lar thing that men find it very difficult to live lives of charity
without cherishing uncharitable tempers towards those who do not live
precisely as they themselves do. For instance, the busy
philanthropist, nobly eager to bring a little happiness into the grey
lives of the disinherited, often has the poorest opinion of artists and
novelists, who appear to him to live useless lives. But when Turner
paints a picture like the _Fighting Temeraire Towed to Her Last Berth_,
which is destined to stir generous thoughts in multitudes of hearts
long after his death: or when Scott writes novels which have increased
the sum of human happiness for a century, is not each doing good of the
rarest, highest, and most enduring kind? The fulfilment of one's best
instincts and faculties, for the best use of mankind, is not only the
completest, but also the only available form of philanthropy. Since
Nature has chosen to endow us with diverse faculties, our service of
mankind must be diverse too. In a word, doing good is a much larger
business than the ordinary philanthropist imagines; it has many
branches and a thousand forms; and they are not always doing the most
who seem the busiest, nor do those accomplish most in the alleviation
of human misery whose contact with it is the closest.

During the last year of my life in London I came into contact with a
brilliant young Oxford man, who had manifest talents for oratory,
leadership, and literature. He was in search of a career, and being a
youth of quick sympathies and very generous instincts, he was soon
caught in the tide of a certain social movement, whose chief aim was to
induce persons of culture to live among the very poorest of the poor.
The leader of this movement was a man of beautifully unselfish temper,
but of no striking intellectual gifts; apart from a certain originality
of character, which was the fruit of this unselfish temper, he was
quite commonplace in mind, and could have aspired to no higher rank in
life than an honourable place among the inferior clergy. He attracted
this brilliant youth, however; a youth who had been president of the
Oxford Union, and had taken a double first in classics, for whom
distinction in life seemed inevitable. The end was that his convert
joined what was really a lay order of social and religious service. He
lived among the slums of Holborn, devoted himself to the instruction of
the children of the gutter, kept the accounts of coal a