Why does he affect you unpleasantly?  Because he is tedious, and therefore disagreeable, and because his politeness is not real politeness.  You know the man who is awkward, shy, clumsy, but who, nevertheless, impresses you with a sense of dignity and force.  Why?  Because mingled with that awkwardness and so forth is dignity.  You know the blunt, rough fellow whom you instinctively guess to be affectionate—­because there is “something in his tone” or “something in his eyes.”  In every instance the demeanour, while perhaps seeming to be contrary to the character, is really in accord with it.  The demeanour never contradicts the character.  It is one part of the character that contradicts another part of the character.  For, after all, the blunt man is blunt, and the awkward man is awkward, and these characteristics are defects.  The demeanour merely expresses them.  The two men would be better if, while conserving their good qualities, they had the superficial attributes of smoothness and agreeableness possessed by the gentleman who is unpleasant to you.  And as regards this latter, it is not his superficial attributes which are unpleasant to you; but his other qualities.  In the end the character is shown in the demeanour; and the demeanour is a consequence of the character and resembles the character.  So with style and matter.  You may argue that the blunt, rough man’s demeanour is unfair to his tenderness.  I do not think so.  For his churlishness is really very trying and painful, even to the man’s wife, though a moment’s tenderness will make her and you forget it.  The man really is churlish, and much more often than he is tender.  His demeanour is merely just to his character.  So, when a writer annoys you for ten pages and then enchants you for ten lines, you must not explode against his style.  You must not say that his style won’t let his matter “come out.”  You must remember the churlish, tender man.  The more you reflect, the more clearly you will see that faults and excellences of style are faults and excellences of matter itself.

One of the most striking illustrations of this neglected truth is Thomas Carlyle.  How often has it been said that Carlyle’s matter is marred by the harshness and the eccentricities of his style?  But Carlyle’s matter is harsh and eccentric to precisely the same degree as his style is harsh and eccentric.  Carlyle was harsh and eccentric.  His behaviour was frequently ridiculous, if it were not abominable.  His judgments were often extremely bizarre.  When you read one of Carlyle’s fierce diatribes, you say to yourself:  “This is splendid.  The man’s enthusiasm for justice and truth is glorious.”  But you also say:  “He is a little unjust and a little untruthful.  He goes too far.  He lashes too hard.”  These things are not the style; they are the matter.  And when, as in his greatest moments, he is emotional and restrained at once, you say:  “This is the real Carlyle.”  Kindly notice how