imroses after the long winter, restful
as the cawing of rooks at sunset. But we do not write 'tales' now; we
prepare 'human documents' and dissect souls."

He broke off abruptly in the midst of his tirade. "Do you know what
these 'psychological studies,' that are so fashionable just now, always
make me think of?" he said. "One monkey examining another monkey for
fleas.

"And what, after all, does our dissecting pen lay bare?" he continued.
"Human nature? or merely some more or less unsavoury undergarment,
disguising and disfiguring human nature? There is a story told of an
elderly tramp, who, overtaken by misfortune, was compelled to retire for
a while to the seclusion of Portland. His hosts, desiring to see as much
as possible of their guest during his limited stay with them, proceeded
to bath him. They bathed him twice a day for a week, each time learning
more of him; until at last they reached a flannel shirt. And with that
they had to be content, soap and water proving powerless to go further.

"That tramp appears to me symbolical of mankind. Human Nature has worn
its conventions for so long that its habit has grown on to it. In this
nineteenth century it is impossible to say where the clothes of custom
end and the natural man begins. Our virtues are taught to us as a branch
of 'Deportment'; our vices are the recognised vices of our reign and set.
Our religion hangs ready-made beside our cradle to be buttoned upon us by
loving hands. Our tastes we acquire, with difficulty; our sentiments we
learn by rote. At cost of infinite suffering, we study to love whiskey
and cigars, high art and classical music. In one age we admire Byron and
drink sweet champagne: twenty years later it is more fashionable to
prefer Shelley, and we like our champagne dry. At school we are told
that Shakespeare is a great poet, and that the Venus di Medici is a fine
piece of sculpture; and so for the rest of our lives we go about saying
what a great poet we think Shakespeare, and that there is no piece of
sculpture, in our opinion, so fine as the Venus di Medici. If we are
Frenchmen we adore our mother; if Englishmen we love dogs and virtue. We
grieve for the death of a near relative twelve months; but for a second
cousin we sorrow only three. The good man has his regulation
excellencies to strive after, his regulation sins to repent of. I knew a
good man who was quite troubled because he was not proud, and could not,
theref