characteristics long after they have ceased to be needed; and so,
though a man in a civilised community has very little to dread, he
is still haunted by an irrational sense of insecurity and
precariousness. And thus many of our fears arise from old
inheritance, and represent nothing rational or real at all, but
only an old and savage need of vigilance and wariness.

One can see this exemplified in a curious way in level tracts of
country. Everyone who has traversed places like the plain of
Worcestershire must remember the irritating way in which the roads
keep ascending little eminences, instead of going round at the
foot. Now these old country roads no doubt represent very ancient
tracks indeed, dating from times when much of the land was
uncultivated. They get stereotyped, partly because they were
tracks, and partly because for convenience the first enclosures and
tillages were made along the roads for purposes of communication.
But the perpetual tendency to ascend little eminences no doubt
dates from a time when it was safer to go up, in order to look
round and to see ahead, partly in order to be sure of one's
direction, and partly to beware of the manifold dangers of the
road.

And thus many of the fears by which one is haunted are these old
survivals, these inherited anxieties. Who does not know the frame
of mind when perhaps for a day, perhaps for days together, the mind
is oppressed and uneasy, scenting danger in the air, forecasting
calamity, recounting all the possible directions in which fate or
malice may have power to wound and hurt us? It is a melancholy
inheritance, but it cannot be combated by any reason. It is of no
use then to imitate Robinson Crusoe, and to make a list of one's