The holidays were coming to an end, a melancholy fact which, as may be imagined, we did not at all like to contemplate.

It was breakfast time on the Monday morning preceding that on which we should have to return to town. After we had sat down, Sir John, as usual, was the first to begin talking.

_Ellesmere._ Oh dear, dear! ’Tis sad to think that, after one more revolving week, I shall have to go back to town with Lady Ellesmere, to be entrusted to her tender mercies, and to take leave of Fairy and of the water-rats, of whose bright little eyes and inquiring countenances I see so much when I go fishing; and of Milverton, too, and of all the other intelligent creatures with whom I am at present domiciled. Let us make the most of this week.

_Milverton._ I am preparing, at Sir Arthur’s particular desire, an essay for you for next Saturday.

_Ellesmere._ And that is what the fellow calls “making the most of this week.” However, it is all right. The blackness of Black Monday is greatly diminished in intensity when the preceding Saturday is made of a dark brown colour by having to listen to an essay.

_Milverton._ But this will be an essay that you will like, I think.

_Ellesmere._ That is what you always hold out. The particular thing that you are at work upon is always to give life a new savour. It is the one subject which mankind is pining to hear discussed.

_Milverton._ It is to be an abrupt, disjointed essay. It is to sum up, as it were, our discussion, of late, of many subjects. There will be much that is commonplace in it; much that you have often heard me talk about before; much that you yourselves have said; and, perhaps, there will be a few new things. I really believe it will be the last I shall ever write.

Hereupon Sir John muttered something which sounded very like a grace after meat; but Lady Ellesmere put her hand upon his mouth and stopped his muttering. When she removed it, however, he began talking.

_Ellesmere._ No: I don’t believe it. Placards up! “Signor Doncatelli, or Herr von Klinkel, has consented, at the urgent request of his many friends and admirers, to give one more representation, in which he will appear in his well known part of, &c. &c.”

No one seems to know when to leave off. Poor dear Sir Walter Scott! even he, shrewd man though he was, must write “Count Robert of Paris.”

Pooh! don’t tell me. I know but too well the nature of all you fellows who are accustomed to exhibit, and to be pointed out as monsters by the finger of the passers-by (_monstrari digito prætereuntium_), whether you are statesmen, actors, or authors. You never can be quiet unless you are upon your stage. There will no more be a last essay by Milverton, while he is alive, than there will be a last muffin baked as long as there are people who have the rude digestion to consume muffins. Don’t hold out false hopes: there is nothing more cruel.

_Milverton._ I shall not reply to Ellesmere’s sneers. He will be sure, after all, to take a box for Lady Ellesmere and himself, to hear Doncatelli.

What I want, however, to consult you about--for I am very much puzzled myself about it--is, what title we shall take. The essay will consist of endeavours to show how human life may be improved. I do not for a moment agree with Mauleverer that we are at a standpoint of misery, as he imagines; but, no doubt, there is a great deal that is very miserable in the world, and within our power, I think, to ameliorate.

_Cranmer._ What should you say to this for a title?--“On the improvement of things in general.”

_Milverton._ Too vague, Mr. Cranmer.

_Sir Arthur._ “On the improvement of the human race?”

_Ellesmere._ That’s right; lug in “the human race:” that is sure to please Milverton. What says Sandy?

_Johnson._ “On physical and mental development, with a view to the future welfare of the world.”

_Ellesmere._ Oh, you pedantic Scotch boy! we can’t have that.

_Mauleverer._ “On the possible, but very far from probable, diminution of the extreme wretchedness of mankind.”

_Milverton._ No. I can’t accept that; I do not begin by looking at things from your point of view, Mauleverer.

_Mrs. Milverton._ “On consolation.”

_Ellesmere._ Pour out a cup of tea for me directly, please, Mrs. Milverton. She will well water the teapot, I know, to spite me, if I say what I think of her title before my cup is poured out.

My dear woman, it is _not_ “consolation” that we are going to write about. It is to prevent the necessity for your rubbishing consolation. We all know that you women think you are such “dabs,” as we used to say at Eton, at consoling. It is not bolts and bars for the stable door that we are going to provide, after the donkey has been stolen; but we are here assembled, or rather shall be next Saturday, to prevent the stealing of donkeys.

And now, Lady Ellesmere, what wise suggestion are you going to make for a title?

_Lady Ellesmere._ “On _man_kind being made less provoking.”

_Ellesmere._ What would that do for the solace of the world, if _woman_kind were left as they are? For surely the art of provoking is their own.

I see you will have to come to me for a title. I boldly suggest this one: “On the art of making men comfortable.”

In this Act of Parliament, or, if you like it, essay, the word “men” shall include men, women, dogs, horses, cows, water-rats, black-beetles, and all other animals and insects.

_Milverton._ Your title is rather long, Ellesmere, especially if your interpretation of the word “men” be added to it.

_Ellesmere._ Not a bit too long. The Act, I mean the essay, shall always be referred to as “The Comfortable.” That will please Sir Arthur.

_Sir Arthur._ It will show what a forgiving disposition I have, and how fond I am of “The Magnanimous,” that I confess I agree with Ellesmere, and am quite content that his title, in its full length, should be adopted.

_Milverton._ So be it then; and Mr. Johnson and I will do our best to get ready by next Saturday. I shall want a good deal of indulgence from you.

_Ellesmere_ (tapping his breast). This is the shop, as Mr. Squeers would say, to come to for indulgence.

Here the conversation about the essay ended. Mr. Milverton and I worked very hard during the whole week, and succeeded in getting our materials ready by Saturday.

That Saturday was a lovely day. Indeed, it was one of those calm, warm, bright days, which we sometimes have in England, and in which are combined almost all the beauties of summer and winter. There had been a frost in the early morning; and a white rime was still upon the trees, marking out each spray and twig most beautifully. We took our places in the summer-house in the garden that overlooks a vast expanse of country. Sir John Ellesmere thus began:--

_Ellesmere._ Who shall say we understand anything about “The Comfortable,” when we take our places in this summer-house to listen to a shivering essay which might have been delivered to us in a comfortable study?

_Milverton._ Shall we go back then?

_Ellesmere._ Oh, by no means!

_Lady Ellesmere._ That is so like John. He will object to anything, even when he likes it himself, merely for the sake of making, or, as he calls it, taking, an objection.

_Ellesmere._ Don’t interrupt, Lady Ellesmere, and waste time. Don’t you see that Milverton is wild to begin, and that there is an alarming mass of paper in his hands to be got through before we shall have any comfort?

Mr. Milverton commenced reading: “On the Art of making Men Comfortable; the word ‘Men’ to include Men, Women, Dogs, Horses, Cows, Water-rats, Black-beetles, and all other animals and insects.”

_Milverton._ You see I have adopted your title literally, for so you willed that I should. And now, first, I am not going to read an essay, but to make a speech. I shall speak to you in a most familiar way; and, moreover, shall consider that you recollect a great deal that I have already said, so that I may merely have to deal with it by allusion.

* * * * *

It is a very great difficulty to introduce anything like method into this vast and complicated subject. What I shall do is this: I shall first consider all the main points which bear upon a man from without: I shall then take him to his home and see how he is to be made comfortable there: afterwards, I shall conclude with several general reflections, which will have for their tendency to show how man and other animals (I do not neglect Ellesmere’s “rider”) should be made more comfortable.

* * * * *

[Here Mr. Milverton spoke upon the topics of Government, Education, Religion, War, and Railway Management. I omit all that he said upon these subjects, because otherwise the essay, or rather the speech, would stretch to an immoderate length. He spoke for nearly forty minutes; and, as he speaks very rapidly, the speech contained a great deal of matter which it is quite impossible for me to give now. At a future time I may take some opportunity of doing so. He then proceeded, and said as follows:--]

I descend now to questions that may be considered of lower importance than those I have discussed, but which are nevertheless of great importance as regards the comfort of mankind.

I go first to the consideration of their dwellings. These are at present deplorable. We have not made any advance (indeed I think our movement has been retrograde in this respect) since the time of the Romans. The main objects are for the most part neglected. How dampness should be avoided? how noise should be subdued? how fresh air should be provided? how smoke should be carried off? seem to be unimportant questions, so that the exterior is kept according to the style most in favour with the architect.

The waste that there is in this matter is most surprising. If houses were well built, there would be very little expense for repairs, for painting, and, perhaps, for fire insurance. We have excellent materials; we make hardly any use of them: and there is scarcely a house in which any provision is made for the exceptional events, either festive or calamitous, which are sure to occur at some time or other, in every household.

Then look at the waste in decoration, in furniture, in knick-knacks of all kinds. I often take an individual room, and I say to myself, “If I had the money which that foolish cornice has cost, which that hideous centre-piece in the ceiling has cost, which that painful furniture, constructed so as to retain the utmost amount of dust, has cost, which those knick-knacks, which amuse one for two or three minutes and are a trouble ever afterwards, have cost, the room could be so enlarged and improved that the people who inhabit it would be far more comfortable.”

The last thing architects and builders generally seem to consider is, that the room is really to be inhabited. I have seen the whole wing of a great palace or castle so spoilt for the want of a little additional space, that there was not sufficient room for the furniture which would be imperatively required in the twenty or thirty apartments of that wing. There has been no space in these rooms (which people are not only supposed to sleep in by night, but to live in by day) for a sofa, and for a writing-table.

Again, no attention has been paid to climate. It has been forgotten that there are a good many rainy days in Great Britain in the course of the year, and that the British spring is not altogether a balmy season. In this respect our ancestors were much wiser than we are, and understood what is called “Gardenesque architecture.” Now, one often sees a great white staring house situated in the midst of a great park. Nobody seems ever to have considered that people might like to have some walking exercise or to breathe some fresh air without being exposed to inclement weather in that spacious park. I have often seen that the needless, foolish, and ugly decorations of two or three of the principal rooms would have provided a beautiful colonnade like our cloisters at Trinity, in which the sickly and the young might enjoy the sun, and have the advantage of fresh air and exercise throughout the winter days.

The above are trifling things to speak of; but, while we are discussing “The Comfortable,” they are scarcely out of place.

As to the cottages of the poor, they are outrageous. Often constructed without the means of drainage--the walls in some instances being built up against the earth, the outlets being exposed without any protection against the east winds--they are really nothing better than nests for fever, and well-devised traps for rheumatism and consumption.

Here comes in that sad neglect of admirable materials for building which I have before commented upon. Terra-cotta, slates, and tiles might be used with the greatest advantage in such constructions. In fact, a house, and still more a cottage, ought to be impregnable to damp throughout, and capable of thorough ventilation. Will you have the kindness to show me any such constructions from the highest to the lowest class of buildings?

And now look at our buildings in London. I am very sensitive, I acknowledge, to noise; but I do not believe I am altogether singular in this respect. Now, you know, one is absolutely dependent upon one’s neighbour to the right and to the left. We enjoy smoke from their chimneys. We have the pleasure of listening to their daughters practising the first scales in music; we partake, uninvited, of the clamour, if not of the enjoyment, of their feasts.

But I must not dwell much more on this subject: all I wish is, that when people are building houses they would not forget that these houses are to be inhabited, and would act accordingly. If half the thought which is given to obscure questions in theology or metaphysics had been given to the question of making men more comfortable by building better habitations for them, what a much happier and more endurable world it would have been.

When Sir Walter Scott died, and critics were commenting upon his works, one of the best criticisms was to this effect:--“Shakspeare builds up his characters from within to without. Their coats, dresses, and external paraphernalia of any kind are the last things about which he gives any indication; whereas Sir Walter commences from without, and his heroes or heroines are greatly connected in your mind with their outside paraphernalia.” There was some little truth in this, though I think it was much too severe on Sir Walter; but I have often thought that we mostly do what was complained of in Sir Walter, and nearly always attend to the outside first. There is charming Gothic architecture, as seen from the outside, in which the Gothic architect, neglecting the improvements which have taken place in materials since the time of the Goths, gives you foolish windows and dark passages, and every evil with which the Goths were contented--as indeed they were by their ignorance obliged to be contented--to endure.

The same error is to be found in those men who live for the outer world instead of for home. This brings me naturally to the subject of ostentation, the direst enemy of comfort. No, I will not put it down exactly as ostentation, but as the doing of things because others do them, whether you like them or not, and whether they are suitable or not, to you or your means. I think I will call it imitation, and say that imitation is the direst enemy of comfort. Women, I am sorry to say, are greatly to blame in this matter. It is always an unanswerable argument in their minds that other people do anything. In fact, women are the only real and sound Conservatives, or rather Tories, in the world; and one great end that we shall gain from their education, if ever a better education is given to them, is this, that we shall have much less conventionalism to contend with.

Now I proceed to the next point, viz., as to what should be done inside a house to make it a happy and comfortable home. Of course, the great danger, the pressing danger, of domestic life is its familiarity--mark you, there is immense pleasure in this familiarity, but I think we might have all the pleasure without the mischief. I recur to a few of the points which I have often dwelt upon before. Never scold for little things and for things in which there is no intention to do wrong: people don’t mean to break glass or china, or to spill the grease; and yet you often hear a child or a servant reproved for some accident as if it had been done out of _malice prepense_.

Never ridicule other people’s tastes, especially the tastes of those who live with you, or any of your neighbours’ tastes, unless those tastes are absolutely noxious and mischievous.

Cultivate the great art of leaving people alone, even those whom you think you have a right to direct in the minutest particular.

Now here I am going to say a most important thing, and I beg your attention to it.

Praise those with whom you live, if they really deserve it. Do not be silent upon their merits, for you should cultivate their reasonable self-esteem. If they have merits, other people--strangers--will tell them of it, and they think it is unkind of you who have lived with them, and ought to love them, not to have recognised their merits. A person shall live with a person his junior, and during the whole of his life shall never have told that junior of his good qualities or his merits; and it is only perhaps when that first person dies, that the other finds out that, during the time they had lived together, he had been thoroughly appreciated; but, unfortunately, it has been a silent appreciation.

Domestic comfort is the very core of happy life. Now what perfection it would be if, in domestic life, the courtesy and civility which strangers show to us were combined with the affection and the absence of restraint which belong to domesticity!

Now I am going to insist upon a point which might be thought very trivial, but which yet has something in it. Do not merely endeavour to be joyous and pleasant with those with whom you live, but even to be agreeable to look at; in fact, I say it boldly, although you may laugh at me, try and look your best for your own people as well as for the stranger.

[Here there came in a somewhat long statement about communism, which I am sure would not be very interesting to most people, and which I omit. Then the subject of wealth was introduced by Sir Arthur. Mr. Milverton proceeded:--]

Riches! In any discourse about human happiness, something must be said upon this subject. Everybody admits that money is the source of all evil, and everybody tries to get as much money as he or she can. Of course, seriously speaking, wealth is a good thing. That we should have plenty of corn, of coal, of wool, of cotton, and of cattle, is before all things necessary if we are to be comfortable; but what is a bad thing is, that too much respect should be paid, and too much honour given, to merely wealthy people.

“The learned pate ducks to the golden fool: All is oblique.”

Now instead of its being a thing which is _primâ facie_ for a man, it may be argued that it is rather _primâ facie_ against him, that he is rich: it is a fact which he has to account for, and often the account he may have to give is anything but creditable to him. What may be called the legitimate influence of riches is surely enough. That a rich man has the services of other men and animals in every way at his command is surely power enough. You have, doubtless, heard me tell the story of a dignitary in the Romish Church, one of the most actively benevolent of men--a sort of Borromeo; and he was descanting among his friends about the worthlessness of worldly goods, and he concluded by saying, “All, all, is vanity--except a carriage.” Doubtless the good man had often found, in his career of active benevolence, the advantage of rapid locomotion.

Well, let the rich have their carriages, and make good use of them.

_Ellesmere._ Only one word! I won’t interrupt again. Let them take care to send their carriages to the railway station, to meet their poor friends who come to visit them.

But you will say, give us instances of the illegitimate influence of wealth. There is one that occurs to me directly. I say it is iniquitous, it is monstrous, that a man should be raised to the peerage merely because he is a rich man, and can--to use the cant phrase--afford to support the dignity of the peerage. That dignity of the peerage would be easily supported, if only those persons were made peers who had, by public service and distinguished merit, deserved the honour.

If it were universally recognised that there were great objects in human life, such as social distinctions, over which riches had no influence whatever, riches would be less unreasonably, and less immoderately pursued. Again, I object strongly to a man’s power of voting, in any capacity, being augmented by his wealth. I do not care about your telling me that this is sheer Radicalism, and talking to me about stakes in the country: that betting phrase has no weight with me. The judgment of men who have devoted themselves to the getting, the saving, or the enjoying of riches, may be as much warped by those employments as the poor man’s judgment may be by his poverty. I beg to ask you one question: do you think the railways would have been worse managed if the qualifications for directorship had been lowered, or had been abandoned altogether?

However, all that I contend is, do no honour to a rich man merely because he is rich. If this maxim were adopted, riches would be robbed of half their mischief.

I now pass to quite another subject, which, however, is not unconnected with the foregoing. I maintain that now life goes too fast, too fussily, and too anxiously, to admit of much comfort, at least for those who have any prominent part to play in life. All our swiftness of locomotion, our promptitude of communication, tends to promote this fussiness. Here, again, I am merely talking after Ellesmere. I must own I am very much puzzled as to how to suggest any remedy for this state of things. I have tried to think over it deeply, and the only thing that has occurred to me, as a remedy, is this,--that more persons should be taken into partnership with those who have to bear the arduous parts in life, and who would then have more time for thinking. The general complaint now is, which I have heard uttered dozens of times, that those who have anything to do, have generally too much to do, while there remains a number of intelligent and active-minded people who have nothing to do--unless, indeed, the shooting at hares and pheasants be considered something to do.

Now, I want to put before you a dilemma: either this increase of work is profitable to the community, or it is not; if it is not, let us drop it; but if it is, then the benefit to the public will pay for the employment of additional heads and hands.

I mean this to apply to Government, and to all public services useful to the community. But I will illustrate my meaning by an example taken from Government.

[Here Mr. Milverton gave an account, which would not interest my readers much, of the labours and duties of the Secretary of State for the Home Department, and strongly urged the division of the work of that office into two branches, with a new Minister.]

I pass now to another subject,--recreation. I do not advocate recreation exactly upon the same grounds as those upon which it has often been argued for. I say this--I say that men----

_Ellesmere._ Yes, and women too. Oh, dear! I ought not to have interrupted.

--that men are such mischievous animals, that you can hardly take too much pains to occupy their spare moments innocently. Oh, if we could have put down frequently to a game at whist Attila, Charlemagne, Genghis Khan, and the First Napoleon! I am afraid that there would be chronological difficulties in the way of this arrangement; but you know what I mean.

As to recreation for the poor, I agree with Ellesmere, that that man will be one of the greatest benefactors to his species, and will fulfil the functions of a great statesman, who contrives that the poor man shall take a little longer time than he does at present to consume his pot of beer. Remember there is but standing-room in those bright and odious gin-palaces; and one “go”--I believe that is the word--is swallowed hastily after another, because the poor man has nothing else to amuse him, or to do.

Now I do not care what amusement you provide for him, so that it is tolerably innocent,--whether, following the humble Milverton, he sits quietly down to draughts and dominoes, like a French peasant; or whether, imitating the ambitious Ellesmere, he makes “ducks and drakes” with a flat stone upon a pond; or whether, partaking the poetic nature of Sir Arthur, he devotes his spare energies to the beautiful accomplishment of dancing; or whether, following the example of the solid Mauleverer, he plays at bowls and quoits (for those, I know, are your favourite games, Mauleverer); or whether (to please you, Johnson) he indulges in golf and cricket; or whether, to the delight of the wise and fact-loving Cranmer, he plays at the game of Mechanics’ Institutes--it is all one to me, so only that he is amused, and does not drink off his gin or his beer quite so quickly.

Why is it, by the way, that women are so much better than men--less given to drunkenness, or any similar excess? Simply because they have a thousand little occupations. A woman, who is not oppressed by much riches and many servants, always finds plenty to do about her house, and, in that, finds her chief occupation in life and often her chief happiness. And if Sir Arthur’s plans[43] are adopted, women must also, of necessity, partake in the recreation provided for men. Now all the feminine species love dancing, either as actors or spectators. The other day, in a hideous back street, an organ-grinder came down the street while I was passing, and six or eight young ragamuffinesses, who seemed to spring from the gutters, began to dance to the polka which the organ-man was grinding out. They danced capitally, keeping the right time, while their rags fluttered in the wind. Their little grimy faces were suffused with joy, and their bright teeth shone all the more brightly from the contrast with the general dirt of the countenance. Their mothers came out to see them. One or two slouching men lounged to the doors and looked on complacently. For the moment that wretched street was quite lit up with festivity.

Footnote 43:

This alludes to some views of Sir Arthur’s given in a conversation which I have not recorded.

You may think me a foolish man, overmuch given to sentimentality; but I could have sat down, if there had been any clean place to sit upon, and cried, though crying is not much in my way. But it did grieve me to think how few opportunities for recreation these poor little wretches had; and I pictured to myself a scene which I have often beheld near Dresden, where, in some tea-garden near to the town, I have seen the artisan and his wife and his children all making themselves supremely happy (at an expense which is often consumed in one or two “goes” at a gin-palace, swallowed in a few minutes’ time by the respectable father of a family in England), dancing being the principal amusement, and eating and drinking only secondary.

I pass on to other topics connected with the great subject of promoting the comfort of mankind. These topics will be of a general character. The main enemies to human comfort are--intolerance, denigration, unjustifiable repetition, unjust criticism, uncalled-for publicity, pedantry, irrational conservatism, and the cultivation of hardness of character.

It would be like giving out one of Blair’s sermons, just such as we used to have at Eton from Dr. Keate, and which we called “Second-prose”--a juvenile corruption for “Second-prayers”--to dilate much upon these topics; but I shall say a word or two upon each.

Touching intolerance, it is comparatively easy for men of large and tolerant nature to be tolerant, generally speaking. Their difficulty will ever be to be tolerant of intolerant people. Let them remember that intolerance is the twin sister of ignorance, and that they do not understand nor appreciate these intolerant people if they cannot tolerate them.

Denigration. It may be very stupid in me, but I cannot understand the pleasure which people take in blackening each other. In the first place, it is such an easy thing to do. The clever thing to do, is to find out people’s merits. I do not say this satirically; but it is often the outer points of men’s characters--little foolish habits, modes of talk that are not agreeable, tiresome ways, unpleasant roughness on the surface, all which afford such easy opportunities for denigration, while, to discern the sterling worth and merit and kindness which there are in so many human beings (I believe in nearly all) does require nice observation, guided by a kindly imagination.

I should not care so much about this denigration, if there were not always people ready to repeat to the person blackened all the dark and unpleasant things which others have said about him or her.

Touching unjustifiable repetition, which makes so much mischief and destroys so much comfort in the world, I would only quote that good man, Thomas à Kempis, whom I have quoted before, and who says, “Do not hasten to repeat even those things which you believe” (“_Nec audita, vel credita, mox ad aliorum aures effundere_”).

With respect to unjust criticism. The world is full of this, and the critics little know what pain they occasion. I do not say that critics should be able to do the work they criticise, but really they ought to sympathise to some extent with whatever they criticise. Do they ever think how difficult it is to do anything? It is lucky that we come upon the fruits of other men’s work in former generations, when there was less criticism, for there is no knowing what good work might not have been stifled, if it had been subjected to the same ordeal of criticism which abounds in the present day. If we do not take care, we shall enter into a Byzantine period of the world’s history, in which there is endless comment, and little or no original production.

Now, for pedantry. This is one of the greatest enemies, in a small way, to human comfort; it pervades every class of society. Scholars and official men are especially accused of it; but they are not more guilty than other people. How dreadfully pedantic doctors are, and railway officials, and, above all, servants! A doctor would see his dearest friend die rather than interfere with another doctor, or presume to say that the treatment is not quite judicious. And I believe if a superior being, who had only observed our world from a distance, were obliged to come down and live amongst us, he would not be surprised at our stupidities and our cruelties--our wars for example--so much as he would be by all the pedantries, vanities, and conventionalities, by which we create so much discomfort. The utterances that would astonish him, until he became familiar with them, would be, “It is not my place to do this:” “It is not your place to do that:” “I think I ought to have been consulted:” “It seems I am nobody now;” and the like. He would say to himself, “They are always tormenting themselves about trifles. They do not look at the substance. They do not consider what things should be done; but rather, how these things should be done according to certain narrow formularies.”

Now, for irrational conservatism. I am sure that I am fully alive to the advantages of conservatism. It is a grand thing, as some one has said, that in England we never wake up some fine morning and find from the newspapers that everything has changed, and that we are about to live under quite a new dynasty. But there is such a thing as irrational conservatism. An evil is fully proved to be an evil, and an obvious remedy is suggested to counteract it. You say to yourself, paraphrasing Shakspeare--

“The times have been, That, when the brains were out, the _thing_ would die, And there an end.”

But no, it won’t die. It goes on spasmodically without brains, and continues to cause a great deal of practical discomfort. All this is the result of an irrational conservatism, prone to reject every new thing merely because it is new.

Now I come to unreasonable publicity. Publicity in these days is too rapid, and not inquiring enough. There comes out a flaming attack against some poor man, based upon certain statements. In a day or two, the man generally contradicts some of these statements, and apparently with truth. But the mischief has been done. The accused person has been made very uncomfortable, for people are always in a great rage at being accused in any respect wrongfully. Now it occurs to me to ask, Why could not the accusing writer have made a little more investigation before he wrote the accusing article? I suppose the answer will be, that he must write to live, and he cannot make a living out of it if he is to take all this trouble in investigation. All I can say is, that as there seems to be a likelihood of publicity increasing greatly, an immense amount of discomfort will be caused, both to public and to private individuals, by rash and injurious publications.

I am now going to touch upon another subject, not before alluded to by me, and which I daresay you will take to be very fanciful in me, and somewhat effeminate. Is there not a certain hardness in the English character which, instead of being repressed, is much cultivated in modern times? I scarcely know how to describe it--whether to class it as stoicism or cynicism, or any other ism; but I perceive it, and feel it. No young man likes to show that he feels anything very much, or cares for anybody very much. Now you see from the literature of former ages that people then were not so reticent. I admit that there is something grand in the Spartan-like endurance which enables you to let the fox gnaw you, without your making any unpolite allusion to the pain you suffer. But there is a wide distinction between this endurance and the reticence to which I have referred. If you constantly repress the expression of feelings, you will gradually cease to have these feelings. Now, for the comfort of the world--and it is that which I am advocating--it is desirable that we should know more of the better and more amiable parts of each other’s characters, and that amiability should not be diminished by the constant avoidance of the manifestation of it. Do you hear, Sir John?

[Ellesmere nodded.]

I am afraid I have hitherto neglected to comment upon the rider which Sir John Ellesmere was good enough, with the consent of the company, to add to the title of my essay. I can only say that I shall never be happy or comfortable in this world while the lower animals are treated as they are; and I believe that mine is not an exceptional case, but that there are tens of thousands of human beings who feel exactly as I do. If you were to amend all other evils, and yet resolve to leave this untouched, we should not be satisfied. It is an immense responsibility that Providence has thrown upon us, in subjecting these sensitive creatures to our complete sway; and I tremble at the thought of how poor an answer we shall have to give when asked the question how we have made use of the power entrusted to us over the brute creation.

* * * * *

_Ellesmere._ According to Milverton, in order to make people comfortable, we are to praise them when they deserve it, even though we have the misfortune to live with them. Don’t pinch my arm, Lady Ellesmere! I praised you so much before we were married, that there is an immense balance of praise, still unaccounted for, that will never be deserved on your part. But I have not indulged Milverton to this extent, and therefore I can afford to say now that the essay is not despicable. Useful, too, it is. People come bothering me, even in court, and saying, “How I wish I were you, having the pleasure of assisting at those essays and conversations which take place at Worth-Ashton.” And these people are wonderfully suggestive too, telling me what you should write about, and what I should talk about. Now I can answer them, “My good fellows, only read his last essay, the very last that ever is to be, together with my talk upon it, and then you need not read any more, and need not bother me any more, for you will know exactly what we think upon every subject.”

Now I will at once point out the things I agree with. I agree with what you say about government and education; also about riches and religion. Indeed, what you said about riches and education was chiefly derived from me.

By the way, with respect to religion, could you not have said something more about sermons? I have only heard three sermons in my life upon what may be called the daily topics of common life. Kindness to animals, gentleness and tolerance in domestic life, not ridiculing the young, not hurrying to repeat everything you hear, and several other topics that you dwelt upon, would make excellent subjects for sermons. Only the sermons must not be vague; they must not be Blairish; they must condescend to details. The preacher must sometimes say, “I saw this or that the other day, and I must protest against it.” He must not be afraid of using common words, and must call a spade a spade, and not an agricultural implement. If he is going to speak against bribery at an election, he must use the word “bribe” pretty plainly.

“It is no doubt, my Christian brethren, a thing to be greatly reprehended that when a person is admitted to exercise the privilege connected with a great trust, held for the good of the community at large, and for the welfare of our holy religion, he should, in an unseemly manner, betray that trust for the sake of any creature comfort, or endanger his soul by yielding to the desire of the natural man for filthy lucre, when lucre of any kind cannot be honourably or virtuously conjoined with the due exercise of this important privilege.”

What poor man discerns in that sentence any allusion to pots of beer and five-pound notes for his vote? He perceives that somebody has done wrong, or will do wrong. Naturally he thinks it is the squire, and he goes away saying, “Parson have a-been giving of it to the squire this morning, he have.”

_Sir Arthur._ I perceive a great opening for “filthy lucre” to be gained by Sir John Ellesmere, if he would but write a series of skeleton sermons.

_Ellesmere._ I will do it when I have time, and you shall have a presentation copy, Sir Arthur. I think they might even be of use to you when you are composing sonnets.

There is one thing you have omitted, Milverton, as regards the art of making men comfortable. I shan’t be comfortable until you give me some good plays to go to, played by great players. It is true there is always the House of Commons, which Charles II. said was as good as a play; but I want something beyond that.

_Mauleverer._ Yes; I like a good play. It is the only time one thoroughly forgets one’s private miseries.

_Cranmer._ I don’t care much about plays.

_Mrs. Milverton._ I think they are the most enjoyable things in the world.

_Milverton._ I will tell you a very foolish thing that is often said, even by very clever men, about playgoing. They say, “Why care to go and see Shakspeare acted? Can’t you read it in your closet?” Now this appears to me such nonsense.

_Ellesmere._ Yes, it is. I don’t believe that anybody thoroughly understands a great play until he has seen it acted.

_Milverton._ If there is anything in the world that I think I know well, it is _Macbeth_. I knew it when I was six years old, for my mother used to spend hour after hour, and day after day, in teaching it to me, and making me play it with her; but when I came to see a great actress in Lady Macbeth’s part--Helen Faucit--new lights burst in upon me, and I saw what a delicate and refined fiend Lady Macbeth could be.

_Ellesmere._ Yes, I know, Milverton, that is a theory of yours, that “Lady Macbeth” is her best part; but I differ from you, and think that in “Rosalind” is her greatest triumph. Now I will tell you what I think is one of that lady’s greatest merits as an actress. It is that she is not always quite the same. Of course her main conception of the part does not much vary; but there will be particular touches--new felicities--evolved in each representation. She gives me the notion of one to whom her part is always fresh, because, like the characters of all persons who are good for anything, it is, in fact, an inexhaustible subject of study.

_Sir Arthur._ Well, now, I like her in the _Lady of Lyons_. She it was who made the Pauline. I remember seeing her act with Macready in that play, and I never was more delighted in my life.

_Ellesmere._ You see now what a pleasure is lost to us if we neglect the drama. I shan’t be comfortable, Milverton, until you have the kindness to restore that to us--an easy matter, of course, for such a genius as you are.

But to revert to Milverton’s speech. I quite agree with what he said about the iniquity of adding undeserved honours to riches. Riches ought to have no effect over the distribution of honours and dignities. All merit throughout the world receives an insult and a discouragement when a rich man receives an honour on account of his riches.

_Sir Arthur._ As to discouragement, I differ from you.

_Milverton._ And so do I.

_Sir Arthur._ The men who do anything that is worth doing seldom think about reward of any kind. You can get their best work from them, whether you treat them well or ill.

_Milverton._ Quite true, Sir Arthur. We should confer honours upon them, not so much for their sakes as for ours. And not for ours in a worldly or acquisitive point of view, for, as you say, we shall get their best work from them, whether we reward them or not.

_Cranmer._ I don’t know. They knock pretty hard at the doors of the Treasury sometimes.

_Mauleverer._ Yes; after their work is done.

_Ellesmere._ Let us proceed with the discussion on the essay. How severe Milverton was upon our present mode of building and decorating. I think some general principles might have been enounced there--such as that celebrated one of Pugin’s, “Do not conceal the construction.” The mischief that is done by concealing the construction is immense.

Let us each invent a maxim. Of course it will only be partially true, as all maxims are. Let us be silent for five minutes. Walk about if you like (my locomotive thoughts are always best), and then each of us shall propound his or her nostrum in the form of a maxim.

We agreed to do so, and in five minutes were reseated and ready to produce our maxims.

_Ellesmere._ Of course I am ready first, and mine will be the wisest maxim. _Never mind the outside._

_Lady Ellesmere._ _Avoid uniformity._

_Ellesmere._ Very good. What an advantage it is to live with clever people: how it sharpens the wits! I almost think I shall change my maxim into, _Find out clever people, and insist upon living with them._

_Lady Ellesmere._ One would think I had followed John about before we were married, and had implored him to allow me to live in the light of his sagacity, and to sun myself in the warmth of his tender nature.

_Ellesmere._ You gave clear proof of your good sense in doing it. Why deny it? What do you say, Mauleverer? What is your maxim?

_Mauleverer._ _No artificial surfaces of any kind._

_Ellesmere._ That is grand, but there must be many exceptions--gilding, for instance.

_Cranmer._ _No house to be built on leasehold property._

_Ellesmere._ Tyrannous, and inadmissible, I fear; but very suggestive. What do you say, Milverton? We expect something very good from you, as it is your especial subject.

_Milverton._ _Never do anything in building which cannot give a good account of itself._

_Ellesmere._ A splendid moral maxim! but is it not a little remote from bricklaying and plastering?

_Milverton._ I really do not know how to sum up what I mean in one maxim, but I will endeavour to explain.

The other day, before we left London, I took a walk. I came upon some masons busily chipping holes in some blocks of stone at the basement of a grand house; making, in short, little dust-pans for the London dirt to accumulate in. This was done, I believe, because at the Pitti Palace, in Florence, the architect had, doubtless to save trouble, used rough and indented blocks of stone. Now what account could these little dust-pans give of themselves?

Then I saw a house with three huge brick pilasters rising nearly to the roof, but not quite, and all that they supported was a beam of wood fantastically and ridiculously ornamented? What account could those pilasters give of themselves?

Then I paid a visit, and was shown into a fine room with a coved ceiling. There were seventy-eight half-brackets, which, if they had been completed, would have had to support four beams of wood, which had manifestly other support. These semi-brackets were elaborately carved, and abounded in leaves. They were splendid receptacles for dust and dirt. The only account they could give of themselves would be that they were put up to accommodate spiders. Indeed the benevolent attention paid in house decorations to the judicious lodgment of spiders is quite marvellous. I wish people, when they were building, provided as carefully for the accommodation of servants.

_Ellesmere._ The illustrations are good, but the maxim remains somewhat vague and obscure, according to my judgment. What do you say, Sandy?

_Johnson._ _Let every house in the country, and, where possible, in London, have a good large playroom, separated from the house by a passage having double doors at each end of it._

_Ellesmere._ Elevate Sandy upon a tub, send at once for Theed or Woolner, and have a statue made of Sandy, with a battledore in his hand. It is a most judicious suggestion that he has contributed.

What a place that room would be to send children to on rainy days, and whenever their irrepressible animal spirits keep the nerves of the elder people in a state of anxious quivering!

N.B. (and this would make that playroom an earthly paradise). It should be an understood thing that the family are not “at home” to visitors, when they are in the playroom.

_Sir Arthur._ What a place for private theatricals, without upsetting the rest of the house!

_Ellesmere._ No foolish flowers to be put there to take up room. It should be big enough for croquet, while battledore and shuttlecock and children’s hoops should revel in it.

_Milverton._ What a place it would be for a good jovial dinner to one’s poor neighbours after a cricket-match or an archery meeting!

_Lady Ellesmere._ What a place to practise archery in!

_Milverton._ I will engage to build it out of the expensive and ugly follies----

_Ellesmere._ Which would, of course, be committed, if you were not entrusted with the building of the house.

_Sir Arthur._ Another good point is that there would be much less space required in the ordinary reception rooms, if one had such a room as this for extraordinary occasions.

_Ellesmere._ You are all going into too much grandeur. Sandy and I mean this room to be roughly constructed and attached to houses of very moderate calibre; and, if we were left alone for a fortnight, without being bothered with essays, and had one carpenter attached to us, we would knock up something of the kind here.

Now, Mrs. Milverton, what is your maxim?

_Mrs. Milverton._ I will give up the playroom, though with great regret, if you will only give me two rooms separated, in a similar manner to that which Mr. Johnson proposes, from the house, to be used in case of illness, and especially in case of infectious illness.

_Ellesmere._ An excellent idea! But you must put it in the form of a maxim.

_Mrs. Milverton._ Leonard, do put it for me. You know I am not clever in putting things.

_Milverton._ Mrs. Milverton wishes to say that _Every house should be so arranged as to contain a domestic infirmary._

_Ellesmere._ Well, you are all very clever! and have offered a heap of good suggestions.

As I proposed the game, I think I ought to be allowed to have another turn.

[We all assented.]

Then I say, _When you are building, think of the comfort of your servants, even before you think of your own._

[“Hear, hear,” from Mr. Milverton and Sir Arthur.]

My first maxim, however, was the great one. I really am proud of it. I should like it to be commemorated in my epitaph. By the way, as this is Milverton’s last essay, it would be a very appropriate thing if I were to give you a sketch of what my epitaph should be. I think it should run thus. Give me your pencil, Sandy; let me write it out:--

He was a sound lawyer; And, by a peculiar felicity, Not uncommon to great advocates, The side on which he argued Happened always to be The side of justice and of truth. He never beat his wife, though she was often Very provoking. He was an endurable friend, And, in a dull country house, Was worth a deal of money As a guest. He was a good master to his dogs, A persevering fisherman, A powerful singer; And when he borrowed books, he always Took care to return them. The grand maxim, NEVER MIND THE OUTSIDE, Which has improved the Art of Building Throughout the world, And which has tended to dignify and purify All other departments in human life, Was his’n.

_Sir Arthur._ Excellent! But there must be a Latin quotation somewhere.

_Ellesmere._ Oh, ah! Latin. Yes, I have it. “_Quis tulerit Gracchos de seditione querentes._”

_Sir Arthur._ I must be very stupid, I suppose; but I do not see the appropriateness.

_Mauleverer._ Nor I.

_Ellesmere._ Nor I; but it will set people thinking. They will say I used it in some great speech, and that, as it had never been heard in the House of Commons before, it completely crushed Mr. Disraeli, or Mr. Gladstone.

_Sir Arthur._ No: say something of which nobody can make any meaning, such as “_Sed memor quia immemor_” (“But mindful, because unmindful,” ladies).

_Milverton._ No: turn it this way, “_Immemor quia memor_” (“Unmindful because mindful”), and then a very subtle interpretation might be given. Don’t you know that, when you know a person very well, and love him or her very much, you have more difficulty in recalling his or her countenance than that of any ordinary person?

_Ellesmere._ That is too fine-drawn. I stick to my Gracchi.

But is not my epitaph modest and touching? I could almost myself shed tears for the loss of such a man. I do not say that I was a perfect friend, but only an _endurable_ one. And then how exquisitely my honesty, carefulness, and general propriety of conduct are indicated in what is said about the returning of borrowed books! Some people might think there is a little flattery in the words “powerful singer,” but I know that Lady Ellesmere always goes out of the room when I begin to sing, and I conclude that her exit is from an excess of pleasure that requires solitude to moderate it.

I observed that Lady Ellesmere did not say anything, and looked grave. Women do not like this kind of jesting about serious subjects, such as epitaphs. Sir John saw this too, and immediately turned into another branch of the subject.

_Ellesmere._ What you said about pedantry, Milverton, was not bad, but I think it was muddled up in your mind with other things, and, if you examined the matter, you would find that what you disapproved of was a mixture of pedantry and insolence.

_Sir Arthur._ Resulting in disobligingness, which is but too common everywhere.

_Ellesmere._ Everybody knows, and Lady Ellesmere better than anybody, that I am the least offendable of mortal men. But I have been offended thrice in my life, and in each case it was by an official personage. Mark you that, Sir Arthur and Mr. Cranmer.

_Milverton._ Let us hear all about it. I can hardly imagine your being offended with anybody.

_Ellesmere._ The guilty official personages were the croupier of a gaming-table, a young woman in a refreshment-room at a railway-station, and an Under-Secretary of State.

_Mauleverer._ How came you to be on such terms with a croupier as to be offended?

_Ellesmere._ Don’t be alarmed! I never lost a penny at a gaming-table in my life. When once I am convinced that the odds, in however small a degree, are against me, not a thaler would I venture. But I met this fellow in some reading-room, and I asked him to do me some little service, such as one man may reasonably ask another, to show me where the bell was, or to be good enough to indicate the way to the hotel of the Three Knaves, or to allow me to have the _Kölnischer Zeitung_ when he had done with it.

He intimated to me that people mustn’t speak to people if people had not been introduced to people, and snubbed me entirely. He was the most insolent of the three.

She was the haughtiest. I was foolish and tiresome enough, seeing a largely-spread board, to wish for something to eat and to drink. The young lady was apparently absorbed in writing an epic poem. She looked over my head, as Dickens describes, “into the far distance,” and yet I felt she saw this tiresome person. I never was cut so dead in my life. I went away hungry and thirsty; but I found another damsel who was gracious and kind to me, and gave me a bun, from the stifling effect of which I have not yet fully recovered. Oh, she was haughty, I can tell you, that first young woman!

Now for my third snubbing. My time is too highly appreciated for me to bestow it unnecessarily; but I had to represent some grievance--I think it was for some constituents--to the ---- Office.

I made my way, not without difficulty, to the Under-Secretary,--not without difficulty too, from the many interruptions, did I contrive to state my case. Then he commenced snubbing me fearfully. You will think I was in a rage. Nothing of the kind. An odd idea struck me while he was talking, that amused me all the time.

Did you ever hear the story of Mrs. Siddons, “How gat he there?” You don’t know it? Well, she heard some one say of a Frenchman that he was in his bureau. Her ideas of a bureau were not of a room, but of a piece of furniture, and so the great tragic actress naturally exclaimed, “How gat he there?”

And so, too, all the time I was listening to this gentleman’s objurgations, I was saying to myself, “How gat you there? What Minister originally took you out of the ruck of men?” I say originally, because when once a man has got anything, he rises afterwards by a kind of routine, in parliamentary official life, as well as in the permanent civil service.

And then I thought of Milverton. He once wrote a story--the best thing he ever did write, to my mind. By the way, he will not live in future days by anything he has written that the public has read as his; but if he does survive in men’s minds it will be by some obscure thing he has written, which neither he nor the public has taken any account of.

_Milverton._ Thank you, Ellesmere!

_Ellesmere._ Oh, where was I?

_Milverton._ That’s so like Ellesmere; he has often so many persons on his hands to attack--in this case the croupier, the refreshment-girl, the Under-Secretary, the Minister who first noticed him, and my unfortunate self--that he hardly knows where he is, and whom he is mauling.

_Ellesmere._ Oh, yes: I know where I was. Milverton wrote a story about some people who were always obliged to speak the truth when it was dark. I began to fear that I was one of these people. It was a November day when I saw the Under-Secretary, and, though only four o’clock (I was on my way to the House), the shades of evening were coming on. A nervous dread seized me lest I should be obliged to tell my thoughts, and ask the Under-Secretary, “How gat you there?” I hurriedly took my departure.

That man was the rudest of the three.

But, seriously speaking--for I mean that all my stories should bear closely on the subject--this illustrates what I mean.

These three people were probably pedants. The croupier had a pedantic idea of acquaintanceship--the Under-Secretary of official work--the refreshment-girl about giving refreshments. I have no doubt I did something that was out of due course: asked for coffee at a wrong time, or committed some solecism in refreshment manners. I daresay they were all pedants, but they were ill-conditioned people too. Pedantry is not so harmful as you would make out; and besides, you often mistake a necessary preciseness, or an inevitable division of labour, for mere pedantry.

_Sir Arthur._ I really think that, when a man has written his own epitaph, it indicates a great desire on his part for rest and quietness. I am sure, therefore, that Sir John will be very much obliged to me if I take up the running in his stead, and offer what few objections occur to me.

I think you are all too much inclined to look at what is physical. What you have said about houses is very good; but, really, man is too great a creature to be made very comfortable merely by comfortable houses. I like best what Milverton said about social and domestic intercourse.

How many human beings, Mr. Cranmer, were there found to be in the British Islands on the occasion of the last census?

_Cranmer._ 29,423,628; I know you will believe in my odd figures.

_Sir Arthur._ Divide that number roughly by four, and it will come to something like 7,000,000. I have no doubt, then, that there are, at this moment, 7,000,000 of misunderstandings in the British Isles. You know what I mean by misunderstandings;--that A thinks that he has reason to think that B thinks meanly of him; and that B thinks that C said something very unkind about him behind his back; and that E is sure that F has prejudiced G against him, for G has never been so friendly with him since he (G) made F’s acquaintance; and so it goes on, through innumerable alphabets. Now this habit of self-tormenting might be considerably diminished by judicious education. Here is a thing, too, for preachers to preach against.

_Milverton._ The mischief chiefly arises from a kind of modesty--from a keen sense in most people of their own shortcomings and deficiencies. If people would only exercise their imagination in imagining that others think as well and as kindly of them (and this is surely not a great stretch of imagination) as they do of these others, the world would be a much more comfortable place to live in. The agonies that sensitive people invent--no, absolutely create--for themselves are as astounding in magnitude as they are ingenious in conception. I have seen the tears start into the eyes of a child on its being called by some new name of affection which it did not understand. Now, though a very humble, what a striking instance this is of the misery of misunderstanding!

_Sir Arthur._ A great French writer, I think it was Eugène Sue, said, “_Tout pardonner, c’est tout comprendre._” I would rather he had turned it the other way, and had said, “_Tout comprendre, c’est tout pardonner._” For, in truth, one would never be angry with anybody, if one understood him or her thoroughly. Now there is not time to understand them thoroughly. One must trust a great deal to the imagination: and therefore, I say, educate the imagination to believe that people are saying many favourable things of John behind his back.[44]

Footnote 44:

I did not understand this expression, but afterwards found out that it was anciently a way by which a man delicately alluded to favourable things that had been said about himself, “_Dicebant multa favorabilia de Johanne._”

_Ellesmere._ I know a John who never indulges in this fond imagination, and yet does not make himself very miserable by fretting over what he imagines people may be saying of him.

_Sir Arthur._ I was going on to say that we do not make enough of, or give sufficient encouragement to, pleasantness in people. I know I am only saying here what Milverton would say, and indeed what he has said elsewhere; but I do not think he gave the just weight to such topics in his speech, and that he, like the rest of you, dwelt too much on material comforts. He led you from the senate or the school to the social circle and the home; but I want to deal with the man himself, and with his modes of thought, if I am to make him “comfortable.” And I believe that a great deal can be done by training, especially by early training, to habituate our minds to “comfortable” modes of thought.

To illustrate how rare a thing is pleasantness of demeanour. I knew a lady who received, as it is called, London society very extensively. This lady was a comely, cosy woman, “fair, fat, and forty,” and one of those persons in whom others inevitably confide, and to whom they come and tell their grievances.

One day I was alone with her, when she began to talk of her experience of the world. I listened very attentively.

“Now, as regards you men,” she said, “what a number of clever and intelligent men there are! A clever man is no rarity! Also, what a number of good people there are; people (perhaps of rough, queer, awkward exterior) who gave no sign of their goodness and kindheartedness, but who, on the contrary, ‘from the cradle to the grave,’ are misunderstood; and who are very cross, too, at being misunderstood, when it is really their own fault, or rather the fault of their training. But if you want to know what is a rarity among men, it is a pleasant man--one who is safe, who never makes, nor takes, needless offence; who brings out the best points of other people. I assure you, Sir Arthur, when one has to give many parties, one learns to value such persons very much, and to discern that they are highly gifted.”

I never forgot this conversation, and have ever since been looking about for pleasant people. The lady was quite right: they are the rarities. Double their number, and the world would be much more “comfortable.”

Now, don’t come down upon me by saying that a man must be somewhat false, or too much given to assent to everything that everybody says, in order to be a pleasant companion. Falseness, or insincere assent, is immediately perceived, and destroys pleasantness of intercourse, instead of creating it. But a pleasant man can dissent from you heartily and earnestly, without giving the least cause for offence. Of course no man is pleasant who is not truthful. Now a disagreeable man will often dissent from you from the mere love of opposition, and you do not call that untruthful, whereas it is the essence of falsehood, and you never know what the man’s opinions really are, because he is so given to object to everything that anybody else says.

_Milverton._ I agree with every word you say, Sir Arthur; but do not blame me for not having introduced all these things into my speech; if I had done so, I should have spoken from breakfast-time till dinner-time.

_Ellesmere._ I must revive, and return to this dull earth; for I have something very good to say. I object to a species of ill-natured ridicule which is very rife in these days, and which goes by the vulgar name of “chaff.” I have heard the most ill-natured things said chaffingly.

_Mauleverer._ Well! If I ever!

_Sir Arthur._ Upon my word, Ellesmere, we must revert to the Latin of your epitaph, and exclaim:--“_Quis tulerit Ellesmere, de chaffatione querentem._”

_Ellesmere._ And I must revert to what you say about misunderstandings. I will knock off, at once, some four or five units from your seven millions of misunderstandings, for I daresay there are four or five foolish people who misunderstand me. Cranmer did, for one; but that’s all over. I never say anything that can hurt anybody of any sense. Half an hour ago, I said something to Milverton about his works which might be taken to be an unpleasant saying, whereas it was a high compliment; delicately veiled, I admit, but still a high compliment. Other people valued his well-known works; I, for my part, delight most in those which are at present obscure. All my _dis_pliments (if I may coin a word for the occasion) are (when unmasked) highly complimentary.

_Lady Ellesmere._ There never were masks, then, so like real flesh and blood.

_Ellesmere._ It is very kind of you, my lady, to point out how well the thing is done, and that the deception is so like real life; and yet, as I contend, it does not deceive anybody. The birds do not come and peck at my picture: they merely say to one another, “How well Sir John paints his cherries! It is quite a treat to look at them.”

Now, for goodness’ sake do admit that there is a gulf so wide between fun and ill-nature that no Curtius can fill it up. Don’t think you are going to make men comfortable by making them dull.

_Mauleverer._ I am going to have my “innings” now, and I shall presume to take you back to a very grave part of the subject. You may try to improve individual men as much as you like, but I can tell you that they will always be little, spiteful, vain, sensitive, backbiting creatures.

Now I think you may possibly do something to make governments wiser, and so improve the comfort of mankind. I do not wish to be censorious, but the statesmen of modern days do not seem to me to be well educated for statesmanship--to be well grounded in the things it most behoves them to know. A signal proof of this seems to me to be, that all great measures are carried by the very men who began by opposing them. I will not use the ugly words “renegades” and “apostates,” but, to use parliamentary language, I will say that the best measures are carried by gentlemen “who have seen reason, and are not ashamed to own it, for greatly modifying their opinions on this important subject,” which generally means that they have come right round.

I know full well that to make too much of mere consistency is a great mistake; but it does occur to me as a subject of regret, that statesmen should not have apprehended the drift of certain main lines of policy. Now I must speak a little egotistically, but it will illustrate what I mean. When I was a young man, and thought it likely that I should some day or other be in parliament, the great noise was beginning to be made about Free-trade and the Corn-laws. I said to myself, I will study these questions for myself: and I did study them carefully. I came to the conclusion, which was not particularly welcome to me, that the principles of Free-trade must prevail, and that the Corn-laws must be abolished. Now, really, I cannot help giving myself, and others who did as I did, more credit for statesmanlike views than those men who filled a much greater place in the world, but who seemed to be very deaf to sound reasoning, and never to have looked into things for themselves. I cannot respect them so much for their inconsistency, whatever merit it may have, as I should have done for their sagacity, if they had been consistently right from the first.

Another point has struck me about statesmen. Sometimes they do not seem to be equal to the clever men outside, or even to the general body of ordinary men, for that is the point. A Cabinet, perhaps consisting of really clever men, puts forth something which gods, men, and omnibus drivers protest against, not only as a thing bad in itself, but which has also this disadvantage, that it cannot possibly be carried. That good sense which forms the best part of what we call “the public mind,” seems sometimes to have no representatives amongst even first-class statesmen. This has really puzzled me. I am not speaking satirically at all, but very earnestly, and I hope humbly. Do explain this phenomenon to me.

_Cranmer._ Let me answer him. You seem to forget, Mauleverer, that these things you object to, which are put forth by statesmen, and which, as you say, are discovered to be foolish, even by commonplace persons, are the results of compromise. Now, every compromise is easily attackable. Your commonplace man has nobody whom he is obliged to consult. His views are therefore uncompromising and clear. You would see what modifications he would have to make if he had to act with others, instead of merely talking out his own views, upon his own responsibility alone.

_Sir Arthur._ It seems but fair to consider this.

_Milverton._ Still, does there not remain an important residuum of truth in what Mr. Mauleverer has stated?

_Sir Arthur._ Perhaps; but much less, I think, than you imagine.

_Lady Ellesmere._ Now may I not take up the running, or have the innings, to use the elegant phrases which you gentlemen adopt, and make my comment upon the speech?

How was it, Leonard, that you did not say anything about marriage, upon which, surely, so much of comfort or discomfort depends?

_Milverton._ My dear Mildred, are you going to be unreasonable too, like the rest of them? To discourse properly on such a subject would have required a long speech, and who is to make such a speech? An unmarried man cannot, for want of experience, and a married man will not; consequently there has been very little written or said about marriage, if we except Jeremy Taylor’s celebrated sermon, which is worth listening to.

I will tell you something which occurs to me, but it has reference to love-making rather than to marriage. I think that some of you women make a point of being too reserved and too reticent in the expression of your feelings, or rather of neglecting to give any intimation of what those feelings might be; and so, many a marriage, that might have proved very happy, has been prevented.

_Ellesmere._ I quite agree with Milverton that, considering the greater natural modesty and timidity of men, women should make more of an advance than they do. What would have become of me if Mildred had not been somewhat different from the rest of her sex? You know how it all happened?

“Johnny!” she said (I did think that a little familiar, and that she might have contented herself with “John”), “Johnny! you are intolerable to most men, and nearly to all women; but you are not so very intolerable to me. I don’t mind, if you don’t. Pegotty is willing.”

What could I do, but close at once with the proposition, and say, “Barkis is willing, and has been for many a long day”? And so it ended; no, it didn’t end there; I always do what the books tell me to do--I believe in books--and so down I knelt and kissed her hand. And here we are, not more miserable than other married people. Oh, it’s a capital instance of the advantage of women coming forward. Speaking on the part of men, having received a “brief,” marked with a large fee, and intituled “Mankind in general _v._ Mauleverer and Others,” I say we should not mind at all if women would take the leading part in love affairs.

_Lady Ellesmere._ I think I need not contradict this statement. The Court is too well aware of my learned friend’s power of statement, which is nearly equal in truth and accuracy to his “powerful singing.” Johnny’s audacity (I suppose I may call him Johnny now) is too well known for it to be supposed that it was wanting to him on any occasion. Their lordships, I am sure, are so far with me.

_Milverton._ Have you anything to say, Johnson? for, if not, I shall commence my speech in reply.

_Johnson._ I have something to say, but it is not quite relevant to the subject.

_Ellesmere._ Say it, Sandy. Hang relevancy and consistency, and all other strait-laced inventions for tying up the tongues of men.

_Johnson._ No, I shall postpone it to another time.

_Milverton._ Have you anything you wish to say, Blanche?

_Mrs. Milverton._ No, dear; I agree, chiefly, with what Sir Arthur has said.

_Milverton._ Then, I suppose, I may commence my reply.

In the first place, Ellesmere sneered at me about repetition.

[I did not hear Sir John say anything of the kind: I suppose it was an aside.]

I shall begin with a story.

I was travelling with one of the leading men of the extreme Liberal party in Ireland, a man of great eloquence, and it was at a time when O’Connell was in full force, and creating immense agitation for repeal. “What a great man he is!” said my friend. “Is there any man who can repeat the same thing over and over again in the way that he does? You do not see the greatness that there is in that. If you or I, poor creatures, were to have said the same thing once or twice, however appropriate, should we not be too shamefaced to say it again?--

‘Hereditary bondsmen, know ye not, Who would be free, themselves must strike the blow?’

Now, could you ‘hereditary bondsmen’ them more than once or twice in your life? You know you couldn’t. Whereas O’Connell can and will do so a hundred times. Those lines exactly convey his meaning, and he is not going to waste his time in searching for what would be sure to do not quite so well.”

What my Irish friend said made a deep impression upon me, and when I am drawing back from a word, or a phrase, or a sentiment, merely because I have said it once or twice before, I mutter to myself, “Hereditary bondsmen, know ye not?” and on I go with my word or my phrase, which happens to suit me now as it suited me before. Have I not answered you, Master Ellesmere?

[Ellesmere made a shrug of negation, but said nothing.]

I should like now to add a few words in explanation of my speech. I do not think I made very clear what I meant by unreasonable conservatism. I will give an instance. A man who has given considerable attention to the poor, and has been noted for benevolence, tells me that it would be an immense advantage if wages were paid in the middle of the week instead of at the end. I thought I knew something about this matter, but when I came to talk with this man, I found there were advantages, in the plan he proposed, that had entirely escaped me. Look, for instance, how much longer time the poor woman would have for laying out her husband’s wages to advantage. Whereas, under the present system of paying on a Saturday, she has scarcely any choice given her; for recollect that Sunday is the feast day: the day for which meat is bought.

Then another thing that you would never have thought of is, that no extra blaze of gas would be brought on, like there now is on a Saturday night, for the purpose of selling an inferior article under the deceiving influence of that extra light. Well, this man had two great establishments; one in town, and one in the country. At one he succeeded, but at the other conservatism, as he told me, was too strong for him.

Now, take another instance,--the locking of the doors of railway carriages. I never met with a man who could give me valid reasons for the continuance of that practice that almost everybody wishes to be discontinued. I believe that the reason mainly adduced for the practice is, that some madman might jump out while the train is in motion. But what a one-sided madman he must be, for the doors are only locked on one side. Bring the people of England to the poll on this question, and not one in one hundred thousand would vote for this locking up--except, perhaps, the madmen. They might naturally enough vote with the directors.

But the thing having been done once, irrational conservatism comes in, and years pass away before the thing can be undone.

Take another instance,--we mend our roads with rough stones, and omit to press them down properly. This injures our horses, spoils our carriage-wheels, and annoys ourselves; and, moreover, is a great detriment to the road. But to bring a heavy roller over these stones would be a Whig-Radical device, and irrational conservatism shudders at it.

Now I come to Sir Arthur’s remarks. Of course, if it had been an essay or a speech chiefly directed to the government of the man’s own mind, I should have dwelt much more upon the art of making men more comfortable in their minds. I should have mentioned, for instance, what I have said before, about the folly of hating, and of imagining evils for, others, upon this ground alone, that, exercise your imagination as much as you will, you cannot imagine anything which is sure to do your enemy, if you are stupid enough and extravagant enough to indulge in such a luxury as an enemy, any harm.

I should have endeavoured to deal with envy and jealousy in a similar way: but I was not speaking about the passions, but about the possible comforts of mankind.

Finally, I should like to say something more about communism. I fear I shall be misunderstood in what I said about that. I do certainly think that some of the advantages which communists aim at might be gained by central government, which, in my judgment, is bound to undertake that good for individuals which they cannot possibly compass by individual exertion.

But now, following the line of Sir Arthur, I will show that there is a much larger and higher communism in my mind--the communism of sympathy that should pervade all classes.

What is the great misery of each individual man? Isolation. “No losses but of my making, no tears but of my shedding,” says Shylock, being himself, partly from his own fault, and partly from the fault of cruel prejudices, one of the most isolated of beings.

You all know those words in the “Flauto Magico” which I admire so much. I have often repeated them to you, and (“Hereditary bondsmen, know ye not?”) I shall repeat them again. The words which please me most are--

“Fra noi ciascun divide L’ affanno ed il piacer.”

What a comfort it would be to human life if men felt they could divide their sorrows with other men, and how willingly they would then allow those others to partake their joys! Of course, I know that, upon this earth, such a state of things is impossible. The only approach that can be made to it is by sympathy, and sympathy must grow with knowledge. Changing and enlarging a little your French proverb, I would say--“_Tout comprendre c’est tout aimer._”

We dined together, and everybody tried, at least everybody except Sir John Ellesmere, to make the evening go off cheerfully; but it was manifestly an effort, and the wheels “drave heavily.” It was in vain that Mr. Milverton, playing the part of a good host, threw out topics of conversation, chiefly political. Sir John gave short, snappish answers, which led to nothing.

When we had left the table, and had drawn round the fire, there was a heavy silence for a minute or two, which was at last broken by Sir John.

_Ellesmere._ No, I will not come again; it is such a detestable thing, the breaking-up. Nothing is worth it.

I will come and see you, Milverton, if you are in trouble or ill, but I will not assist any more at these pleasant meetings.

What did Dr. Johnson say when he went over Garrick’s cheerful house, and saw Garrick’s pleasant, comely wife, and Garrick’s well-chosen furniture? It was something of this sort:--“Oh, Davy, Davy, these are the things which make it so terrible to die!”--and parting is a kind of death.

Now there is Sir Arthur. I knew him to be a great writer and a great politician, but I did not know that he was such a good fellow, and that he would endure the impertinences of a certain flippant lawyer, presuming to chaff him (shall I admit the word “chaff”?) about “The True,” “The Good,” and “The Beautiful.”

And then there is Cranmer. Who would have thought that an ex-Secretary of the Treasury would be so tolerant of such an unofficial-minded man as I am? And then, Mauleverer,--I now know that he has a large soul, and am sure that he likes me better than any turtle;--and Sandy, there; what a clever boy he is! Have I not taught him many athletic sports--such as fishing, and making ducks and drakes on the water? And I am very sorry to part from him, too. I hate parting, that’s a fact! and I am not such a hypocrite and impostor as, like the rest of you, to pretend to be very cheerful this evening.

By the way, having mentioned Garrick’s wife reminds me of something. With my fear of any great felicity in this world, and my horror of having to part from it, I almost wish I had never seen Mildred. She has made life too agreeable to me. Now then, dear, have I not said a thing which compensates for all rude speeches, past, present, and to come?

[It is always very difficult to know how far Sir John is in earnest. I think there was a touch of earnestness in that last sentence of his. Lady Ellesmere evidently thought so, too. In that beautiful woman’s eyes there came that mist which rises before tears, or upon the conquest and suppression of tears, and which gives the deepest and tenderest expression to a face. She stole her hand into his; but said nothing. Sir John continued--:]

Talking of “The Comfortable,” there is one comfort in having a wife, that one can throw one’s packing upon her; and, as no true woman can refuse a good opportunity for making a fuss, she is sure to delight in it. To-morrow is Sunday, and we start early on Monday; so, my dear, you really must set to work now. Remember to return those books of Milverton’s that we have carried off into our room, or my epi---- Don’t look so reproachful, my dear. Do you know, Milverton, our wives are angry with us: yours because you said it was your last essay; and mine, because I wrote a posthumous account of myself. You silly thing! it does not make one die a bit the sooner; and as for you, Blanche, Milverton’s threat of its being the last essay is merely a sign of increased liveliness, and a decent way of informing us that he is coming out next season with renewed vigour. Do Ministers always mean to resign when they threaten to do so?

No, don’t go just yet. I will give you a good winding up of all our writing and talking. Do you remember the concluding chapter of Rasselas, “in which nothing is concluded”? I will give you my version of it as applicable to ourselves. It is as follows:--

It rained incessantly (that is, it did yesterday), and the Friends in Council were confined to the house. A juicy day in the country promotes meditation of the most serious kind; and they had ample time to think over and to communicate to each other the various schemes of happiness which each of them had formed.

Mr. Cranmer thought that, of all sublunary things, taxation was the prettiest. He desired to found a state where the people would pay their taxes gladly, and where financial statements made by the Government would be universally believed in.

Mr. Mauleverer sought to enrol himself in a community where every man, woman, and child should know how thoroughly and hopelessly miserable he or she is, and where a joke should be a crime punishable by instant death.

Sir Arthur maintained that a perception of “The Beautiful” would, of itself, render all people sufficiently happy; but his wanderings from Mesopotamia to Yucatan had only brought him in contact with coarse people, who seemed more intent upon “The Beefy” than “The Beautiful.”

Mr. Milverton desired a kingdom in which right reason--that is to say, his own ideas--should always prevail. He had carefully fixed the limits of this kingdom; but could never find anybody worthy to be an inhabitant of it except himself and his private secretary, Sandy Johnson.

Mr. Alexander Johnson thought that literature was the salt of life, and that any man who had written a book must be very wise and very good. Some converse, however, with men who had written books, induced him greatly to modify this opinion; and he was now inclined to maintain that the northern part of each community contained all the worth, and wit, and wisdom of the land, and that the universe, to be well governed, should chiefly be ruled over by Scotchmen.

Mrs. Milverton desired to find--that greatest of household treasures--a good cook, with a good temper.

Lady Ellesmere proposed to form a female community, herself to be the head of it, where, freed from the turbulence of men, gentle means should be employed for the attainment of generous ends, and where rationality of enjoyment should be the just reward of perspicuity of design; but, never having been for any ten minutes alone with other women, without finding their society rather dull, she was beginning to conclude that men, as well as wasps, must have their place in creation (though she could not quite see why) and must be endured as necessary evils.

Sir John Ellesmere was contented to be driven along the stream of life without expecting to find anybody much wiser, more judicious, or less unreasonable than himself.

Of the many discussions and deliberations in which the “Friends” had been involved, they were now aware that some of them were wise, and that some of them were inept. Of the opinions they had pronounced, the precepts they had urged, the suggestions they had presumed to offer for the benefit--as they had been pleased to fancy--of mankind, reflection taught them that those which were the utterances of folly would be readily adopted by the common nonsense of their fellow-men; while such--alas, but few!--as were the dictates of sound wisdom would mostly be devoid of growth in the shallow soil upon which such seeds are, of necessity, scattered by the sower. Rejoicing in the thought that, if their lucubrations would do no good, at any rate they would cause but little harm--for the world is so full of foolishness that if a new folly is introduced it must perforce expel some other folly--the Friends in Council resolved, if the train should not break down, to return to their smoke-stained habitations in the “unlovely” precincts of modern Babylon.

After this there was much humorous conversation, everybody, except Mrs. Milverton and Mr. Cranmer, protesting that their views and hopes had been grossly misrepresented by Sir John Ellesmere. We then separated for the night; and I have nothing further to relate respecting our sojourn during the holidays at Worth-Ashton.

And now I must say a word or two for myself. I may not always have set forth accurately the conversations which I have undertaken to record. I may not even have chosen the most interesting of them. I am very young, but I think I am not unobservant; and the love I have had from my childhood for investigating character may have been useful to me in this instance. I hope it may have been so. But, at any rate, I have done my best, and can only hope that what I have done will not be received with disfavour by the public.

LONDON: R. CLAY, SONS, AND TAYLOR, PRINTERS.

Transcriber’s Notes

This file uses _underscores_ to indicate italic text. In the original text, the passages in dialogue are set in a slightly smaller font. In this edition, they are indented. New original cover art included with this ebook is granted to the public domain.

The following changes and corrections have been made:

• p. 21: Added quotation mark before phrase “Who is she.” • p. 76: Added quotation mark before phrase “and that the same thing holds good.” • p. 144 note 15: Change closing single quotation mark to double after poem. • p. 183: Added period between “Mauleverer” and “some nine miles out of town.” • p. 190: Added period after phrase “of course there are.” • p. 250: Added period between “Cranmer” and “I should like to have been a mail-coachman.” • p. 268: Changed “Quousque” to “Quo usque” in phrase “Quo usque tandem abutêre, Caitlina.” • p. 360: Changed “aer” to “are” in phrase “their grey-eyed descendants are ruling men.” • p. 368: Added period between “Mauleverer” and “and never could mount higher than thirty feet.” • p. 378: Added period after phrase “who are naturally prone to think they are neglected.” • p. 379: Changed “mazingly” to “amazingly” in phrase “I admire, as I have told you, the writers of fiction amazingly.” • p. 390: Added period after phrase “He was Leonard Milverton’s great friend.” • p. 412: Changed “to morrow” to “to-morrow” in phrase “consider what they would give us for dinner to-morrow.”