If a man must needs be conceited, it is certainly better that he should be conceited about some merits or talents that he does not really possess.  For then his vanity remains more or less superficial; it remains a mere mistake of fact, like that of a man who thinks he inherits the royal blood or thinks he has an infallible system for Monte Carlo.  Because the merit is an unreal merit, it does not corrupt or sophisticate his real merits.  He is vain about the virtue he has not got; but he may be humble about the virtues that he has got.  His truly honourable qualities remain in their primordial innocence; he cannot see them and he cannot spoil them.  If a man’s mind is erroneously possessed with the idea that he is a great violinist, that need not prevent his being a gentleman and an honest man.  But if once his mind is possessed in any strong degree with the knowledge that he is a gentleman, he will soon cease to be one.

But there is a third kind of satisfaction of which I have noticed one or two examples lately—­another kind of satisfaction which is neither a pleasure in the virtues that we do possess nor a pleasure in the virtues we do not possess.  It is the pleasure which a man takes in the presence or absence of certain things in himself without ever adequately asking himself whether in his case they constitute virtues at all.  A man will plume himself because he is not bad in some particular way, when the truth is that he is not good enough to be bad in that particular way.  Some priggish little clerk will say, “I have reason to congratulate myself that I am a civilised person, and not so bloodthirsty as the Mad Mullah.”  Somebody ought to say to him, “A really good man would be less bloodthirsty than the Mullah.  But you are less bloodthirsty, not because you are more of a good man, but because you are a great deal less of a man.  You are not bloodthirsty, not because you would spare your enemy, but because you would run away from him.”  Or again, some Puritan with a sullen type of piety would say, “I have reason to congratulate myself that I do not worship graven images like the old heathen Greeks.”  And again somebody ought to say to him, “The best religion may not worship graven images, because it may see beyond them.  But if you do not worship graven images, it is only because you are mentally and morally quite incapable of graving them.  True religion, perhaps, is above idolatry.  But you are below idolatry.  You are not holy enough yet to worship a lump of stone.”

Mr. F. C. Gould, the brilliant and felicitous caricaturist, recently delivered a most interesting speech upon the nature and atmosphere of our modern English caricature.  I think there is really very little to congratulate oneself about in the condition of English caricature.  There are few causes for pride; probably the greatest cause for pride is Mr. F. C. Gould.  But Mr. F. C. Gould, forbidden by modesty to adduce this excellent ground for optimism, fell back upon saying a thing