pleasure, rich in oddity, and trembling with pathos, but, in the main, as bleak and unsatisfying as the wards of a workhouse.  The intense emotions of his childhood made the usual fervours of adolescence a faint thing in the comparison, and if you want to know how lovers think and feel you do not go to Dickens to tell you.  You go to Shakespeare, who put his childhood behind him, so that he almost forgot it, and ran forward to seize life with both hands.  He sometimes looked back on children, and saw them through the eyes of their elders.  Dickens saw men and women as they appear to children.

This comparison suggests a certain lack of sympathy or lack of understanding in those who are quick to see hypocrisy in others.  In Dickens lack of sympathy was a fair revenge; moreover, his hypocrites amused him so much that he did not wish to understand them.  What a loss it would have been to the world if he had explained them away!  But it is difficult, I think, to see a hypocrite in a man whose intimacy you have cultivated, whose mind you have entered into, as Shakespeare entered into the mind of his creatures.  Hypocrisy, in its ordinary forms, is a superficial thing—­a skin disease, not a cancer.  It is not easy, at best, to bring the outward and inward relations of the soul into perfect harmony; a hypocrite is one who too readily consents to their separation.  The English, for I am ready now to return to my point, are a people of a divided mind, slow to drive anything through on principle, very ready to find reason in compromise.  They are passionate, and they are idealists, but they are also a practical people, and they dare not give the rein to a passion or an idea.  They know that in this world an unmitigated principle simply will not work; that a clean cut will never take you through the maze.  So they restrain themselves, and listen, and seem patient.  They are not so patient as they seem; they must be hypocrites!  A cruder, simpler people like the Germans feel indignation, not unmixed perhaps with envy, when they hear the quiet voice and see the white lips of the thoroughbred Englishman who is angry.  It is not manly or honest, they think, to be angry without getting red in the face.  They certainly feel pride in their own honesty when they give explosive vent to their emotions.  They have not learned the elements of self-distrust.  The Englishman is seldom quite content to be himself; often his thoughts are troubled by something better.  He suffers from the divided mind; and earns the reputation of a hypocrite.  But the simpler nature that indulges itself and believes in itself has an even heavier penalty to pay.  If, in the name of honesty, you cease to distinguish between what you are and what you would wish to be, between how you act and how you would like to act, you are in some danger of reeling back into the beast.  It is true that man is an animal; and before long you feel a glow of conscious virtue in proclaiming and illustrating that truth.