head if
you only begin to inculcate it before the age of five, by constantly
repeating it with an air of great solemnity. For as in the case of
animals, so in that of men, training is successful only when you begin
in early youth.

Noblemen and gentlemen are trained to hold nothing sacred but their
word of honor--to maintain a zealous, rigid, and unshaken belief in
the ridiculous code of chivalry; and if they are called upon to do so,
to seal their belief by dying for it, and seriously to regard a king
as a being of a higher order.

Again, our expressions of politeness, the compliments we make, in
particular, the respectful attentions we pay to ladies, are a matter
of training; as also our esteem for good birth, rank, titles, and so
on. Of the same character is the resentment we feel at any insult
directed against us; and the measure of this resentment may be exactly
determined by the nature of the insult. An Englishman, for instance,
thinks it a deadly insult to be told that he is no gentleman, or,
still worse, that he is a liar; a Frenchman has the same feeling if
you call him a coward, and a German if you say he is stupid.

There are many persons who are trained to be strictly honorable in
regard to one particular matter, while they have little honor to boast
of in anything else. Many a man, for instance, will not steal your
money; but he will lay hands on everything of yours that he can enjoy
without having to pay for it. A man of business will often deceive you
without the slightest scruple, but he will absolutely refuse to commit
a theft.

Imagination is strong in a man when that particular function of the
brain which enables him to observe is roused to activity without
any necessary excitement of the senses. Accordingly, we find that
imagination is active just in proportion as our senses are not excited
by external objects. A long period of solitude, whether in prison or
in a sick room; quiet, twilight, darkness--these are the things that
promote its activity; and under their influence it comes into play of
itself. On the other hand, when a great deal of material is presented
to our faculties of observation, as happens on a journey, or in
the hurly-burly of the world, or, again, in broad daylight, the
imagination is idle, and, even though call may be made upon it,
refuses to become active, as though it understood that that was not
its proper time.

However, if the imagination is to yield any real product,