I remember, several years ago, a conversation in the diligence coming from Paris, in which, on its being mentioned that a man had married his wife after thirteen years’ courtship, a fellow-countryman of mine observed, that ‘then, at least, he would be acquainted with her character’; when a Monsieur P—— inventor and proprietor1 of the Invisible Girl, made answer, ‘No, not at all; for that the very next day she might turn out the very reverse of the character that she had appeared in during all the preceding time.’89 I could not help admiring the superior sagacity of the French juggler2, and it struck me then that we could never be sure when we had got at the bottom of this riddle3.
There are various ways of getting at a knowledge of character — by looks, words, actions. The first of these, which seems the most superficial, is perhaps the safest, and least liable to deceive: nay4, it is that which mankind, in spite of their pretending to the contrary, most generally go by. Professions pass for nothing, and actions may be counterfeited5; but a man cannot help his looks. ‘Speech,’ said a celebrated6 wit, ‘was given to man to conceal7 his thoughts.’ Yet I do not know that the greatest hypocrites are the least silent. The mouth of Cromwell is pursed up in the portraits of him, as if he was afraid to trust himself with words. Lord Chesterfield advises us, if we wish to know the real sentiments of the person we are conversing8 with, to look in his face, for he can more easily command his words than his features. A man’s whole life may be picture painted of him by a great artist would probably stamp his true character on the canvas, and betray the secret to posterity9. Men’s opinions were divided, in their lifetimes, about such prominent personages as Charles V. and Ignatius Loyola, partly, no doubt, from passion and interest, but partly from contradictory10 evidence in their ostensible11 conduct: the spectator, who has ever seen their pictures by Titian, judges of them at once, and truly. I had rather leave a good portrait of myself behind me than have a fine epitaph. The face, for the most part, tells what we have thought and felt — the rest is nothing. I prefixed to his poems than from anything he ever wrote. Caesar’s Commentaries would not have redeemed12 him in my opinion, if the bust13 of him had resembled the Duke of Wellington. My old friend Fawcett used to say, that if Sir Isaac Newton himself had lisped, he could not have thought anything of him. So I cannot persuade myself that any one is a great man who looks like a fool. In this I may be wrong.
First impressions are often the truest, as we find (not unfrequently) to our cost when we have been wheedled14 out of them by plausible15 professions or actions. A man’s look is the work of years, it is stamped on his countenance16 by the events of his whole life, nay, more, by the hand of nature, and it is not to be got rid of easily. There is, as it has been remarked repeatedly, something in a person’s appearance at first sight which we do not like, and that gives us an odd twinge, but which is overlooked in a multiplicity of other circumstances, till the mask is taken off, and we see this lurking18 character verified in the plainest manner in the sequel. We are struck at first, and by chance, with what is peculiar19 and characteristic; also with permanent traits and general effect: this afterwards goes off in a set of unmeaning, common-place details. This sort of prima facie evidence, then, shows what a man is better than what he says or does; for it shows us the habit of his mind, which is the same under all circumstances and disguises. You will say, on the other hand, that there is no judging by appearances, as a general rule. No one, for instance, would take such a person for a very clever man without knowing who he was. Then, ten to one, he is not: he may have got the reputation, but it is a mistake. You say, there is Mr. ——— undoubtedly20 a person of great genius; yet, except when excited by something extraordinary, he seems half dead. He has wit at will, yet wants life and spirit. He is capable of the most generous acts, yet meanness seems to cling to every motion. He looks like a poor creature — and in truth he is one! The first impression he gives you of him answers nearly to the feeling he has of his personal identity; and this image of himself, rising from his thoughts, and shrouding21 his faculties22, is that which sits with him in the house, walks out with him into the street, and haunts his bedside. The best part of his existence is dull, cloudy, leaden: the flashes of light that proceed from it, or streak23 it here and there, may dazzle others, but do not deceive himse deficiency it indicates. He who undervalues himself is justly undervalued by others. Whatever good properties he may possess are, in fact, neutralised by a ‘cold rheum’ running through his veins24, and taking away the zest25 of his pretensions26, the pith and marrow27 of his performances. What is it to me that I can write these TABLE-TALKS? It is true I can, by a reluctant effort, rake up a parcel of half-forgotten observations, but they do not float on the surface of my mind, nor stir it with any sense of pleasure, nor even of pride. Others have more property in them than I have: they may reap the benefit, I have only had the pain. Otherwise, they are to me as if they had never existed; nor should I know that I had ever thought at all, but that I am reminded of it by the strangeness of my appearance, and my unfitness for everything else. Look in Coleridge’s face while he is talking. His words are such as might ‘create a soul under the ribs28 of death.’ His face is a blank. Which are we to consider as the true index of his mind? Pain, languor29, shadowy remembrances, are the uneasy inmates30 there: his lips move mechanically!
There are people that we do not like, though we may have known them long, and have no fault to find with them, ‘their appearance, as we say, is so much against them.’ That is not all, if we could find it out. There is, generally, a reason for this prejudice; for nature is true to itself. They may be very good sort of people too, in their way, but still something is the matter. There is a coldness, a selfishness, a levity31, an insincerity, which we cannot fix upon any particular phrase or action, but we see it in their whole persons and deportment. One reason that we do not see it in any other way may be, that they are all the time trying to conceal this defect by every means in their power. There is, luckily, a sort of second sight in morals: we discern the lurking indications of temper and habit a long while before their palpable effects appear. I once used to meet with a person at an ordinary, a very civil, good-looking man in other respects, but with an odd look about his eyes, which I could not explain, as if he saw you under their fringed lids, and you could not see him again: this man was a common sharper. The greatest hypocrite I ever knew was a little, demure32, pretty, modest-looking girl, with eyes timidly cast upon the ground, and an air soft as enchantment33; the only circumstance that could lead to a suspicion of her true character was a cold, sullen34, watery35, glazed36 look about the eyes, which she bent37 on vacancy38, as if determined39 to avoid all explanation with yours. I might have spied in their glittering, motionless surface the rocks and quicksands that awaited me below! We do not feel quite at ease in the company or friendship of those who have any natural obliquity40 or imperfection of person. The reason is, they are not on the best terms with themselves, and are sometimes apt to play off on others the tricks that nature has played them. This, however, is a remark that, perhaps, ought not to have been made. I know a person to whom it has been objected as a disqualification for friendship, that he never shakes you cordially by the hand. I own this is a damper to sanguine41 and florid temperaments42, who abound43 in these practical demonstrations44 and ‘compliments extern.’ The same person who testifies the least pleasure at meeting you, is the last to quit his seat in your company, grapples with a subject in conversation right earnestly, and is, I take it, backward to give up a cause or a friend. Cold and distant in appearance, he piques45 himself on being the king of good haters, and a no less zealous46 partisan47. The most phlegmatic48 constitutions often contain the most inflammable spirits — a fire is struck from the hardest flints.
And this is another reason that makes it difficult to judge of character. Extremes meet; and qualities display themselves by the most contradictory appearances. Any inclination49, in consequence of being generally suppressed, vents17 itself the more violently when an opportunity presents itself: the greatest grossness sometimes accompanies the greatest refinement50, as a natural relief, one to the other; and we find the most reserved and indifferent tempers at the beginning of an entertainment, or an acquaintance, turn out the most communicative and cordial at the end of it. Some spirits exhaust themselves at first: others gain strength by progression. Some minds have a greater facility of throwing off impressions — are, as it were, more transparent51 or porous52 than others. Thus the French present a marked contrast to the English in this respect. A Frenchman addresses you at once with a sort of lively indifference53: an Englishman is more on his guard, feels his way, and is either exceedingly reserved, or lets you into his whole confidence, which he cannot so well impart to an entire stranger. Again, a Frenchman is naturally humane54: an Englishman is, I should say, only friendly by habit. His virtues55 and his vices57 cost him more than they do his more gay and volatile59 neighbours. An Englishman is said to speak his mind more plainly than others — yes, if it will give you pain to hear it. He does not care whom he offends by his discourse60: a foreigner generally strives to oblige in what he says. The French are accused of promising61 more than they perform. That may be, and yet they may perform as many good-natured acts as the English, if the latter are as averse62 to perform as they are to promise. Even the professions of the French may be sincere at the time, or arise out of the impulse of the moment; though their desire to serve you may be neither very violent nor very lasting63. I cannot think, notwithstanding, that the French are not a serious people; nay, that they are not a more reflecting people than the common run of the English. Let those who think them merely light and mercurial65 explain that enigma66, their everlasting67 prosing tragedy. The English are considered as comparatively a slow, plodding68 people. If the French are quicker, they are also more plodding. See, for example, how highly finished and elaborate their works of art are! How systematic69 and correct they aim at being in all their productions of a graver cast! ‘If the French have a fault,’ as Yorick said, ‘it is that they are too grave.’ With wit, sense, cheerfulness, patience, good-nature, and refinement of manners, all they want is imagination and sturdiness of moral principle! Such are some of the contradictions in the character of the two nations, and so little does the character of either appear to have been understood! Nothing can be more ridiculous indeed than the way in which we exaggerate each other’s vices and extenuate70 our own. The whole is an affair of prejudice on one side of the question, and of partiality on the other. Travellers who set out to carry back a true report of the case appear to lose not only the use of their understandings, but of their senses, the instant they set foot in a foreign land. The commonest facts and appearances are distorted and discoloured. They go abroad with certain preconceived notions on the subject, and they make everything answer, in reason’s spite, to their favourite theory. In addition to the difficulty of explaining customs and manners foreign to our own, there are all the obstacles of wilful71 prepossession thrown in the way. It is not, therefore, much to be wondered at that nations have arrived at so little knowledge of one another’s characters; and that, where the object has been to widen the breach72 between them, any slight differences that occur are easily blown into a blaze of fury by repeated misrepresentations, and all the exaggerations that malice73 or folly74 can invent!
This ignorance of character is not confined to foreign nations: we are ignorant of that of our own countrymen in a class a little below or above ourselves. We shall hardly pretend to pronounce magisterially75 on the good or bad qualities of strangers; and, at the same time, we are ignorant of those of our friends, of our kindred, and of our own. We are in all these cases either too near or too far off the object to judge of it properly.
Persons, for instance, in a higher or middle rank of life know little or nothing of the characters of those below them, as servants, country people, etc. I would lay it down in the first place as a general rule on this subject, that all uneducated people are hypocrites. Their sole business is to deceive. They conceive themselves in a state of hostility76 with others, and stratagems77 are fair in war. The inmates of the kitchen and the parlour are always (as far as respects their feelings and intentions towards each other) in Hobbes’s; ‘state of nature.’ Servants and others in that line of life have nothing to exercise their spare talents for invention upon but those about them. Their superfluous78 electrical particles of wit and fancy are not carried off by those established and fashionable conductors, novels and romances. Their faculties are not buried in books, but all alive and stirring, erect79 and bristling80 like a cat’s back. Their coarse conversation sparkles with ‘wild wit, invention ever new.’ Their betters try all they can to set themselves up above them, and they try all they can to pull them down to their own level. They do this by getting up a little comic interlude, a daily, domestic, homely81 drama out of the odds82 and ends of the family failings, of which there is in general a pretty plentiful83 supply, or make up the deficiency of materials out of their own heads. They turn the qualities of their masters and mistresses inside out, and any real kindness or condescension84 only sets them the more against you. They are not to be taken in that way — they will not be baulked in the spite they have to you. They only set to work with redoubled alacrity85, to lessen86 the favour or to blacken your character. They feel themselves like a degraded caste, and cannot understand how the obligations can be all on one side, and the advantages all on the other. You cannot come to equal terms with them — they reject all such overtures87 as insidious88 and hollow — nor can you ever calculate upon their gratitude89 or goodwill90, any more than if they were so many strolling Gipsies or wild Indians. They have no fellow-feeling, they keep no faith with the more privileged classes. They are in your power, and they endeavour to be even with you by trick and cunning, by lying and chicanery91. In this they have nothing to restrain them. Their whole life is a succession of shifts, excuses, and expedients92. The love of truth is a principle with those only who have made it their study, who have applied93 themselves to the pursuit of some art or science, where the intellect is severely94 tasked, and learns by habit to take a pride in, and to set a just value on, the correctness of its conclusions. To have a disinterested95 regard to truth, the mind must have contemplated96 it in abstract and remote questions; whereas the ignorant and vulgar are only conversant97 with those things in which their own interest is concerned. All their notions are local, personal, and consequently gross and selfish. They say whatever comes uppermost — turn whatever happens to their own account — and invent any story, or give any answer that suits their purposes. Instead of being bigoted98 to general principles, they trump99 up any lie for the occasion, and the more of a thumper100 it is, the better they like it; the more unlooked-for it is, why, so much the more of a God-send! They have no conscience about the matter; and if you find them out in any of their manoeuvres, are not ashamed of themselves, but angry with you. If you remonstrate101 with them, they laugh in your face. The only hold you have of them is their interest — you can but dismiss them from your employment; and service is no inheritance. If they effect anything like decent remorse102, and hope you will pass it over, all the while they are probably trying to recover the wind of you. Persons of liberal knowledge or sentiments have no kind of chance in this sort of mixed intercourse103 with these barbarians104 in civilised life. You cannot tell, by any signs or principles, what is passing in their minds. There is no common point of view between you. You have not the same topics to refer to, the same language to express yourself. Your interests, your feelings are quite distinct. You take certain things for granted as rules of action: they take nothing for granted but their own ends, pick up all their knowledge out of their own occasions, are on the watch only for what they can catch — are
Subtle as the fox for prey105:
Like warlike as the wolf, for what they eat.
They have indeed a regard to their character, as this last may affect their livelihood106 or advancement107, none as it is connected with a sense of propriety108; and this sets their mother-wit and native talents at work upon a double file of expedients, to bilk their consciences, and salve their reputation. In short, you never know where to have them, any more than if they were of a different species of animals; and in trusting to them, you are sure to be betrayed and overreached. You have other things to mind; they are thinking only of you, and how to turn you to advantage. Give and take is no maxim109 here. You can build nothing on your own moderation or on their false delicacy110. After a familiar conversation with a waiter at a tavern111, you overhear him calling you by some provoking nickname. If you make a present to the daughter of the house where you lodge112, the mother is sure to recollect113 some addition to her bill. It is a running fight. In fact, there is a principle in human nature not willingly to endure the idea of a superior, a sour, jacobinical disposition114 to wipe out the score of obligation, or efface115 the tinsel of external advantages — and where others have the opportunity of coming in contact with us, they generally find the means to establish a sufficiently116 marked degree of degrading equality. No man is a hero to his valet-dechambre, is an old maxim. A new illustration of this principle occurred the other day. While Mrs. Siddons was giving her readings of Shakespear to a brilliant and admiring drawing-room, one of the servants in the hall below was saying, ‘What, I find the old lady is making as much noise as ever!’ So little is there in common between the different classes of society, and so impossible is it ever to unite the diversities of custom and knowledge which separate them.
Women, according to Mrs. Peachum, are ‘bitter bad judges’ of the characters of men; and men are not much better of theirs, if we can form any guess from their choice in marriage. Love is proverbially blind. The whole is an affair of whim117 and fancy. Certain it is that the greatest favourites with the other sex are not those who are most liked or respected among their own. I never knew but one clever man who was what is called a lady’s man; and he (unfortunately for the argument) happened to be a considerable coxcomb118. It was by this irresistible119 quality, and not by the force of his genius, that he vanquished120. Women seem to doubt their own judgments121 in love, and to take the opinion which a man entertains of his own prowess and accomplishments122 for granted. The wives of poets are (for the most part) mere64 pieces of furniture in the room. If you speak to them of their husbands’ talents or reputation in the world, it is as if you made mention of some office that they held. It can hardly be otherwise, when the instant any subject is started or conversation arises, in which men are interested, or try one another’s strength, the women leave the room, or attend to something else. The qualities, then, in which men are ambitious to excel, and which ensure the applause of the world — eloquence123, genius, learning, integrity — are not those which gain the favour of the fair. I must not deny, however, that wit and courage have this effect. Neither is youth or beauty the sole passport to their affections.
The way of woman’s will is hard to find,
Harder to hit.
Yet there is some clue to this mystery, some determining cause; for we find that the same men are universal favourites with women, as others are uniformly disliked by them. Is not the loadstone that attracts so powerfully, and in all circumstances, a strong and undisguised bias124 towards them, a marked attention, a conscious preference of them to every other passing object or topic? I am not sure, but I incline to think so. The successful lover is the cavalier servente of all nations. The man of gallantry behaves as if he had made an assignation with every woman he addresses. An argument immediately draws off my attention from the prettiest woman in the room. I accordingly succeed better in argument — than in love! — I do not think that what is called Love at first sight is so great an absurdity126 as it is sometimes imagined to be. We generally make up our minds beforehand to the sort of person we should like — grave or gay, black, brown, or fair; with golden tresses or with raven127 locks; — and when we meet with a complete example of the qualities we admire, the bargain is soon struck. We have never seen anything to come up to our newly-discovered goddess before, but she is what we have been all our lives looking for. The idol128 we fall down and worship is an image familiar to our minds. It has been present to our waking thoughts, it has haunted us in our dreams, like some fairy vision. Oh! thou who, the first time I over beheld129 thee, didst draw my soul into the circle of thy heavenly looks, and wave enchantment round me, do not think thy conquest less complete because it was instantaneous; for in that gentle form (as if another Imogen had entered) I saw all that I had ever loved of female grace, modesty130, and sweetness!
I shall not say much of friendship as giving an insight into character, because it is often founded on mutual131 infirmities and prejudices. Friendships are frequently taken up on some sudden sympathy, and we see only as much as we please of one another’s characters afterwards. Intimate friends are not fair witnesses to character, any more than professed132 enemies. They cool, indeed, in time, part, and retain only a rankling133 grudge134 of past errors and oversights135. Their testimony136 in the latter case is not quite free from suspicion.
One would think that near relations, who live constantly together, and always have done so, must be pretty well acquainted with one another’s characters. They are nearly in the dark about it. Familiarity confounds all traits of distinction: interest and prejudice take away the power of judging. We have no opinion on the subject, any more than of one another’s faces. The Penates, the household gods, are veiled. We do not see the features of those we love, nor do we clearly distinguish their virtues or their vices. We take them as they are found in the lump — by weight, and not by measure. We know all about the individuals, their sentiments, history, manners, words, actions, everything; but we know all these too much as facts, as inveterate137, habitual138 impressions, as clothed with too many associations, as sanctified with too many affections, as woven too much into the web of our hearts, to be able to pick out the different threads, to cast up the items of the debtor139 and creditor140 account, or to refer them to any general standard of right and wrong. Our impressions with respect to them are too strong, too real, too much sui generis, to be capable of a comparison with anything but themselves. We hardly inquire whether those for whom we are thus interested, and to whom we are thus knit, are better or worse than others — the question is a kind of profanation141 — all we know is, they are more to us than any one else can be. Our sentiments of this kind are rooted and grow in us, and we cannot eradicate142 them by voluntary means. Besides, our judgments are bespoke143, our interests take part with our blood. If any doubt arises, if the veil of our implicit144 confidence is drawn145 aside by any accident for a moment, the shock is too great, like that of a dislocated limb, and we recoil146 on our habitual impressions again. Let not that veil ever be rent entirely147 asunder148, so that those images may be left bare of reverential awe149, and lose their religion; for nothing can ever support the desolation of the heart afterwards.
The greatest misfortune that can happen among relations is a different way of bringing up, so as to set one another’s opinions and characters in an entirely new point of view. This often lets in an unwelcome daylight on the subject, and breeds schisms150, coldness, and incurable151 heart-burnings in families. I have sometimes thought whether the progress of society and march of knowledge does not do more harm in this respect, by loosening the ties of domestic attachment152, and preventing those who are most interested in and anxious to think well of one another from feeling a cordial sympathy and approbation153 of each other’s sentiments, manners, views, etc., than it does good by any real advantage to the community at large. The son, for instance, is brought up to the Church, and nothing can exceed the pride and pleasure the father takes in him while all goes on well in this favourite direction. His notions change, and he imbibes154 a taste for the Fine Arts. From this moment there is an end of anything like the same unreserved communication between them. The young man may talk with enthusiasm of his ‘Rembrandts, Correggios, and stuff’: it is all Hebrew to the elder; and whatever satisfaction he may feel in the hearing of his son’s progress, or good wishes for his success, he is never reconciled to the new pursuit, he still hankers after the first object that he had set his mind upon. Again, the grandfather is a Calvinist, who never gets the better of his disappointment at his son’s going over to the Unitarian side of the question. The matter rests here till the grandson, some years after, in the fashion of the day and ‘infinite agitation155 of men’s wit,’ comes to doubt certain points in the creed156 in which he has been brought up, and the affair is all abroad again. Here are three generations made uncomfortable and in a manner set at variance157 by a veering158 point of theology, and the officious, meddling159 biblical critics! Nothing, on the other hand, can be more wretched or common than that upstart pride and insolent161 good fortune which is ashamed of its origin; nor are there many things more awkward than the situation of rich and poor relations. Happy, much happier, are those tribes and people who are confined to the same caste and way of life from sire to son, where prejudices are transmitted like instincts, and where the same unvarying standard of opinion and refinement blends countless162 generations in its improgressive, everlasting mould!
Not only is there a wilful and habitual blindness in near kindred to each other’s defects, but an incapacity to judge from the quantity of materials, from the contradictoriness163 of the evidence. The chain of particulars is too long and massy for us to lift it or put it into the most approved ethical164 scales. The concrete result does not answer to any abstract theory, to any logical definition. There is black, and white, and grey, square and round — there are too many anomalies, too many redeeming165 points, in poor human nature, such as it actually is, for us to arrive at a smart, summary decision on it. We know too much to come to any hasty or partial conclusion. We do not pronounce upon the present act, because a hundred others rise up to contradict it. We suspend our judgments altogether, because in effect one thing unconsciously balances another; and perhaps this obstinate166, pertinacious167 indecision would be the truest philosophy in other cases, where we dispose of the question of character easily, because we have only the smallest part of the evidence to decide upon. Real character is not one thing, but a thousand things; actual qualities do not conform to any factitious standard in the mind, but rest upon their own truth and nature. The dull stupor168 under which we labour in respect of those whom we have the greatest opportunities of inspecting nearly, we should do well to imitate before we give extreme and uncharitable verdicts against those whom we only see in passing or at a distance. If we knew them better, we should be disposed to say less about them.
In the truth of things, there are none utterly169 worthless, none without some drawback on their pretensions or some alloy170 of imperfection. It has been observed that a familiarity with the worst characters lessens171 our abhorrence172 of them; and a wonder is often expressed that the greatest criminals look like other men. The reason is that they are like other men in many respects. If a particular individual was merely the wretch160 we read of, or conceive in the abstract, that is, if he was the mere personified idea of the criminal brought to the bar, he would not disappoint the spectator, but would look like what he would be-a monster! But he has other qualities, ideas, feelings, nay, probably virtues, mixed up with the most profligate173 habits or desperate acts. This need not lessen our abhorrence of the crime, though it does of the criminal; for it has the latter effect only by showing him to us in different points of view, in which he appears a common mortal, and not the caricature of vice58 we took him for, or spotted174 all over with infamy175. I do not, at the same time, think this is a lax or dangerous, though it is a charitable view of the subject. In my opinion, no man ever answered in his own mind (except in the agonies of conscience or of repentance176, in which latter case he throws the imputation177 from himself in another way) to the abstract idea of a murderer. He may have killed a man in self-defence, or ‘in the trade of war,’ or to save himself from starving, or in revenge for an injury, but always ‘so as with a difference,’ or from mixed and questionable178 motives179. The individual, in reckoning with himself, always takes into the account the considerations of time, place, and circumstance, and never makes out a case of unmitigated, unprovoked villainy, of ‘pure defecated evil’ against himself. There are degrees in real crimes: we reason and moralise only by names and in classes. I should be loth, indeed, to say that ‘whatever is, is right’; but almost every actual choice inclines to it, with some sort of imperfect, unconscious bias. This is the reason, besides the ends of secrecy180, of the invention of slang terms for different acts of profligacy181 committed by thieves, pickpockets182, etc. The common names suggest associations of disgust in the minds of others, which those who live by them do not willingly recognise, and which they wish to sink in a technical phraseology. So there is a story of a fellow who, as he was writing down his confession183 of a murder, stopped to ask how the word murder was spelt; this, if true, was partly because his imagination was staggered by the recollection of the thing, and partly because he shrunk from the verbal admission of it. ‘Amen stuck in his throat’! The defence made by Eugene Aram of himself against a charge of murder, some years before, shows that he in imagination completely flung from himself the nominal184 crime imputed185 to him: he might, indeed, have staggered an old man with a blow, and buried his body in a cave, and lived ever since upon the money he found upon him, but there was ‘no malice in the case, none at all,’ as Peachum says. The very coolness, subtlety186, and circumspection187 of his defence (as masterly a legal document as there is upon record) prove that he was guilty of the act, as much as they prove that he was unconscious of the crime.90 In the same spirit, and I conceive with great metaphysical truth, Mr. Coleridge, in his tragedy of Remorse, makes Ordonio (his chief character) wave the acknowledgment of his meditated189 guilt188 to his own mind, by putting into his mouth that striking soliloquy:
Say, I had lay’d a body in the sun!
Well! in a month there swarm190 forth191 from the corse
A thousand, nay, ten thousand sentient192 beings
In place of that one man. Say I had kill’d him!
Yet who shall tell me, that each one and all
Of these ten thousand lives Is not as happy
As that one life, which being push’d aside,
Made room for these unnumber’d. — Act ii. Sc. 2.
I am not sure, indeed, that I have not got this whole train of speculation193 from him; but I should not think the worse of it on that account. That gentleman, I recollect, once asked me whether I thought that the different members of a family really liked one another so well, or had so much attachment, as was generally supposed; and I said that I conceived the regard they had towards each other was expressed by the word interest rather than by any other, which he said was the true answer. I do not know that I could mend it now. Natural affection is not pleasure in one another’s company, nor admiration194 of one another’s qualities; but it is an intimate and deep knowledge of the things that affect those to whom we are bound by the nearest ties, with pleasure or pain; it is an anxious, uneasy fellow-feeling with them, a jealous watchfulness195 over their good name, a tender and unconquerable yearning196 for their good. The love, in short, we bear them is the nearest to that we bear ourselves. Home, according to the old saying, is home, be it never so homely. We love ourselves, not according to our deserts, but our cravings after good: so we love our immediate125 relations in the next degree (if not, even sometimes a higher one), because we know best what they have suffered and what sits nearest to their hearts. We are implicated197, in fact, in their welfare by habit and sympathy, as we are in our own.
If our devotion to our own interests is much the same as to theirs, we are ignorant of our own characters for the same reason. We are parties too much concerned to return a fair verdict, and are too much in the secret of our own motives or situation not to be able to give a favourable198 turn to our actions. We exercise a liberal criticism upon ourselves, and put off the final decision to a late day. The field is large and open. Hamlet exclaims, with a noble magnanimity, ‘I count myself indifferent honest, and yet I could accuse me of such things!’ If you could prove to a man that he is a knave199, it would not make much difference in his opinion, his self-love is stronger than his love of virtue56. Hypocrisy200 is generally used as a mask to deceive the world, not to impose on ourselves: for once detect the delinquent201 in his knavery202, and he laughs in your face or glories in his iniquity203. This at least happens except where there is a contradiction in the character, and our vices are involuntary and at variance with our convictions. One great difficulty is to distinguish ostensible motives, or such as we acknowledge to ourselves, from tacit or secret springs of action. A man changes his opinion readily, he thinks it candour: it is levity of min
We are callous204 by custom to our defects or excellences205, unless where
vanity steps in to exaggerate or extenuate them. I cannot conceive how it is that people are in love with their own persons, or astonished at their own performances, which are but a nine days’ wonder to every one else. In general it may be laid down that we are liable to this twofold mistake in judging of our own talents: we, in the first place, nurse the rickety bantling, we think much of that which has cost us much pains and labour, and comes against the grain; and we also set little store by what we do with most ease to ourselves, and therefore best. The works of the greatest genius are produced almost unconsciously, with an ignorance on the part of the persons themselves that they have done anything extraordinary. Nature has done it for them. How little Shakespear seems to have thought of himself or of his fame! Yet, if ‘to know another well were to know one’s self,’ he must have been acquainted with his own pretensions and character, ‘who knew all qualities with a learned spirit.’ His eye seems never to have been bent upon himself, but outwards206 upon nature. A man who thinks highly of himself may almost set it down that it is without reason. Milton, notwithstanding, appears to have had a high opinion of himself, and to have made it good. He was conscious of his powers, and great by design. Perhaps his tenaciousness207, on the score of his own merit, might arise from an early habit of polemical writing, in which his pretensions were continually called to the bar of prejudice and party-spirit, and he had to plead not guilty to the indictment208. Some men have died unconscious of immortality209, as others have almost exhausted210 the sense of it in their lifetimes. Correggio might be mentioned as an instance of the one, Voltaire of the other.
There is nothing that helps a man in his conduct through life more than a knowledge of his own characteristic weaknesses (which, guarded against, become his strength), as there is nothing that tends more to the success of a man’s talents than his knowing the limits of his faculties, which are thus concentrated on some practicable object. One man can do but one thing. Universal pretensions end in nothing. Or, as Butler has it, too much wit requires
As much again to govern it.
There are those who have gone, for want of this self-knowledge, strangely out of their way, and others who have never found it. We find many who succeed in certain departments, and are yet melancholy211 and dissatisfied, because they failed in the one to which they first devoted212 themselves, like discarded lovers who pine after their scornful mistress. I will conclude with observing that authors in general overrate the extent and value of posthumous213 fame: for what (as it has been asked) is the amount even of Shakespear’s fame? That in that very country which boasts his genius and his birth, perhaps, scarce one person in ten has ever heard of his name or read a syllable214 of his writings!
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1
proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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juggler
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| n. 变戏法者, 行骗者 | |
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riddle
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| n.谜，谜语，粗筛；vt.解谜，给…出谜，筛，检查，鉴定，非难，充满于；vi.出谜 | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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counterfeited
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| v.仿制，造假( counterfeit的过去分词 ) | |
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celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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conversing
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的现在分词 ) | |
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posterity
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| n.后裔，子孙，后代 | |
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contradictory
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| adj.反驳的，反对的，抗辩的；n.正反对，矛盾对立 | |
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ostensible
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| adj.(指理由)表面的，假装的 | |
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redeemed
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| adj. 可赎回的，可救赎的 动词redeem的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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bust
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| vt.打破；vi.爆裂；n.半身像；胸部 | |
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wheedled
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| v.骗取（某物），哄骗（某人干某事）( wheedle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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plausible
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| adj.似真实的，似乎有理的，似乎可信的 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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vents
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| （气体、液体等进出的）孔、口( vent的名词复数 )； （鸟、鱼、爬行动物或小哺乳动物的）肛门； 大衣等的)衩口； 开衩 | |
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lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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shrouding
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| n.覆盖v.隐瞒( shroud的现在分词 )；保密 | |
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faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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streak
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| n.条理，斑纹，倾向，少许，痕迹；v.加条纹，变成条纹，奔驰，快速移动 | |
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veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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zest
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| n.乐趣；滋味，风味；兴趣 | |
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pretensions
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| 自称( pretension的名词复数 )； 自命不凡； 要求； 权力 | |
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marrow
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| n.骨髓；精华；活力 | |
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ribs
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| n.肋骨( rib的名词复数 )；（船或屋顶等的）肋拱；肋骨状的东西；（织物的）凸条花纹 | |
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languor
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| n.无精力，倦怠 | |
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inmates
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| n.囚犯( inmate的名词复数 ) | |
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levity
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| n.轻率，轻浮，不稳定，多变 | |
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demure
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| adj.严肃的；端庄的 | |
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enchantment
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| n.迷惑，妖术，魅力 | |
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sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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watery
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| adj.有水的，水汪汪的；湿的，湿润的 | |
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glazed
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| adj.光滑的，像玻璃的；上过釉的；呆滞无神的v.装玻璃( glaze的过去式)；上釉于，上光；（目光）变得呆滞无神 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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vacancy
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| n.（旅馆的）空位，空房，（职务的）空缺 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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obliquity
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| n.倾斜度 | |
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sanguine
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| adj.充满希望的，乐观的，血红色的 | |
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temperaments
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| 性格( temperament的名词复数 )； （人或动物的）气质； 易冲动； （性情）暴躁 | |
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abound
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| vi.大量存在；(in，with)充满，富于 | |
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demonstrations
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| 证明( demonstration的名词复数 )； 表明； 表达； 游行示威 | |
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piques
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| v.伤害…的自尊心( pique的第三人称单数 )；激起（好奇心） | |
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zealous
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| adj.狂热的，热心的 | |
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partisan
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| adj.党派性的；游击队的；n.游击队员；党徒 | |
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phlegmatic
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| adj.冷静的，冷淡的，冷漠的，无活力的 | |
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inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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50
refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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porous
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| adj.可渗透的，多孔的 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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humane
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| adj.人道的，富有同情心的 | |
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virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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57
vices
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| 缺陷( vice的名词复数 )； 恶习； 不道德行为； 台钳 | |
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vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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volatile
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| adj.反复无常的，挥发性的，稍纵即逝的，脾气火爆的；n.挥发性物质 | |
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discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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averse
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| adj.厌恶的；反对的，不乐意的 | |
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lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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mercurial
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| adj.善变的，活泼的 | |
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enigma
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| n.谜，谜一样的人或事 | |
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everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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plodding
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| a.proceeding in a slow or dull way | |
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systematic
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| adj.有系统的，有计划的，有方法的 | |
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extenuate
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| v.减轻，使人原谅 | |
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wilful
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| adj.任性的，故意的 | |
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breach
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| n.违反，不履行；破裂；vt.冲破，攻破 | |
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malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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magisterially
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| adv.威严地 | |
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hostility
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| n.敌对，敌意；抵制［pl.］交战，战争 | |
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stratagems
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| n.诡计，计谋( stratagem的名词复数 )；花招 | |
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superfluous
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| adj.过多的，过剩的，多余的 | |
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erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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bristling
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| a.竖立的 | |
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81
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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odds
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| n.让步，机率，可能性，比率；胜败优劣之别 | |
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plentiful
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| adj.富裕的，丰富的 | |
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condescension
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| n.自以为高人一等，贬低(别人) | |
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alacrity
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| n.敏捷，轻快，乐意 | |
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lessen
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| vt.减少，减轻；缩小 | |
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overtures
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| n.主动的表示，提议；（向某人做出的）友好表示、姿态或提议( overture的名词复数 )；（歌剧、芭蕾舞、音乐剧等的）序曲，前奏曲 | |
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insidious
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| adj.阴险的，隐匿的，暗中为害的，（疾病）不知不觉之间加剧 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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goodwill
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| n.善意，亲善，信誉，声誉 | |
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chicanery
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| n.欺诈，欺骗 | |
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expedients
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| n.应急有效的，权宜之计的( expedient的名词复数 ) | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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disinterested
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| adj.不关心的，不感兴趣的 | |
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contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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conversant
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| adj.亲近的，有交情的，熟悉的 | |
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bigoted
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| adj.固执己见的，心胸狭窄的 | |
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trump
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| n.王牌，法宝；v.打出王牌，吹喇叭 | |
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thumper
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| n.击键声检测器；轰鸣器 | |
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remonstrate
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| v.抗议，规劝 | |
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remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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barbarians
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| n.野蛮人( barbarian的名词复数 )；外国人；粗野的人；无教养的人 | |
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prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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livelihood
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| n.生计，谋生之道 | |
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advancement
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| n.前进，促进，提升 | |
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propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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109
maxim
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| n.格言，箴言 | |
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110
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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111
tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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112
lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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113
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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114
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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115
efface
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| v.擦掉，抹去 | |
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116
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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117
whim
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| n.一时的兴致，突然的念头；奇想，幻想 | |
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118
coxcomb
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| n.花花公子 | |
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119
irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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120
vanquished
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| v.征服( vanquish的过去式和过去分词 )；战胜；克服；抑制 | |
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121
judgments
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| 判断( judgment的名词复数 )； 鉴定； 评价； 审判 | |
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122
accomplishments
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| n.造诣；完成( accomplishment的名词复数 )；技能；成绩；成就 | |
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123
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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124
bias
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| n.偏见，偏心，偏袒；vt.使有偏见 | |
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125
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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126
absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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127
raven
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| n.渡鸟，乌鸦；adj.乌亮的 | |
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128
idol
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| n.偶像，红人，宠儿 | |
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129
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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130
modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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131
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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132
professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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133
rankling
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| v.（使）痛苦不已，（使）怨恨不已( rankle的现在分词 ) | |
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134
grudge
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| n.不满，怨恨，妒嫉；vt.勉强给，不情愿做 | |
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135
oversights
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| n.疏忽( oversight的名词复数 )；忽略；失察；负责 | |
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136
testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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137
inveterate
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| adj.积习已深的，根深蒂固的 | |
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138
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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139
debtor
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| n.借方，债务人 | |
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140
creditor
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| n.债仅人，债主，贷方 | |
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141
profanation
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| n.亵渎 | |
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142
eradicate
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| v.根除，消灭，杜绝 | |
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143
bespoke
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| adj.（产品）订做的；专做订货的v.预定( bespeak的过去式 )；订（货）；证明；预先请求 | |
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144
implicit
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| a.暗示的，含蓄的，不明晰的，绝对的 | |
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145
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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146
recoil
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| vi.退却，退缩，畏缩 | |
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147
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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148
asunder
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| adj.分离的，化为碎片 | |
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149
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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150
schisms
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| n.教会分立，分裂( schism的名词复数 ) | |
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151
incurable
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| adj.不能医治的，不能矫正的，无救的；n.不治的病人，无救的人 | |
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152
attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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153
approbation
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| n.称赞；认可 | |
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154
imbibes
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| v.吸收( imbibe的第三人称单数 )；喝；吸取；吸气 | |
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155
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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156
creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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157
variance
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| n.矛盾，不同 | |
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158
veering
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| n.改变的；犹豫的；顺时针方向转向；特指使船尾转向上风来改变航向v.（尤指交通工具）改变方向或路线( veer的现在分词 )；（指谈话内容、人的行为或观点）突然改变；（指风） （在北半球按顺时针方向、在南半球按逆时针方向）逐渐转向；风向顺时针转 | |
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159
meddling
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| v.干涉，干预（他人事务）( meddle的现在分词 ) | |
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160
wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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161
insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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162
countless
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| adj.无数的，多得不计其数的 | |
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163
contradictoriness
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| 矛盾性 | |
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164
ethical
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| adj.伦理的，道德的，合乎道德的 | |
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165
redeeming
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| 补偿的，弥补的 | |
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166
obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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167
pertinacious
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| adj.顽固的 | |
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168
stupor
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| v.昏迷；不省人事 | |
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169
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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170
alloy
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| n.合金，(金属的)成色 | |
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171
lessens
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| 变少( lessen的第三人称单数 )； 减少（某事物） | |
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172
abhorrence
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| n.憎恶；可憎恶的事 | |
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173
profligate
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| adj.行为不检的；n.放荡的人，浪子，肆意挥霍者 | |
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174
spotted
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| adj.有斑点的，斑纹的，弄污了的 | |
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175
infamy
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| n.声名狼藉，出丑，恶行 | |
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176
repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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177
imputation
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| n.归罪，责难 | |
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178
questionable
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| adj.可疑的，有问题的 | |
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179
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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180
secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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181
profligacy
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| n.放荡，不检点，肆意挥霍 | |
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182
pickpockets
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| n.扒手( pickpocket的名词复数 ) | |
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183
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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184
nominal
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| adj.名义上的；(金额、租金)微不足道的 | |
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185
imputed
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| v.把（错误等）归咎于( impute的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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186
subtlety
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| n.微妙，敏锐，精巧；微妙之处，细微的区别 | |
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187
circumspection
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| n.细心，慎重 | |
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188
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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189
meditated
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| 深思，沉思，冥想( meditate的过去式和过去分词 )； 内心策划，考虑 | |
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190
swarm
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| n.(昆虫)等一大群；vi.成群飞舞；蜂拥而入 | |
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191
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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192
sentient
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| adj.有知觉的，知悉的；adv.有感觉能力地 | |
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193
speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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194
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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195
watchfulness
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| 警惕，留心； 警觉（性） | |
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196
yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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197
implicated
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| adj.密切关联的；牵涉其中的 | |
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198
favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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199
knave
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| n.流氓；（纸牌中的）杰克 | |
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200
hypocrisy
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| n.伪善，虚伪 | |
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201
delinquent
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| adj.犯法的，有过失的；n.违法者 | |
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202
knavery
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| n.恶行，欺诈的行为 | |
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203
iniquity
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| n.邪恶；不公正 | |
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204
callous
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| adj.无情的，冷淡的，硬结的，起老茧的 | |
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205
excellences
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| n.卓越( excellence的名词复数 )；（只用于所修饰的名词后）杰出的；卓越的；出类拔萃的 | |
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206
outwards
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| adj.外面的，公开的，向外的；adv.向外；n.外形 | |
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207
tenaciousness
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| 固执 | |
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208
indictment
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| n.起诉；诉状 | |
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209
immortality
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| n.不死，不朽 | |
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210
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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211
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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212
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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213
posthumous
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| adj.遗腹的；父亡后出生的；死后的，身后的 | |
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214
syllable
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| n.音节；vt.分音节 | |
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