question as they walk +about the garden together. The man has never given a good +thought or look to Nature. Well then, again, what a stupid +thing it is that we are not all taught music. Why learn the +language of many portions of mankind, and leave the universal +language of the feelings, as you would call it, unlearnt?</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. I quite agree with you; but I thought +you always set your face, or rather your ears, against music.</p> +<p><i>Dunsford</i>. So did I.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. I should like to know all about +it. It is not to my mind that a cultivated man should be +quite thrown out by any topic of conversation, or that there +should be any form of human endeavour or accomplishment which he +has no conception of.</p> +<p><i>Dunsford</i>. I liked what you said, Milverton, about +the philosophy of making light of many things, and the way of +looking at life that may thus be given to those we educate. +I rather doubted at first, though, whether you were not going to +assign too much power to education in the modification of +temper. But, certainly, the mode of looking at the daily +events of life, little or great, and the consequent habits of +captiousness or magnanimity, are just the matters which the young +especially imitate their elders in.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. You see, the very worst kind of +tempers are established upon the fretting care for trifles that I +want to make war upon in the essay. A man is +choleric. Well, it is a very bad thing; it tends to +frighten those about him into falseness. He has outrageous +bursts of temper. He is humble for days afterwards. +His dependants rather like him after all. They know that +“his bark is worse than his bite.” Then there +is your gloomy man, often a man who punishes himself +most—perhaps a large-hearted, humorous, but sad man, at the +same time liveable with. He does not care for +trifles. But it is your acid-sensitive (I must join words +like Mirabeau’s Grandison-Cromwell, to get what I mean), +and your cold, querulous people that need to have angels to live +with them. Now education has often had a great deal to do +with the making of these choice tempers. They are somewhat +artificial productions. And they are the worst.</p> +<p><i>Dunsford</i>. You know a saying attributed to the +Bishop of — about temper. No? Somebody, I +suppose, was excusing something on the score of temper, to which +the Bishop replied, “Temper is nine-tenths of +Christianity.”</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. There is an appearance we see in +Nature, not far from here, by the way, that has often put me in +mind of the effect of temper upon men. It is in the +lowlands near the sea, where, when the tide is not up (the man +out of temper), there is a slimy, patchy, diseased-looking +surface of mud and sick seaweed. You pass by in a few +hours, there is a beautiful lake, water up to the green grass +(the man in temper again), and the whole landscape brilliant with +reflected light.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. And to complete the likeness, the good +temper and the full tide last about the same time—with some +men at least. It is so like you, Milverton, to have that +simile in your mind. There is nothing you see in Nature, +but you must instantly find a parallel for it in man. +Sermons in stones you will not see, else I am sure you +might. Here is a good hard flint for you to see your next +essay in.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. It will do very well, as my next will +be on the subject of population.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. What day are we to have it? I +think I have a particular engagement for that day.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. I must come upon you unawares.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. After the essay you certainly +might. Let us decamp now and do something great in the way +of education—teach Rollo, though he is but a short-haired +dog, to go into the water. That will be a feat.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER IX.</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">Ellesmere</span> succeeded in persuading +Rollo to go into the water, which proved more, he said, than the +whole of Milverton’s essay, how much might be done by +judicious education. Before leaving my friends, I promised +to come over again to Worth-Ashton in a day or two, to hear +another essay. I came early and found them reading their +letters.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p>“You remember Annesleigh at college,” said +Milverton, “do you not, Dunsford?”</p> +<p><i>Dunsford</i>. Yes.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. Here is a long letter from him. +He is evidently vexed at the newspaper articles about his conduct +in a matter of —, and he writes to tell me that he is +totally misrepresented.</p> +<p><i>Dunsford</i>. Why does he not explain this +publicly?</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. Yes, you naturally think so at first, +but such a mode of proceeding would never do for a man in office, +and rarely, perhaps, for any man. At least, so the most +judicious people seem to think. I have known a man in +office bear patiently, without attempting any answer, a serious +charge which a few lines would have entirely answered, indeed, +turned the other way. But then he thought, I imagine, that +if you once begin answering, there is no end to it, and also, +which is more important, that the public journals were not a +tribunal which he was called to appear before. He had his +official superiors.</p> +<p><i>Dunsford</i>. It should be widely known and +acknowledged then, that silence does not give consent in these +cases.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. It is known, though not, perhaps, +sufficiently.</p> +<p><i>Dunsford</i>. What a fearful power this anonymous +journalism is!</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. There is a great deal certainly that +is mischievous in it; but take it altogether, it is a wonderful +product of civilisation—morally too. Even as regards +those qualities which would in general, to use a phrase of +Bacon’s, “be noted as deficients” in the press, +in courtesy and forbearance, for example, it makes a much better +figure than might have been expected; as any one would testify, I +suspect, who had observed, or himself experienced, the +temptations incident to writing on short notice, without much +opportunity of after-thought or correction, upon subjects about +which he had already expressed an opinion.</p> +<p><i>Dunsford</i>. Is the anonymousness absolutely +necessary?</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. I have often thought whether it +is. If the anonymousness were taken away, the press would +lose much of its power; but then, why should it not lose a +portion of its power, if that portion is only built upon some +delusion?</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. It is a question of expediency. +As government of all kinds becomes better managed, there is less +necessity for protection for the press. It must be +recollected, however, that this anonymousness (to coin a word) +may not only be useful to protect us from any abuse of power, but +that at least it takes away that temptation to discuss things in +an insufficient manner which arises from personal fear of giving +offence. Then, again, there is an advantage in considering +arguments without reference to persons. If well-known +authors wrote for the press and gave their signatures, we should +often pass by the arguments unfairly, saying, “Oh, it is +only so-and-so: that is the way he always looks at things,” +without seeing whether it is the right way for the occasion in +question.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. But take the other side, +Ellesmere. What national dislikes are fostered by newspaper +articles, and—</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. Articles in reviews and by books.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. Yes, but somehow or other, people +imagine that newspapers speak the opinion of a much greater +number of people—</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. Do not let us talk any more about +it. We may become wise enough and well-managed enough to do +without this anonymousness: we may not. How it would +astound an ardent Whig or Radical of the last generation if we +could hear such a sentiment as this—as a toast we will +say—“The Press: and may we become so civilised as to +be able to take away some of its liberty.”</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. It may be put another way: “May +it become so civilised that we shall not want to take away any of +its liberty.” But I see you are tired of this +subject. Shall we go on the lawn and have our essay?</p> +<p>We assented, and Milverton read the following:—</p> +<h3>UNREASONABLE CLAIMS IN SOCIAL AFFECTIONS AND RELATIONS.</h3> +<p>We are all apt to magnify the importance of whatever we are +thinking about, which is not to be wondered at; for everything +human has an outlet into infinity, which we come to perceive on +considering it. But with a knowledge of this tendency, I +still venture to say that, of all that concerns mankind, this +subject has, perhaps, been the least treated of in regard to its +significance. For once that unreasonable expectations of +gratitude have been reproved, ingratitude has been denounced a +thousand times; and the same may be said of inconstancy, +unkindness in friendship, neglected merit and the like.</p> +<p>To begin with ingratitude. Human beings seldom have the +demands upon each other which they imagine; and for what they +have done they frequently ask an impossible return. +Moreover, when people really have done others a service, the +persons benefited often do not understand it. Could they +have understood it, the benefactor, perhaps, would not have had +to perform it. You cannot expect gratitude from them in +proportion to your enlightenment. Then, again, where the +service is a palpable one, thoroughly understood, we often +require that the gratitude for it should bear down all the rest +of the man’s character. The dog is the very emblem of +faithfulness; yet I believe it is found that he will sometimes +like the person who takes him out and amuses him more than the +person who feeds him. So, amongst bipeds, the most solid +service must sometimes give way to the claims of +congeniality. Human creatures are, happily, not to be +swayed by self-interest alone: they are many-sided creatures; +there are numberless modes of attaching their affections. +Not only like likes like, but unlike likes unlike.</p> +<p>To give an instance which must often occur. Two persons, +both of feeble will, act together: one as superior, the other as +inferior. The superior is very kind; the inferior is +grateful. Circumstances occur to break this relation. +The inferior comes under a superior of strong will, who is not, +however, as tolerant and patient as his predecessor. But +this second superior soon acquires unbounded influence over the +inferior: if the first one looks on, he may wonder at the +alacrity and affection of his former subordinate towards the new +man, and talk much about ingratitude. But the inferior has +now found somebody to lean upon and to reverence. And he +cannot deny his nature and be otherwise than he is. In this +case it does not look like ingratitude, except perhaps to the +complaining person. But there are doubtless numerous +instances in which, if we saw all the facts clearly, we should no +more confirm the charge of ingratitude than we do here.</p> +<p>Then, again, we seldom make sufficient allowance for the +burden which there is in obligation, at least to all but great +and good minds. There are some people who can receive as +heartily as they would give; but the obligation of an ordinary +person to an ordinary person is more apt to be brought to mind as +a present sore than as a past delight.</p> +<p>Amongst the unreasonable views of the affections, the most +absurd one has been the fancy that love entirely depends upon the +will; still more that the love of others for us is to be guided +by the inducements which seem probable to us. We have +served them; we think only of them; we are their lovers, or +fathers, or brothers: we deserve and require to be loved and to +have the love proved to us. But love is not like property: +it has neither duties nor rights. You argue for it in vain; +and there is no one who can give it you. It is not his or +hers to give. Millions of bribes and infinite arguments +cannot prevail. For it is not a substance, but a +relation. There is no royal road. We are loved as we +are lovable to the person loving. It is no answer to say +that in some cases the love is based on no reality, but is solely +in the imagination—that is, that we are loved not for what +we are, but for what we are fancied to be. That will not +bring it any more into the dominions of logic; and love still +remains the same untamable creature, deaf to advocacy, blind to +other people’s idea of merit, and not a substance to be +weighed or numbered at all.</p> +<p>Then, as to the complaints about broken friendship. +Friendship is often outgrown; and his former child’s +clothes will no more fit a man than some of his former +friendships. Often a breach of friendship is supposed to +occur when there is nothing of the kind. People see one +another seldom; their courses in life are different; they meet, +and their intercourse is constrained. They fancy that their +friendship is mightily cooled. But imagine the dearest +friends, one coming home after a long sojourn, the other going +out to new lands: the ships that carry these meet: the friends +talk together in a confused way not relevant at all to their +friendship, and, if not well assured of their mutual regard, +might naturally fancy that it was much abated. Something +like this occurs daily in the stream of the world. Then, +too, unless people are very unreasonable, they cannot expect that +their friends will pass into new systems of thought and action +without new ties of all kinds being created, and some +modification of the old ones taking place.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p>When we are talking of exorbitant claims made for the regard +of others, we must not omit those of what is called neglected +merit. A man feels that he has abilities or talents of a +particular kind, that he has shown them, and still he is a +neglected man. I am far from saying that merit is +sufficiently looked out for: but a man may take the sting out of +any neglect of his merits by thinking that at least it does not +arise from malice prepense, as he almost imagines in his +anger. Neither the public, nor individuals, have the time, +or will, resolutely to neglect anybody. What pleases us, we +admire and further: if a man in any profession, calling, or art, +does things which are beyond us, we are as guiltless of +neglecting him as the Caffres are of neglecting the differential +calculus. Milton sells his “Paradise Lost” for +ten pounds; there is no record of Shakespeare dining much with +Queen Elizabeth. And it is Utopian to imagine that statues +will be set up to right men in their day.</p> +<p>The same arguments which applied to the complaints of +ingratitude, apply to the complaints of neglected merit. +The merit is oftentimes not understood. Be it ever so +manifest, it cannot absorb men’s attention. When it +is really great, it has not been brought out by the hope of +reward, any more than the kindest services by the hope of +gratitude. In neither case is it becoming or rational to be +clamorous about payment.</p> +<p>There is one thing that people hardly ever remember, or, +indeed, have imagination enough to conceive; namely, the effect +of each man being shut up in his individuality. Take a long +course of sayings and doings in which many persons have been +engaged. Each one of them is in his own mind the centre of +the web, though, perhaps, he is at the edge of it. We know +that in our observations of the things of sense, any difference +in the points from which the observation is taken gives a +different view of the same thing. Moreover, in the world of +sense, the objects and the points of view are each indifferent to +the rest; but in life the points of views are centres of action +that have had something to do with the making of the things +looked at. If we could calculate the moral parallax arising +from these causes, we should see, by the mere aid of the +intellect, how unjust we often are in our complaints of +ingratitude, inconstancy, and neglect. But without these +nice calculations, such errors of view may be corrected at once +by humility, a more sure method than the most enlightened +appreciation of the cause of error. Humility is the true +cure for many a needless heartache.</p> +<p>It must not be supposed that in thus opposing unreasonable +views of social affections, anything is done to dissever such +affections. The Duke of Wellington, writing to a man in a +dubious position of authority, says “The less you claim, +the more you will have.” This is remarkably true of +the affections; and there is scarcely anything that would make +men happier than teaching them to watch against unreasonableness +in their claims of regard and affection; and which at the same +time would be more likely to ensure their getting what may be +their due.</p> + +<div class="gapshortline"> </div> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i> (clapping his hands). An essay after my +heart: worth tons of soft trash. In general you are +amplifying duties, telling everybody that they are to be so good +to every other body. Now it is as well to let every other +body know that he is not to expect all he may fancy from +everybody. A man complains that his prosperous friends +neglect him: infinitely overrating, in all probability, his +claims, and his friends’ power of doing anything for +him. Well, then, you may think me very hard, but I say that +the most absurd claims are often put forth on the ground of +relationship. I do not deny that there is something in +blood, but it must not be made too much of. Near relations +have great opportunities of attaching each other; if they fail to +use these, I do not think it is well to let them imagine that +mere relationship is to be the talisman of affection.</p> +<p><i>Dunsford</i>. I do not see exactly how to answer all +that you or Milverton have said; but I am not prepared, as +official people say, to agree with you. I especially +disagree with what Milverton has said about love. He leaves +much too little power to the will.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. I daresay I may have done so. +These are very deep matters, and any one view about them does not +exhaust them. I remember C— once saying to me that a +man never utters anything without error. He may even think +of it rightly; but he cannot bring it out rightly. It turns +a little false, as it were, when it quits the brain and comes +into life.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. I thought you would soon go over to +the soft side. Here, Rollo; there’s a good dog. +You do not form unreasonable expectations, do you? A very +little petting puts you into an ecstasy, and you are much wiser +than many a biped who is full of his claims for gratitude, and +friendship, and love, and who is always longing for well-merited +rewards to fall into his mouth. Down, dog!</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. Poor animal! it little knows that all +this sudden notice is only by way of ridiculing us. Why I +did not maintain my ground stoutly against Dunsford is, that I am +always afraid of pushing moral conclusions too far. Since +we have been talking, I think I see more clearly than I did +before what I mean to convey by the essay—namely, that men +fall into unreasonable views respecting the affections <i>from +imagining that the general laws of the mind are suspended for the +sake of the affections</i>.</p> +<p><i>Dunsford</i>. That seems safer ground.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. Now to illustrate what I mean by a +very similar instance. The mind is avid of new +impressions. It “travels over,” or thinks it +travels over, another mind; and, though it may conceal its wish +for “fresh fields and pastures new,” it does so +wish. However harsh, therefore, and unromantic it may seem, +the best plan is to humour Nature, and not to exhaust by +overfrequent presence the affection of those whom we would love, +or whom we would have to love us. I would not say, after +the manner of Rochefoucauld, that the less we see of people the +more we like them; but there are certain limits of sociality; and +prudent reserve and absence may find a place in the management of +the tenderest relations.</p> +<p><i>Dunsford</i>. Yes, all this is true enough: I do not +see anything hard in this. But then there is the other +side. Custom is a great aid to affection.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. Yes. All I say is, do not fancy +that the general laws are suspended for the sake of any one +affection.</p> +<p><i>Dunsford</i>. Still this does not go to the question +whether there is not something more of will in affection than you +make out. You would speak of inducements and +counter-inducements, aids and hindrances; but I cannot but think +you are limiting the power of will, and therefore limiting +duty. Such views tend to make people easily discontented +with each other, and prevent their making efforts to get over +offences, and to find out what is lovable in those about +them.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. Here we are in the deep places +again. I see you are pondering, Milverton. It is a +question, as a minister would say when Parliament perplexes him, +that we must go to the country upon; each man’s heart will, +perhaps, tell him best about it. For my own part, I think +that the continuance of affection, as the rise of it, depends +more on the taste being satisfied, or at least not disgusted, +than upon any other single thing. Our hearts may be touched +at our being loved by people essentially distasteful to us, whose +modes of talking and acting are a continual offence to us; but +whether we can love them in return is a question.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. Yes, we can, I think. I begin to +see that it is a question of degree. The word love includes +many shades of meaning. When it includes admiration, of +course we cannot be said to love those in whom we see nothing to +admire. But this seldom happens in the mixed characters of +real life. The upshot of it all seems to me to be, that, as +Guizot says of civilisation, every impulse has room; so in the +affections, every inducement and counter-inducement has its +influence; and the result is not a simple one, which can be +spoken of as if it were alike on all occasions and with all +men.</p> +<p><i>Dunsford</i>. I am still unanswered, I think, +Milverton. What you say is still wholly built upon +inducements, and does not touch the power of will.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. No; it does not.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. We must leave that alone. +Infinite piles of books have not as yet lifted us up to a clear +view of that matter.</p> +<p><i>Dunsford</i>. Well, then, we must leave it as a vexed +question; but let it be seen that there is such a question. +Now, as to another thing; you speak, Milverton, of men’s +not making allowance enough for the unpleasant weight of +obligation. I think that weight seems to have increased in +modern times. Essex could give Bacon a small estate, and +Bacon could take it comfortably, I have no doubt. That is a +much more wholesome state of things among friends than the +present.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. Yes, undoubtedly. An extreme +notion about independence has made men much less generous in +receiving.</p> +<p><i>Dunsford</i>. It is a falling off, then. There +was another comment I had to make. I think, when you speak +about the exorbitant demands of neglected merit, you should say +more upon the neglect of the just demands of merit.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. I would have the Government and the +public in general try by all means to understand and reward +merit, especially in those matters wherein excellence cannot, +otherwise, meet with large present reward. But, to say the +truth, I would have this done, not with the view of fostering +genius so much as of fulfilling duty: I would say to a +minister—it is becoming in you—it is well for the +nation, to reward, as far as you can, and dignify, men of +genius. Whether you will do them any good or bring forth +more of them, I do not know.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. Men of great genius are often such a +sensitive race, so apt to be miserable in many other than +pecuniary ways and want of public estimation, that I am not sure +that distress and neglect do not take their minds off worse +discomforts. It is a kind of grievance, too, that they like +to have.</p> +<p><i>Dunsford</i>. Really, Ellesmere, that is a most +unfeeling speech.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. At any rate, it is right for us to +honour and serve a great man. It is our nature to do so, if +we are worth anything. We may put aside the question +whether our honour will do him more good than our neglect. +That is a question for him to look to. The world has not +yet so largely honoured deserving men in their own time, that we +can exactly pronounce what effect it would have upon them.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. Come, Rollo, let us leave these men of +sentiment. Oh, you will not go, as your master does not +move. Look how he wags his tail, and almost says, “I +should clearly like to have a hunt after the water-rat we saw in +the pond the other day, but master is talking philosophy, and +requires an intelligent audience.” These dogs are +dear creatures, it must be owned. Come, Milverton, let us +have a walk.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER X.</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">After</span> the reading in the last +chapter, my friends walked homewards with me as far as Durley +Wood, which is about half-way between Worth-Ashton and my +house. As we rested here, we bethought ourselves that it +would be a pleasant spot for us to come to sometimes and read our +essays. So we agreed to name a day for meeting there. +The day was favourable, we met as we had appointed, and finding +some beech logs lying very opportunely, took possession of them +for our council. We seated Ellesmere on one that we called +the woolsack, but which he said he felt himself unworthy to +occupy in the presence of King Log, pointing to mine. These +nice points of etiquette being at last settled, Milverton drew +out his papers and was about to begin reading, when Ellesmere +thus interrupted him:—</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. You were not in earnest, Milverton, +about giving us an essay on population? Because if so, I +think I shall leave this place to you and Dunsford and the +ants.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. I certainly have been meditating +something of the sort; but have not been able to make much of +it.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. If I had been living in those days +when it first beamed upon mankind that the earth was round, I am +sure I should have said, “We know now the bounds of the +earth: there are no interminable plains joined to the regions of +the sun, allowing of indefinite sketchy outlines at the edges of +maps. That little creature man will immediately begin to +think that his world is too small for him.”</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. There has probably been as much folly +uttered by political economy as against it, which is saying +something. The danger as regards theories of political +economy is the obvious one of their abstract conclusions being +applied to concrete things.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. As if we were to expect mathematical +lines to bear weights.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. Something like that. With a good +system of logic pervading the public mind, this danger would of +course be avoided; but such a state of mind is not likely to +occur in any public that we or our grandchildren are likely to +have to deal with. As it is, an ordinary man hears some +conclusion of political economy, showing some particular tendency +of things, which in real life meets with many counteractions of +all kinds: but he, perhaps, adopts the conclusion without the +least abatement, and would work it into life, as if all went on +there like a rule-of-three sum.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. After all, this error arises from the +man’s not having enough political economy. It is not +that a theory is good on paper, but unsound in real life. +It is only that in real life you cannot get at the simple state +of things to which the theory would rightly apply. You want +many other theories and the just composition of them all to be +able to work the whole problem. That being done (which, +however, scarcely can be done), the result on paper might be read +off as applicable at once to life. But now, touching the +essay; since we are not to have population, what is it to be?</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. Public improvements.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. Nearly as bad; but as this is a +favourite subject of yours, I suppose it will not be polite to go +away.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. No; you must listen.</p> +<h3>PUBLIC IMPROVEMENTS.</h3> +<p>What are possessions? To an individual, the stores of +his own heart and mind pre-eminently. His truth and valour +are amongst the first. His contentedness, or his +resignation may be put next. Then his sense of beauty, +surely a possession of great moment to him. Then all those +mixed possessions which result from the social +affections—great possessions, unspeakable delights, much +greater than the gift last mentioned in the former class, but +held on more uncertain tenure. Lastly, what are generally +called possessions? However often we have heard of the +vanity, uncertainty, and vexation that beset these last, we must +not let this repetition deaden our minds to the fact.</p> +<p>Now, national possessions must be estimated by the same +gradation that we have applied to individual possessions. +If we consider national luxury, we shall see how small a part it +may add to national happiness. Men of deserved renown, and +peerless women, lived upon what we should now call the coarsest +fare, and paced the rushes in their rooms with as high, or as +contented thoughts, as their better-fed and better-clothed +descendants can boast of. Man is limited in this direction; +I mean, in the things that concern his personal gratification; +but when you come to the higher enjoyments, the expansive power +both in him and them is greater. As Keats says,</p> +<blockquote><p>“A thing of beauty is a joy for ever;<br /> +Its loveliness increases; it will never<br /> +Pass into nothingness; but still will keep<br /> +A bower quiet for us, and a sleep<br /> +Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>What then are a nation’s possessions? The great +words that have been said in it; the great deeds that have been +done in it; the great buildings, and the great works of art, that +have been made in it. A man says a noble saying: it is a +possession, first to his own race, then to mankind. A +people get a noble building built for them: it is an honour to +them, also a daily delight and instruction. It +perishes. The remembrance of it is still a +possession. If it was indeed pre-eminent, there will be +more pleasure in thinking of it than in being with others of +inferior order and design.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p>On the other hand, a thing of ugliness is potent for +evil. It deforms the taste of the thoughtless: it frets the +man who knows how bad it is: it is a disgrace to the nation who +raised it; an example and an occasion for more +monstrosities. If it is a great building in a great city, +thousands of people pass it daily, and are the worse for it, or +at least not the better. It must be done away with. +Next to the folly of doing a bad thing is that of fearing to undo +it. We must not look at what it has cost, but at what it +is. Millions may be spent upon some foolish device which +will not the more make it into a possession, but only a more +noticeable detriment.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p>It must not be supposed that works of art are the only, or the +chief, public improvements needed in any country. Wherever +men congregate, the elements become scarce. The supply of +air, light, and water is then a matter of the highest public +importance: and the magnificent utilitarianism of the Romans +should precede the nice sense of beauty of the Greeks. Or +rather, the former should be worked out in the latter. +Sanitary improvements, like most good works, may be made to +fulfil many of the best human objects. Charity, social +order, conveniency of living, and the love of the beautiful, may +all be furthered by such improvements. A people is seldom +so well employed as when, not suffering their attention to be +absorbed by foreign quarrels and domestic broils, they bethink +themselves of winning back those blessings of Nature which +assemblages of men mostly vitiate, exclude, or destroy.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p>Public improvements are sometimes most difficult in free +countries. The origination of them is difficult there, many +diverse minds having to be persuaded. The individual, or +class, resistance to the public good is harder to conquer than in +despotic states. And, what is most embarrassing, perhaps, +individual progress in the same direction, or individual doings +in some other way, form a great hindrance, sometimes, to public +enterprise. On the other hand, the energy of a free people +is a mine of public welfare; and individual effort brings many +good things to bear in much shorter time than any government +could be expected to move in. A judicious statesman +considers these things; and sets himself especially to overcome +those peculiar obstacles to public improvement which belong to +the institutions of his country. Adventure in a despotic +state, combined action in a free state, are the objects which +peculiarly demand his attention.</p> +<p>To return to works of art. In this also the genius of +the people is to be heeded. There may have been, there may +be, nations requiring to be diverted from the love of art to +stern labour and industrial conquests. But certainly it is +not so with the Anglo-Saxon race, or with the Northern races +generally. Money may enslave them; logic may enslave them; +art never will. The chief men, therefore, in these races +will do well sometimes to contend against the popular current, +and to convince their people that there are other sources of +delight, and other objects worthy of human endeavour, than severe +money-getting or more material successes of any kind.</p> +<p>In fine, the substantial improvement, and even the +embellishment of towns, is a work which both the central and +local governing bodies in a country should keep a steady hand +upon. It especially concerns them. What are they +there for but to do that which individuals cannot do? It +concerns them, too, as it tells upon the health, morals, +education, and refined pleasures of the people they govern. +In doing it, they should avoid pedantry, parsimony, and +favouritism; and their mode of action should be large, +considerate, and foreseeing. Large; inasmuch as they must +not easily be contented with the second best in any of their +projects. Considerate; inasmuch as they have to think what +their people need most, not what will make most show. And +therefore, they should be contented, for instance, at their work +going on underground for a time, or in byways, if needful; the +best charity in public works, as in private, being often that +which courts least notice. Lastly, their work should be +with foresight, recollecting that cities grow up about us like +young people, before we are aware of it.</p> + +<div class="gapshortline"> </div> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. Another very merciful essay! +When we had once got upon the subject of sanitary improvements, I +thought we should soon be five fathom deep in blue-books, +reports, interminable questions of sewerage, and horrors of all +kinds.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. I am glad you own that I have been +very tender of your impatience in this essay. People, I +trust, are now so fully aware of the immense importance of +sanitary improvements, that we do not want the elementary talking +about such things that was formerly necessary. It is +difficult, though, to say too much about sanitary matters, that +is, if by saying much one could gain attention. I am +convinced that the most fruitful source of physical evil to +mankind has been impure air, arising from circumstances which +might have been obviated. Plagues and pestilences of all +kinds, cretinism too, and all scrofulous disorders, are probably +mere questions of ventilation. A district may require +ventilation as well as a house.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. Seriously speaking, I quite agree with +you. And what delights me in sanitary improvements is, that +they can hardly do harm. Give a poor man good air, and you +do not diminish his self-reliance. You only add to his +health and vigour—make more of a man of him. But now +that the public mind, as it is facetiously called, has got hold +of the idea of these improvements, everybody will be chattering +about them.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. The very time when those who really do +care for these matters should be watchful to make the most of the +tide in their favour, and should not suffer themselves to relax +their efforts because there is no originality now about such +things.</p> +<p><i>Dunsford</i>. Custom soon melts off the wings which +Novelty alone has lent to Benevolence.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. And down comes the charitable +Icarus. A very good simile, my dear Dunsford, but rather of +the Latin-verse order. I almost see it worked into an +hexameter and pentameter, and delighting the heart of an Eton +boy.</p> +<p><i>Dunsford</i>. Ellesmere is more than usually vicious +to-day, Milverton. A great “public improvement” +would be to clip the tongues of some of these lawyers.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. Possibly. I have just been +looking again at that part of the essay, Milverton, where you +talk of the little gained by national luxury. I think with +you. There is an immensity of nonsense uttered about making +people happy, which is to be done, according to +happiness-mongers, by quantities of sugar and tea, and such-like +things. One knows the importance of food, but there is no +Elysium to be got out of it.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. I know what you mean. There is a +kind of pity for the people now in vogue which is most +effeminate. It is a sugared sort of Robespierre talk about +“The poor but virtuous People.” To address such +stuff to the people is not to give them anything, but to take +away what they have. Suppose you could give them oceans of +tea and mountains of sugar, and abundance of any luxury that you +choose to imagine, but at the same time you inserted a hungry, +envious spirit in them, what have you done? Then, again, +this envious spirit, when it is turned to difference of station, +what good can it do? Can you give station according to +merit? Is life long enough for it?</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. Of course we cannot always be weighing +men with nicety, and saying, “Here is your place, here +yours.”</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. Then, again, what happiness do you +confer on men by teaching them to disrespect their superiors in +rank, by turning all the embellishments which adorn various +stations wrong side out, putting everything in its lowest form, +and then saying, “What do you see to admire +here?” You do not know what injury you may do a man +when you destroy all reverence in him. It will be found out +some day that men derive more pleasure and profit from having +superiors than from having inferiors.</p> +<p><i>Dunsford</i>. It is seldom that I bring you back to +your subject, but we are really a long way off at present; and I +want to know, Milverton, what you would do specifically in the +way of public improvements. Of course you cannot say in an +essay what you would do in such matters, but amongst +ourselves. In London, for instance.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. The first thing for Government to do, +Dunsford, in London, or any other great town, is to secure open +spaces in it and about it. Trafalgar Square may be dotted +with hideous absurdities, but it is an open space. They may +collect together there specimens of every variety of meanness and +bad taste; but they cannot prevent its being a better thing than +if it were covered with houses. Public money is scarcely +ever so well employed as in securing bits of waste ground and +keeping them as open spaces. Then, as under the most +favourable circumstances, we are likely to have too much carbon +in the air of any town, we should plant trees to restore the just +proportions of the air as far as we can. <a +name="citation161"></a><a href="#footnote161" +class="citation">[161]</a> Trees are also what the heart +and the eye desire most in towns. The Boulevards in Paris +show the excellent effect of trees against buildings. There +are many parts of London where rows of trees might be planted +along the streets. The weighty dulness of Portland Place, +for instance, might be thus relieved. Of course, in any +scheme of public improvements, the getting rid of smoke is one of +the first objects.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. Yes, smoke is a great abuse; but then +there is something ludicrous about it, just as there is about +sewerage. I believe, myself, that for one person that the +Corn Laws have injured, a dozen have had their lives shortened +and their happiness abridged in every way by these less palpable +nuisances. But there is no grandeur in opposing +them—no “good cry” to be raised. And so, +as abuses cannot be met in our days but by agitation—a +committee, secretaries, clerks, newspapers, and a +review—and as agitation in this case holds out fewer +inducements than usual, we have gone on year after year being +poisoned by these various nuisances, at an incalculable expense +of life and money.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. There is something in what you say, I +think, but you press it too far; for of late these sanitary +subjects have worked themselves into notice, as you yourself +admit.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. Late indeed.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. Well, but to go on with schemes for +improving London. Open spaces, trees—then comes the +supply of water. This is one of the first things to be +done. Philadelphia has given an example which all towns +ought to imitate. It is a matter requiring great thought, +and the various plans should be thoroughly canvassed before the +choice is made. Great beauty and the highest utility may be +combined in supplying a town like London with water. By the +way, how much water do you think London requires daily?</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. As much as the Serpentine and the +water in St. James’s Park.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. You are not so far out.</p> +<p>Well, then, having gone through the largest things that must +be attended to, we come to minor matters. It is a great +pity that the system of building upon leases should be so +commonly adopted. Nobody expects to live out the leasehold +term which he takes to build upon. But things would be +better done if people were more averse to having anything to do +with leasehold property. C. always says that the modern +lath-and-plaster system is a wickedness, and upon my word I think +he is right. It is inconceivable to me how a man can make +up his mind to build, or to do anything else, in a temporary, +slight, insincere fashion. What has a man to say for +himself who must sum up the doings of his life in this way, +“I chiefly employed myself in making or selling things +which seemed to be good and were not, and nobody has occasion to +bless me for anything I have done.”</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. Humph! you put it mildly. But +the man has made perhaps seven per cent. off his money; or, if he +has made no per cent., has ruined several men of his own trade, +which is not to go for nothing when a man is taking stock of his +good deeds.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. There is one thing I forgot to say, +that we want more individual will in building, I think. As +it is at present, a great builder takes a plot of ground and +turns out innumerable houses, all alike, the same faults and +merits running through each, thus adding to the general dulness +of things.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, when she +came from abroad, remarked that all her friends seemed to have +got into drawing-rooms which were like a grand piano, first a +large square or oblong room, and then a small one. Quite +Georgian, this style of architecture. But now I think we +are improving immensely—at any rate in the outside of +houses. By the way, Milverton, I want to ask you one thing: +How is it that Governments and Committees, and the bodies that +manage matters of taste, seem to be more tasteless than the +average run of people? I will wager anything that the +cabmen round Trafalgar Square would have made a better thing of +it than it is. If you had put before them several prints of +fountains, they would not have chosen those.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. I think with you, but I have no theory +to account for it. I suppose that these committees are +frequently hampered by other considerations than those which come +before the public when they are looking at the work done; and +this may be some excuse. There was a custom which I have +heard prevailed in former days in some of the Italian cities, of +making large models of the works of art that were to adorn the +city, and putting them up in the places intended for the works +when finished, and then inviting criticism. It would really +be a very good plan in some cases.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. Now, Milverton, would you not +forthwith pull down such things as Buckingham Palace and the +National Gallery? Dunsford looks at me as if I were going +to pull down the Constitution.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. I would pull them down to a certainty, +or some parts of them at any rate; but whether +“forthwith” is another question. There are +greater things, perhaps, to be done first. We must +consider, too,</p> +<blockquote><p>“That eternal want of pence<br /> +Which vexes public men.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Still, I think we ought always to look upon such buildings as +temporary arrangements, and they vex one less then. The +Palace ought to be in the higher part of the Park, perhaps on +that slope opposite Piccadilly.</p> +<p><i>Dunsford</i>. Well, it does amuse me the way in which +you youngsters go on, pulling down, in your industrious +imaginations, palaces and national galleries, building aqueducts +and cloacæ maximæ, forming parks, destroying smoke +(so large a part of every Londoner’s diet), and abridging +plaster, without fear of Chancellors of the Exchequer, and the +resistance of mankind in general.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. We must begin by thinking boldly about +things. That is a larger part of any undertaking than it +seems, perhaps.</p> +<p><i>Dunsford</i>. We must, I am afraid, break off our +pleasant employment of projecting public improvements, unless we +mean to be dinnerless.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. A frequent fate of great projectors, I +fear.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. Now then, homewards.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER XI.</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">My</span> readers will, perhaps, agree +with me in being sorry to find that we are coming to the end of +our present series. I say, “my readers,” though +I have so little part in purveying for them, that I mostly +consider myself one of them. It is no light task, however, +to give a good account of a conversation; and I say this, and +would wish people to try whether I am not right in saying so, not +to call attention to my labour in the matter, but because it may +be well to notice how difficult it is to report anything +truly. Were this better known, it might be an aid to +charity, and prevent some of those feuds which grow out of the +poverty of man’s power to express, to apprehend, to +represent, rather than out of any malignant part of his +nature. But I must not go on moralising. I almost +feel that Ellesmere is looking over my shoulder, and breaking +into my discourse with sharp words; which I have lately been so +much accustomed to.</p> +<p>I had expected that we should have many more readings this +summer, as I knew that Milverton had prepared more essays for +us. But finding, as he said, that the other subjects he had +in hand were larger than he had anticipated, or was prepared for, +he would not read even to us what he had written. Though I +was very sorry for this—for I may not be the chronicler in +another year—I could not but say he was right. +Indeed, my ideas of literature, nourished as they have been in +much solitude, and by the reading, if I may say so, mainly of our +classical authors, are very high placed, though I hope not +fantastical. And, therefore, I would not discourage anyone +in expending whatever thought and labour might be in him upon any +literary work.</p> +<p>In fine, then, I did not attempt to dissuade Milverton from +his purpose of postponing our readings: and we agreed that there +should only be one more for the present. I wished it to be +at our favourite place on the lawn, which had become endeared to +me as the spot of many of our friendly councils.</p> +<p>It was later than usual when I came over to Worth-Ashton for +this reading; and as I gained the brow of the hill, some few +clouds tinged with red were just grouping together to form the +accustomed pomp upon the exit of the setting sun. I believe +I mentioned in the introduction to our first conversation that +the ruins of an old castle could be seen from our place of +meeting. Milverton and Ellesmere were talking about it as I +joined them.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. Yes, Ellesmere, many a man has looked +out of those windows upon a sunset like this, with some of the +thoughts that must come into the minds of all men on seeing this +great emblem, the setting sun—has felt, in looking at it, +his coming end, or the closing of his greatness. Those old +walls must have been witness to every kind of human +emotion. Henry the Second was there; John, I think; +Margaret of Anjou and Cardinal Beaufort; William of Wykeham; +Henry the Eighth’s Cromwell; and many others who have made +some stir in the world.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. And, perhaps, the greatest there were +those who made no stir.</p> +<blockquote><p>“The world knows nothing of its greatest +men.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. I am slow to believe that. I +cannot well reconcile myself to the idea that great capacities +are given for nothing. They bud out in some way or +other.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. Yes, but it may not be in a noisy +way.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. There is one thing that always strikes +me very much in looking at the lives of men: how soon, as it +were, their course seems to be determined. They say, or do, +or think, something which gives a bias at once to the whole of +their career.</p> +<p><i>Dunsford</i>. You may go farther back than that, and +speak of the impulses they got from their ancestors.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. Or the nets around them of other +people’s ways and wishes. There are many things, you +see, that go to make men puppets.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. I was only noticing the circumstance +that there was such a thing, as it appeared to me, as this early +direction. But, if it has been ever so unfortunate, a +man’s folding his hands over it in a melancholy mood, and +suffering himself to be made a puppet by it, is a sadly weak +proceeding. Most thoughtful men have probably some dark +fountains in their souls, by the side of which, if there were +time, and it were decorous, they could let their thoughts sit +down and wail indefinitely. That long Byron wail fascinated +men for a time; because there is that in Human Nature. +Luckily, a great deal besides.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. I delight in the helpful and hopeful +men.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. A man that I admire very much, and +have met with occasionally, is one who is always of use in any +matter he is mixed up with, simply because he wishes that the +best should be got out of the thing that is possible. There +does not seem much in the description of such a character; but +only see it in contrast with that of a brilliant man, for +instance, who does not ever fully care about the matter in +hand.</p> +<p><i>Dunsford</i>. I can thoroughly imagine the +difference.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. The human race may be bound up +together in some mysterious way, each of us having a profound +interest in the fortunes of the whole, and so, to some extent, of +every portion of it. Such a man as I have described acts as +though he had an intuitive perception of that relation, and +therefore a sort of family feeling for mankind, which gives him +satisfaction in making the best out of any human affair he has to +do with.</p> +<p>But we really must have the essay, and not talk any +more. It is on History.</p> +<h3>HISTORY.</h3> +<p>Among the fathomless things that are about us and within us, +is the continuity of time. This gives to life one of its +most solemn aspects. We may think to ourselves: Would there +could be some halting-place in life, where we could stay, +collecting our minds, and see the world drift by us. But +no: even while you read this, you are not pausing to read +it. As one of the great French preachers, I think, says, We +are embarked upon a stream, each in his own little boat, which +must move uniformly onwards, till it ceases to move at all. +It is a stream that knows “no haste, no rest”; a boat +that knows no haven but one.</p> +<p>This unbated continuity suggests the past as well as the +future. We would know what mighty empires this stream of +time has flowed through, by what battle-fields it has been +tinged, how it has been employed towards fertility, and what +beautiful shadows on its surface have been seized by art, or +science, or great words, and held in time-lasting, if not in +everlasting, beauty. This is what history tells us. +Often in a faltering, confused, be-darkened way, like the deed it +chronicles. But it is what we have, and we must make the +best of it.</p> +<p>The subject of this essay may be thus divided: Why history +should be read—how it should be read—by whom it +should be written—how it should be written—and how +good writers of history should be called forth, aided, and +rewarded.</p> +<h3>I. WHY HISTORY SHOULD BE READ.</h3> +<p>It takes us out of too much care for the present; it extends +our sympathies; it shows us that other men have had their +sufferings and their grievances; it enriches discourse, it +enlightens travel. So does fiction. But the effect of +history is more lasting and suggestive. If we see a place +which fiction has treated of, we feel that it has some interest +for us; but show us a spot where remarkable deeds have been done, +or remarkable people have lived, and our thoughts cling to +it. We employ our own imagination about it: we invent the +fiction for ourselves. Again, history is at least the +conventional account of things: that which men agree to receive +as the right account, and which they discuss as true. To +understand their talk, we must know what they are talking +about. Again, there is something in history which can +seldom be got from the study of the lives of individual men; +namely, the movements of men collectively, and for long +periods—of man, in fact, not of men. In history, the +composition of the forces that move the world has to be +analysed. We must have before us the law of the progress of +opinion, the interruptions to it of individual character, the +principles on which men act in the main, the trade winds, as we +may say, in human affairs, and the recurrent storms which one +man’s life does not tell us of. Again, by the study +of history, we have a chance of becoming tolerant travelling over +the ways of many nations and many periods; and we may also +acquire that historic tact by which we collect upon one point of +human affairs the light of many ages.</p> +<p>We may judge of the benefit of historical studies by observing +what great defects are incident to the moral and political +writers who know nothing of history. A present grievance, +or what seems such, swallows up in their minds all other +considerations; their little bottle of oil is to still the raging +waves of the whole human ocean; their system, a thing that the +historian has seen before, perhaps, in many ages, is to reconcile +all diversities. Then they would persuade you that this +class of men is wholly good, that wholly bad; or that there is no +difference between good and bad. They may be shrewd men, +considering what they have seen, but would be much shrewder if +they could know how small a part that is of life. We may +all refer to our boyhood, and recollect the time when we thought +the things about us were the type of all things everywhere. +That was, perhaps, after all no silly princess who was for +feeding the famishing people on cakes. History takes us out +of this confined circle of child-like thought; and shows us what +are the perennial aims, struggles, and distractions of +mankind.</p> +<p>History has always been set down as the especial study for +statesmen, and for men who take an interest in public +affairs. For history is to nations what biography is to +individual men. History is the chart and compass for +national endeavour. Our early voyagers are dead: not a +plank remains of the old ships that first essayed unknown waters; +the sea retains no track; and were it not for the history of +these voyages contained in charts, in chronicles, in hoarded lore +of all kinds, each voyager, though he were to start with all the +aids of advanced civilisation (if you could imagine such a thing +without history), would need the boldness of the first +voyager.</p> +<p>And so it would be with the statesman, were the civil history +of mankind unknown. We live to some extent in peace and +comfort upon the results obtained for us by the chronicles of our +forefathers. We do not see this without some +reflection. But imagine what a full-grown nation would be +if it knew no history—like a full-grown man with only a +child’s experience.</p> +<p>The present is an age of remarkable experiences. Vast +improvements have been made in several of the outward things that +concern life nearly, from intercourse rapid as lightning to +surgical operation without pain. We accept them all; still, +the difficulties of government, the management of ourselves, our +relations with others, and many of the prime difficulties of life +remain but little subdued. History still claims our +interest, is still wanted to make us think and act with any +breadth of wisdom.</p> +<p>At the same time, however, that we claim for history great +powers of instruction, we must not imagine that the examples +which it furnishes will enable its readers to anticipate the +experience of life. An experienced man reads that +Cæsar did this or that, but he says to himself, “I am +not Cæsar.” Or, indeed, as is most probable, +the reader has not to reject the application of the example to +himself: for from first to last he sees nothing but experience +for Cæsar in what Cæsar was doing. I think it +may be observed, too, that general maxims about life gain the ear +of the inexperienced, in preference to historical examples. +But neither wise sayings nor historical examples can be +understood without experience. Words are only +symbols. Who can know anything soundly with respect to the +complicated affections and struggles of life, unless he has +experienced some of them? All knowledge of humanity spreads +from within. So in studying history, the lessons it teaches +must have something to grow round in the heart they teach. +Our own trials, misfortunes, and enterprises are the best lights +by which we can read history. Hence it is that many an +historian may see far less into the depths of the very history he +has himself written than a man who, having acted and suffered, +reads the history in question with all the wisdom that comes from +action and suffering. Sir Robert Walpole might naturally +exclaim, “Do not read history to me, for that, I know, must +be false.” But if he had read it, I do not doubt that +he would have seen through the film of false and insufficient +narrative into the depth of the matter narrated, in a way that +men of great experience can alone attain to.</p> +<h3>II. HOW HISTORY SHOULD BE READ.</h3> +<p>I suppose that many who now connect the very word history with +the idea of dulness, would have been fond and diligent students +of history if it had had fair access to their minds. But +they were set down to read histories which were not fitted to be +read continuously, or by any but practised students. Some +such works are mere framework, a name which the author of the +<i>Statesman</i> applies to them; very good things, perhaps, for +their purpose, but that is not to invite readers to +history. You might almost as well read dictionaries with a +hope of getting a succinct and clear view of language. +When, in any narration, there is a constant heaping up of facts, +made about equally significant by the way of telling them, a +hasty delineation of characters, and all the incidents moving on +as in the fifth act of a confused tragedy, the mind and memory +refuse to be so treated; and the reading ends in nothing but a +very slight and inaccurate acquaintance with the mere husk of the +history. You cannot epitomise the knowledge that it would +take years to acquire into a few volumes that may be read in as +many weeks.</p> +<p>The most likely way of attracting men’s attention to +historical subjects will be by presenting them with small +portions of history, of great interest, thoroughly +examined. This may give them the habit of applying thought +and criticism to historical matters.</p> +<p>For, as it is, how are people interested in history? and how +do they master its multitudinous assemblage of facts? +Mostly, perhaps, in this way. A man cares about some one +thing, or person, or event, and plunges into its history, really +wishing to master it. This pursuit extends: other points of +research are taken up by him at other times. His researches +begin to intersect. He finds a connection in things. +The texture of his historic acquisitions gradually attains some +substance and colour; and so at last he begins to have some dim +notions of the myriads of men who came, and saw, and did not +conquer—only struggled on as they best might, some of +them—and are not.</p> +<p>When we are considering how history should be read, the main +thing perhaps is, that the person reading should desire to know +what he is reading about, not merely to have read the books that +tell of it. The most elaborate and careful historian must +omit, or pass lightly over, many points of his subject. He +writes for all readers, and cannot indulge private fancies. +But history has its particular aspect for each man: there must be +portions which he may be expected to dwell upon. And +everywhere, even where the history is most laboured, the reader +should have something of the spirit of research which was needful +for the writer: if only so much as to ponder well the words of +the writer. That man reads history, or anything else, at +great peril of being thoroughly misled, who has no perception of +any truthfulness except that which can be fully ascertained by +reference to facts; who does not in the least perceive the truth, +or the reverse, of a writer’s style, of his epithets, of +his reasoning, of his mode of narration. In life, our faith +in any narration is much influenced by the personal appearance, +voice, and gesture of the person narrating. There is some +part of all these things in his writing; and you must look into +that well before you can know what faith to give him. One +man may make mistakes in names, and dates, and references, and +yet have a real substance of truthfulness in him, a wish to +enlighten himself and then you. Another may not be wrong in +his facts, but have a declamatory or sophistical vein in him, +much to be guarded against. A third may be both inaccurate +and untruthful, caring not so much for anything as to write his +book. And if the reader cares only to read it, sad work +they make between them of the memories of former days.</p> +<p>In studying history, it must be borne in mind that a knowledge +is necessary of the state of manners, customs, wealth, arts, and +science at the different periods treated of. The text of +civil history requires a context of this knowledge in the mind of +the reader. For the same reason, some of the main facts of +the geography of the countries in question should be present to +him. If we are ignorant of these aids to history, all +history is apt to seem alike to us. It becomes merely a +narrative of men of our own time, in our own country; and then we +are prone to expect the same views and conduct from them that we +do from our contemporaries. It is true that the heroes of +antiquity have been represented on the stage in bag-wigs, and the +rest of the costume of our grandfathers: but it was the great +events of their lives that were thus told—the crisis of +their passions—and when we are contemplating the +representation of great passions and their consequences, all +minor imagery is of little moment. In a long-drawn +narrative, however, the more we have in our minds of what +concerned the daily life of the people we read about, the +better. And in general it may be said that history, like +travelling, gives a return in proportion to the knowledge that a +man brings to it.</p> +<h3>III. BY WHOM HISTORY SHOULD BE WRITTEN.</h3> +<p>Before entering directly on this part of the subject, it is +desirable to consider a little the difficulties in the way of +writing history. We all know the difficulty of getting at +the truth of a matter which happened yesterday, and about which +we can examine the living actors upon oath. But in history +the most significant things may lack the most important part of +their evidence. The people who were making history were not +thinking of the convenience of future writers of history. +Often the historian must contrive to get his insight into matters +from evidence of men and things which is like bad pictures of +them. The contemporary, if he knew the man, said of the +picture, “I should have known it, but it has very little of +him in it.” The poor historian, with no original +before him, has to see through the bad picture into the +man. Then, supposing our historian rich in well-selected +evidence—I say well-selected, because, as students tell us, +for many an historian one authority is of the same weight as +another, provided they are both of the same age; still, how +difficult is narration even to the man who is rich in +well-selected evidence. What a tendency there is to round +off a narrative into falsehood; or else by parenthesis to destroy +its pith and continuity. Again, the historian knows the end +of many of the transactions he narrates. If he did not, how +differently often he would narrate them. It would be a most +instructive thing to give a man the materials for the account of +a great transaction, stopping short of the end, and then see how +different would be his account from the ordinary ones. +Fools have been hardly dealt with in the saying that the event is +their master (“eventus stultorum magister”), seeing +how it rules us all. And in nothing more than in +history. The event is always present to our minds; along +the pathways to it, the historian and the moralist have walked +till they are beaten pathways, and we imagine that they were so +to the men who first went along them. Indeed, we almost +fancy that these ancestors of ours, looking along the beaten +path, foresaw the event as we do; whereas, they mostly stumbled +upon it suddenly in the forest. This knowledge of the end +we must, therefore, put down as one of the most dangerous +pitfalls which beset the writers of history. Then consider +the difficulty in the “composition,” to use an +artist’s word, of our historian’s picture. +Before both the artist and the historian lies Nature as far as +the horizon; how shall they choose that portion of it which has +some unity and which shall represent the rest? What method +is needful in the grouping of facts; what learning, what +patience, what accuracy!</p> +<p>By whom, then, should history be written? In the first +place, by men of some experience in real life; who have acted and +suffered; who have been in crowds, and seen, perhaps felt, how +madly men can care about nothings; who have observed how much is +done in the world in an uncertain manner, upon sudden impulses +and very little reason; and who, therefore, do not think +themselves bound to have a deep-laid theory for all things. +They should be men who have studied the laws of the affections, +who know how much men’s opinions depend on the time in +which they live, how they vary with their age and their +position. To make themselves historians, they should also +have considered the combinations amongst men and the laws that +govern such things; for there are laws. Moreover our +historians, like most men who do great things, must combine in +themselves qualities which are held to belong to opposite +natures; must at the same time be patient in research and +vigorous in imagination, energetic and calm, cautious and +enterprising. Such historians, wise, as we may suppose they +will be, about the affair of other men, may, let us hope, be +sufficiently wise about their own affairs to understand that no +great work can be done without great labour, that no great labour +ought to look for its reward. But my readers will exclaim +as Rasselas to Imlac on hearing the requisites for a poet, +“Enough! thou hast convinced me that no human being can +ever be an historian. Proceed with thy +narration.”</p> +<h3>IV. HOW HISTORY SHOULD BE WRITTEN.</h3> +<p>One of the first things in writing history is for the +historian to recollect that it is history he is writing. +The narrative must not be oppressed by reflections, even by wise +ones. Least of all should the historian suffer himself to +become entangled by a theory or a system. If he does, each +fact is taken up by him in a particular way: those facts that +cannot be so handled cease to be his facts, and those that offer +themselves conveniently are received too fondly by him.</p> +<p>Then, although our historian must not be mastered by system, +he must have some way of taking up his facts and of classifying +them. They must not be mere isolated units in his eyes, +else he is mobbed by them. And a man in the midst of a +crowd, though he may know the names and nature of all the crowd, +cannot give an account of their doings. Those who look down +from the housetop must do that.</p> +<p>But, above all things, the historian must get out of his own +age into the time in which he is writing. Imagination is as +much needed for the historian as the poet. You may combine +bits of books with other bits of books, and so make some new +combinations, and this may be done accurately, and, in general, +much of the subordinate preparation for history may be +accomplished without any great effort of imagination. But +to write history in any large sense of the words, you must be +able to comprehend other times. You must know that there is +a right and wrong which is not your right and wrong, but yet +stands upon the right and wrong of all ages and all hearts. +You must also appreciate the outward life and colours of the +period you write about. Try to think how the men you are +telling of would have spent a day, what were their leading ideas, +what they cared about. Grasp the body of the time, and give +it to us. If not, and these men could look at your history, +they would say, “This is all very well; we daresay some of +these things did happen; but we were not thinking of these things +all day long. It does not represent us.”</p> +<p>After enlarging upon this great requisite, imagination, it +seems somewhat prosaic to come down to saying that history +requires accuracy. But I think I hear the sighs, and sounds +more harsh than sighing, of those who have ever investigated +anything, and found by dire experience the deplorable inaccuracy +which prevails in the world. And, therefore, I would say to +the historian almost as the first suggestion, “Be accurate; +do not make false references, do not mis-state: and men, if they +get no light from you, will not execrate you. You will not +stand in the way, and have to be explained and got rid +of.”</p> +<p>Another most important matter in writing history, and that +indeed in which the art lies, is the method of narrating. +This is a thing almost beyond rules, like the actual execution in +music or painting. A man might have fairness, accuracy, an +insight into other times, great knowledge of facts, some power +even of arranging them, and yet make a narrative out of it all, +so protracted here, so huddled together there, the purpose so +buried or confused, that men would agree to acknowledge the merit +of the book and leave it unread. There must be a natural +line of associations for the narrative to run along. The +separate threads of the narrative must be treated separately, and +yet the subject not be dealt with sectionally, for that is not +the way in which the things occurred. The historian must, +therefore, beware that those divisions of the subject which he +makes for our ease and convenience, do not induce him to treat +his subject in a flimsy manner. He must not make his story +easy where it is not so.</p> +<p>After all, it is not by rule that a great history is to be +written. Most thinkers agree that the main object for the +historian is to get an insight into the things which he tells of, +and then to tell them with the modesty of a man who is in the +presence of great events; and must speak about them carefully, +simply, and with but little of himself or of his affections +thrown into the narration.</p> +<h3>V. HOW GOOD WRITERS OF HISTORY SHOULD BE CALLED FORTH, +AIDED, AND REWARDED.</h3> +<p>Mainly by history being properly read. The direct ways +of commanding excellence of any kind are very few, if any. +When a State has found out its notable men, it should reward +them, and will show its worthiness by its measure and mode of +reward. But it cannot purchase them. It may do +something in the way of aiding them. In history, for +instance, the records of a nation may be discreetly managed, and +some of the minor work, therefore, done to the hand of the +historian. But the most likely method to ensure good +historians is to have a fit audience for them. And this is +a very difficult matter. In works of general literature, +the circle of persons capable of judging is large; even in works +of science or philosophy it is considerable: but in history, it +is a very confined circle. To the general body of readers, +whether the history they read is true or not is in no way +perceptible. It is quite as amusing to them when it is told +in one way as in another. There is always mischief in +error: but in this case the mischief is remote, or seems +so. For men of ordinary culture, even if of much +intelligence, the difficulty of discerning what is true or false +in the histories they read makes it a matter of the highest duty +for those few persons who can give us criticism on historical +works, at least to save us from insolent and mendacious +carelessness in historical writers, if not by just encouragement +to secure for nations some results not altogether unworthy of the +great enterprise which the writing of history holds out itself to +be. “Hujus enim fidei exempla majorum, vicissitudines +rerum, fundamenta prudentiæ civilis, hominum denique nomen +et fama commissa sunt.” <a name="citation183"></a><a +href="#footnote183" class="citation">[183]</a></p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. Just wait a minute for me, and do not +talk about the essay till I come back. I am going for +Anster’s <i>Faust</i>.</p> +<p><i>Dunsford</i>. What has Ellesmere got in his head?</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. I see. There is a passage where +Faust, in his most discontented mood, falls foul of +history—in his talk to Wagner, if I am not mistaken.</p> +<p><i>Dunsford</i>. How beautiful it is this evening! +Look at that yellow-green near the sunset.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. The very words that Coleridge +uses. I always think of them when I see that tint.</p> +<p><i>Dunsford</i>. I daresay his words were in my mind, +but I have forgotten what you allude to.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>.</p> +<blockquote><p>“O Lady! in this wan and heartless mood,<br +/> +To other thoughts by yonder throstle woo’d,<br /> + All this long eve, so balmy and serene,<br /> +Have I been gazing on the western sky,<br /> +And its peculiar tint of yellow-green:<br /> +And still I gaze—and with how blank an eye!<br /> +And those thin clouds above, in flakes and bars,<br /> +That give away their motion to the stars;<br /> +Those stars that glide behind them or between,<br /> +Now sparkling, now bedimmed, but always seen:<br /> +Yon crescent Moon as fixed as if it grew<br /> +In its own cloudless, starless lake of blue;<br /> +I see them all so excellently fair,<br /> +I see, not feel how beautiful they are.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p><i>Dunsford</i>. Admirable! In the <i>Ode to +Dejection</i>, is it not? where, too, there are those lines,</p> +<blockquote><p>“O Lady! we receive but what we give,<br /> +And in our life alone does Nature live.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. But here comes Ellesmere with +triumphant look. You look as jovial, my dear Ellesmere, as +if you were a Bentley that had found a false quantity in a +Boyle.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. Listen and perpend, my historical +friends.</p> +<blockquote><p>“To us, my friend, the times that are gone +by<br /> +Are a mysterious book, sealed with seven seals:<br /> +That which you call the spirit of ages past<br /> +Is but, in truth, the spirit of some few authors<br /> +In which those ages are beheld reflected,<br /> +With what distortion strange heaven only knows.<br /> +Oh! often, what a toilsome thing it is<br /> +This study of thine—at the first glance we fly it.<br /> +A mass of things confusedly heaped together;<br /> +A lumber-room of dusty documents,<br /> +Furnished with all approved court-precedents<br /> +And old traditional maxims! History!<br /> +Facts dramatised say rather—action—plot—<br /> +Sentiment, everything the writer’s own,<br /> +As it bests fits the web-work of his story,<br /> +With here and there a solitary fact<br /> +Of consequence, by those grave chroniclers,<br /> +Pointed with many a moral apophthegm,<br /> +And wise old saws, learned at the puppet-shows.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. Yes; admirable lines; they describe to +the life the very faults we have been considering as the faults +of badly-written histories. I do not see that they do much +more.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>.</p> +<blockquote><p>“To us, my friend, the times that are gone +by<br /> +Are a mysterious book.”—</p> +</blockquote> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. Those two first lines are the full +expression of Faust’s discontent—unmeasured as in the +presence of a weak man who could not check him. But, if you +come to look at the matter closely, you will see that the time +present is also in some sense a sealed book to us. Men that +we live with daily we often think as little of as we do of Julius +Cæsar, I was going to say—but we know much less of +them than of him.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. I did not mean to say that Faust spoke +my sentiments about history in general. Still, there are +periods of history which we have very few authors to tell us +about, and I daresay in some of those cases the colouring of +their particular minds gives us a false idea of the whole age +they lived in.</p> +<p><i>Dunsford</i>. This may have happened, certainly.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. We must be careful not to expect too +much from the history of past ages, as a means of understanding +the present age. There is something wanted besides the +preceding history to understand each age. Each individual +life may have a problem of its own, which all other biography +accurately set down for us might not enable us to work out. +So of each age. It has something in it not known before, +and tends to a result which is not down in any books.</p> +<p><i>Dunsford</i>. Yet history must be of greatest use in +discerning this tendency.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. Yes; but the Wagner sort of pedant +would get entangled in his round of history—in his +historical resemblances.</p> +<p><i>Dunsford</i>. Now, Milverton, if you were called upon +to say what are the peculiar characteristics of this age, what +should you say?</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. One of Dunsford’s questions +this, requiring a stout quarto volume with notes in answer.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. I would rather wait till I was called +upon. I am apt to feel, after I have left off describing +the character of any individual man, as if I had only just +begun. And I do not see the extent of discourse that would +be needful in attempting to give the characteristics of an +age.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. I think you are prudent to avoid +answering Dunsford’s question. For my own part, I +should prefer giving an account of the age we live in after we +have come to the end of it—in the true historical +fashion. And so, Dunsford, you must wait for my +notions.</p> +<p><i>Dunsford</i>. I am afraid, Milverton, if you were to +write history, you would never make up your mind to condemn +anybody.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. I hope I should not be so +inconclusive. I certainly do dislike to see any character, +whether of a living or a dead person, disposed of in a summary +way.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. For once I will come to the rescue of +Milverton. I really do not see that a man’s belief in +the extent and variety of human character, and in the difficulty +of appreciating the circumstances of life, should prevent him +from writing history—from coming to some conclusions. +Of course such a man is not likely to write a long course of +history; but that I hold has been a frequent error in +historians—that they have taken up subjects too large for +them.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. If there is as much to be said about +men’s character and conduct as I think there mostly is, why +should we be content with shallow views of them? Take the +outward form of these hills and valleys before us. When we +have seen them a few times, we think we know them, but are quite +mistaken. Approaching from another quarter, it is almost +new ground to us. It is a long time before you master the +outward form and semblance of any small piece of country that has +much life and diversity in it. I often think of this, +applying it to our little knowledge of men. Now, look there +a moment: you see that house; close behind it is apparently a +barren tract. In reality there is nothing of the kind +there. A fertile valley with a great river in it, as you +know, is between that house and the moors. But the plane of +those moors and of the house is coincident from our present point +of view. Had we not, as educated men, some distrust of the +conclusions of our senses, we should be ready to swear that there +was a lonely house on the border of the moors. It is the +same in judging of men. We see a man connected with a train +of action which is really not near him, absolutely foreign to +him, perhaps, but in our eyes that is what he is always connected +with. If there were not a Being who understands us +immeasurably better than other men can, immeasurably better than +we do ourselves, we should be badly off.</p> +<p>Such precautionary thoughts as these must be useful, I +contend. They need not make us indifferent to character, or +prevent us from forming judgments where we must form them, but +they show us what a wide thing we are talking about when we are +judging the life and nature of a man.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. I am sure, Dunsford, you are already +convinced: you seldom want more than a slight pretext for going +over to the charitable side of things. You are only afraid +of not dealing stoutly enough with bad things and people. +Do not be afraid though. As long as you have me to abuse, +you will say many unjust things against me, you know, so that you +may waste yourself in good thoughts about the rest of the world, +past and present. Do you know the lawyer’s story I +had in my mind then? “Many times when I have had a +good case,” he said, “I have failed; but then I have +often succeeded with bad cases. And so justice is +done.”</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. To return to the subject. It is +not a sort of equalising want of thought about men that I desire; +only not to be rash in a matter that requires all our care and +prudence.</p> +<p><i>Dunsford</i>. Well, I believe I am won over. +But now to another point. I think, Milverton, that you have +said hardly anything about the use of history as an incentive to +good deeds and a discouragement to evil ones.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. I ought to have done so. +Bolingbroke gives in his “Letters on History,” +talking of this point, a passage from Tacitus, +“Præcipuum munus annalium,”—can you go on +with it, Dunsford?</p> +<p><i>Dunsford</i>. Yes, I think I can. It is a +passage I have often seen quoted. “Præcipuum +munus annalium, reor, ne virtutes sileantur; utque pravis dictis +factisque ex posteritate et infamiâ metus sit.”</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. Well done; Dunsford may have invented +it, though, for aught that we know, Milverton, and be passing +himself off upon us for Tacitus.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. Then Bolingbroke goes on to say (I +wish I could give you his own flowing words), that the great duty +of history is to form a tribunal like that amongst the Egyptians +which Diodorus tells of, where both common men and princes were +tried after their deaths, and received appropriate honour or +disgrace. The sentence was pronounced, he says, too late to +correct or to recompense; but it was pronounced in time to render +examples of general instruction to mankind. Now, what I was +going to remark upon this is, that Bolingbroke understates his +case. History well written is a present correction, and a +foretaste of recompense, to the man who is now struggling with +difficulties and temptations, now overcast by calumny and cloudy +misrepresentation.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. Yes; many a man makes an appeal to +posterity which will never come before the court; but if there +were no such court of appeal—</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. A man’s conviction that justice +will be done to him in history is a secondary motive, and not one +which, of itself, will compel him to do just and great things; +but, at any rate, it forms one of the benefits that flow from +history, and it becomes stronger as histories are better +written. Much may be said against care for fame; much also +against care for present repute. There is a diviner impulse +than either at the doing of any actions that are much worth +doing. As a correction, however, this anticipation of the +judgment of history may really be very powerful. It is a +great enlightenment of conscience to read the opinions of men on +deeds similar to those we are engaged in or meditating.</p> +<p><i>Dunsford</i>. I think Bolingbroke’s idea, which +I imagine was more general than yours, is more important: namely, +that this judicial proceeding, mentioned by Diodorus Siculus, +gave significant lessons to all people, not merely to those who +had any chance of having their names in history.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. Certainly: for this is one of +Bolingbroke’s chief points, if I recollect rightly.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. Our conversations are much better +things than your essays, Milverton.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. Of course, I am bound to say so: but +what made you think of that now?</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. Why, I was thinking how in talk we can +know exactly where we agree or differ. But I never like to +interrupt the essay. I never know when it would come to an +end if I did. And so it swims on like a sermon, having all +its own way: one cannot put in an awkward question in a weak +part, and get things looked at in various ways.</p> +<p><i>Dunsford</i>. I suppose, then, Ellesmere, you would +like to interrupt sermons.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. Why, yes, sometimes—do not throw +sticks at me, Dunsford.</p> +<p><i>Dunsford</i>. Well, it is absurd to be angry with +you; because if you long to interrupt Milverton with his captious +perhapses and probablys, of course you will be impatient with +discourses which do, to a certain extent, assume that the +preacher and the hearers are in unison upon great matters.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. I am afraid to say anything about +sermons, for fear of the argumentum baculinum from Dunsford; for +many essay writers, like Milverton, delight to wind up their +paragraphs with complete little aphorisms—shutting up +something certainly, but shutting out something too. I +could generally pause upon them a little.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. Of course one may err, Ellesmere, in +too much aphorising as in too much of anything. But your +argument goes against all expression of opinion, which must be +incomplete, especially when dealing with matters that cannot be +circumscribed by exact definitions. Otherwise, a code of +wisdom might be made which the fool might apply as well as the +wisest man. Even the best proverb, though often the +expression of the widest experience in the choicest language, can +be thoroughly misapplied. It cannot embrace the whole of +the subject, and apply in all cases like a mathematical +formula. Its wisdom lies in the ear of the hearer.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. Well, I not know that there is +anything more to say about the essay. I suppose you are +aware, Dunsford, that Milverton does not intend to give us any +more essays for some time. He is distressing his mind about +some facts which he wants to ascertain before he will read any +more to us. I imagine we are to have something historical +next.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. Something in which historical records +are useful.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. Really it is wonderful to see how +beautifully human nature accommodates itself to anything, even to +the listening to essays. I shall miss them.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. You may miss the talk before and +after.</p> +<p><i>Ellesmere</i>. Well, there is no knowing how much of +that is provoked (provoked is a good word, is it not?) by the +essays.</p> +<p><i>Dunsford</i>. Then, for the present, we have come to +an end of our readings.</p> +<p><i>Milverton</i>. Yes, but I trust at no distant time to +have something more to try your critical powers and patience +upon. I hope that that old tower will yet see us meet +together here on many a sunny day, discussing various things in +friendly council.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> + +<div class="gapmediumline"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">Printed by +Cassell and Company, Limited, La Belle Sauvage, London, +E.C.</span><br /> +<span class="GutSmall">12—391</span></p> +<h2>FOOTNOTES.</h2> +<p><a name="footnote12"></a><a href="#citation12" +class="footnote">[12]</a> See <i>Statesman</i>, p. 30.</p> +<p><a name="footnote42"></a><a href="#citation42" +class="footnote">[42]</a> The passage which must have been +alluded to is this: “The stricter tenets of Calvinism, +which allow no medium between grace and reprobation, and doom man +to eternal punishment for every breach of the moral law, as an +equal offence against Infinite truth and justice, proceed (like +the paradoxical doctrine of the Stoics), from taking a half-view +of this subject, and considering man as amenable only to the +dictates of his understanding and his conscience, and not +excusable from the temptations and frailty of human ignorance and +passion. The mixing up of religion and morality together, +or the making us accountable for every word, thought, or action, +under no less a responsibility than our everlasting future +welfare or misery, has also added incalculably to the +difficulties of self-knowledge, has superinduced a violent and +spurious state of feeling, and made it almost impossible to +distinguish the boundaries between the true and false, in judging +of human conduct and motives. A religious man is afraid of +looking into the state of his soul, lest at the same time he +should reveal it to heaven; and tries to persuade himself that by +shutting his eyes to his true character and feelings, they will +remain a profound secret, both here and hereafter.”</p> +<p><a name="footnote53"></a><a href="#citation53" +class="footnote">[53]</a> This was one of the passages +which Milverton afterwards read to us:—</p> +<blockquote><p>“Thus, however much may be gained for the +world as a whole by this fragmentary cultivation, it is not to be +denied that the individuals whom it befalls are cursed for the +benefit of the world. An athletic frame, it is true, is +fashioned by gymnastic exercises; but a form of beauty only by +free and uniform action. Just so the exertions of single +talents can create extraordinary men indeed; but happy and +perfect men only by their uniform temperature. And in what +relation should we stand, then, to the past and coming ages, if +the cultivation of human nature made necessary such a +sacrifice? We should have been the slaves of humanity, and +drudged for her century after century, and stamped upon our +mutilated natures the humiliating traces of our +bondage—that the coming race might nurse its moral +healthfulness in blissful leisure, and unfold the free growth of +its humanity!</p> +<p>“But can it be intended that man should neglect himself +for any particular design? Ought Nature to deprive us, by +its design, of a perfection which Reason, by its own, prescribes +to us? Then it must be false that the development of single +faculties makes the sacrifice of totality necessary; or, if +indeed the law of Nature presses thus heavily, it becomes us to +restore, by a higher art, this totality in our nature which art +has destroyed.”—<i>The Philosophical and +Æsthetical Letters and Essays of</i> <span +class="smcap">Schiller</span>, <i>Translated by</i> J. <span +class="smcap">Weiss</span>, pp. 74, 75.</p> +</blockquote> +<p><a name="footnote93"></a><a href="#citation93" +class="footnote">[93]</a> Madame Necker de Saussure’s +maxim about firmness with children has suggested the above. +“Ce que plie ne peut servir d’appui, et +l’enfant veut être appuyé. Non-seulement +il en a besoin, mais il le désire, mais sa tendresse la +plus constante n’est qu’à ce prix. Si +vous lui faites l’effet d’un autre enfant, si vous +partagez ses passions, ses vacillations continuelles, si vous lui +rendez tous ses mouvements en les augmentant, soit par la +contrariété, soit par un excès de +complaisance, il pourra se servir de vous comme d’un jouet, +mais non être heureux en votre présence; il +pleurera, se mutinera, et bientôt le souvenir d’un +temps de désordre et d’humeur se liera avec votre +idée. Vous n’avez pas été le +soutien de votre enfant, vous ne l’avez pas +préservé de cette fluctuation perpétuelle de +la volonté, maladie des êtres faibles et +livrés à une imagination vive; vous n’avez +assuré ni sa paix, ni sa sagesse, ni son bonheur, pourquoi +vous croirait-il sa +mère.”—<i>L’Education Progressive</i>, +vol. i., p. 228.</p> +<p><a name="footnote116a"></a><a href="#citation116a" +class="footnote">[116a]</a> See <i>Health of Towns +Report</i>, vol. i., p. 336. A similar result may be +deduced from a similar table made by the Rev. J. Clay, of +Preston. See the same Report and vol., p. 175.</p> +<p><a name="footnote116b"></a><a href="#citation116b" +class="footnote">[116b]</a> See <i>Health of Towns +Report</i>, vol. i., p. 75.</p> +<p><a name="footnote117a"></a><a href="#citation117a" +class="footnote">[117a]</a> See Dr. Arnott’s letter, +<i>Claims of Labour</i>, p. 282.</p> +<p><a name="footnote117b"></a><a href="#citation117b" +class="footnote">[117b]</a> By zinc ventilators, for +instance, in the windows and openings into the flues at the top +of the rooms. See <i>Health of Towns Report</i>, 1844, vol. +i., pp. 76, 77. Mr. Coulhart’s +evidence.—<i>Ibid.</i>, pp. 307, 308.</p> +<p><a name="footnote117c"></a><a href="#citation117c" +class="footnote">[117c]</a> There are several thousand +gratings to sewers and drains which are utterly useless on +account of their position, and positively injurious from their +emanations.—Mr. Guthrie’s +evidence.—<i>Ibid.</i>, vol. ii., p. 255.</p> +<p><a name="footnote118"></a><a href="#citation118" +class="footnote">[118]</a> Mr. Wood states that the masters +and mistresses were generally ignorant of the depressing and +unhealthy effects of the atmosphere which surrounded them, and he +mentions the case of the mistress of a dame-school who replied, +when he pointed out this to her, “that the children thrived +best in dirt!”—<i>Health of Towns Report</i>, vol. +i., pp. 146, 147.</p> +<p><a name="footnote126"></a><a href="#citation126" +class="footnote">[126]</a> See “The Fair Maid of +Perth.”</p> +<p><a name="footnote161"></a><a href="#citation161" +class="footnote">[161]</a> See “Health of Towns +Report,” 1844, vol. i., p. 44.</p> +<p><a name="footnote183"></a><a href="#citation183" +class="footnote">[183]</a> Bacon, <i>de Augmentis +Scientiarum</i>.</p> +<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FRIENDS IN COUNCIL***</p> +<pre> + + +***** This file should be named 7438-h.htm or 7438-h.zip****** + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/7/4/3/7438 + + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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