notdeliberate
about
all
matters
alike
;
since
in
addition
to
their
continually
not
deliberating
in
cases
when
they
ought
,
there
are
many
matters
about
which
deliberation
is
out
of
the
question
.
Thus
no
one
deliberates
about
what
is
in
its
nature
immutable
,
as
how
to
alter
vulgarity
of
a
people’s
member
of
Parliament
;
nor
about
necessary
things
,
as
how
to
alleviate
the
misery
of
the
starving
poor
;
nor
about
things
of
chance
,
as
how
to
prevent
the
dissemination
of
cholera
;
nor
,
again
,
about
remote
things
which
do
not
concern
us
,
as
,
to
use
a
former
instance
,
how
to
alleviate
the
misery
of
the
starving
poor
;
nor
does
anyone
deliberate
about
impossible
things
,
as
how
to
check
the
poisonous
adulteration
of
food
;
nor
about
things
that
are
past
and
lost
,
as
how
to
do
anything
for
the
glory
of
England
;
nor
,
lastly
,
do
we
deliberate
about
things
we
do
not
care
about
,
as
how
to
get
that
lost
glory
back
again
.
Deliberation
,
then
,
only
takes
place
about
such
matters
as
our
own
agency
can
effect
,
and
which
we
wish
it
should
effect
.
Virtue
,
therefore
,
being
thus
based
on
deliberation
,
is
manifestly
not
one
of
those
things
that
come
to
us
by
nature
whether
we
will
or
no
;
but
it
is
acquired
by
habit
.
The
genus
of
moral
virtue
is
a
habit
.
But
what
special
sort
of
habit
?
and
how
does
it
differ
from
all
other
habits
?
Let
us
consider
this
.
‘We
must
remember
,
first
,
that
it
is
the
office
of
every
virtue
to
perfect
that
of
which
it
is
the
virtue
.
Thus
it
is
the
virtue
of
a
modern
London
house
to
be
as
badly
built
as
possible
and
not
be
seen
to
be
so
;
it
is
the
virtue
of
an
insured
ship
not
to
appear
unseaworthy
before
she
does
so
to
the
crew
as
she
is
foundering
;
and
it
is
the
virtue
of
butcher’s
meat
,
groceries
and
so
forth
,
not
to
appear
unfit
for
human
consumption
.
In
the
same
way
moral
virtue
,
or
the
virtue
of
a
man
,
is
that
which
makes
him
appear
to
be
one
thing
to
the
world
,
whilst
in
reality
he
is
another
.
Such
being
the
case
,
it
is
plain
that
in
trying
to
be
virtuous
,
we
may
,
as
in
most
other
things
,
do
too
much
,
or
too
little
;
and
what
is
right
will
be
a
mean
lying
between
these
two
extremes
.
Now
of
means
there
are
two
kinds
,
the
absolute
and
the
relative
,
either
of
which
we
can
find
in
anything
that
is
continuous
;
the
former
,
as
when
we
take
the
bisecting
point
in
a
straight
line
,
which
is
for
all
men
one
and
the
same
;
the
latter
,
as
when
we
take
the
mean
point
or
thing
with
reference
to
ourselves
,
in
which
case
it
will
differ
with
our
different
requirements
.
Thus
,
if
three
be
too
small
a
number
,
and
seventy-five
too
great
,
simply
as
an
arithmetical
problem
,
we
take
thirty-nine
to
be
the
mean
,
which
exceeds
three
by
as
much
as
it
is
exceeded
by
seventy-five
;
but
with
reference
to
ourselves
we
cannot
so
decide
.
For
thirty-nine
articles
of
religion
may
be
too
few
for
the
present
Archbishop
of
Westminster
,
and
three
may
be
too
many
for
the
Dean
.
Or
again
between
100l
.
and
20l
.
,
the
mean
with
regard
to
the
matter
itself
would
be
60l
.
,
but
with
regard
to
ourselves
,
not
so
.
For
60l
.
would
be
too
little
to
offer
to
a
cook
,
and
too
much
to
offer
to
a
curate
.
So
in
like
manner
that
equality
which
constitutes
moral
virtue
is
not
the
absolute
,
but
the
relative
mean
.
Moral
virtue
,
then
,
we
shall
define
to
be
a
certain
state
,
or
habit
of
purpose
,
conforming
in
action
to
the
relative
mean
,
and
adjusted
to
that
mean
as
the
worldly
or
snobbish
man
would
adjust
it
.
At
this
point
we
shall
pause
a
moment
to
make
a
very
slight
change
in
the
accepted
terminology
of
the
subject
.
We
have
hitherto
spoken
of
the
virtue
of
the
vulgar
classes
as
being
a
mean
.
We
consider
,
however
,
that
our
language
will
be
less
ambiguous
,
if
we
take
another
form
of
the
same
word
,
and
agree
to
call
it
a
meanness
.
Moral
virtue
,
then
,
is
a
meanness
lying
between
two
vices
,
its
extremes
;
the
one
vice
being
that
of
excess
,
the
other
that
of
defect
.
Thus
it
is
possible
for
a
habit
of
mind
to
be
so
unrestrained
and
vehement
,
that
the
acts
it
produces
at
once
betray
their
motives
and
obtrude
them
on
the
observer
;
it
is
possible
for
it
,
also
,
on
the
other
hand
,
to
be
so
weak
and
nerveless
as
never
to
produce
any
acts
at
all
.
For
instance
,
the
habit
of
thought
in
a
clergyman
may
be
so
strong
and
unrestrained
as
to
lead
him
to
speak
his
whole
conclusions
out
,
and
so
get
deprived
of
his
living
;
or
on
the
other
hand
it
may
be
so
weak
and
undeveloped
,
that
he
comes
to
no
conclusions
at
all
,
and
so
dies
in
a
curacy
;
the
meanness
between
these
two
extremes
being
what
is
called
vagueness
,
or
the
absence
of
any
defined
opinions
,
which
is
a
great
merit
,
and
leads
,
in
the
Established
Church
,
to
high
preferment
.
So
also
with
habits
of
action
,
the
general
name
given
to
the
true
meanness
is
worldliness
,
whereof
the
excess
is
snobbishness
,
and
the
defect
independence
:
worldliness
being
in
its
essence
the
former
of
these
,
and
in
its
aspect
the
latter
.
Whence
it
follows
that
we
may
yet
further
generally
define
the
moral
meanness
,
as
that
which
is
inwardly
one
extreme
,
and
which
is
outwardly
the
other.’
‘Now
,
’
said
Laurence
,
‘though
I
don’t
suppose
the
writer
of
this
really
cared
two
straws
whether
the
majority
of
people
were
mean
and
vulgar
or
no
,
there
is
a
great
deal
of
truth
in
what
he
says
:
and
I
think
in
our
ideally
good
society
one
of
the
first
things
we
want
is
that
it
shall
be
unmixed
and
genuine
;
I
mean
,
all
its
members
must
be
of
it
,
as
well
as
in
it
.
They
must
give
it
its
prestige
.
We
must
have
none
that
merely
get
their
prestige
from
it.’
‘Well
,
’
said
Allen
,
‘no
doubt
this
exclusion
is
better
,
if
it
could
be
only
managed.’
‘Don’t
let
us
think
yet
,
’
said
Laurence
,
‘about
how
to
manage
it
.
Let
us
see
what
we
want
first
,
and
see
what
it
costs
afterwards.’
‘I
certainly
believe
,
’
said
Miss
Merton
,
‘that
what
I
consider
the
extremely
bad
manners
of
a
great
many
very
fine
ladies
would
all
go
,
if
a
stop
were
put
to
this
jostling
and
scrambling
that
goes
on
about
them
,
as
Mr.
Laurence
proposes.’
‘See
,
’
said
Laurence
,
‘here
is
one
good
fruit
of
exclusion
at
once
—
the
redemption
of
our
manners
;
and
a
most
important
fruit
too
,
I
think
;
for
I
hope
we
all
start
with
the
understanding
that
our
society
,
ideally
good
as
it
is
,
is
above
none
of
those
outward
graces
and
refinements
of
behaviour
and
ways
of
living
that
give
us
such
pleasure
now
,
when
we
find
them.’
‘And
manner
too
,
Mr.
Laurence
,
’
broke
in
Lady
Ambrose
,
‘as
well
as
manners
—
Think
what
a
charm
there
is
in
a
really
charming
manner.’
‘There
is
indeed
,
’
exclaimed
Mr.
Stockton
.
‘The
dear
Duchess
of
—
—
—
for
instance
—
why
,
there’s
a
fascination
even
in
the
way
in
which
she
says
good
morning.’
‘Ah
yes
,
’
said
Lady
Ambrose
.
‘Now
,
there’s
what
I
call
a
really
perfect
manner
for
you.’
‘Very
well
,
’
said
Laurence
,
‘and
whatever
is
a
really
perfect
manner
,
in
our
ideal
society
we
must
all
have
it.’
‘I
must
confess
,
’
said
Allen
,
‘that
I
get
very
sick
sometimes
of
our
conventional
society
manners
;
and
I
often
long
to
have
a
good
genuine
savage
to
talk
to.’
‘That
,
’
said
Laurence
,
‘is
because
of
all
the
social
shams
that
we
have
just
agreed
to
get
rid
of
.
And
to
call
the
manner
of
society
conventional
,
conveys
no
greater
blame
than
if
you
were
to
call
language
conventional
.
For
manner
is
but
a
second
language
,
of
which
the
best
society
speaks
the
purest
dialect
—
the
Attic
,
in
fact
.
And
as
with
language
,
so
with
manner
,
the
more
uniformity
there
is
in
it
in
some
ways
,
the
nicer
shades
of
individuality
shall
we
be
able
to
express
by
it
in
others.’
‘Well
,
’
said
Allen
,
shortly
,
‘perhaps
it
is
so
.
You
are
very
likely
right.’
‘And
in
manner
,
’
said
Laurence
,
‘I
include
tone
too
—
that
special
and
indescribable
way
of
looking
at
things
,
and
speaking
of
things
,
which
characterises
good
society
,
and
distinguishes
it
from
the
rest
of
the
world
so
completely
,
and
yet
by
marks
so
subtle
that
they
would
utterly
escape
the
notice
of
those
who
don’t
know
their
meaning
—
that
little
extra
stroke
of
polishing
that
brings
to
light
such
countless
new
delicate
veins
in
the
marble
of
life
—
the
little
extra
stroke
of
the
brush
that
puts
a
new
refinement
,
and
self-possession
,
into
the
face
.
As
Browning
says
of
a
very
different
subject
—
Oh
,
the
little
more
,
and
how
much
it
is
,
And
this
is
something
quite
independent
of
any
special
ability
or
special
quality
on
the
part
of
the
individual
people
themselves
;
though
of
course
the
more
gifted
and
cultivated
they
are
,
the
greater
will
its
charm
be.’
‘Yes
,
’
said
Miss
Merton
thoughtfully
,
and
half
to
herself
,
‘I
think
all
that
is
quite
true.’
‘Of
course
,
’
said
Laurence
,
‘I
know
that
tone
alone
can
only
make
society
good
in
a
very
narrow
sense
of
the
word
.
I
merely
mean
that
no
amount
of
other
qualities
can
make
it
really
good
,
without
tone.’
‘I
don’t
in
the
least
object
,
’
said
Allen
,
‘to
the
marble
being
polished
;
but
what
I
want
first
to
be
sure
of
is
,
that
it
is
worth
polishing.’
‘Quite
so
,
’
said
Laurence
.
‘What
we
must
now
consider
is
,
what
are
all
those
special
qualities
and
accomplishments
,
which
will
make
a
really
perfect
society
the
best
among
the
best
—
such
things
as
wit
,
knowledge
,
experience
,
humour
,
and
so
on
—
the
veins
,
in
fact
,
in
the
marble
,
that
can
be
brought
out
by
the
polish.’
‘Ah
,
yes
,
my
dear
Laurence
,
’
began
Mr.
Luke
,
‘this
is
the
great
thing
that
we
shall
have
to
decide
about
;
and
it
is
this
very
thing
that
I
am
always
telling
the
world
is
—
’
But
he
was
interrupted
by
the
advent
of
Mr.
Herbert
,
who
,
with
the
exception
of
Mr.
Storks
and
Dr.
Jenkinson
,
was
the
only
member
of
the
party
not
already
there
.
Mr.
Herbert’s
whole
aspect
surprised
everyone
.
At
luncheon
,
as
all
remembered
,
he
had
been
melancholy
and
desponding
;
but
his
face
now
wore
a
bright
smile
,
and
there
was
something
that
was
almost
gaiety
in
his
elastic
step
.
No
one
,
however
,
ventured
to
ask
him
the
reason
of
this
pleasing
change
;
but
as
he
held
an
open
newspaper
in
his
hand
,
which
he
had
apparently
just
received
,
it
occurred
to
most
that
he
must
have
seen
in
it
‘something
to
his
advantage.’
‘Well
,
’
he
exclaimed
to
Laurence
,
in
a
manner
quite
in
keeping
with
his
look
,
‘and
tell
me
now
how
are
you
getting
on
with
your
new
Republic
?
You
ought
to
make
a
very
beautiful
thing
out
of
it
—
all
of
you
together
,
with
so
many
charming
ladies.’
‘Do
you
think
so
?
’
said
Laurence
,
in
great
surprise
at
this
cheerful
view
of
things
.
‘Yes
,
’
answered
Mr.
Herbert
,
slowly
and
with
decision
.
‘Ladies
I
always
think
,
so
long
as
they
are
good
and
honest
,
have
beautiful
imaginations
.
And
now
,
let
me
ask
you
how
you
have
set
to
work.’
Laurence
explained
to
him
that
they
had
begun
,
on
Leslie’s
suggestion
,
with
considering
what
society
,
or
the
life
of
the
highest
classes
,
would
be
at
its
best
;
and
that
they
were
going
to
see
afterwards
what
was
implied
in
this
.
‘Indeed
!
’
said
Mr
,
Herbert
meditatively
.
‘Now
,
that
is
a
really
beautiful
way
of
going
about
the
business
.
And
how
far
,
let
me
ask
you
,
have
you
got
with
your
picture
of
these
highest
classes
?
I
trust
at
all
events
that
you
have
made
a
good
beginning.’
‘A
beginning
,
’
said
Laurence
,
‘is
all
that
we
have
made
.
We
have
agreed
that
our
society
is
to
have
the
utmost
polish
,
ease
,
and
grace
of
manner
,
and
the
completest
savoir-vivre
.
It
is
,
in
fact
,
to
be
a
sort
of
exemplar
of
human
life
at
its
highest
conceivable
completeness.’
‘Excuse
me
,
’
said
Mr.
Herbert
,
‘but
the
ways
of
polite
life
,
and
the
manners
of
fine
ladies
and
gentlemen
,
are
beautiful
only
as
the
expression
of
a
beautiful
spirit
!
They
are
altogether
hateful
as
the
ornament
or
the
covering
of
a
vile
one.’
‘Yes
,
Herbert
,
yes
,
’
exclaimed
Mr.
Luke
,
with
a
long
sigh
.
‘And
I
was
just
going
to
say
this
,
when
you
joined
us
—
that
to
make
society
really
good
—
even
really
brilliant
and
entertaining
—
one
thing
is
wanted
,
and
that
is
true
and
genuine
culture
.
Then
let
us
have
the
polish
by
all
means
;
but
let
it
be
a
diamond
we
polish
,
and
not
a
pebble
.
Our
society
must
be
one
that
does
not
merely
dance
,
and
hunt
,
and
shoot
.
It
must
think
,
and
reason
,
and
read
.
It
must
be
familiar
—
the
whole
of
it
must
be
familiar
—
with
the
great
thoughts
of
the
world
,
the
great
facts
of
the
world
,
and
the
great
books
of
the
world
.
You
want
all
this
,
if
you
would
be
perfectly
brilliant
in
your
salons
,
as
well
as
really
profound
in
your
studies.’
This
was
assented
to
by
nearly
all
.
Lady
Ambrose
however
looked
a
little
uncomfortable
,
and
not
quite
satisfied
about
something
.
‘Don’t
you
think
,
’
she
said
at
last
,
‘that
if
everyone
is
to
have
so
much
culture
,
society
will
tend
to
become
—
well
—
just
a
little
—
’
‘Well
,
Lady
Ambrose
?
’
said
Laurence
.
‘Well
,
just
a
little
bit
blue
.
It
will
be
all
too
bookish
,
if
you
understand
what
I
mean
.
Don’t
you
know
when
anyone
comes
to
see
you
in
London
,
and
will
talk
of
nothing
but
books
,
one
always
fancies
it
is
because
he
isn’t
—
it’s
very
uncharitable
to
say
so
,
but
still
it’s
true
—
because
he
isn’t
very
much
in
society
and
doesn’t
know
many
people
to
talk
about
?
’
‘I
always
think
it
such
a
blessing
,
’
said
Lord
Allen
,
‘to
find
anyone
who
will
talk
about
books
,
and
will
not
be
perpetually
boring
one
with
vulgar
gossip
and
scandal.’
‘Oh
,
so
do
I
,
’
said
Lady
Ambrose
eagerly
,
‘but
that
was
not
what
I
meant
exactly
.
Mr.
Laurence
knows
what
I
mean
;
I’m
sure
he
does
.
No
one
can
delight
in
a
book
more
than
I
;
but
still
—
’
she
said
,
pausing
to
think
how
much
of
what
she
considered
culture
was
to
be
found
in
those
London
drawing-rooms
where
she
felt
her
own
life
completest
,
‘still
—
somehow
—
’
she
said
with
a
faint
smile
,
‘it
is
possible
to
be
too
literary
,
isn’t
it
,
as
well
as
too
anything
else
?
’
‘Perfectly
true
,
Lady
Ambrose
,
’
said
Mr.
Luke
—
Lady
Ambrose
was
delighted
—
‘people
continually
are
too
literary
—
to
my
cost
I
know
it
;
and
that
is
because
the
world
at
large
—
what
is
called
the
reading
world
even
more
than
the
non-reading
world
—
are
hopelessly
at
sea
as
to
what
books
are
,
and
what
they
really
do
for
us
.
In
other
words
,
if
you
will
forgive
my
harping
as
I
do
upon
a
single
expression
,
they
lack
culture.’
‘Why
,
I
thought
culture
was
books
and
literariness
,
and
all
that
,
’
Lady
Ambrose
murmured
half
aloud
,
with
a
look
of
bewilderment
.
Mr.
Herbert
however
suddenly
came
to
her
rescue
.
‘Now
,
all
this
,
’
he
said
,
‘is
most
interesting
;
but
I
feel
myself
,
something
as
I
imagine
Lady
Ambrose
does
,
that
I
should
like
to
know
a
little
more
clearly
what
culture
is
,
and
what
you
mean
by
it
,
when
you
call
it
the
essence
of
good
society.’
‘Yes
,
’
said
Lady
Ambrose
,
‘this
is
just
what
I
like
.
Come
,
Mr.
Luke
,
suppose
you
were
to
tell
us.’
‘Suppose
,
’
said
Mr.
Luke
with
an
august
wave
of
his
hand
,
‘instead
of
that
we
ask
Mr.
Laurence
to
tell
us
.
No
one
can
do
so
better
than
he
.
I
,
Lady
Ambrose
,
have
perhaps
grown
something
too
much
of
a
specialist
to
be
able
to
put
these
things
in
a
sufficiently
popular
way.’
‘Ah
,
’
said
Mr.
Herbert
,
’
this
is
really
nice
.
I
shall
like
to
listen
to
this
.
But
you
must
allow
me
to
be
merely
a
listener
,
and
not
ask
me
for
instruction
.
I
assure
you
I
am
here
altogether
to
be
instructed.’
Laurence
,
with
some
diffidence
,
assented
to
what
was
asked
of
him
;
and
there
was
a
general
rustling
on
all
sides
of
the
party
settling
themselves
down
more
luxuriously
on
the
grass
.
Every
influence
of
the
summer
afternoon
conspired
to
make
all
take
kindly
to
the
topic
—
the
living
airy
whisper
of
the
leaves
overhead
,
the
wandering
scents
of
the
flowers
that
the
breeze
just
made
perceptible
,
the
musical
splash
of
the
fountain
in
its
quiet
restlessness
,
the
luxury
of
the
mossy
turf
as
soft
as
sleep
or
rose-leaves
,
and
a
far
faint
murmur
of
church-bells
that
now
and
then
invaded
the
ear
gently
,
like
a
vague
appealing
dream
.
Mr.
Saunders
even
was
caressed
by
his
flattered
senses
into
peacefulness
;
the
high
and
dry
light
of
the
intellect
ceased
to
scintillate
in
his
eyes
;
the
spirit
of
progress
condescended
to
take
a
temporary
doze
.
BOOK
III
.
CHAPTER
II
.
‘AND
now
,
Mr.
Laurence
,
’
said
Lady
Ambrose
,
‘begin
at
the
beginning
,
please
,
and
don’t
do
as
Lord
Kennington
did
at
the
Eton
and
Harrow
match
the
other
day
—
go
talking
to
me
about
“
overs
,
”
and
“
long-stops
,
”
and
things
like
that
,
before
I
was
even
quite
sure
of
the
difference
between
“
out
”
and
“
in
.
”
’
‘Of
course
,
’
Laurence
began
,
smiling
with
a
little
prefatory
shyness
,
‘we
can
all
understand
the
difference
between
a
coarse
common
rustic
palate
,
like
that
of
the
burly
farmer
,
for
instance
,
who
just
enjoys
food
in
a
brute
way
when
he
is
hungry
,
and
drink
so
long
as
it
is
spirituous
at
all
times
;
and
the
palate
of
the
true
epicure
,
that
is
sensitive
to
taste
as
the
nicest
ear
is
to
music
,
and
can
discriminate
perfectly
all
the
subtle
semitones
and
chords
of
flavour
.
Well
,
transfer
this
image
from
the
mouth
to
the
mind
,
and
there’s
the
whole
thing
in
a
nutshell
.
There
is
culture
and
no
culture
.
A
person
is
really
cultivated
when
he
can
taste
not
only
the
broad
flavours
of
life
—
gulping
its
joys
and
sorrows
down
,
either
with
a
vulgar
grimace
of
disgust
,
or
an
equally
vulgar
hearty
voracity
;
but
when
with
a
delicate
self-possession
he
appreciates
all
the
subtler
taste
of
things
,
when
he
discriminates
between
joy
and
joy
,
between
sorrow
and
sorrow
,
between
love
and
love
,
between
career
and
career
;
discerning
in
all
incidents
and
emotions
their
beauty
,
their
pathos
,
their
absurdity
,
or
their
tragedy
,
as
the
case
may
be.’
‘You
mean
,
then
,
’
said
Miss
Merton
,
‘that
a
man
of
the
highest
culture
is
a
sort
of
emotional
bon
vivant
?
’
‘That
surely
is
hardly
a
fair
way
—
’
began
Laurence
.
‘Excuse
me
,
my
dear
Laurence
,
’
broke
in
Mr.
Luke
,
in
his
most
magnificent
of
manners
,
‘it
is
perfectly
fair
—
it
is
admirably
fair
.
Emotional
bon
vivant
!
’
he
exclaimed
.
‘I
thank
Miss
Merton
for
teaching
me
that
word
!
for
it
may
remind
us
all
,
’
Mr.
Luke
continued
,
drawing
out
his
words
slowly
,
as
if
he
liked
the
taste
of
them
,
‘how
near
our
view
of
the
matter
is
to
that
of
a
certain
Galilean
peasant
—
of
whom
Miss
Merton
has
perhaps
heard
—
who
described
the
highest
culture
by
just
the
same
metaphor
,
as
a
hunger
and
a
thirst
after
righteousness
.
Our
notion
of
it
differs
only
from
his
,
from
the
Zeitgeist
having
made
it
somewhat
wider.’
Miss
Merton
,
in
her
inmost
soul
,
did
anything
but
return
Mr.
Luke’s
compliment
,
and
consider
his
comment
on
her
words
as
either
admirably
or
perfectly
fair
.
However
,
she
held
her
peace
.
The
thoughts
of
Lady
Ambrose
had
been
flowing
in
a
slightly
different
direction
.
‘But
what
I
want
to
ask
,
’
she
said
,
‘is
this
.
I
want
to
know
why
it
is
that
whenever
one
hears
it
said
,
“
Oh
,
So-and-so
is
a
very
cultivated
person
,
”
one
always
expects
to
find
him
—
well
,
almost
half
professional
as
it
were
,
or
at
least
able
to
talk
of
nothing
but
music
,
or
painting
,
or
books
?
I
mean
,
a
man
who’s
merely
a
cultivated
person
doesn’t
seem
ever
to
be
quite
a
man
of
the
world
,
or
to
be
much
good
in
society
,
except
when
one
wants
him
to
talk
on
his
own
subjects
—
I
hate
people
myself
who
have
subjects
—
and
then
,
ten
to
one
,
he
doesn’t
know
when
to
leave
off
.
Now
,
Mr.
Laurence
,
I
see
you
want
to
interrupt
me
;
but
do
let
me
say
my
say
.
A
right
amount
of
culture
is
of
course
delightful
,
and
personally
,
I
don’t
much
care
for
people
who
haven’t
got
it
.
But
too
much
of
it
—
I’m
sure
,
Mr.
Laurence
,
you
must
agree
with
me
at
heart
—
is
a
mistake
.
And
that
,
you
know
,
is
all
I
mean
about
it
;
nothing
more
than
that.’
‘Ah
,
’
said
Laurence
,
smiling
,
‘I
think
I
see
what
it
is
.
You
will
look
on
culture
as
some
special
kind
of
accomplishment
or
taste
like
music
;
and
you
think
that
in
some
special
way
it
is
bound
up
with
books
;
and
books
you
look
upon
as
something
special
also
,
beginning
and
ending
with
themselves
;
and
,
unless
I
am
much
mistaken
,
you
think
that
the
more
books
a
man
has
read
,
the
more
cultivated
you
may
safely
call
him.’
‘Not
all
books
,
’
said
Lady
Ambrose
in
an
injured
tone
.
‘Of
course
I
don’t
mean
trashy
novels
,
and
of
course
I
don’t
mean
blue-books
,
or
books
of
history.’
‘But
what
I
want
first
of
all
to
impress
on
you
,
’
said
Laurence
,
‘is
that
whatever
its
relation
to
books
may
be
,
culture
is
by
no
means
a
bookish
thing
,
or
a
thing
that
ought
to
be
less
in
place
at
Hurlingham
than
at
the
South
Kensington
Museum
.
Nor
is
it
in
any
sense
a
hobby
,
or
a
special
taste
,
to
be
gratified
at
the
expense
of
anything
else
.
Instead
of
that
,
it
is
the
education
of
all
our
tastes
,
of
all
our
powers
of
enjoying
life
;
and
,
so
far
from
its
being
a
thing
for
recluses
,
and
a
substitute
for
society
,
it
is
only
when
naturalised
in
the
best
society
that
it
can
at
all
do
itself
justice
in
expressing
itself
outwardly
,
or
even
exist
in
any
completeness
inwardly.’
Lady
Ambrose
smiled
,
and
looked
more
interested
,
and
began
to
give
Laurence
her
most
intelligent
attention
.
‘Still
,
’
Laurence
went
on
,
‘culture
and
books
have
a
good
deal
to
do
with
one
another
;
and
since
they
are
so
bound
up
together
in
your
mind
,
let
us
try
to
see
at
once
what
the
relation
really
is
.
Let
us
begin
,
then
,
with
that
part
of
culture
which
in
this
sense
is
most
bound
up
with
books
—
most
bound
up
because
it
cannot
be
got
without
them
;
the
part
of
culture
,
I
mean
,
that
comes
from
the
knowledge
of
the
past
—
from
a
knowledge
of
history
,
in
short
,
or
parts
of
history.’
Lady
Ambrose
here
took
Laurence
fairly
aback
by
the
way
in
which
she
repeated
the
word
‘History
!
’
‘Well
,
judging
from
the
results
I
have
seen
,
’
she
said
,
with
an
amount
of
decision
in
her
voice
that
was
positively
startling
,
‘I
cannot
say
,
Mr.
Laurence
,
that
I
agree
with
you
.
And
I
think
that
on
this
subject
I
have
a
right
to
speak.’
‘What
on
earth
can
the
woman
be
meaning
?
’
said
Mr.
Luke
to
himself
.
‘It
is
not
a
fortnight
ago
,
’
Lady
Ambrose
went
on
,
‘that
I
sat
at
dinner
by
somebody
—
I
won’t
tell
you
his
name
—
who
had
not
only
read
heaven
knows
how
much
history
,
but
had
written
,
I
believe
,
even
more
than
he
had
read
.
And
what
do
you
think
this
good
man
did
during
all
the
early
part
of
dinner
?
Why
,
he
did
nothing
but
fume
,
and
fret
,
and
bluster
,
so
that
everyone
was
made
uncomfortable
,
simply
because
somebody
said
that
King
Harold
was
not
quite
so
excellent
a
character
as
the
late
Prince
Consort
;
and
I
heard
him
muttering
,
“
What
monstrous
injustice
!
What
monstrous
ignorance
!
”
to
himself
for
nearly
half
an
hour
.
I
don’t
think
I
ever
saw
such
a
—
I
was
going
to
say
,
’
said
Lady
Ambrose
,
laughing
softly
,
‘such
a
beast
—
but
I
won’t
;
I’ll
say
a
bear
instead
.
At
last
,
however
—
I
don’t
know
how
it
came
about
—
he
said
to
me
,
in
a
very
solemn
voice
,
“
What
a
terrible
defeat
that
was
which
we
had
at
Bouvines
!
”
I
answered
timidly
—
not
thinking
we
were
at
war
with
anyone
—
that
I
had
seen
nothing
about
it
in
the
papers
.
“
H’m
!
”
he
said
,
giving
a
sort
of
a
grunt
that
made
me
feel
dreadfully
ignorant
,
“
why
,
I
had
an
Excursus
on
it
myself
in
the
‘Archæological
Gazette
,
’
only
last
week
.
”
And
,
do
you
know
,
it
turned
out
that
the
Battle
of
Bouvines
was
fought
in
the
thirteenth
century
,
and
had
,
as
far
as
I
could
make
out
,
something
to
do
with
Magna
Charta
.
Now
,
Mr.
Laurence
,
if
that’s
the
sort
of
culture
one
gets
from
studying
history
,
I’m
glad
I’ve
forgotten
even
the
names
of
the
twelve
Cæsars
,
and
the
date
of
the
kings
of
England
.
Besides
,
’
Lady
Ambrose
added
,
‘it
makes
one
think
what
a
serious
thing
it
is
to
lose
a
battle
,
if
people
are
to
be
made
so
cross
about
it
six
hundred
years
afterwards.’
‘I
quite
agree
with
you
,
’
said
Laurence
,
‘that
if
that’s
the
sort
of
culture
one
gets
from
history
,
we
had
better
never
open
a
history
book
again
.
But
history
,
Lady
Ambrose
,
has
very
little
to
do
with
the
Battle
of
Bouvines
,
and
nothing
with
the
character
of
Harold.’
‘Then
what
has
it
got
to
do
with
?
’
asked
Lady
Ambrose
incredulously
.
‘It
certainly
has
to
do
with
kings
,
and
wars
,
and
facts
,
and
dates
,
hasn’t
it
?
’
‘What
people
call
facts
,
’
said
Laurence
,
‘are
only
the
dry
bones
of
history
.
It
is
quite
true
that
most
professed
historians
have
hitherto
,
instead
of
painting
the
face
of
the
past
,
simply
made
discrepant
notes
about
the
shape
of
its
skull
:
everything
that
could
give
the
shape
of
the
skull
the
least
significance
they
left
unthought
of
,
or
dismissed
it
in
an
occasional
chapter
.
But
really
the
least
important
of
all
the
world’s
events
are
those
that
you
can
localise
exactly
,
and
put
an
exact
date
to
;
those
which
alone
most
historians
see.’
‘But
,
’
interposed
Miss
Merton
,
‘don’t
you
call
such
things
as
the
events
in
Caesar’s
life
,
for
instance
,
or
Hildebrand’s
,
history
?
’
‘Looked
on
simply
as
events
,
’
said
Laurence
,
‘I
call
them
biography
,
or
I
call
them
illustrations
of
history
;
but
I
do
not
call
them
history
.
History
,
in
its
true
sense
,
is
a
travelling
in
the
past
;
the
best
of
histories
would
be
but
the
carriage
or
the
steamboat
you
travelled
by
;
your
histories
of
dates
and
battles
are
at
best
but
the
Bradshaws
and
the
railway-maps
.
Our
past
must
be
an
extension
of
the
present
,
or
it
is
no
real
past
.
Now
I
expect
,
Lady
Ambrose
,
that
,
in
its
true
sense
,
you
know
a
good
deal
more
history
than
you
are
aware
of
.
I
saw
you
reading
Saint-Simon
yesterday
evening
,
and
you
alluded
to
Grammont’s
Memoirs
at
dinner.’
‘Oh
,
of
course
,
’
said
Lady
Ambrose
,
‘books
like
that
!
But
,
then
,
they
really
give
you
such
a
notion
of
the
times
,
and
quite
take
you
back
to
them.’
‘Nothing
is
history
that
does
not
,
’
said
Laurence
.
‘Really
,
’
exclaimed
Lady
Ambrose
,
brightening
.
‘
“
II
y
a
plus
de
vingt
ans
que
je
dis
de
la
prose
,
sans
que
j’en
susse
rien
.
”
And
so
it
seems
that
I
have
known
history
without
suspecting
it
,
just
as
M
.
Jourdain
talked
prose.’
‘Pardon
me
,
’
cried
Mr.
Saunders
,
‘if
I
interrupt
you
for
a
moment
;
but
,
Mr.
Laurence
,
though
I
admit
that
there
is
a
great
deal
of
truth
in
what
you
say
,
you
have
not
even
alluded
to
the
great
function
of
history
,
nor
have
you
even
hinted
at
the
great
use
of
facts
.
However
,
perhaps
I
had
better
reserve
what
I
have
to
say
on
this
,
as
well
as
on
certain
other
matters
,
till
by-and-by.’
‘Very
well
,
’
said
Laurence
,
‘if
history
,
then
,
is
a
travelling
in
the
past
—
what
else
it
is
,
as
Mr.
Saunders
says
,
we
can
talk
of
afterwards
—
don’t
you
see
what
it
does
for
us
,
Lady
Ambrose
,
in
the
way
of
culture
—
does
for
us
,
not
as
students
,
but
as
men
and
women
of
the
world
?
Just
think
for
a
moment
what
our
own
age
would
seem
to
us
if
all
the
past
,
beyond
the
memories
of
our
grandfathers
,
was
a
blank
to
us
;
and
then
think
how
infinitely
our
minds
are
enlarged
,
how
a
freer
air
,
as
it
were
,
seems
to
blow
through
them
,
even
from
that
vague
knowledge
of
the
past
afloat
in
the
world
,
which
we
pick
up
here
and
there
as
we
go
along
.
Even
that
has
an
effect
upon
us
.
It
prevents
us
being
,
as
we
else
should
be
,
merely
temporal
people
who
are
just
as
narrow-minded
and
dull
as
those
merely
local
people
—
the
natives
of
a
neighbourhood
—
who
wear
gorgeous
ribands
at
flower-shows
in
the
country
.
Don’t
you
remember
last
year
,
when
I
was
staying
with
you
,
how
you
pointed
some
of
them
out
to
me
,
and
how
amused
you
were
at
their
ways
and
their
finery
?
’
Lady
Ambrose
smiled
and
nodded
.
‘Go
on
,
Mr.
Laurence
—
I
can
understand
all
this
,
’
she
said
.
‘But
I
want
to
hear
a
little
more.’
‘Well
,
’
said
Laurence
,
‘your
own
knowledge
of
the
history
of
France
and
England
during
the
last
two
hundred
years
—
you
know
well
enough
how
that
has
made
you
,
in
a
certain
sense
,
more
a
woman
of
the
world
.
What
would
you
be
,
for
instance
,
if
you
never
knew
that
there
had
been
a
French
Revolution
,
or
an
English
Revolution
—
a
Cromwell
,
or
a
Louis
Quatorze
,
or
a
Mirabeau
?
But
your
knowledge
of
history
does
not
end
here
.
You
know
something
,
at
any
rate
,
of
the
feudal
times
.
You
know
what
a
castle
was
like
,
what
a
knight
was
like
,
what
a
monk
was
like
.
You
know
something
,
too
,
Of
Roman
and
Greek
history
;
and
,
come
—
to
go
no
farther
—
you
know
the
Bible.’
‘I
hope
,
’
said
Lady
Ambrose
,
in
a
voice
of
reproving
solemnity
,
‘that
one
would
not
call
that
history.’
‘Certainly
not
,
’
said
Mr.
Saunders
,
with
a
small
suppressed
chuckle
.
‘At
all
events
,
’
proceeded
Laurence
,
ignoring
these
interruptions
,
‘you
know
something
of
Rome
,
and
Greece
,
and
Palestine
,
and
Egypt
;
and
each
of
these
names
is
really
a
little
aërial
chariot
which
carries
your
imagination
back
as
you
pronounce
it
into
some
remote
age
,
when
life
was
different
from
what
it
is
now
.
So
is
the
mind
widened
by
even
a
little
vague
history
.
Or
,
just
repeat
to
yourself
such
words
as
France
and
Italy
,
and
think
for
a
moment
of
the
effect
of
them
.
They
are
not
mere
names
—
mere
geographical
expressions
;
but
they
are
spells
which
evoke
,
whether
you
will
or
no
,
hosts
of
subtle
associations
,
rising
up
like
spirits
out
of
the
past
centuries
,
and
hovering
in
the
air
round
you
with
their
unbidden
influence
,
and
mixing
with
all
your
notions
of
Europe
as
it
is
now
.
Or
,
would
you
feel
the
matter
more
strongly
yet
,
think
,
when
you
are
travelling
,
what
but
for
history
would
Venice
be
,
or
Athens
,
or
Jerusalem
?
If
it
were
not
for
history
,
be
it
never
so
vaguely
understood
,
would
you
find
the
same
indescribable
fascination
in
Rome
?
’
‘I
never
was
at
Rome
,
’
said
Lady
Ambrose
.
‘We’re
going
there
next
winter
with
the
Kenningtons.’
This
piece
of
intelligence
brought
Laurence
to
a
stop
.
Mr.
Rose
,
however
,
whose
imagination
had
been
fired
by
all
this
talk
about
history
,
suddenly
broke
forth
.
‘And
also
,
’
he
exclaimed
,
‘is
it
not
by
history
alone
that
we
can
in
our
day
learn
anything
of
the
more
subtle
and
gorgeous
dyes
that
life
is
capable
of
taking
—
how
fair
a
thing
it
may
be
,
how
rich
in
harmonious
freedom
,
and
beauty
of
form
,
and
love
,
and
passionate
friendship
?
Why
,
but
for
history
,
what
should
we
be
now
but
a
flock
of
listless
barbarians
,
ὀνειράτων
ἀλίγκιοι
μορφαισι
φύρόντες
εἰκη
πάντα
?
Would
not
all
life’s
choicer
and
subtler
pleasures
be
lost
to
us
,
if
Athens
did
not
still
live
to
redeem
us
from
the
bondage
of
the
middle
age
,
and
if
the
Italian
Renaissance
—
that
strange
child
of
Aphrodite
and
Tannhaüser
,
did
not
still
live
to
stimulate
us
out
of
the
torpor
of
the
present
age
?
What
,
but
for
history
,
should
we
know
,
’
cried
Mr.
Rose
,
‘of
the
χάρις
of
Greece
,
of
the
lust
of
Rome
,
of
the
strange
secrets
of
the
Borgias
?
Consider
,
too
,
the
bowers
of
quiet
,
full
of
sweet
dreams
,
that
history
will
always
keep
for
us
—
how
it
surrounds
the
house
of
the
present
with
the
boundless
gardens
of
the
past
—
gardens
rich
in
woods
,
and
waters
,
and
flowers
,
and
outlooks
on
illimitable
seas
.
Think
of
the
immortal
dramas
which
history
sets
before
us
;
of
the
keener
and
profounder
passions
which
it
shows
in
action
,
of
the
exquisite
groups
and
figures
it
reveals
to
us
,
of
nobler
mould
than
ours
—
Harmodius
and
Aristogeiton
,
Achilles
and
Patroclus
,
David
and
Jonathan
,
our
English
Edward
and
the
fair
Piers
Gaveston
,
ἅμα
τ’
ὠκύμορος
καὶ
ὀϊζυρὸς
περὶ
πάντων
,
or
,
above
all
,
those
two
by
the
agnus
castus
and
the
plane-tree
where
Ilyssus
flowed
,
’
—
Mr.
Rose’s
voice
gradually
subsided
,
—
‘and
where
the
Attic
grasshoppers
chirped
in
shrill
summer
choir.’
‘At
any
rate
,
Lady
Ambrose
,
’
Laurence
resumed
briskly
,
‘you
now
see
something
of
the
way
in
which
history
gives
us
culture
;
and
you
see
,
too
,
—
this
is
the
chief
point
I
want
to
impress
upon
you
,
—
that
in
history
,
and
many
other
things
as
well
,
books
are
only
the
telescopes
through
which
we
see
distant
facts
;
and
we
no
more
become
bookish
by
such
a
use
of
books
than
you
became
optical
when
you
looked
through
your
telescope
in
Gloucestershire
,
and
saw
Captain
Audley
,
at
the
bottom
of
the
park
,
proposing
to
your
under-keeper’s
daughter.’
‘I
really
do
believe
,
’
said
Lady
Ambrose
,
‘that
that
man
is
a
little
off
his
head
.
However
,
’
she
went
on
laughing
,
‘I
give
up
about
the
bookishness
,
Mr.
Laurence
,
and
I
dare
say
one
really
is
the
better
for
knowing
something
about
history
;
but
still
,
I
can’t
help
thinking
that
the
chief
thing
to
know
about
is
,
after
all
,
the
life
about
one
,
and
that
knowledge
,
just
like
charity
,
should
begin
at
home.’
‘There
,
’
said
Laurence
,
‘we
quite
agree
;
and
that
,
if
I
managed
to
express
myself
clearly
,
was
the
very
thing
that
I
set
out
with
saying
.
It
is
with
the
life
about
us
that
all
our
concern
lies
;
and
culture’s
double
end
is
simply
this
—
to
make
us
appreciate
that
life
,
and
to
make
that
life
worth
appreciating
.
We
only
study
the
past
to
adorn
our
present
,
or
to
make
our
view
of
it
clearer
.
And
now
,
since
we
have
at
any
rate
suggested
how
this
is
done
,
let
us
put
the
past
,
and
the
distant
too
—
everything
,
in
fact
,
to
which
books
are
only
the
telescopes
—
out
of
our
minds
altogether
,
and
merely
consider
the
real
heart
of
the
matter
—
culture
and
the
present
.
I
tried
to
explain
just
now
that
we
meant
by
a
man
of
culture
one
on
whom
none
of
the
finer
flavours
of
life
are
lost
—
who
can
appreciate
,
sympathise
with
,
criticise
,
all
the
scenes
,
situations
,
sayings
,
or
actions
around
him
—
a
sad
or
happy
love-affair
,
a
charm
of
manner
and
conversation
,
a
beautiful
sunset
,
or
a
social
absurdity
.
I
declare
,
’
said
Laurence
,
‘I
could
tell
better
whether
a
man
was
really
cultivated
,
from
the
way
in
which
he
talked
gossip
,
or
told
a
story
;
than
from
the
way
in
which
he
discussed
a
poem
or
a
picture.’
‘Certainly
,
’
said
Leslie
.
‘I
don’t
call
a
woman
cultivated
who
bothers
me
at
dinner
first
with
discussing
this
book
and
then
that
—
whose
one
perpetual
question
is
,
“
Have
you
read
So-and-so
?
”
But
I
call
a
woman
cultivated
who
responds
and
who
knows
what
I
mean
as
we
pass
naturally
from
subject
to
subject
—
who
by
a
flash
or
a
softness
in
her
eyes
,
by
a
slight
gesture
of
the
hand
,
by
a
sigh
,
by
a
flush
in
the
cheek
,
makes
me
feel
as
I
talk
of
some
lovely
scene
that
she
too
could
love
it
—
as
I
speak
of
love
or
sorrow
,
makes
me
feel
that
she
herself
has
known
them
;
as
I
speak
of
ambition
,
or
ennui
or
hope
,
or
remorse
,
or
loss
of
character
,
makes
me
feel
that
all
these
are
not
mere
names
to
her
,
but
things.’
‘Do
you
call
me
cultivated
,
Mr.
Leslie
?
’
whispered
Mrs.
Sinclair
,
in
a
soft
parenthesis
.
‘I
mean
,
’
said
Leslie
,
finishing
,
‘I
like
to
hear
each
key
I
touch
make
,
not
a
dead
thud
as
on
a
piece
of
wood
,
but
strike
a
musical
string.’
‘Good
,
’
murmured
Mr.
Rose
;
‘that
is
good
!
Yes
,
’
he
continued
,
‘the
aim
of
culture
,
if
Mr.
Leslie
will
lend
me
his
nice
metaphor
,
is
indeed
to
make
the
soul
a
musical
instrument
,
which
may
yield
music
either
to
itself
or
to
others
,
at
any
appulse
from
without
;
and
the
more
elaborate
a
man’s
culture
is
,
the
richer
and
more
composite
can
this
music
be
.
The
minds
of
some
men
are
like
a
simple
pastoral
reed
.
Only
single
melodies
,
and
these
unaccompanied
,
can
be
played
upon
them
—
glad
or
sad
;
whilst
the
minds
of
others
,
who
look
at
things
from
countless
points
of
view
,
and
realise
,
as
Shakespeare
did
,
their
composite
nature
—
their
minds
become
,
as
Shakespeare’s
was
,
like
a
great
orchestra
.
Or
sometimes
,
’
said
Mr.
Rose
dreamily
,
as
if
his
talk
was
lapsing
into
a
soliloquy
—
‘when
he
is
a
mere
passive
observer
of
things
,
letting
impressions
from
without
move
him
as
they
will
,
I
would
compare
the
man
of
culture
to
an
Æolian
harp
,
which
the
winds
at
will
play
through
—
a
beautiful
face
,
a
rainbow
,
a
ruined
temple
,
a
death-bed
,
or
a
line
of
poetry
,
wandering
in
like
a
breath
of
air
amongst
the
chords
of
his
soul
,
touching
note
after
note
into
soft
music
,
and
at
last
gently
dying
away
into
silence.’
‘Well
,
now
,
’
said
Laurence
,
in
a
very
matter-of-fact
tone
,
for
he
saw
that
Mr.
Rose’s
dreamy
manner
always
tended
to
confuse
Lady
Ambrose
,
‘since
we
are
now
clear
that
the
aim
of
culture
is
to
make
us
better
company
as
men
and
women
of
the
world
,
let
us
consider
a
little
farther
how
culture
is
attained
.
We
have
just
spoken
of
histories
and
other
books
,
which
merely
bring
us
face
to
face
with
facts
that
would
else
be
out
of
our
reach
.
We
now
come
to
two
other
things
—
the
facts
of
the
life
about
us
,
the
facts
which
experience
teaches
us
,
and
to
which
all
other
facts
are
secondary
;
and
,
farther
,
to
the
way
in
which
all
this
knowledge
—
the
knowledge
of
the
living
present
especially
—
is
(
for
we
have
really
not
talked
of
this
at
all
yet
)
turned
into
culture
.
Mere
acquaintance
with
facts
will
not
do
it
;
mere
experience
of
facts
will
not
do
it
.
A
woman
,
for
instance
may
have
had
all
kinds
of
experience
—
society
,
sorrow
,
love
,
travel
,
remorse
,
distraction
—
and
yet
she
may
not
be
cultivated
.
She
may
have
gone
through
everything
only
half
consciously
.
She
may
never
have
recognised
what
her
life
has
been
.
What
is
needed
to
teach
her
—
to
turn
this
raw
material
into
culture
?
Here
,
Lady
Ambrose
,
we
come
to
our
friends
the
books
again
—
not
,
however
to
such
books
as
histories
,
but
to
books
of
art
,
to
poetry
,
and
books
akin
to
poetry
.
The
former
do
but
enlarge
our
own
common
experience
.
The
latter
are
an
experience
in
themselves
,
and
an
experience
that
interprets
all
former
experiences
.
The
mind
,
if
I
may
borrow
an
illustration
from
photography
,
is
a
sensitised
plate
,
always
ready
to
receive
the
images
made
by
experience
on
it
.
Poetry
is
the
developing
solution
,
which
first
makes
these
images
visible
.
Or
,
to
put
it
in
another
way
,
if
some
books
are
the
telescopes
with
which
we
look
at
distant
facts
,
poetry
—
I
use
the
word
in
its
widest
sense
—
is
a
magic
mirror
which
shows
us
the
facts
about
us
reflected
in
it
as
no
telescope
or
microscope
could
show
them
to
us
.
Let
a
person
of
experience
look
into
this
,
and
experience
then
becomes
culture
.
For
in
that
magic
mirror
we
see
our
life
surrounded
with
issues
viewless
to
the
common
eye
.
We
see
it
compassed
about
with
chariots
of
fire
and
with
horses
of
fire
.
Then
we
know
the
real
aspect
of
our
joys
and
sorrows
.
We
see
the
lineaments
,
we
look
into
the
eyes
of
thoughts
,
and
desires
,
and
associations
,
which
had
been
before
unseen
and
scarcely
suspected
presences
—
dim
swarms
clustering
around
our
every
action
.
Then
how
all
kinds
of
objects
and
of
feelings
begin
to
cling
together
in
our
minds
!
A
single
sense
or
a
single
memory
is
touched
,
and
a
thrill
runs
through
countless
others
.
The
smell
of
autumn
woods
,
the
colour
of
dying
fern
,
may
turn
by
a
subtle
transubstantiation
into
pleasures
and
faces
that
will
never
come
again
—
a
red
sunset
and
a
windy
sea-shore
into
a
last
farewell
,
and
the
regret
of
a
lifetime.’
Laurence
had
chosen
these
illustrations
of
his
quite
at
random
;
but
he
was
fortunate
in
the
last
in
a
way
which
he
never
dreamt
of
.
Lady
Ambrose
,
in
her
early
and
unwise
days
,
had
actually
had
a
love-affair
.
She
had
been
engaged
to
a
handsome
young
Guardsman
,
with
only
eleven
hundred
a
year
,
and
no
prospects
but
debts
;
and
though
she
had
successfully
exchanged
him
for
Sir
George
and
his
million
of
money
,
she
still
sometimes
recalled
him
,
and
the
wild
September
evening
when
she
had
seen
her
last
of
him
upon
Worthing
pier
.
‘Ah
,
’
she
exclaimed
,
with
some
emotion
in
her
voice
,
‘I
know
exactly
what
you
mean
now
.
Why
,
there
have
been
poems
at
one
time
or
another
of
one’s
life
,
that
one
could
really
hardly
bear
to
hear
repeated
.
Now
,
there’s
that
of
Byron’s
,
“
When
we
two
parted
.
”
I
don’t
even
know
if
it
is
right
to
think
it
a
good
poem
—
but
still
,
do
you
know
,
there
was
a
time
when
,
just
because
it
was
connected
with
something
—
it
almost
made
me
cry
if
anyone
repeated
or
sang
it
—
one
of
my
brothers
,
I
know
,
who
had
a
beautiful
voice
,
was
always
—
’
Lady
Ambrose
here
grew
conscious
that
she
was
showing
more
feeling
than
she
thought
at
all
becoming
.
She
blushed
,
she
stammered
a
little
,
and
then
,
making
a
rush
at
another
topic
,
‘But
what
is
Mr.
Rose
,
’
she
exclaimed
,
‘saying
about
the
Clock-tower
and
the
Thames
Embankment
?
’
‘I
was
merely
thinking
,
’
said
Mr.
Rose
,
who
had
been
murmuring
to
himself
at
intervals
for
some
time
,
‘of
a
delicious
walk
I
took
last
week
,
by
the
river
side
,
between
Charing
Cross
and
Westminster
.
The
great
clock
struck
the
chimes
of
midnight
;
a
cool
wind
blew
;
and
there
went
streaming
on
the
wide
wild
waters
with
long
vistas
of
reflected
lights
wavering
and
quivering
in
them
;
and
I
roamed
about
for
hours
,
hoping
I
might
see
some
unfortunate
cast
herself
from
the
Bridge
of
Sighs
.
It
was
a
night
I
thought
well
in
harmony
with
despair
.
Fancy
,
’
exclaimed
Mr.
Rose
,
‘the
infinity
of
emotions
which
the
sad
sudden
splash
in
the
dark
river
would
awaken
in
one’s
mind
—
and
all
due
to
that
one
poem
of
Hood’s
!
’
‘Yes
,
’
said
Laurence
,
not
having
listened
to
Mr.
Rose
,
who
spoke
,
indeed
,
somewhat
low
,
‘Yes
,
’
he
said
,
continuing
the
same
train
of
thought
he
had
left
off
with
,
and
looking
first
at
Lady
Ambrose
and
then
at
Miss
Merton
,
‘is
it
not
poetry
that
does
all
this
for
the
world
?
I
use
poetry
in
its
widest
sense
,
and
include
in
it
all
imaginative
literature
,
and
other
art
as
well
.
Is
it
not
the
poet
that
gives
our
existence
all
its
deepest
colours
,
or
enables
us
to
give
them
to
it
ourselves
?
Is
it
not
—
if
I
may
quote
a
translation
of
Goethe
that
I
made
myself
—
Is’t
not
the
harmony
that
from
his
bosom
springs
,
And
back
into
itself
the
whole
world
brings
?
When
Nature
round
her
spindle
,
cold
and
strong
,
Winds
on
and
on
the
endless
threads
of
things
;
When
all
existences
,
a
timeless
throng
,
Make
discord
as
with
jangling
strings
,
Whose
life-breath
bids
the
flux
of
blind
creation
Move
to
a
rhythmic
music
of
his
own
?
Who
calls
each
single
thing
to
the
common
consecration
,
When
rapturously
it
trembles
into
tone
?
Who
sets
our
wild
moods
and
the
storms
in
time
?
Our
sad
moods
,
and
the
still
eve’s
crimson
glow
?
Who
showers
down
all
the
loveliest
flowers
of
June
,
Where
she
,
the
heart’s
beloved
,
will
go
?
Who
,
of
a
few
green
leaves
in
silly
twine
,
Makes
toil’s
immortal
guerdon
,
art’s
reward
,
Raises
the
mortal
,
draws
down
the
divine
?
And
so
,
’
Laurence
went
on
,
‘if
it
is
to
the
bard
that
we
owe
all
these
fine
things
,
we
need
surely
not
fear
that
we
shall
be
thought
bookish
if
we
say
that
a
society
cannot
be
really
good
that
does
not
as
a
body
draw
a
large
amount
of
its
nourishment
from
the
bard’s
work
.
Of
course
in
one
sense
poetry
exists
unwritten
;
but
in
the
general
run
of
people
this
will
never
properly
awake
itself
,
make
itself
available
,
but
at
the
spell
of
written
poetry
.
Nay
,
this
is
true
even
of
the
poet
himself
.
Why
else
does
he
externalise
his
feelings
—
give
them
a
body
?
As
I
say
,
however
,
the
general
catholic
use
of
poetry
is
not
to
make
us
admire
the
poetry
of
poems
but
discern
the
poetry
of
life
.
I
myself
,
’
Laurence
went
on
,
‘am
devoted
to
literature
as
literature
,
to
poetry
as
poetry
.
I
value
it
not
only
because
it
makes
me
appreciate
the
originals
of
the
things
it
deals
with
,
but
for
itself
.
I
often
like
the
description
of
a
sunset
better
than
I
like
a
sunset
;
I
don’t
care
two
straws
about
Liberty
,
but
my
mind
is
often
set
all
aglow
by
a
good
ode
to
her
.
I
delight
in
,
I
can
talk
over
,
I
can
brood
over
,
the
form
of
a
stanza
,
the
music
of
a
line
,
the
turn
of
a
phrase
,
the
flavour
of
an
epithet
.
Few
things
give
me
such
pleasure
for
the
moment
as
an
apt
quotation
from
Horace
or
Shakespeare
.
But
this
,
I
admit
,
is
a
hobby
—
a
private
hobby
—
this
distinct
literary
taste
,
just
as
a
taste
for
blue
china
is
,
and
must
certainly
not
be
confused
with
culture
in
its
deeper
and
wider
sense.’
‘Ah
,
’
said
Mr.
Rose
earnestly
,
‘don’t
despise
this
merely
literary
culture
,
as
you
call
it
,
or
the
pleasure
it
is
to
have
at
command
a
beautiful
quotation
.
As
I
have
been
lying
on
the
bank
here
,
this
afternoon
,
and
looking
up
into
the
trees
,
and
watching
the
blue
sky
,
glancing
between
the
leaves
of
them
—
as
I
have
been
listening
to
the
hum
of
the
insects
,
or
looking
out
with
half-shut
eyes
towards
the
sea
across
the
green
rustling
shrubs
,
and
the
red
rose-blossoms
,
fragments
of
poetry
have
been
murmuring
in
my
memory
like
a
swarm
of
bees
,
and
have
been
carrying
my
fancy
hither
and
thither
in
all
manner
of
swift
luxurious
ways
.
The
“
spreading
favour
,
”
for
instance
,
of
these
trees
that
we
sit
under
,
brought
just
now
into
my
mind
those
magical
words
of
Virgil’s
—
O
qui
me
gelidis
in
vallibus
Haemi
What
a
picture
there
!
What
a
thrill
it
sent
all
through
me
,
like
a
rush
of
enchanted
wind
!
In
another
moment
the
verse
that
goes
just
before
,
also
came
to
me
—
Virginibus
bacchata
Lacaenis
and
into
the
delicious
scene
now
around
me
—
this
beautiful
modern
garden
—
mixed
instantly
visions
of
Greek
mountains
,
and
ragged
summits
,
and
choirs
of
Laconian
maidens
maddened
with
a
divine
enthusiasm
,
and
with
fair
white
vesture
wildly
floating
.
Again
,
another
line
from
the
same
poem
,
from
the
same
passage
,
touched
my
memory
,
and
changed
,
in
a
moment
,
the
whole
complexion
of
my
feelings
—
Felix
qui
potuit
rerum
cognoscere
causas
.
Think
of
that
!
The
spirit
is
whirled
away
in
a
moment
of
time
,
and
set
amongst
quite
new
images
,
quite
other
sources
of
excitement
.
But
again
,
in
an
instant
,
the
splash
of
the
fountain
caught
my
ear
,
and
awoke
,
I
scarcely
know
how
,
the
memory
of
some
lines
in
one
of
Petrarch’s
Epistles
—
Soporifero
clausam
qui
murmure
vallem
and
my
imagination
,
on
the
wings
of
the
verses
,
was
borne
away
floating
towards
Vaucluse
.
Think
,
then
,
within
the
space
of
five
minutes
how
many
thoughts
and
sensations
,
composite
and
crowded
,
can
,
by
the
agency
of
mere
literature
,
enrich
the
mind
,
and
make
life
intenser.’
‘And
I
—
’
said
Laurence
,
smiling
,
—
‘do
you
see
that
far-away
sail
out
—
on
the
horizon
line
?
—
well
,
I
caught
myself
murmuring
over
a
scrap
of
Milton
,
only
two
minutes
ago
—
As
when
afar
at
sea
a
fleet
descried
Hangs
in
the
clouds
,
by
equinoctial
gales
Why
,
I
could
go
on
capping
verses
with
you
the
whole
afternoon
,
if
we
had
nothing
else
to
do
.
But
besides
this
,
a
knowledge
of
books
as
books
has
got
another
use
.
How
it
enriches
conversation
,
by
enabling
us
to
talk
by
hints
and
allusions
,
and
to
convey
so
many
more
meanings
than
our
actual
words
express
.
I
came
across
an
exquisite
instance
of
this
the
other
day
,
in
a
book
of
anecdotes
about
the
poet
Rogers
,
which
shows
how
a
familiarity
with
the
scenes
even
of
Greek
poetry
may
give
a
brilliance
to
fashionable
talk
in
the
nineteenth
century
.
One
evening
at
Miss
Lydia
White’s
—
she
was
a
Tory
,
and
well
known
then
in
society
—
a
guest
who
was
a
Whig
,
said
à
propos
of
the
depressed
state
of
his
own
party
at
the
time
,
“
There
is
nothing
left
for
us
but
to
sacrifice
a
Tory
virgin
.
”
“
Yes
,
”
said
Miss
Lydia
White
,
“
I
believe
there’s
nothing
the
Whigs
wouldn’t
do
to
raise
the
wind
.
”
But
yet
,
after
all
,
this
is
not
the
important
thing
,
and
I
hope
Lady
Ambrose
will
forgive
us
for
having
talked
so
long
about
it.’
‘And
so
one
must
read
a
great
deal
,
after
all
,
to
be
really
cultivated
,
’
said
Lady
Ambrose
,
in
a
disappointed
tone
.
‘You’ve
made
culture
seem
so
nice
,
that
I
feel
positively
quite
ashamed
to
think
how
seldom
now
I
look
at
a
line
of
poetry
,
except
,
of
course
,
when
anything
new
comes
out
,
that
everybody
must
read.’
‘I
don’t
think
you
need
be
afraid
on
that
score
,
’
said
Leslie
.
‘If
society
is
to
be
cultivated
,
it
must
,
no
doubt
,
read
a
good
deal
,
as
a
body
.
But
all
its
members
need
not
.
With
women
especially
,
nothing
startles
me
more
than
when
I
find
sometimes
how
very
far
,
if
they
have
had
any
serious
experience
of
the
world
and
life
,
a
very
little
poetry
will
go.’
‘I
expect
,
’
said
Miss
Merton
,
‘that
we
