execute, we mimic in the novel and on the stage; for the beauty we
destroy in nature, we substitute the metamorphosis of the pantomime,
and (the human nature of us imperatively requiring awe and sorrow of
SOME kind) for the noble grief we should have borne with our
fellows, and the pure tears we should have wept with them, we gloat
over the pathos of the police court, and gather the night-dew of the
grave.

It is difficult to estimate the true significance of these things;
the facts are frightful enough;--the measure of national fault
involved in them is perhaps not as great as it would at first seem.
We permit, or cause, thousands of deaths daily, but we mean no harm;
we set fire to houses, and ravage peasants' fields, yet we should be
sorry to find we had injured anybody. We are still kind at heart;
still capable of virtue, but only as children are. Chalmers, at the
end of his long life, having had much power with the public, being
plagued in some serious matter by a reference to "public opinion,"
uttered the impatient exclamation, "The public is just a great
baby!" And the reason that I have allowed all these graver subjects
of thought to mix themselves up with an inquiry into methods of
reading, is that, the more I see of our national faults or miseries,
the more they resolve themselves into conditions of childish
illiterateness and want of education in the most ordinary habits of
thought. It is, I repeat, not vice, not selfishness, not dulness of
brain, which we have to lament; but an unreachable schoolboy's
recklessness, only differing from the true schoolboy's in its
incapacity of being helped, because it acknowledges no master.

There is a curious type of us given in one of the lovely, neglected
works of the last of our great painters. It is a drawing of Kirkby