incapacity of thought; it is not corruption of the inner nature; we
ring true still, when anything strikes home to us; and though the
idea that everything should "pay" has infected our every purpose so
deeply, that even when we would play the good Samaritan, we never
take out our two pence and give them to the host, without saying,
"When I come again, thou shalt give me fourpence," there is a
capacity of noble passion left in our hearts' core. We show it in
our work--in our war,--even in those unjust domestic affections
which make us furious at a small private wrong, while we are polite
to a boundless public one: we are still industrious to the last
hour of the day, though we add the gambler's fury to the labourer's
patience; we are still brave to the death, though incapable of
discerning true cause for battle; and are still true in affection to
our own flesh, to the death, as the sea-monsters are, and the rock-
eagles. And there is hope for a nation while this can be still said
of it. As long as it holds its life in its hand, ready to give it
for its honour (though a foolish honour), for its love (though a
selfish love), and for its business (though a base business), there
is hope for it. But hope only; for this instinctive, reckless
virtue cannot last. No nation can last, which has made a mob of
itself, however generous at heart. It must discipline its passions,
and direct them, or they will discipline it, one day, with scorpion
whips. Above all, a nation cannot last as a money-making mob: it
cannot with impunity,--it cannot with existence,--go on despising
literature, despising science, despising art, despising nature,
despising compassion, and concentrating its soul on Pence. Do you
think these are harsh or wild words? Have patience with me but a
little longer. I will prove their truth to you, clause by clause.

(I.) I say first we have despised literature. What do we, as a