begins with anything but the mutual attraction of the sexes, begins with a
fallacy; and all its historical comparisons are as irrelevant and
impertinent as puns.

But to expose such cold negation of the instincts is easy: to express or
even half express the instincts is very hard. The instincts are very much
concerned with what literary people call "style" in letters or more vulgar
people call "style" in dress. They are much concerned with how a thing is
done, as well as whether one may do it: and the deepest elements in their
attraction or aversion can often only be conveyed by stray examples or
sudden images. When Danton was defending himself before the Jacobin
tribunal he spoke so loud that his voice was heard across the Seine, in
quite remote streets on the other side of the river. He must have
bellowed like a bull of Bashan. Yet none of us would think of that
prodigy except as something poetical and appropriate. None of us would
instinctively feel that Danton was less of a man or even less of a
gentleman, for speaking so in such an hour. But suppose we heard that
Marie Antoinette, when tried before the same tribunal, had howled so that
she could be heard in the Faubourg St. Germain--well, I leave it to the
instincts, if there are any left. It is not wrong to howl. Neither is it
right. It is simply a question of the instant impression on the artistic
and even animal parts of humanity, if the noise were heard suddenly like a
gun.

Perhaps the nearest verbal analysis of the instinct may be found in the
gestures of the orator addressing a crowd. For the true orator must
always be a demagogue: even if the mob be a small mob, like the French
committee or the English House of Lords. And "demagogue," in the good
Greek meaning, does not mean one who pleases the populace, but one who
leads it: and if you will notice, you will see that all the instinctive