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blood,' 'privileges of nobility,' and the like, we are conscious of its real smallness. Now, in aristocracies, where the idea of rank and title draws a magic ring around man's soul, marking out the limits within which his nature is allowed to freely travel, there is no scope for envy between the different classes into which Society is artificially divided. And besides, as the members of each class are practically indemnified for having to bend to their superiors,' by their 'inferiors' bending to them, a kind of poetic justice keeps each man's nature sweet and harmonious. But in democracies, where men's conception of their own dignity and manhood suffers no restraint from the imprisoning nature of a mere phrase (unless, indeed, it be the idea of equality' itself, which, although true on the defensive side, becomes false, and a phrase merely, when used aggressively), where all men are nominally equal, where a general fear of falling beneath your neighbours achievements seizes all minds, and where each man is seen, as in Carlyle's pitcher of tamed vipers, struggling to get his head above the rest, Envy burns through society like a prairie fire. But then it is to be remarked, as a set-off, that, although envy is wanting between the different classes in an aristocracy, it is intensified between the members of the same class; and any appearance of a man attempting to ape his superiors, or aspiring to rise to the class above his own, is regarded with a more narrow and intense envy than the general and diffused envy of democracies. Besides, envy, like avarice and other baser passions which in the economy of Nature are converted into good, subserves a beneficent purpose, by stimulating the dull and torpid, and keeping them up to the general level; should it become excessive, it can easily be allayed by the touchstone of actual life, which is the last test of superiority; and distinction thus gained must naturally call forth a more genuine feeling of reverence than can possibly arise where men's titles represent qualities altogether extraneous to personal merit.

CHAPTER VIII.

DEMOCRACY-SOCIETY.

IN the present chapter I shall turn for a moment to consider the social evils alleged to be inherent in the principle of Democracy; and on looking through the pages of one of the most eminent exponents of that principle, I come first on the charge of Monotony.

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In countries where men are all alike equal, society, when looked at from the outside and from a distance, shows like a vast sandy plain, made up of particles of the same size, character, and composition throughout; and cannot, in consequence, have the picturesqueness of old aristocratic countries where you have haughty contemptuous lordlings on the one hand, and ignorant semi-brutish hinds touching their caps on the other, and between these two a vast body of respectable middle-class Philistines,' admiring on the one hand and despising on the other, and alternately bowing and bullying on the right hand and on the left. But if, instead of merely contemplating democracies and aristocracies from without, we look at them closely from within, we shall find matters reversed; aristocracies, instead of being picturesque, will be seen to be monotonous, and democracies, instead of being monotonous, will be seen to be picturesque. In democracies, where there are no general class-ideas to restrain the free expansion and natural growth of the individual mind, there is no reason why there should not be as great a variety of individual character and culture as there are changes to be rung on the original elements of human nature,-its impulses, sentiments, and passions-in every combination of power and degree. And, accordingly, we find that in America and the Colonies, where

we might imagine that men would be all about alike, an intimate knowledge of the individuals discloses wide and interesting points of difference and of individuality in ideas, sentiments, and habits of thought. In aristocracies, on the contrary, although the broad and recognized differences of 'classes' in culture, manners, speech, and ideas, give to society a pleasing and picturesque variety, the individuals of which these respective 'classes' are composed (being moulded on the broad general ideas of the class, rather than, as in democracies, developed along the lines of their own nature and constitution) soon become monotonous in their sameness and absence of variety. In America, you never know what peculiarities of character and thought will suddenly be disclosed by the man you meet; but in England, so marked and definite are the aims, ideals, and modes of thought of the tradesman class, for example, that, broadly speaking, you may affirm that in knowing one you know all. This is true to even a greater degree of the class of 'gentlemen;' mere differences of opinion between them becoming invisible in the great common identity of sentiment, manners, speech, and tone of thought. This contrast between democracies and aristocracies is well reflected in the dramatic productions of the different countries. In England, the ordinary stock plays are always picturesque, owing to the variety of 'classes' of society that are introduced -servants, footmen, tradesmen, professional men, noblemen, and the like but there is little more than the most superficial difference in the types; the interest in new plays being made to turn rather on new situations and circumstances than on new types of character or modes of thought. In America, on the contrary, the interest is made to turn rather on new and original forms of mind and character, than on a picturesque contrast of classes and social types. In a word, society in aristocracies, being laid out in 'classes' like a neatly-trimmed garden, has a superficial picturesqueness which soon grows monotonous; but in democracies, where it is allowed to

develope in all its spontaneity like a Brazilian forest, it charms us with the variety and picturesqueness of Nature.

Another charge brought against democracies is their want of Culture.

I have already shown that, in countries where there are no hereditary titles, ranks, or honours; where men are all about alike in worldly station and material power; and where rich tracts of fertile land lie in vast expanses open to all, and waiting only to be developed by labour; the acquisition of wealth (especially in an age when religious fanaticisms have ceased to be the serious concerns of life) must become the main object of pursuit, and culture, in its highest sense, must be more or less ignored by the great body of the people. At the same time I pointed out, too, that while culture in this large sense would be ignored, the 'practical' education so necessary for success in business and industrial pursuits would be very highly prized. In aristocracies, too (if we leave out the few belonging to the leisured classes who make up the culture of the community), we shall find that among the great body of the people there is little regard for general culture and intelligence. Men admire an oration that will turn a parliamentary majority, a newspaper leader that will get off a prisoner at the bar, a machine that will economise labour; but they have little or no admiration for that wider aru more general insight into the world and human life, which characterises the finer and rarer intelligences, and in which true culture chiefly consists. But, although democracies thus, in their early stages, and aristocracies at all periods of their existence, are alike in ignoring culture, there are certain differences inhering in the very nature of these two forms of government, so that while in aristocracies the great body of the people continue in an unprogressive state, in democracies they tend naturally to a higher culture. In aristocracies, society is built throughout on the principle of rank and status; and men's influence and general weight in the community are determined by the place they occupy in this hierarchy, rather than by their

individual characteristics of mind and character. It makes comparatively little difference, for example, to the general estimate of a working-man in aristocracies (so long, that is, as he remains a working-man), whether his feelings be coarse or refined, his intellect narrow and obtuse or capacious and acute; men's interest in him ceasing from the time they know the 'class' or order to which he belongs, without inquiring into his individual mental or moral characteristics. The first and most important point in regard to any man in an aristocracy, is his class, family, or connexions; in a word, is he a 'gentleman' or not? The question as to whether he is clever and intelligent, or has this or that point of talent or character, being but of secondary concern. The consequence of this preponderating interest in mere rank and 'position' over all individual characteristics of intellect and knowledge is, that men's whole aim (after the daily routine of the profession, trade, or shop, has been gone through) is to be accredited with the qualities most admired, that is to say, the qualities of the 'gentleman' in the conventional sense of that term. And as these qualities consist rather in certain outward and conventional forms-in certain stock manners and modes of sentiment and behaviour in arts of politeness and airs of distinction-than in any general elevation of thought, or insight into the world, culture, in aristocracies, except within the circle of the few to whom by nature or circumstance it is congenial, has no home, and the reign of the middle-class Philistine,' coarse or refined, becomes assured and perennial. In democracies it is quite otherwise. With no difference of classes' (all men being gentlemen who behave themselves), with money as the main object of pursuit with the great masses of the people, the first point of interest in regard to any man is, not the 'class' or category to which he belongs, but how far he possesses the individual personal and intellectual qualities by which worldly success is attainedenergy, force of character, perseverance, and insight into men and things. And, as time goes on, and population and wealth

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