ELLESMERE 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.
* * * * *
“You remember Annesleigh at college,” said Milverton, “do you not,
Dunsford?”
_Dunsford_. Yes.
_Milverton_. 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.
_Dunsford_. Why does he not explain this publicly?
_Milverton_. 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.
_Dunsford_. It should be widely known and acknowledged then, that
silence does not give consent in these cases.
_Milverton_. It is known, though not, perhaps, sufficiently.
_Dunsford_. What a fearful power this anonymous journalism is!
_Milverton_. 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.
_Dunsford_. Is the anonymousness absolutely necessary?
_Milverton_. 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?
_Ellesmere_. 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.
_Milverton_. But take the other side, Ellesmere. What national dislikes
are fostered by newspaper articles, and—
_Ellesmere_. Articles in reviews and by books.
_Milverton_. Yes, but somehow or other, people imagine that newspapers
speak the opinion of a much greater number of people—
_Ellesmere_. 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.”
_Milverton_. 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?
We assented, and Milverton read the following:—
UNREASONABLE CLAIMS IN SOCIAL AFFECTIONS AND RELATIONS.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
* * * * *
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.
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.
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.
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.
* * * * *
_Ellesmere_ (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.
_Dunsford_. 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.
_Milverton_. 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.
_Ellesmere_. 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!
_Milverton_. 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 _from imagining that the
general laws of the mind are suspended for the sake of the affections_.
_Dunsford_. That seems safer ground.
_Milverton_. 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.
_Dunsford_. 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.
_Milverton_. Yes. All I say is, do not fancy that the general laws are
suspended for the sake of any one affection.
_Dunsford_. 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.
_Ellesmere_. 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.
_Milverton_. 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.
_Dunsford_. I am still unanswered, I think, Milverton. What you say is
still wholly built upon inducements, and does not touch the power of
will.
_Milverton_. No; it does not.
_Ellesmere_. We must leave that alone. Infinite piles of books have not
as yet lifted us up to a clear view of that matter.
_Dunsford_. 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.
_Milverton_. Yes, undoubtedly. An extreme notion about independence has
made men much less generous in receiving.
_Dunsford_. 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.
_Milverton_. 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.
_Ellesmere_. 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.
_Dunsford_. Really, Ellesmere, that is a most unfeeling speech.
_Milverton_. 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.
_Ellesmere_. 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.